I found a nice snapshot from the1930s: three tall decent-looking white guys in overalls and caps, standing behind a couple of little girls. Everyone in the picture looked appealing, in the American way that had seemed most exotic and wonderful to me in my childhood. One of the girls was stunning, winsome , mysterious; she receded from the plane of the picture, yet she pulled me in. Just a little girl in a cotton dress, the kind of girl who might leave Oklahoma for California, ground down by farm life and dreaming of Hollywood.

I don’t know why it took me so long to turn the picture over, but when I did, I saw just one word,

“Helen”

as if whoever wrote it long ago always knew you’d have only one question: “Who  is that girl?”