Secret Identity, page 32
They sat across from each other, Carmen facing the door, both seated in front of the medium-sized desk and drawing table that took up most of the space in the office. Carmen relaxed a bit as she sat, the comfort of her working space casting a spell on her. She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror hanging near the door. She retained the same pale skin, dark eyes, and knowing smile—except now her face was framed by her straight, shoulder-length gray hair, tucked away in a hasty ponytail. She felt at peace, too, something she didn’t know was possible before. There was a clanging sound. Laura flinched. Carmen smiled softly.
“That’s my wife,” Carmen said. “Probably dropping a pan in the kitchen. She likes to cook, but isn’t particularly good at it. I don’t have the heart to tell her, though.”
They laughed. Carmen watched as Laura looked over the framed artwork hanging just above Carmen’s seat. An interior page from The Legendary Lynx #11, the one issue Carmen was credited as having written—the vigilante heroine overcoming her archnemesis, Mr. Void. The other, a cover proof of Things, signed by Carmen. Finally, a photo—of a younger Carmen, raven-haired, slender, and mesmerizing, standing next to an older, gaunt-looking man, in what appeared to be a studio or office space.
“That’s Doug,” Carmen said, following Laura’s eyes. “Doug Detmer. I have a lot of his art around. I really wanted that photo taken. For some reason, it all felt so fleeting. I needed evidence.”
Carmen watched the young reporter’s face. She was clearly eager, but also professional—waiting for her chance. Carmen had just given it to her.
“He was a great artist,” Laura said.
Carmen smiled, but said nothing.
“Now, I know you probably expected me to want to talk about your graphic novel, and your other work—your novels, which I love,” Laura said. “But that’s not really it.”
Carmen tilted her head slightly, as if to say, Well?
“I want to talk about Triumph,” Laura said. “I know this ground has been covered by many writers—probably more capable than me—”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Carmen said, raising a hand slightly. “Just go on.”
“Well, I guess I’ve been keeping you in suspense.”
“Good writers can do that,” she said. Laura responded with a polite smile.
“My book is about women in comics, generally—notable creators and editors and people who worked in the medium,” Laura said. Carmen could tell she’d practiced the pitch; it sounded smooth and precise. “But my main focus, the real reason I’m writing this is here—in this room. You see, I grew up reading the Lynx—I mean, it wasn’t coming out. My brother had them in his room and I was just so, I dunno, relieved to find a hero who was a woman, who wasn’t a damsel in distress, and who also seemed to have a real reason for being, you know? It was eye-opening. It felt like this lost gem, and as a kid I just loved the stories—but as an adult, as a jaded adult, if I’m being honest, I returned to them. And I just had some questions that I thought you might be able to answer.”
“Sure, I can try,” Carmen said, leaning back, bracing herself.
“Okay, well, here goes—the book, I mean, when people talk about that comic—it’s the first chunk of issues anyone cares about,” Laura said excitedly. “The opening half dozen and the ones penned by the mystery writer and then your issue. I don’t think people mind the later stuff, but—”
“Rich was a nice guy, great editor,” Carmen interjected. “But yes, his issues felt … perfunctory. They were solid, but not memorable. Triumph was dying by then.”
“Right, right,” Laura said. “So, I’ve done a lot of research. Especially on the people involved. Harvey Stern—who I know was your friend—was killed before any of his issues came out. It’s not a major part of comic book lore, which I found weird—but I think a big reason was that the man who was charged in his murder, and in the vicious attack on another comic book editor around that time, Marion Price, well, he died in prison—Dan Stephenson. He died before he could go to trial. So the murders seemed to fade away in history. It didn’t help that Triumph was such a small company, and while the Lynx was a hit for them—it was easily overlooked. It was relative, you know?”
Carmen raised an eyebrow.
“Anyway, Harvey Stern had a body of work—nothing huge, but he’d written a stack of issues for this other small company, Bulwark. I dug those up and…” Laura hesitated. “And, I read those and thought, well, I guess it just didn’t fit.”
Carmen remained silent. Laura moved forward in her seat.
“His stuff was … well, it was fine, is what I mean,” Laura said, grasping for the right words. “But when you compare it to his work on the Lynx, it’s night and day. And then it goes off the rails, with, uh—”
“Jensen,” Carmen said, almost spitting out the name.
“Right, Jensen—his work with Tinsler, well, that was just hack-y and bad,” Laura said. “So, then this mystery writer—who, even up till his death a few years back, Carlyle refused to name—comes in, and you feel almost like we’re back. But it’s actually, for my money, even better than the first batch of issues. More confident, clearer. More—ugh, I hate this word, but more literary. More lived-in and comfortable with itself. And your fill-in, Detmer’s last issue before he—well, you know.”
“He killed himself,” Carmen said. “You can say that.”
Laura nodded.
“You seem very smart, and I appreciate you coming here—it’s a great test of wills, you know? Living here—it makes the people who do show up that much more worthwhile,” she said, each word sliding out with ease. “And I know you must be nervous, though you shouldn’t be. I’m a person, like you. I’m not famous. I have a phone bill and a cat I take to the vet. So, at the risk of sounding rude—what can I help you with? I don’t read comics now. Not many. I wrote a few, I plan to write a few more. But they’re my own, outside of the thrum of the industry, outside of the trends and the buzz. So, I guess my question is, what do you want from me?”
Laura cleared her throat and waited a beat before speaking.
“I’ll cut to it,” she said, speaking slowly but not passively. She had probably practiced this speech, too, Carmen thought. “I’ve done my research. I’ve spoken to people who worked at Triumph at the time. I’ve read everything the company produced and just—well, immersed myself in all of it.”
Laura paused for a second, and seemed to stare off into the distance before looking at Carmen again.
“Well, I guess, I—I just want to know if you knew anything about what happened,” Laura said. “I know you were friends with Harvey, at least based on the handful of people I spoke to.”
“Who was it?” Carmen asked. “Mullin? Trunick? Hahn?”
“All three,” Laura said, trying not to smile and failing.
“Nice, I hope they’re doing well,” Carmen said. “I miss them.”
“They’re doing well, I think,” Laura said. “Trunick writes about movies now, has a few books out. Mullin works in advertising. Hahn is a novelist, too.”
Carmen’s eyes seemed to brighten.
“That’s wonderful,” Carmen said. “But you’re still avoiding your question.”
Laura let out a nervous laugh.
“You’re right. Well, huh. I promised myself I wouldn’t crack, but here I am.”
Carmen reached over and placed a hand on Laura’s.
“It’s okay, you can ask me whatever you want,” Carmen said, giving this reporter she’d just met as soothing a smile as she could muster. “I’m all yours.”
Laura smiled at the unexpected kindness, gave Carmen a quick nod, and continued.
“Well, I think the record is wrong,” she said. “I don’t think Harvey Stern created the Lynx and just handed it to Jeffrey Carlyle at Triumph. The story of some kind of last-minute miracle might be true—the comic crackles with the energy of something that came together fast. It’s loaded with legends like that. But the truth always comes out. How Bill Finger helped with Batman, for example. How he basically created him but Bob Kane got all the credit. Comics are full of stories like that. So, my point is—I don’t think Harvey Stern wrote The Legendary Lynx. Not alone, at least.”
Carmen started to respond, but Laura politely raised a finger.
“I think you did,” Laura said, almost phrased as a question—but clear enough. “I think you created her, and poured yourself into her, and for some reason decided to let it fade away. You chose to let this part of your story be anonymous. You didn’t take credit for your wonderful, historic work. And I want to know why.”
Carmen straightened up in her seat and looked at Laura, any semblance of a polite smile gone—replaced by a drive and focus that had been simmering just under the surface before.
“The Lynx,” Carmen said, choosing her words carefully, “was complicated. I love her. In the way you love someone you gave your heart to, but who didn’t return the favor. She was important to me. She still is. But I’ve had to keep her at arm’s length. Because it hurt too much.”
Laura didn’t speak. Seemed hypnotized by what Carmen was saying—was about to say.
“You see, it’s hard—because for years and years, all I heard about is how great her story was, how many fans became writers and artists because of what they read,” Carmen continued. “And, wow, how nice it must have been to be able to add a little riff at the end of this seminal, overlooked story. This brief coda to a character most had forgotten.”
Carmen watched Laura. The reporter didn’t reach for her pen. For her tape recorder. For anything. She wanted to experience this in real time, for herself. Carmen could appreciate that.
“I thought I could get past it,” she said. “I moved to California. I did my own thing. Made my own name for myself. Got married. Moved back east. But life isn’t like that. We can’t just bury things. They crawl back. They reach up and poke at you. You have to make peace with what you did and what others did to you.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Laura said. Carmen felt herself bristle. She caught the reporter’s expression but could sense no remorse at the brusque, cutting statement. She was a reporter, Carmen realized. A real one. They weren’t afraid of asking the tough ones. But Laura was right. Carmen had evaded the question. She was tired of dodging it, too, she realized.
Carmen leaned back, waiting a beat that seemed to drag on for decades. Then she turned to face Laura, her face serene and honest, as if she were just talking about the weather—not digging into a hidden history of comics most fans, critics, and readers didn’t know existed.
“Finally. I didn’t think it’d happen, honestly. But yes, you’re right, Laura—the Lynx is mine,” Carmen Valdez said, her voice echoing through the office, the words almost melodic—as if she’d memorized them in private, in front of the mirror, but was speaking them to someone else for the first time. “I created her. It’s time people knew that. I’ve been waiting for someone, anyone to figure it out.”
Laura let out a brief, excited gasp. Carmen pressed on.
“And I want to tell my story.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Secret Identity is a book I’ve had percolating in my mind for years. It was the novel I always wanted to write but also one I wasn’t sure I was ready to write. It blends so many things I love—comic books, noir, New York, Miami, flawed characters, and more—that I needed to be sure I was doing it justice. At the end of the day, that decision rests with you, the reader.
I was lucky to have a number of sensitivity and beta readers who share some aspect of Carmen’s background and were able to nudge and guide me during the writing journey. Their insights were (unsurprisingly) invaluable and meaningful, and I’m so humbled by their generosity. Thank you to Kelly J. Ford, Kristen Lepionka, Amanda de Bartolomeo, and Andrea Vigil. Additionally, Carmen Maria Machado’s genre-bending memoir In the Dream House and Alison Bechdel’s two graphic novel autobiographies proved particularly helpful—and were just flat-out amazing to read. Trina Robbins’s essential works, specifically A Century of Women Cartoonists, The Great Women Cartoonists, The Great Women Superheroes, and her memoir, Last Girl Standing, were a massive resource to me as well. Alexander Chee’s excellent essay, “How to Unlearn Everything” originally published in Vulture, and Nisi Shawl and Cynthia Ward’s essential Writing the Other: A Practical Approach helped me numerous times. I also spoke to a number of comic book industry friends—women who worked in comics and publishing during or around the time described in the novel. Their recollections, anecdotes, and memories of comics and New York at the time were huge helps in making the world Carmen, Harvey, and others inhabit feel real. Thank you to Linda Fite, Louise Simonson, Karen Berger, Isabel Stein, and Laurie Sutton, legendary, trailblazing women who blessed me with their time and stories.
The world of comic books and publishing was vastly different from the one I now inhabit today as a writer, editor, and executive of graphic novels. Before comic shops sprung up to create a specialty market and long before traditional bookstores and digital outlets made selling comics standard, the industry had one narrow funnel to reach an audience: newsstands. During the midseventies, the industry was spinning out, and few saw what it might become. Surely no one was thinking we’d be lining up to see a movie or streaming TV shows based on then B-list characters like Ant-Man, Peacemaker, or the Eternals. Well, maybe just Dan Stephenson. I relied on a number of well-researched comic book histories and fictional stories to give me a better sense of what things were like in 1975 in comics and in New York City, while understanding what came before and after. Each one is worth your time. They include Megan Margulies’s fantastic memoir about her memories of her grandfather Joe Simon, My Captain America: A Granddaughter’s Memoir of a Legendary Comic Book Artist; James Warren: Empire of Monsters, Bill Schelly’s fantastic biography of the Warren founder; Nathalia Holt’s history of unsung women animators during the early days of Disney, The Queens of Animation; Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips’s fictional Criminal graphic novel set in the comic book industry, Bad Weekend; Grant Morrison’s trippy, heartfelt, and personal love letter to superhero comics, Supergods; Jill Lepore’s incisive and meticulous look at the origins of Wonder Woman, The Secret History of Wonder Woman; Marc Tyler Nobleman and Ty Templeton’s heart-wrenching look at the sad tale of Batman cocreator Bill Finger, Bill the Boy Wonder; David Hajdu’s tour de force look at the horror comics boom and bust of the 1950s, The Ten-Cent Plague; J. Michael Straczynski’s entertainment memoir, Becoming Superman; Glen Weldon’s fantastic history of Batman’s place in pop culture, The Caped Crusade; Art Spiegelman and Chip Kidd’s look at the tragic life and enduring legacy of artist Jack Cole, Jack Cole and Plastic Man; Hillary Chute’s indispensable guide to comics, Why Comics?; Douglas Wolk’s thoughtful and welcoming analysis of the medium, Reading Comics; Austin Grossman’s enjoyable superhero deconstruction novel, Soon I Will Be Invincible; Alex Grand and Jim Thompson’s exhaustive and informative Comic Book Historians podcast; TwoMorrows’ insightful and entertaining Bronze Age publication, Back Issue magazine; Abraham Riesman’s powerhouse biography of Stan Lee, True Believer; and last, but certainly not least, Sean Howe’s compelling and comprehensive Marvel history, Marvel Comics: The Untold Story. In terms of setting, I also found myself relying heavily on Will Hermes’s snapshot of New York in the 1970s, Love Goes to Buildings on Fire; Judith Rossner’s potboiler of a mystery, Looking for Mr. Goodbar; and Don DeLillo’s satiric masterpiece Great Jones Street.
While research is, of course, invaluable, I gained much from direct conversations and interviews with people who were there. I am beyond lucky to have many friends who’ve been in comics for a long time, and doubly lucky to have been able to lean on them for their time and remembrances of the era—or their knowledge of comics history as a whole. I’m eternally indebted to a who’s who of comic book legends, including Paul Levitz, Stuart Moore, Gerry Conway, Robert Greenberger, Brian Cronin, Paul Kupperberg, Kurt Busiek, Scott Edelman, Alex Simmons, Michael Gonzales, and the aforementioned Fite, Simonson, Berger, Sutton, Howe, and Riesman, who were exceedingly generous with insights and guidance. They all made this story stronger and better.
One of the best things to happen to me over the last year—a twelve-month span full of so much anxiety, stress, and chaos for all of us—was forming a writers’ group with three super-talented writers who also happen to be truly good people. Their support, feedback, humor, and friendship have been invaluable. I don’t think you’d have this book in your hands if not for Kellye Garrett, Amina Akhtar, and Elizabeth Little. I also suggest you pick up their novels—but if you’re a smart reader, you already have. They’re simply the best, and I’m a better writer by association.
In addition to my writers’ group and my sensitivity readers, I was also quite lucky to have some of the best beta readers and volunteer copy editors ever—people who were willing to sacrifice their own time to read my work and make suggestions that helped elevate and improve Secret Identity. Thank you, Elizabeth Keenan, Phoebe Flowers, Rob Hart, Emily Giglierano, Chantel Acevedo, Erica Wright, Isabel Stein, Michael A. Gonzales, Ellen Clair Lamb, and the inevitable person I thoughtlessly forgot—I blame my schedule, young children, and lack of sleep. I’d also like to thank the many author friends who, whether they know it or not, helped me bring this book to life—through a kind word, bit of advice, or just by being around. Special thanks need to go to organizations like Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, and my beloved Crime Writers of Color. We need to lift each other up, speak out for what’s important, and celebrate our victories, and these groups help do that. I’d also like to thank my many friends in the world of comics—my colleagues at Oni Press, the many writers and artists I’ve had the pleasure to work with and call friends, and the many professional contacts and colleagues I’ve made over my two decades of work in the medium.
Secret Identity was particularly unique in that it featured comic book sequences woven into the prose narrative, and I certainly could not have created those pages alone. Artist Sandy Jarrell, a talented and (in my opinion) underrated draftsman, was my top choice to bring the Lynx to life. He did not disappoint, going above and beyond what I could have ever imagined. His art perfectly encapsulated the tone and style of the time, and his attention to detail and flexibility made him the ideal creative partner. I’ve known Sandy for a long time, probably longer than either of us would care to admit, and I’m so proud we’ve finally been able to collaborate directly. Taylor Esposito, one of the best letterers in the comic book business, was able to evoke the style of the era deftly and never flinched when last-minute changes were needed. I couldn’t have asked for better collaborators, and I do hope we find a way to tell more stories about the Lynx in the future.
