In February 1985, our old friend and co-founder of the Writers’ Union, Marian Engel, died of the cancer she’d had since the late 1970s. We said farewell to her intelligent, savvy voice. She turned up in a dream to reassure me: “It’s fine,” she said, meaning death. “You just kind of go out, like a television.” In those days the picture shrank toward the middle of the set before turning off. Later I wrote in my journal, “Seeing my piece on Marian in Saturday Night with a wonderful photo of her—jumping—in Paris—made me realize again how much I miss her.”
It was in Tuscaloosa that we met Valerie Martin, a novelist—originally from New Orleans—who was also guest-teaching at the University of Alabama. She and I had daughters of roughly the same age, so a connection was made. Valerie was smart, funny, and forthright, and has remained a friend ever since. In April, I finished The Handmaid’s Tale. I was worried about it: surely I would be accused of being anti-Christian, an evil feminist, and a heretic re: the religion of America, land of democracy. Valerie was its first reader.
“I think I’m gonna get in trouble,” I said to her.
“I think you’re gonna make a lot of money,” she replied.
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