by Malinda Lo
At first, Lily got the impression of a jumble of different dark lumps everywhere, but as Tommy and Lana went around switching on the lamps, the lumps resolved themselves into a long rust-colored sofa, and a set of black lacquered Chinese chairs like the kind that were sold to tourists in the Grant Avenue shops. There was a Mission-style coffee table, an octagonal end table like something out of Arabian Nights, and a medieval-looking bench by the door where Lana told everyone to leave their coats. Past the living room was a small dining room with a white Formica-and-chrome dinette set and an antique mirrored buffet, on top of which were clustered several bottles and cocktail glasses. Lana went through to the kitchen, announcing that she would bring back a bucket of ice, while Tommy disappeared down the hall, loosening her tie.
Lily left her coat on the bench with the others and wandered over to the rust-colored sofa; above it were several framed photos hung in a somewhat haphazard order. There were a couple of snapshots of Tommy standing with other male impersonators on a busy street; Lily thought it might be in front of the Telegraph Club. There was a picture of Tommy with her arm around Lana, the Golden Gate Bridge in the background. Tommy was wearing a sweater beneath an unbuttoned jacket, a cigarette drooping out of her mouth.Lana had a polka-dotted scarf tied over her blond hair and wore a trench coat and sunglasses. They were both reluctantly smiling, as if the photographer had been scolding them into doing it.
And centered over the sofa was a large glossy picture of Tommy Andrews that Lily recognized as the original of the headshot that had been printed in the Chronicle. Seeing the photo on the wall was somehow shocking: here she was in Tommy Andrews’s apartment. Tommy Andrews! She had gazed at her photo in the paper—this photo—countless times, and now she was in this woman’s home. It was as if time had stuttered, and she was back in the Eastern Pearl surreptitiously tearing the ad from the paper. She could still hear the dull ripping sound, the crumple as she folded it. She felt detached from her body, and when she closed her eyes for a moment she might have been floating, untethered from the earth’s gravity.
She heard the sound of a record falling into place, the scratch of the needle as it struck vinyl. The song “Black Magic” began to play, and she felt her knee pressing against the edge of Tommy’s sofa. She opened her eyes and turned around, feeling a little dizzy. She hadn’t finished her martini—it had been too strong for her—but perhaps the champagne she had drunk earlier was still affecting her. She didn’t know how to act in a place like this—and where was Kath? She couldn’t see her anywhere.
From the dining room, Lana announced that she had made a Spanish sangria and asked who wanted cocktails. There was a proprietary air to Lana’s behavior that made Lily realize this wasn’t Tommy’s apartment—it was Tommy and Lana’s. They lived here together. She sat down on the sofa, feeling like an idiot. The cushion was too soft, pulling her into an unexpectedly intimate embrace. More people arrived—they seemed to be mostly women, a few in Levi’s with their cuffs rolled up—and she began to worry about where Kath had gone, but at last she spotted her emerging from the kitchen, carrying two wineglasses. Relieved, Lily waved at her, and Kath came to the sofa with the drinks.
“It’s sangria,” Kath said, handing her a glass of red liquid. “There’s fruit in it. I didn’t think you’d want another martini.”
“Thank you,” Lily said.
Kath sat down beside her, and the softness of the sofa caused them to bump together. Kath nearly spilled her drink and apologized, but before she could scoot over Claire reappeared, carrying a martini. When she sat down the cushion sank toward her, and then Paula arrived, and everyone had to squeeze together to make room. Finally the four of them were seated properly, with Lily’s right leg and hip and shoulder pressing close against Kath’s warm left side. Lily sipped her drink; it was sugary and sweet, and filled with bits of canned pineapple and mandarin oranges.
One of the women in Levi’s sat down in the Chinese chair next to the end of the sofa near Lily. She was dressed like Marlon Brando in The Wild One, with a leather jacket and thick-soled black boots, and her short dark hair was combed into a pompadour, shiny with pomade. She had a round face and brown eyes, and she gave Lily and Kath a frankly curious look and said, “You two are new, aren’t you? I’m Sal.”
Lily and Kath clinked their glasses with hers. “Lily.”
“Kath.”
“Did you come from the club?” Sal asked. “How was the show tonight? I missed it.”
They talked about the Telegraph Club for a few minutes—or Kath and Sal did, while Lily sipped her drink and tried to pretend as if she went to these sorts of parties all the time. Over in the corner by the record player she saw two women laughing, one woman’s arms looped around the other’s neck as if they were about to start dancing.
“We don’t see many Orientals around here,” Sal said to Lily. “Do you speak English? Where are you from?”
Lily stiffened. “Chinatown. I was born here.”
Sal looked impressed. “You don’t even have an accent. That’s amazing.”
“I was born here,” Lily said again, a bit more sharply.
“I thought all the Orientals in Chinatown only spoke Chinese.”
“No.” She hoped that her short tone would make Sal drop it.
“Hey, Patsy,” Sal called across the room, “there’s an Oriental over here—where’d you meet that other one? Over at Blanco’s?”
Lily was grateful for the sofa then, for allowing her to sink back; if only she could sink through it to the other side, where it would hide her from their scrutiny.
Patsy turned out to be a redhead in a red-and-white-checked dress that reminded Lily of a picnic blanket. She came over and perched on the arm of Sal’s chair, while Sal’s arm snaked around her small waist. “Hello, I’m Patsy,” she said, extending her hand.
Lily sat up with some effort and shook Patsy’s hand reluctantly.
“Where was that?” Sal continued. “Blanco’s? Is that where you saw that girl?”
Patsy leaned against Sal’s shoulder. “I’ve never been to Blanco’s. That place is for Filipino dykes. What do I look like?”
Sal laughed and squeezed Patsy’s waist, causing her to squeal. “Where was it then? I swear it was recent—you said there were gay girls there.”
“The Forbidden City,” Patsy said promptly. “Have you ever been there, hon?” She looked at Lily.
“No,” Lily said again.
There was a commotion over in the dining room, and a moment later Tommy entered the living room with a martini in one hand, scanning the faces as if she were searching for someone. Tommy had taken off her tuxedo and put on gray flannel pants and a blue collared shirt with the top button undone. Of course, Lily realized, the tuxedo was a costume, and now Tommy was at home. And yet she still carried herself the same way, as if her onstage persona was barely more than a gloss over her real life.
Sal yelled, “Terry! Over here!”
Lily didn’t know who Terry was, but when Tommy saw Sal, she came over to join them, pulling over the other Chinese chair. Patsy smiled at Tommy and lifted her face for a kiss, and Tommy obliged, planting one on her cheek. “You look good, Pat,” Tommy said, and then reached over to shake Sal’s hand. “It’s been a while. Glad you could make it.”
“Thanks for the invite,” Sal said. “Sorry I can’t make it to your show tomorrow night—my budget’s kinda tight.”
Tommy shrugged and sat down, placing her martini glass on the coffee table. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. “So’s mine.”
“You could make some extra bucks with those fans of yours,” Sal said, grinning. “Remember that dame who followed you up to your dressing room?”
Tommy looked bitter. “If she figured out I’m actually a woman, she would’ve called the cops.” She shook her head. “How’re things with you?”
“Good. We we
re just talking about the Forbidden City, since you have an Oriental guest here.”
Sinking through the couch wasn’t enough, Lily thought. She wished she could sink all the way through to China. At least then she’d blend in.
Tommy’s eyes flickered from Sal to Lily. “Yeah, the China doll’s been to my show a few times. You like it, sweetheart?”
Lily’s face burned, and she felt Kath tense up beside her. “Of course,” she forced herself to say politely, reminding herself she was Tommy’s guest. “It’s wonderful.”
Tommy grinned. “Wonderful.” She sat back, crossing her legs, and took a deep drag on her cigarette. “You know, I heard the Forbidden City had a male impersonator once.”
“Really?” Lily said warily, but she was interested in spite of her discomfort. “When?”
“A few years back,” Tommy said. “Maybe during the war? I can’t remember, it was before my time. But I’ve heard about her—she did herself up in a suit, like Marlene Dietrich, Gladys Bentley. Not exactly the same as my gig, but I wonder what happened to her. I heard she was good.”
The praise, delivered in such an offhanded tone, curled through Lily as if Tommy had offered her a personal compliment. She couldn’t imagine a Chinese woman putting on a show like Tommy’s, but she was immediately proud of her. She wanted to ask more about her, but Lana came into the living room looking for Tommy.
“There you are—you slipped right past me,” Lana said. “Where’s the tonic?”
Tommy had to get up and go back to the kitchen, and Patsy and Sal sat quietly for a moment, smiling fixedly at Lily and Kath, before Patsy got up and took the chair that Tommy had vacated. Lily raised her glass to her mouth and realized, to her surprise, that she had finished her drink.
“Let me get you another,” Kath said.
“I don’t need another,” Lily said, but Kath didn’t appear to hear her. She stood up abruptly, causing the sofa cushion to heave like a wave, and took both of their glasses—Kath’s was empty too—off to the kitchen. Lily felt the distinct absence of Kath next to her, as if part of her own body was suddenly missing.
“How long have you two been an item?” Patsy asked after Kath left the living room.
Lily was taken aback. “Me and Kath? We’re—we’re not.”
Patsy gave her a hint of a knowing smile. “Oh, my mistake.”
Embarrassed, Lily glanced around for something to distract her and caught sight of the couple by the record player again, still gazing into each other’s eyes, and another couple beyond them sharing a single chair while they sorted through records. The room was full of couples, Lily realized. How naïve had she been to not notice this until now? No wonder Patsy thought that she and Kath were . . .
She dropped her gaze to her lap, stunned. Perhaps Patsy had seen something in her and Kath—just as Lily had seen the other pairs and known they were not simply friends. The thought made Lily’s heart race.
Someone put “Shake, Rattle, and Roll” on the record player, and Patsy jumped up, declaring, “I love this one. Come on, Sal, dance with me.”
Sal objected for a second, but it was obvious she wanted to say yes, and she allowed Patsy to drag her into the small empty space between the coffee table and the kitchen door, where they began to dance. A moment later Claire and Paula got up from the couch to join them, leaving Lily alone at last.
How long have you two been an item?
Her face was burning. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Paula’s hands on Claire’s waist, Claire’s fingers sliding down Paula’s arms, laughing at each other as they swiveled their hips in time to the music. She saw Patsy in Sal’s arms; she saw Sal spin Patsy away from her and back again, her skirt flaring out. She had never seen two women dance together like that before, as if they were a man and a woman.
And then Kath appeared in the doorway behind the dancing couples, holding two more glasses of sangria, and though Lily didn’t allow herself to meet Kath’s eyes, she was sharply aware of her approach. There was more room on the sofa with Claire and Paula gone, so Kath didn’t need to sit so close to her now. She took a seat about a foot away and handed Lily her sangria. The cushion sagged under her weight, and Lily braced herself so that she didn’t slide toward Kath as she took the wineglass. Patsy’s question rang in her head, like someone pressing a doorbell over and over again.
How long?
Lily felt as if she should say something to Kath, but everything she could say or do now seemed impossibly weighted. Her head was fuzzy; she was a muddy mess of panic and wonder. The sofa felt like a trap. She had to escape.
“I have to find the bathroom,” Lily said abruptly. She set her sangria glass down on the coffee table and lurched to her feet. The room seemed to shift beneath her.
“Are you all right?” Kath asked, reaching out to steady her.
She felt Kath’s fingers brush her arm, and she pulled away skittishly. “I’m fine,” she said, and hurried out of the living room, narrowly missing Paula’s elbow as she swung Claire around.
The kitchen was filled with people she didn’t know, and she couldn’t see Lana or Tommy anywhere. “Where’s the bathroom?” she asked one of the women, who pointed to an open doorway at the back of the kitchen.
She stepped through into a dim, empty hallway, where she saw a door with a crack of light beneath it that she assumed was the bathroom. When she knocked, someone called, “Just a minute!”
Lily stepped back to lean against the wall. The sound of the record player and the laughter from the living room was muffled here, and the dimness made her feel invisible at last. The hallway continued on a short distance to her right, where another door was halfway open. A soft golden light spilled from the room, and she saw a pair of black oxfords abandoned on the floor in front of a dresser.
It was only a few more steps to the end of the hall, and she didn’t have to enter the room to look inside. There was a double bed, covered by a nubbly green blanket, and a nightstand with a yellow lamp.Beside the dresser was a half-open closet door; Tommy’s tuxedo hung on a hanger hooked over the edge. Inside the closet, more suits nestled right next to several dresses—Lana’s clothes. On top of the dresser, a handled metal tray contained an assortment of cosmetics, and a couple of black bow ties lay limply beside it.
From what Lily could tell, this was the only bedroom in the apartment, and Lana and Tommy shared it. She glanced over her shoulder at the bathroom door, but it was still closed. She took a shallow breath and stepped into the room. She was acutely conscious of the double bed behind her as she moved toward the dresser. Behind the satin bow ties, propped against the speckled mirror, was an old-fashioned sepia-toned postcard of a man in a tuxedo. She leaned closer: no, the person was identified as “Miss Vesta Tilley.” She wore a top hat and held a cigarette between her lips, and she had a mischievous light in her eyes.
Lily reached out to pick up the postcard, but before she touched it, a door creaked and there was a light step on the wooden floor.
“Hello there.”
Lily spun around to face the door, and there was Tommy, hands in her pockets, studying her. “I’m sorry, I—I didn’t mean—”
Tommy came into the room. “Looking for the bathroom? It’s down the hall.”
“Yes, I was—I’m sorry.” She started for the door, but Tommy was in her way and she didn’t move, and Lily had to stop. Tommy looked amused at first, and then her amusement turned into something more like curiosity.
“How old are you?” Tommy asked.
Lily trembled. “Eight-eighteen.”
Tommy came toward her. It was only a few steps; the room wasn’t very large, and now Lily smelled her cologne again, and her stomach clenched as if in anticipation or in fear—she wasn’t sure which. Tommy smiled at her gently, the kind of smile one gave to calm a nervous child, perhaps, and said, “Eighteen going on sixteen, I think.” Tommy close
d the distance between them and lifted her hand to Lily’s face, cupping her cheek in her palm, turning her face up to hers.
All of her senses rushed to that tender spot where Tommy’s warm hand was touching her, her fingertips softly pressing against her neck, her thumb running lightly but deliberately over her mouth.
“Sweet sixteen.” There was a honeyed tone to Tommy’s voice, a low dip to it that sounded like a secret.
Lily felt as if Tommy was onstage again. Her voice and her touch and the way she was looking at Lily: a performance that she had slipped into effortlessly, like water.
For a moment—an excruciatingly long moment—Lily was sure that Tommy was thinking about kissing her. Silky heat ran through her like a river. She swayed on her feet—as if she were standing on the deck of a ferry in the Bay—and Tommy gave a brief, breathy laugh.
“You’re drunk, sweetheart.”
“No,” she whispered. Tommy’s finger still nudged against her lips.
“Yes.” Tommy withdrew her hand almost reluctantly.
“I’m not sixteen.” Lily felt, dazedly, as if she had to make that clear.
“You sure?” Tommy smiled a little—almost flirtatiously. “You shouldn’t be in here, doll,” she said gently. “You better go back to your girlfriend.”
Lily felt as if she were sinking, as if the floor were tilting dangerously. But even in her state, Lily knew who Tommy meant. “She’s not—we’re not—” Lily said, and immediately felt as if she had betrayed Kath.
Tommy raised her eyebrows. “Does she know that, sweetheart?” She stepped toward the door and made a flourish as if to show Lily out of the room. “After you.”
32
Kath was still sitting on the sofa. She was holding a wineglass half full of sangria in one hand, the other hand resting on her thigh, her fingers loosely curled up as if something had recently been pulled out of her grasp and she hadn’t yet noticed.
When Lily saw her, she felt a fresh pang of embarrassment. She had been so stupid. If she had been so obvious to everyone else, Kath must surely know, and she had never said a thing. That could only mean that Kath didn’t—
