by Malinda Lo
“. . . even Sandy called me about it,” Lana said between bites.
“Sandy! My goodness, I thought she was long gone,” Claire said.
“No, just moved down to San Jose.”
“She’s still carrying a torch, I guess.”
“Maybe. But not a big enough one to offer to help. She just wants the gossip. Parker called me too.”
“Well, that’s good. Can he do anything?”
“He’s going to meet me tomorrow. Hopefully he’ll have some ideas.”
Claire took a sip of her wine, and when she replaced her glass on the table she turned to Lily, who was almost finished with her sandwich. “So, what brought you here tonight?”
“She might not want to talk about it,” Lana said.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Claire said. “Did I put my foot in my mouth?”
“No, it’s fine,” Lily said. Haltingly she explained what had happened, while Claire watched her with growing sympathy.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Claire said. “Last night was rough for a lot of us, it seems.” She reached out and squeezed Lily’s hand.
The touch seemed to release all her worry for Kath, which had been held at bay since she arrived at Lana’s. “I have to find Kath,” she said. “How can I find out where she is?”
Claire and Lana traded glances, and then Lana said, “How old is she? And how old are you?”
“Seventeen.” Lily remembered Tommy asking her the same question; she remembered Tommy’s thumb on her mouth, and now she blushed. “We’re both seventeen.”
“A little young for the Telegraph Club,” Claire said gently.
Lily’s blush deepened.
“I was sixteen the first time I went to a gay bar,” Lana said. “I can hardly believe it now. I was so young! But this is good news—if Kath’s only seventeen that means she couldn’t have been arrested. She’s not legally an adult. They probably took her to juvie.”
“But how can I find out? I tried to call her house—I even went there—and no one was home.”
“You should ask Parker,” Claire said to Lana. “He would know someone.”
Lana nodded slowly. “Yes. Maybe Parker could make a call. I could ask him tomorrow.”
“Who’s Parker?” Lily asked.
“A lawyer I know,” Lana said.
“He’s one of us,” Claire said meaningfully.
Lily nodded, not wanting to let on her confusion. “He’ll know where Kath is?” she asked eagerly.
“Maybe,” Lana said. “At least he’ll know how to find out.”
“Do you think Joyce will get her liquor license taken away?” Claire asked.
“I hope not,” Lana said.
The mood seemed to sour a bit, and Lana went to the living room to get the cigarettes and the obscene table lighter, which Claire laughed at, and then Lana and Claire lit their cigarettes and poured more wine. Slowly the conversation drifted away from the bar raid, but eventually it circled back again, as if there were no way to escape its dragnet. Lily gradually realized that Claire had come over to keep Lana company because Tommy, of course, was in jail. Parker was their lawyer friend—Lana was a secretary at his law firm—who was trying to get Tommy out, but he hadn’t been successful yet. That had something to do with money, which Lana didn’t like to talk about. There was another woman involved, too—someone unnamed—who had been attached to Tommy sometime in the past, whom Lana disliked. Lily felt as if she were a sort of detective, piecing together the story from bits and pieces of their coded conversation.
At one point Lana said, “Oh, why does it even matter? She’s just going to get in trouble again. I should leave her.” She noticed Lily then, still sitting quietly at the table, and seemed irritated. “I guess you’re hearing all the secrets tonight.”
“I’m sorry, I’ll leave,” Lily said, and scooted her chair back.
“Where will you go?” Lana asked bluntly.
“I—I don’t know. Somewhere.” She couldn’t go home. The thought of her parents looking at her—their disapproval and disgust—made her ill. She stood, feeling woozy and warm from the wine, and went back to the living room where she had left her sweater and shoes and socks, which weren’t quite dry yet. Nevertheless she sat down on the bench to put them on.
Lana came after her. “Lily.”
“Thank you for letting me in—and for the sandwiches,” Lily said, shoving her feet into her damp shoes.
“Stop it. Stay.”
Behind Lana, Lily saw Claire hovering in the doorway, looking worried.
“You can stay here tonight, all right?” Lana said. “It’s cold and wet outside and I know you’re not going home.”
Lily wiped at the corners of her suddenly brimming eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“This is an awful time for me to be here.”
Lana raised her cigarette to her mouth and took a drag, then exhaled slowly. “Would you like some more wine?”
* * *
—
The living room was thick with smoke; it hung in the yellow lamplight like a fog, and Claire got up from where she had been lounging against one arm of the sofa to push up the window.
“You’ll let out all the heat,” Lana objected. She was lying on the floor now, her head propped up on a maroon pillow that looked like it belonged in a Turkish harem.
“And some of the smoke too, I hope,” Claire said. “Otherwise we’re all going to suffocate.” She didn’t return to the sofa, where Lily was curled up at the other end, but instead went to the record player and began to shuffle through the albums leaning against the octagonal table. “Oh, I love this one.”
“What is it?” Lana asked.
“‘The Lady Is a Tramp.’”
“Oh, play it. I can’t get Tommy to sing that one.”
Claire put the record on and then flopped back down on the sofa, reaching for her wine. They had opened a second bottle, and Lily watched the two of them become languid and loose-limbed, their laughter coming more easily. Lily had had a glass or two also; she wasn’t keeping track. She felt as if the night had turned in a new direction at some point, she wasn’t sure when, but as the trumpets kicked in on the song, it seemed perfectly natural for Claire and Lana to start singing along.
Afterward, Claire asked, “Why won’t she sing it? People would love it.”
“Oh, it’s not a Tommy song,” Lana said. “I’ve heard her sing it in the shower though. She said she used to sing it years ago, back when she was Theresa Scafani, Ingénue of North Beach.”
“Ingénue of North Beach!” Claire giggled. “I wish I’d seen her then.”
“Theresa Scafani was only a mediocre lounge singer,” Lana said. “They’re a dime a dozen, you know. There’s less competition for Tommy Andrews.”
“How did she pick that name?” Claire asked. “I’ve always wondered.”
“She said she thought of herself as the long-lost Andrews sister. Isn’t that ridiculous? She wanted to sing in uniform, as if she were a soldier.”
“Well, the girls would love that. Maybe she can do a number in uniform sometime.”
“D’you still know that girl in the army?”
“Barbara Hawkins? No, we’re not in touch anymore. Last I heard she shacked up with some nurse.”
Lana laughed, propping herself up on an elbow so she could look at Claire. “She was your first, wasn’t she? I remember you mooning over her. Barbara Hawkins—how funny.”
Claire shot a grin at Lily. “You never quite get over your first one. Honestly, if Barb ever showed up I might go out with her again, Paula be damned.”
Lana sat up, leaning against the coffee table. “Do you really like Paula? Really? She’s so . . .”
“Solid?” Claire suggested, and broke in
to laughter. “She’s good to me. She’s not the dangerous type I know you go for—”
“I don’t!”
“There was Nicky, and then Kate, and now there’s Tommy Andrews. Do you always call her Tommy?”
“Of course.”
“But isn’t it a stage name? I’ve always thought it a little odd that you call her that.”
“I’ve never known her as Theresa. Some folks call her Terry—Sal does. You remember Sal?”
“The dyke in the motorcycle jacket?”
“Yes. But I never knew Terry. I’ve only known Tommy, so that’s what I call her. I think she’s more of a Tommy anyway.” Lana’s gaze flickered over to Lily, who had been listening quietly, and said, “You look sleepy.”
“I’ve had too much to drink, maybe.”
“Who’s your first, Lily?” Claire asked, turning to face her. “Your first love?”
Kath. But she couldn’t say it. She thought of Shirley and how certain she’d sounded. “How am I supposed to know?” she asked instead. “What’s it supposed to be like?”
Lana and Claire traded tiny smiles, and Claire asked gently, “What’s what supposed to be like?”
Lily slumped back against the sofa, feeling boneless and muddled. “Falling in love, I guess.”
“You’ll know,” Claire said. “It’s unmistakable.”
(How she could recognize Kath at the other end of a crowded Galileo hallway by the way she walked.)
“It’s like . . . well, it’s like falling,” Lana said. “Falling, or floating, or sinking.”
(Every time they kissed.)
“You won’t know which way is up.”
“It’s like having a fever.”
(The way the world seemed to narrow down to the tips of Kath’s fingers.)
“It’s like being drunk—drunk for days.”
“But this is all so unspecific,” Lily said. “How did you know when you fell in love with—with Barbara Hawkins, or with Tommy?”
She knew she sounded petulant, like a child, but her head was fuzzy and the smoke was swirling through the room toward the window and she didn’t care. Impulsively she reached for the pack of cigarettes. It was almost empty, but Lana knocked it over to her and she pulled one out, placing it between her lips. Claire handed her the table lighter, and her thumb came to rest on the nude woman’s breasts as she pressed the switch. The flame leaped up, hot and bright, and caused the end of the cigarette to sizzle. She inhaled clumsily and coughed.
“Here, take a breath like this,” Claire said, demonstrating.
Lily copied her, and the smoke felt awful going into her lungs, but it also felt necessary, as if it might burn away the haze of wine and the horrible day she’d had. She exhaled, and the stream of smoke emerging from her mouth made her remember Tommy smoking in this very room on the night of the party. And now here she was, and everything important had changed.
Lana reached for another cigarette as well, and after she lit it she said, “The first time I fell in love—well, I didn’t know that’s what it was. I just knew I wanted to be with her.” Lana glanced at Claire. “And it wasn’t Nicky. It was someone you didn’t know, back in Detroit. I’d sneak out of my house to be with her, and when my parents found out they—” Lana paused and gave Lily a frank look. “They didn’t approve, and that’s why I moved here. Falling in love makes you do things you’d never do otherwise.”
The cigarette burned the back of Lily’s throat. She picked up her wineglass and took another swig; the alcohol wasn’t exactly soothing, but it felt grown-up.
“Do you regret it?” Lily asked.
Lana tapped her cigarette against the ashtray. “No. I will always love her, because even though we’re not together anymore, she brought me here, in a way. What about you, Claire? Tell Lily about Barbara.”
Claire sighed. “You sure you want to know? Barbara broke my heart. She was my first love, but I wasn’t hers, and it took me a long time to figure that out. But before that, it was wonderful. She made me feel like—like I could do anything.” Claire looked at Lily. “Do you know what I mean?”
Yes. But she couldn’t say it. To her horror, her eyes grew hot and her face, which was already flushed from the wine, burned even hotter, and she leaned forward to stub out her cigarette in the ashtray. (Kath leaning forward in the darkness of the Telegraph Club, the ash from her cigarette crumbling onto the table.)
“Oh, honey,” Claire said. She reached out and put a hand on Lily’s back, as if to steady her. “It’ll be all right.”
Lana picked up the wine bottle and poured the last few drops into Lily’s glass.
43
Lily woke up to the sound of church bells. They were unusually loud, and she attempted to muffle the noise with her pillow, but the pillow was the wrong shape. She truly woke up then, and remembered that she was on Lana’s sofa. Her head was resting on the Turkish pillow, a blanket was draped over her, and a crack of light shone through the curtains.
It was Sunday morning. That’s why the bells were ringing.
When the sound died away, the apartment seemed abnormally silent in comparison. She couldn’t remember how late they’d been up. At some point, Claire had decided to go home, and Lana called a taxi for her. It took so long to arrive that Lily began to nod off on the sofa, but at last Claire left, and Lana brought out another blanket for Lily before going to bed.
Now Lily remembered, with a pang, that Aunt Judy and Uncle Francis must have arrived the night before, while she was eating Lana and Claire’s sandwiches and drinking wine and smoking. She had smoked a cigarette! She sat up too quickly, and was struck with a burst of dizziness followed by a gurgling noise in her stomach. She was starving.
She became aware of another, more pressing need, and she pushed off the blankets and got up to go to the bathroom. Afterward, when she flushed, the sound seemed as loud as an explosion, and for a second she froze, fearing that she’d woken Lana—but she heard nothing from the direction of the bedroom.
At the sink, she splashed water onto her face and used a towel she found on the bar nearby to dry off. Her face was a little pale, and the outline of a button from the maroon pillow was pressed into her left cheek, but when she ran her fingers through her hair and pulled it into a ponytail, she looked all right. She didn’t look like someone who’d been up half the night after running away from home. She could barely believe that she’d done that. In the bathroom light, in this strange apartment, it all seemed unreal.
She noticed a small white hutch behind her, reflected in the mirror. It had lower cabinet doors and two small open shelves on top. Various bottles and containers were crammed onto those shelves, and though she knew she shouldn’t poke around, she couldn’t resist. There was a box of lipsticks and a basket of eye shadows, several lotions and a glass jar of cotton puffs. There was a selection of perfumes on a silver-plated tray: Tabu, Shalimar, Knize Ten. Shalimar smelled like Lana. She opened the Knize Ten and its fragrance, undiluted and sharp, went through her like an electric shock—that was Tommy. She put it back too hastily, making a banging noise against the silver tray.
Feeling guilty, she turned off the bathroom light and opened the door, afraid that Lana would be standing outside, but the hallway was empty. She tiptoed back to the living room, trying to ignore her empty stomach.
To occupy herself until Lana got up, Lily folded the blankets, opened the curtains, and sorted the mail into two different piles: one for Lana Jackson, and one for Theresa Scafani. She cleared away the dirty wineglasses and plates, stacked them as quietly as possible on the counter by the kitchen sink, and looked yearningly at the fruit bowl, which held two bruised apples and a browning pear. She glanced at her watch countless times as the minute hand ticked slowly toward and past ten o’clock, and finally she heard the bedroom door opening. It was a little sticky and made a brief peeling noise.
She leaped up from the sofa. She had prepared an entire speech about how grateful she was to Lana for allowing her to stay the night, but the sight of Lana in the doorway, tying on a rayon bathrobe printed with roses, made the speech die in her mouth. She realized, while waiting for Lana to wake up, that she had left her home in Chinatown with nothing: not a coat, not a single penny, and not even keys to her family’s flat. She was entirely at Lana’s mercy, and Lana looked exhausted and somewhat surprised to see her still there, and now did not seem like a good time to ask for anything more than she had already been given.
“Hello,” Lana said blearily. “What time is it?”
“Just after ten.”
Lana yawned again. “My goodness, my head is pounding. How are you? Do you need some aspirin?”
“No, I’m all right.”
Lana smiled weakly. “Lucky you. Come on, I’ll make us some coffee.”
* * *
—
A little after eleven, Lana left to meet her friend Parker for lunch. She gave Lily a spare key in case she wanted to go out. “When I get back,” Lana said as she put on her hat, “we can talk about what you want to do.”
Alone in the apartment, Lily cleaned up the remains of their breakfast. Lana had only eaten toast, but she had given Lily some eggs to scramble for herself, and she ate them hungrily and gratefully, feeling even more like a tramp that had been taken in out of pity. Now she carefully washed the dishes, feeling as if she should leave no trace of herself there. When she finished, she went out into the living room and sat down tensely on the edge of the sofa. The light coming through the front window was flat and dull, making the eclectic assortment of furniture look like the odds and ends they probably were. The sofa was visibly worn and threadbare in spots. The octagonal table was chipped on several of its corners, and the Chinese chairs’ lacquer finish was lusterless and obviously cheap. Her mother would never have bought those chairs.