On March 21, 2009, a sweet old hag of a good girl whispered goodbye to su hijo in the East Los Angeles apartment that echoed as hollow as the heartbeat that stopped right when she wanted it to, regardless of whether or not she knew it was what she wanted.
She wrote a poetry chapbook and published in 2002. Alane Rollings helped her edit it and so was gifted a signed copy – could anyone give a more personal gift? (Did not J.K. Rowling have the same idea when she turned a book into a piece of a soul?)
Alane was the second wife of writer Richard Stern – not that anyone outside of academics would know who he was since he basked in the shadows of his fellow friends and writers (he said after all, that he didn’t need to write, only that he wanted to do so). But Richard too died and Alane survived him, although she moved out of the house that reminded her of him.
And she left all her books. Once the writer was gone, the writing never mean anything to her either.
And so it came, that a poetry chapbook by the name of Good Girl was given to Wilson. Wilson owned an antiquarian bookstore in Chesterton, Indiana. And like a good girl, it sat quietly on the shelf, gathering dust but holding back the sneeze.
Until one very normal August Saturday morning, when I nodded to the accordion player at the European Market and ducked in the bookshop to avoid the piercing glare of the sun AND and the florist who heard me say that buying bouquets of sunflowers were a waste of money.
And finally, such a chapbook finds a home on my own bookshelf, awaiting the day when I can read it to my baby girl. Because she needs to know that womanhood is ugly and that some people add mascara and blush to the title of “mother” to disguise the pain that comes with it – the heartbreak that I’m sure that same baby girl will inflict upon me before too much time passes. Because all decent human beings need to know who Lee McCarthy is.
And just to give you a tease, here’s a stanza from a poem called “Conrad’s Mother”:
A woman who lives alone
will go out at nine o’clock at night
to buy ranch dip for the carrots, cappuccino
truffle chocolates for the office, and yoghurt
even though they’ve taken the h out.