Epigraph: “She doesn’t want to grow up . . .”—Schmidt, p. 21 (Gladys Hall, Motion Picture, January 1938).
Epigraph: “But gosh, everyone who knows me . . .”—Schmidt, p. 32 (Robert McIlwaine, Modern Screen, August 1939).
This page: Nancy Kerrigan’s skating ensemble in Detroit—Keith Davidson, Nancy Kerrigan (New York: Scholastic Inc. / Sports Shots: Collector’s Book 26, 1994), p. 30.
“Six months ago, I hadn’t known my true love existed . . .”—Somewhat after Kathryn Springer, The Dandelion Field (Grand Rapids, Michigan: Zondervan, 2014), p. 224.
This page: Allegation about Madonna’s filler—This cruel claim appears in the magazine In Touch, December 5, 2016, vol. 15, issue 49, p. 47 (“Whoa! Stars Go Overboard with Filler”). The photos of Kimora Lee Simmons appear in the same place.
5This page: Judy Garland weeping all night because Three Smart Girls had made Deanna Durbin into a star—Information from David Shipman, Judy Garland: The Secret Life of An American Legend (New York: Hyperion, 1992), p. 63. This event occurred in 1937.
MORE TO TELL
Epigraph: “Do you think if she had lived . . .”—Quoted in Manoah Bowman, Natalie Wood: Reflections on a Legendary Life (Philadelphia: Running Press, 2016), p. 302.
Epigraph: “I used paint remover . . .”—Quoted in Bowman, p. 144. Kazan had instructed her: “Be bold, be brave, shock yourself . . . embarrass yourself.”
RAISED AGAIN
Epigraph: “God raises Job again . . .”—Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, trans. Constance Garnett (New York: Modern Library, n.d. [bef. 1980]; orig. serial pub. 1879–80), p. 304.
Epigraph: “All these patients cry miserably for cure . . .”—Wilhelm Stekel, Sexual Aberrations: The Phenomena of Fetishism in Relation to Sex, trans. Dr. S. Parker (New York: Liveright Publishing Corp., 1930; n.d. for orig. German ed.), vol. I, pp. 82–83.
This page: Description of Judy Garland’s casket—Information from Joan Beck Coulson, Always for Judy: Witness to the Joy and Genius of Judy Garland (Elmira, California: Yarnscombe Books, 2014), p. 237.
as if we were all bearing her on our shoulders to the grave . . .—This extended trope is partially based on an untitled funeral scene by the Egyptian surrealist painter K. Yusuf.
“Oh, I’m so proud of you, Judy . . .”—Judy Garland on Judy Garland: Interviews and Encounters, ed. Randy L. Schmidt (Chicago: Chicago Review Press / An A Cappella Book, 2014), p. 6 (Wallace Beery, “Shell Chateau Hour,” November 16, 1935).
“You could see something real inside her . . . Oh, she’s with the angels now”—Somewhat after various online comments posted in memory of Judy Garland.
This page: Deaths of James Dean and Natalie Wood—Information from Manoah Bowman, Natalie Wood: Reflections on a Legendary Life (Philadelphia: Running Press, 2016), p. 48.
604–
This page: Tale of the pretty girl in orange—The Charleston Gazette (West Virginia), Thursday, December 11, 2014, p. 1C (Rusty Marks, “Woman admits killing mother, gets up to 70 years”). I have altered or omitted the names of the protagonists.
“maybe I wouldn’t have done it if I’d had the time to think it through.” + “I did it so you wouldn’t suffer.” + “If I had a gun I probably would have killed her earlier.”—Closely after David Adams, Why Do They Kill? Men Who Murder Their Intimate Partners (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 2007), pp. 14 (Figure 1.1.: “Shooters’ reasons for not using another weapon to kill their partner,” p. 19).
This page: Natalie Wood at fifteen—After a photo in Bowman, p. 43.
“As to sovereignty itself . . .”—Gordon S. Wood, ed., The American Revolution: Writings from the Pamphlet Debate 1764–1772 (New York: Library of America, 2015), p. 516 (Allan Ramsay, “Thoughts on the Origin and Nature of Government,” 1769).
“DOLLY IN LESBIAN PAYOFF SCANDAL! . . .”—National Enquirer, October 10, 2016, p. 5.
This page: How it turned out with Xing—Xing left us; her replacement was a redhead in a shimmering turquoise blouse and turquoise eyeliner, who always waxed her legs; her long earrings glowed by association with her bright cell phone. She imparted a warm sensation in my forehead, not quite a headache, much as when I had just popped a good strong dose of Francine’s yellow serum and not even fifteen minutes had passed and I was already feeling it! All the same, I never dated her.
“Thine enemy the Serpent hath been given over to the fire.”—The Egyptian Book of the Dead, p. 343 (“Hymn to Ra”).
Judy Garland: “I don’t believe dying is the end . . .”—Schmidt, p. 161 (Judy Garland, Screenland, October 1946).—More proof of immortality: For a surprise treat, with Judy lying next to him with her head on his chest, the retired policeman triple-clicked the remote control, so that dusty old television played hotel surveillance footage of the lesbian on the last day of her life, staring at the horizon in a long beige dress, while her husband, near but behind her, hung his head, standing with his hand in his pocket. The recording flickered, then skipped. Looking up from his neck almost slyly, her long hair gleaming like brown and golden snakes around his shoulder, the lesbian now gazed at two other women, as if she longed to awaken all who slept, but they ignored her. She let her face fall limply into the hollow of his neck and closed her eyes.—Judy, of course, sobbed. The retired policeman comforted her, and they lived happily ever after.
This page: some of us now began badmouthing the dead lesbian.—Because we had made a new favorite for ourselves and because it distressed and perhaps even harmed us to remember the dead, I am not sure if we would have liked it had Neva come back again. She was left there by the roadside as the old are left by the young. So runs an old story. (Apollonius of Rhodes, The Voyage of Argo [The Argonautica], trans. R. V. Rieu [New York: Penguin Classics, 1971, rev. of 1959 ed.; orig. wr. 3rd cent. B.C.], p. 44. The person abandoned was a priestess of Artemis.) And from down the street we already spied the gilded bronze head of another unknown goddess, with dark flecks shining from her weary goldness. The lesbian was now as hateful as the black girl Letitia, who had once presumed to leave us.
“Let’s keep it light!”—Schmidt, p. 176.
Judy Garland: “Why I should have ever gotten depressed, I certainly don’t know . . .”—Judy Garland on Judy Garland: Interviews and Encounters, ed. Randy L. Schmidt (Chicago: Chicago Review Press / An A Cappella Book, 2014), p. 176 (Judy Garland, Modern Screen, 1950). Well, well; just in case you believe that more self-awareness would have benefitted her, let me quote what she said on p. 191: “In an effort to learn why I had never been able to get closer to people, I took a series of psychoanalytical treatments, and I have never regretted anything more . . . It just tore me apart.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Unable to write like a woman or a policeman without help, I scoured, begged, stole and commissioned stories from others. The uses I have put them to in the sad world of The Lucky Star in no way reflect the real people they came from.
My great gratitude goes to Laura Michele Diener, Heidi Lehrman, Teresa McFarland (whose careful reading of the manuscript saved me from turning in an error-riddled pustulence), Lindsay Rickman and Mary Swisher (not to mention the Portland go-go dancer named Marley), and several unnamed prostitutes, for answering questions about various stages of womanhood. Their stories have much enriched this book.
Antonia Crane, experienced in love and sex with various genders, set aside an hour to answer both sweeping and personal questions. I have thankfully incorporated several of her tales and opinions.
In Las Vegas I would like to thank my friend and energetic fixer Mr. Dan Hernandez, and the performers past and present to whom he introduced me in June 2017: Ms. Zoe Deaton, Ms. Kathy Mckee, Ms. Kathryn Savage-Koehm, Ms. Cheryl Slader, Ms. Claire Tewalt, Wonderhussy and Ms. Natalie Walstead. A year later in the same city, with Dan’s help, Erika Castro, Carlota Gonzalez, Cyntha Hall and Cynthia Patane did m
e the great honor of sharing intimate details of their lives with me. Their stories changed this book, and my life, for the better.
I am also grateful to my friend Joshua Schenk, the executive director of the Black Mountain Institute in Las Vegas, for his friendship and his help.
In Seattle, Jenny Riffles and her friend Colleen answered my alcohol-enhanced queries about lesbian and bisexual femininity, and helped me to place my S/M submissive transwoman character onto a happier narrative path. I was inspired by their optimism, openness and courage.
Without Greg Roden I would never have known anything about the Silver Fox bar in Bakersfield, not to mention several other sites. David Shook and his friend John provided me with much L.A.-based expert knowledge. Ditto to Chris Heiser and his beautiful Megan and Molly.
My dear friend Mark Merin shared with me some of his intake case files—grist for the retired policeman’s mill. Officer Aaron Perez and the retired cop H. Lee Barnes (both interviewed in Vegas thanks to Dan Hernandez) gave me more stories and opinions. My P.I. buddy Chuck Pfister helped inform the retired policeman’s investigation of Neva, suggesting specific procedures, databases and expungements.
Hillary Johnson was a perfect Vallejo reconnoitering and drinking companion. With her I discovered places transformable into Jingle’s bar and Mrs. Strand’s little house. I wish Hillary much happiness.
And thanks to my sweetheart of a sister-in-law, Laura Rhee Ryu, for driving me all day through Silver Lake, Los Angeles and Culver City in search of Judy Garland sites.
Father Brian Clary, who gave me Burnaby’s book on Augustine, has been a fine pen pal over the years. I am lucky to know him.
Paul Slovak has been my friend and editor for decades now. Our business dealings have not invariably been smooth. My resistance to cutting sacrificed trees, and tested both of our patience. For my part, I gave way many a time on titles, covers, illustrations, charts, source-notes, etc. Paul has slogged thousands of extra miles in order to accommodate me where he could. This give and take between equals has been facilitated by memories of drinking together, of meeting each other’s sisters and attending each other’s weddings, of book-chats (and, from him, of book-gifts) and of a certain interesting hike in the Sierras. I will never forget the first time we discussed Thucydides, although I may not recollect our hundredth pint of Guinness. Now that I am oldish and in imperfect health, I cannot help but wonder how much farther we will travel together. Paul, when I look at the row of Viking books with my name on them, I think of you. I have not always been an easy author but I have always been grateful—and this time, I did actually cut The Lucky Star, by at least twenty or thirty words, so please pat yourself on the back.
Bruce Giffords remains the prince of production editors, and I feel very lucky to count him, too, as a friend. As my neurons die, I need him more than ever. And for his care, intelligence, tact and kindness, I value him more than ever. Thank you so much, Bruce. You have been very good to me.
I would also like to express gratitude to Jane Cavolina, Roland Ottewell, Lisa Thornbloom, and Bitite Vinklers for tightening sentences and saving me from typographical embarrassment. And I thank the designer, Meighan Cavanaugh.
Let me also remember Declan Spring of New Directions, whose kindness has on more than one occasion expressed itself in book-gifts—among them the Shilappadikaram, a passage of which helps open my novel. Thank you, my friend.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
William T. Vollmann is the author of ten novels, including Whores for Gloria, The Royal Family, and Europe Central, which won the National Book Award. He has also written four collections of stories (including The Rainbow Stories and The Atlas, which won the PEN Center USA West Award for Fiction), a memoir, and eight works of nonfiction, including Rising Up and Rising Down and Imperial, both of which were finalists for the National Book Critics Circle Award. He is the recipient of a Whiting Writers Award and the Strauss Living Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. He lives in California.
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* If you find her or any other lover in this tale immoral, then pray to Zeus, the god of supplicants, who heartily abhors the killing of a man, and yet as heartily befriends the killer.
* It could have gone the other way: When Shirley Temple outgrew her charm and got fired at age twelve, she fell out of the paradise of sure-fire numbers, hot babes and real hits, but for all I know she got to eat delightfully wormy mouthfuls of repose there in anonymity’s graveyard.
* If emptiness is sadness, then the past must be sad, even if it was happy back when it was full: Beneath some eminently present city, up one of whose alleys a redhead in a blue goosedown jacket slowly wanders, peering down at the screen of her mobile phone, while a blonde cycles past, a brunette in the doorway of a cosmetics shop optimistically greets and beckons to passers-by, an old man stops to rub his eyes, a tourist couple clears the way before them with their matching lime-green wheeled suitcases, and two curlyheaded ladies meet to share a cigarette, there lie the crypts and foundations of the past—mere shells and channels now, dye-vats barely marked with the vestiges of pigment; cloacas whose foulness has cleansed itself into dust, mean nubbins of labyrinths for people whose language is forgotten and whose skeletal remnants proclaim them to have been smaller and less significant than we—as must be so, since we are not dead like them.
* Police car.
* Thoreau, 1852: In this relation we deal with one whom we respect more religiously even than we respect our better selves, and we shall necessarily conduct ourselves as in the presence of God. What presence can be more awful to the lover than that of his beloved?
* I imagined that as she aged she might manage temporarily to recompense her losses; experience and retrospection would enhance her brilliance at recognizing when a woman was about to leave her. The love-words might be the same, but their fervor was lacking; and when she ever so slightly withheld herself in bed, there came no answering increase in the ardor of the defecting partner. The girl who had loved every dish that Neva cooked now fussed and picked at her food and asked that her eggs be cooked separately without onions. The one who woke and slept when Neva did now slept till noon, then stayed up until three in the morning. Slowly and naturally the lesbian would lose all her satellites, leaving me as her only one, forever and ever, amen.
* A T-girl is a transgender woman. A G-girl (“genetic girl”) is a woman who was born into a female body. An L-girl is a lesbian. Some people consider these terms offensive.
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