“They kissed each other,” she reported, and saying it out loud was thrilling; it made her blush. And yet she couldn’t say the word the book had used to describe those kinds of girls: lesbian. The word felt dangerous, and also powerful, as if uttering it would summon someone or something—a policeman to arrest them for saying that word, or even worse, a real-life lesbian herself. She glanced at Kath sideways and asked, “Have you ever known any girls . . . like that?”
They stopped at the next intersection. Kath looked very grave. Her face was quite pale, except for two burning spots right below her cheekbones, as if she had misapplied rouge with rough fingers. She said quietly, “My friend Jean. She’s . . . like that.”
“The one who took you to the Telegraph Club?”
Kath nodded. “They’re all like that, there. Well, except for the tourists—and even then, maybe.”
The light had turned green, but they hadn’t moved. They were at Pacific, across from the International Settlement, marked by a neon sign topped with colorful flags that arched over the street. Beyond that were signs for the Sahara Sands and Gay ’N Frisky nightclubs, and a giant naked female leg kicked out from the roof of the Barbary Coast club like an obscene invitation. Lily looked away selfconsciously as she imagined what went on in there.
Behind them a man whistled. “Hello, girls!”
Lily stiffened.
“You two looking for some fun?” And now he was beside them, a middle-aged man in a banged-up fedora, looking like an out-of-work accountant.
“No, thank you,” Kath said. She stepped closer to Lily, nudging her to keep walking, but the light had turned red again, trapping them against the traffic.
He leered at them. “You’re a little far from home now, aren’tcha? I love a little China doll, I do.”
Lily grabbed Kath’s hand and pulled her westward along Pacific, back toward Chinatown.
“Nothing like a little affection between girls—always makes my day!” he said, laughing.
Lily heard another man nearby laugh too, as if he had been watching the whole exchange, and her face burned with shame. Even if those men were horrible, she and Kath had been talking about that very thing, and it felt as if this were some kind of judgment from on high. She walked faster and faster as if she could outrun the shame, until Kath dragged at her hand and said, “Stop—Lily—slow down.”
There was Grant Avenue, hung with red lanterns, smelling of roast pork and raucous with Chinese vendors hawking their wares, and Lily felt a rush of relief: here was home. She halted on the corner and let go of Kath’s hand.
“I’m sorry,” Lily said immediately. “We had to get away.”
They were blocking the sidewalk, and Lily stepped to the side, Kath following her. They stood together in awkward silence. Lily wanted to continue their conversation, but back in Chinatown, she couldn’t. It felt as if a muzzle had been fastened on her the instant she returned.
“Maybe I should go home,” Kath said.
“Oh, not yet.” Lily was afraid that if Kath left now, they would never return to the subject that had drawn them together. “Let’s—let’s go to Fong Fong’s and have ginger ice cream.”
Kath seemed surprised, but she quickly agreed. “All right.”
Lily broke into a relieved smile. “It’s this way,” she said, and she linked her arm with Kath’s and led the way.
12
As they walked through Chinatown, Lily saw the familiar streets with new eyes, and she wondered what Kath thought of her neighborhood. She noticed her looking up at the painted balconies and pagoda rooflines, the red paper lanterns and the gilded or crimson signs thrusting out over the street like pushy Chinese shoppers. Did Kath like it? Or did she find it overwhelming and strange? Kath’s face gave little away. She seemed more focused on keeping up with Lily than gawking at the sights.
There were obstacles on the sidewalk to navigate around too: buckets of iced fish lined up in pearlescent rows; bushels of green-and-white bok choy and mounds of gnarled ginger roots; tourists gaping at the glistening roast ducks hanging on hooks in the deli windows. And through it all there was a cacophony of smells and sounds: bitter herbs mingling with sweet buns; the quick, harsh Cantonese of shopkeepers making deals; the rank background stench of yesterday’s seafood.
Lily was selfconscious about the smells in particular; she knew that Caucasians wrinkled their noses at the unfamiliar odors. When she spotted Fong Fong’s candy-cane-striped awning a block away—like an all-American beacon between Chinese restaurants and souvenir shops—she hurried Kath toward it as if it were an oasis. She swept ahead and gallantly opened the door for her. Kath seemed a little amused by her behavior, but she entered the soda fountain without comment.