Virginia Good was born on March 5, 1941. She grew up and spent her childhood in one or another of those sleepy little seaside communities down along the Southern California coast. Her mother was too busy for kids. She had three daughters. Ginny was the middle one. Her younger sister was Sandy. I forget the older daughter's name. All I know about her is when her mother and stepfather quit giving her money to punish her for some youthful indiscretion she married Mexicans for a thousand bucks a pop—for the money, to be sure, but also to piss off her mother and stepfather—and ended up living with a Master Sergeant in the Marine Corps during the Vietnam War. Ginny's mother couldn't have said for sure why she'd even had kids except that it probably had to do with a notion going around the Episcopal Diocese that having kids was what one did. Kids were annoying. She couldn't understand what the hell they were talking about half the time, for one thing. She didn't know what the Salvadoran maid was jabbering about half the time either, but at least the maid understood what she was saying: "Rosalie! God damn it! If I find one more grain of sand in this kitchen, I'm going to kill you! Do you understand? Could you please clean it the fuck up, por favor?"

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