Vallo has always remained private about her relationships, but has been romantically linked to men and women. However, she has always denied a sexual relationship with Mila.
“I’m so sick of talking about that fucking book,” Vallo says suddenly. She smiles. “You want to talk about ‘Lady X,’ don’t you? The flop? Everyone does.”
Vallo published her second book six years after “Devil’s Tongue,” when she was 25. The book—a more subtle haunted house story about a poor Hungarian family mirroring Vallo’s own—was widely ignored. Her “Devil’s Tongue” fans were disappointed and called the book tedious and slow. For a time, it seemed Vallo was a one-hit wonder.
Then came the dreamlike “Lion’s Rose” four years later, in 1993. Critics hailed it as a return to form. The novel concerns a female gardener who is dying of AIDS. She finds a flower that can give her everlasting life—but only if she stays in the garden. Vallo’s two latest books, “Polar Star” and “Maiden Pink,” are formed around similar themes: changing bodies, the constant whisper of death, the thrill and brutality in sexuality, the intimate connections between women. “Polar Star” （2002） is a quieter and sweeter book, despite its disturbing premise: two elderly women who own a bed-and-breakfast invite one’s young niece to join them in their annual ritual of killing and dismembering a male guest.
The lags between Vallo’s books have expanded; her next, “Maiden Pink,” didn’t come out until 2014. This story centers on a college student who becomes drawn to her professor, a woman with a seemingly supernatural connection to a long-dead poetess. At once a sexually charged love story and an over-the-top murder mystery, like most of Vallo’s books it’s hard to put down.
As Vallo prepares to welcome four unnamed young female writers into her estate for a monthlong writing retreat this winter, one could wonder whether her focus has shifted. Is she going to become a mentor, outwardly facing and fostering talent, instead of disappearing back into her reclusive writer’s life?
“Oh no.” She winks. “I’m always working on something new.”
A text popped up from Sharon, my boss. Where is the Madison proposal???? I need it for the meeting!!!
Shit. I’d totally forgotten about the all-hands-on-deck meeting for one of my projects. Somehow I always managed to block out my work life the second I walked out the glass front doors. I never would’ve expected that I’d be at the same publishing company for six years, having risen up the ranks from bleakly underpaid editorial assistant to bleakly underpaid associate editor. Wren had pushed me to pursue another career even as she’d left to become the beauty editor at a tiny media start-up that had, against all odds, succeeded.
Now Wren was making bank and traveling and wearing designer clothes, all while I was stuck at a failing publisher under a domineering supervisor.
I wanted to ignore Sharon, who’d been freely using my personal cell since I’d stupidly given her my number at a conference in Ohio. But I couldn’t, if only because I didn’t want to let down the other members of the team. So I texted back the location of the files while I felt Roza watching over my shoulder, disgusted at how quickly I responded to Sharon’s demands.
I stared at the ceiling, half listening to the English accent–tinged confessions coming from the TV. Ursula’s innocent question came back to me: How’s your writing going?
The truth was, since everything with Wren, I hadn’t written a word.
* * *
That afternoon I ventured out for a bagel sandwich. The cold outside was a shocking, cleansing blast. A text dinged as I gave my order at the deli counter, inhaling the scent of garlic and coffee. I sat at one of the tiny metal tables and pulled out my phone. It was from Ursula.
Random: Which story did you send to the Roza contest? Was it the one about the two girls in the woods?
I’d shared that story in our writing group, many years ago.
No, I wrote back. I sent a newer one. It had been a bit of a Roza knockoff; maybe that’s why they hadn’t chosen it. I added: Why?
But in response, she just sent a smiley face.
I opened up Instagram with my fake account and, before I could stop myself, went to Wren’s profile. She’d blocked my personal account, so I’d started this other one to keep tabs. The most recent picture was of her from the night before, holding up a drink next to Ursula in the dark bar, glowing in the flash of the camera. Celebrating another incredible book from one of my oldest friends. Her head tilted slightly to the right; she knew all her best angles. At this point she had 32K followers.
When Wren and I had met, I wasn’t even on Instagram. I’d joined solely to connect with her. I’d sent my first DM to her—someone had posted the original cover for Devil’s Tongue.
Wren had not only responded but brought up Devil’s Tongue the next day.
We’d been in Madison Square Park, our new lunchtime spot. I remembered we were eating sushi and I was trying not to look like an idiot struggling with my chopsticks. Wren, in one of her storytelling moods, shared how she’d read Devil’s Tongue in junior high after one of the other cheerleaders gave it to her. （“Wait, you were a cheerleader?” “Al, there were thirty people in my grade; of course I was a cheerleader.”） Wren had read it secretly, under the covers with a flashlight, but her born-again Christian mother had still found it tangled in her bedsheets. This was the first time I heard about the many cruel and unusual punishments Wren’s mother had inflicted upon her, starting with locking her in a closet at three years old. This time her mother grounded her for two weeks and refused to serve her dinner. Wren would still have to show up for the meal and just watch her mom and dad and three siblings eat. Luckily, Wren’s friends at school brought her food—mostly cupcakes and chips—and she’d gorge on them after everyone else had gone to bed.
After hearing Wren’s story, I’d been speechless. As we watched a nearby man try to get a fat squirrel to eat out of his hand, I tried to come up with something to say. Damn. I thought I had it bad. But when I finally decided on “I’m so sorry,” she shrugged and even laughed. “My mom was and is a total cunt. How about your parents?”
So I told her. That my dad had left when I was eight and we’d never seen or heard from him again, at least to my knowledge. That Mom had dragged us from city to city, oftentimes to meet up with an “old friend” who always inevitably turned out to be male. That we’d stay with him or at a cheap weekly rental, and Mom would get a job at a drugstore or grocery store. And that just as I’d start to get comfortable at a new school, she’d get fed up with her boyfriend and would haul us to the next town, until it seemed easier to stop trying to make friends altogether.
“That sucks.” Wren’s voice was both soft and matter-of-fact.
And it had, but at least there hadn’t been any out-and-out abuse. While I never did much to be punished for, I had the feeling then that Mom wouldn’t have noticed even if I had tried to rebel: stayed out all night and come back stinking of whiskey and cigarette smoke.
“Did any of the guys try to do anything to you?” Wren asked.