Betsy Bonner - The Book of Atlantis black; The Search for a Sister Gone Missing

The detective quality of this strong memoir is both maddening and fascinating. The reader is made to feel what its like to be denied answers in an essential search.

AMY HEMPEL , Sing to It

Atlantis Black wasis?an extraordinary woman whose descent into madness will leave you spellbound and heartbroken. Betsy Bonner writes with the precision of a poet and the courage of a survivor. I could not put this book down.

DOMENICA RUTA , With or Without You

Scrappy and queer, charismatic and enigmatic, the young musician who reinvented herself as Atlantis Black left behind a haunting archive that complicates rather than resolves the narrative of her vibrant, troubled life. In this beautiful exploration of her sisters life and disappearance, Betsy Bonner has crafted a terse, urgent page-turner that is equally ode, elegy, and mystery.

CHELSEY JOHNSON , Stray City

Her manic, self-destructive sister wanted to be famous, but it took Betsy Bonners literary gifts to make her a rock star on the page. In mournful, meticulousand sometimes wryly funnyprose, The Book of Atlantis Black gives us an unforgettable portrait of an impossible yet compelling young woman taken down by her own demons, and fighting every step of the way.

DAVID GATES , A Hand Reached Down to Guide Me

THE SEARCH FOR A SISTER GONE MISSING

A MEMOIR BY

BETSY BONNER

Copyright 2020 Betsy Bonner

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, contact: Tin House, 2617 NW Thurman St., Portland, OR 97210.

Published by Tin House, Portland, Oregon

Distributed by W. W. Norton & Company

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available

Cover design: Diane Chonette

Cover photo: Orianna Riley

First US Edition 2020

ISBN 9781947793774 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781947793873 (ebook)

Interior design by Diane Chonette

www.tinhouse.com

for Queen Leah, dearest of cats (1999-2019)

and for David, with love and gratitude

Let me go, if you want me to let you in!

EMILY BRONT , Wuthering Heights

AUTHORS NOTE

The sections headed San Diego, March 2008 were transcribed from a videotaped interview with my sister, Nancy, who had changed her name to Atlantis Black. This interview took place three months before she disappeared.

SAN DIEGO, MARCH 2008

Can we turn the camera off? Its so cold.

On June 25, 2008, a young woman with my sisters IDs was found dead on the floor of a hotel room in Tijuana. Her body had needle marks in the left arm, a wound on the right middle finger, and a bruised cranium. She wore blue jeans and a brown T-shirt that read GOOD KARMA. Two syringes were in the room: one on the nightstand, one in her purse. The police report said that the IDsincluding an American passport and a California drivers license issued to Eunice Atlantis Blackdid not appear to match the body, which was cremated without anyones taking fingerprints or checking dental records. The autopsy report said the woman had green eyes and weighed less than one hundred pounds. It estimated her age to be twenty to twenty-five years old. The cause of death was a pancreatic hemorrhage.

My sister had hazel eyes, like my mothers. She was thirty-one and running from felony charges in a prescription drug case in the state of California when she disappeared.

By the time I heard the news, the only thing that might have shocked me would have been if my sister had found a way to live. Just in case of some miraculous mistake, I called Atlantiss phoneit seemed to be onand left a voicemail message. Then I typed an email: Call me as soon as you can if you receive this. I love you. I had no expectation of hearing back from her.

In the summer of 2002, Atlantis took the stage, shook back the dark, straight hair that fell to her waist, and lifted the strap of an electric guitar over her shoulder. The instrument settled low on her hips. Strumming some quick minor chords, she tossed her head like a horse assailed by flies. Her silver-sequin tank top screamed Chinatown. A bony knee poked through her jeans as she leaned into the microphone and whispered, Check. She made a hand motion as if to say: Come here . Check, she said again, louder.

She said something inaudible to the pleasant-faced, leather-clad man climbing the stage, who nodded and took a seat behind the drum kit.

Lets have a little more vocals, she said.

Bar chatter faded as Atlantiss husky voice filled the room. The cash register opened and shut.

Check, check, check, she said. That sounds great. Hey there, everyone! Im Atlantis Black. Thank you all for coming out and braving the subways on such a swelteringly hot and humid New York City night. Thank you to the SideWalk Caf for welcoming me into your extremely prestigious Antifolk Festival. Honest to God, if I didnt feel so fucking proud, Id be a nervous wreck. Thank you to Regina Spektor for that ridiculously fabulous set, and to Lach for believing in me and inviting me here. So tonight Ive got a few new goth surf rock tunes for you, some from my first album, In My Bed , and a couple of covers. This first one goes out to my little sister, Betsy, whos here tonight.

Most people assumed that I was the older sister, though I was two years younger. I was clearly the more serious and responsible one. I went to graduate school for poetry and had never been caught breaking the law; Atlantis used her mug shot from 1996 for an album cover. (Shed taken hallucinogens with a friend in the Mojave Desert. I dont know what they did to get busted for public intoxication.)

The drummer tapped off sticks, and Atlantis built a tower of minor chords. When it threatened to topple into noise, he knocked it down, and Atlantis picked up the shards. Her voice echoed as if from the innermost whorl of a shell:

pour the hot wax on my skin

you always were my sweetest sin

In the middle of a riff, the tank top strap slipped from Atlantiss shoulder, and her right breast popped out of her shirt like a pale, trembling Chihuahua. Some girls in crew cuts cheered. The Chihuahua twitched its dark nose. I sucked down the rest of my Makers and ginger.

Youre awesome! yelled a kid with orange hair, raising his thin, muscular arms.

She finished the song, then pulled up her tank top strap as if it were no big deal.

Wow, she said. That was quite... cathartic. This next ones called: Another Fucked-Up Beauty Queen.

It was impossible for me to judge Atlantiss music critically. Her riot grrrl songs were inspired by punk and goth bands that we both liked; she was allergic to pretty radio voices. Her themes were sex, drugs, and a love of pain, death, and transformation. She often sang from the perspective of a spurned lover, with lyrics addressed to an unattainable you, and ending on a tragic note. Her songs were easier to listen to when they were more playful and ironic, like I Cant Kill Myself Today. A tribute to her vibrator, My Machine, had gotten a mention in Time Out New York .

Before Atlantis performed a song, she practiced it for months. If she played a wrong note, she went back to the place where it still sounded good and tried again. She was the most obsessive artist Ive ever known.