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.”