Readers often ask me whether I write about my own family and the answer is always no. Members of my own family are all such pleasant and reasonable people that there’s just not enough material there to turn into a novel. Eccentricities of dress and speech and behavior are not tolerated; you’ll get your outlandish hat handed right back to you, and I’ve been self-conscious about saying the word Paris ever since I pronounced it in some airy and unacceptable way when I was fourteen. Occasional incidents of truly awful behavior do not fuel feuds and drama. In my family, such transgressors are mocked; they are — rather expertly — made fun of, and while in some circles a measure of glamour may attach itself to behavior which is breathlessly regarded as wicked, it is far less compelling and attractive to be considered, merely, foolish. Young Clarks learn that lesson early and they learn it well, as the few family villains (or clowns) are laughed at, and with just enough mercy thrown in to make them seem pathetic, as well. I have heard other people speak of their terrible families, rife with complex enmities and turmoil. At some point they will pause for breath and insist, You can’t make up this stuff, but my own life has not been burdened with such an ongoing and inescapable narrative and I have been left free to make up any sort of stuff I please.

A recent revelation, however, has turned what had been a slight and perplexing mystery surrounding the early life of my paternal great-grandmother into an unexpected tale as complex and twisted as one that any of those unhappy families could produce. I haven’t made up the following story, but I shall see, now, what I can make of it. more…