Mary

Everyone and his brother seemed to be named Mary in Wheeling in nineteenth century, a bustling city perched on the Ohio River. And in a family like mine, intent on populating the earth, you could find Marys with the same last name—sisters-in-law, aunties, cousins—living next door to one another or dotting their way down the same street. Mary Ann, Mary Louise, Mary Jane, Mary Catherine. If there had been postal delivery to each house (which did not begin until the 1890s) the mail carrier would have been in a constant state of confusion.

The only Mary in Tangled Braid is Mary Jane. Inspired by my great-great-grandmother, she quickly seized the nickname "Magic." (Say "Mary Jane" quickly and in a slight southern accent: "Ma'Jane" becomes "Magic.") Each newspaper story about her was more unbelievable than the last. I was not inclined to like her much, let alone allow her to elbow her way into a significant share of the narrative, but Magic, I soon discovered, would have her way.

Everything I had read about the actual Mary Jane was threaded with audacity—and doubt. How much was true?

Of course, in fiction, it doesn't matter which tales are true. Magic, with her impish flair, her ambition in a world of limited options, and her yearning, soon won me over.

Born into a struggling mill family, she runs customers for a local bawdy house and learns from the madam how a girl with no bootstraps might get a foot up in this world.

(Please, Wheeling purists, don't be offended by the AI rendering of Magic's backdrop in this picture. There was no Walker Evans taking pictures of anonymous children in city streets back then, and despite its name, artificial intelligence is mostly artificial. Mea culpa.)