Last Night at the Telegraph Club(26)

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.

Inside, booths were packed along the right wall, and a long marble-topped counter with stools ran across the back. Behind the counter, soda jerks in white aprons and striped caps concocted ice cream floats and chop suey sundaes topped with fruit and sesame cookies. Lily spotted an empty booth toward the back, and she rushed to claim it, sliding into one of the bench seats as Kath took the one across from her.

Lily had been going to Fong Fong’s for as long as she could remember, but she still opened a menu. There were hamburgers and french fries; banana splits and ice cream parfaits; Napoleons and other pastries that could be ogled in the glass case up front.

“What should I get?” Kath asked.

“Ginger ice cream,” Lily said promptly.

Kath was looking around the soda fountain as if fascinated, her gaze lingering on the mural of the gingerbread man on the wall behind the pastry counter. “This place is something.”

Lily looked around too, taking in the shining stainless steel cases and the polished marble countertops, the Chinese waiters and soda jerks in their spotless white aprons and striped caps. She felt proud of the place; it made Chinatown seem modern and American. “Do you like it?” she asked. She’d never been to Fong Fong’s with a Caucasian.

Before Kath could answer, the waiter arrived to take their order, speaking English with a thick Cantonese accent. For a brief, humiliating moment, Kath didn’t understand him. Lily had to interpret, and it made her wonder if she should have brought Kath here. Her pride twisted abruptly into embarrassment.

After the waiter left, she hurriedly changed the subject and asked, “Are you going to the Spook-A-Rama?”

Kath shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t really like dances.”

“I don’t either, but I have to go because of Shirley. I joined her dance committee.”

“Why?” Kath asked, as if it was a bizarre decision.

Lily sighed and glanced behind her; she didn’t see anyone she knew in the room. “Because it was the only way I could get out of going with Will Chan as his date.”

“Sounds pretty dire,” Kath said dryly.

Lily pretended to scowl at her. “So will you come to the dance?”

A funny look crossed Kath’s face; Lily couldn’t tell if it was surprise or reluctance.