Last Night at the Telegraph Club(29)

Lily ran across the gym, narrowly avoiding the twirling couples, only to trip over a pair of discarded patent black heels. Kath grabbed her arm, and Lily clutched Kath’s hand, and they spun through half a circle, as if they were dancing, before Lily broke away, breathless. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, and headed for the exit.





14





The doors to the gym slammed shut behind them, muffling the sound of the band. Lily and Kath stood on the wide landing outside; below them, concrete steps descended to the exterior door. The gym was in a building across the street from the high school, which meant there were few places for them to go: two flights down to the locker rooms, or outside into the night. Lily chose the night.

“Where are you going?” Kath called, hurrying after her.

“Anywhere,” Lily said, and shoved open the heavy doors.

Bay Street was filled with fog. Aquatic Park was only two blocks away, and the scent of the ocean was thick in the air. Lily rubbed her hands over her bare arms and realized she had left her jacket inside, but she couldn’t go back in—not yet.

“Let’s walk to Aquatic Park,” Lily said.

“Are you sure? You don’t have your coat.”

“It’s not that cold. Or at least not that windy.” She cast a glance at Kath as they began heading toward the corner. “I just need some air. I didn’t realize it was so stuffy in there.”

“Did something happen?”

“No. I just really didn’t want to be there anymore.”

They turned right at the corner, heading down Van Ness toward the waterfront. The fog seemed to swallow up all sounds, including the dull beat of their footsteps, rendering the city abnormally silent.

“I’m sorry I got here so late,” Kath said. “I couldn’t get away earlier.”

“I’m just glad you came.”

They smiled at each other tentatively, and then Lily felt a little selfconscious and had to look away. On their right, the football field behind the gym was a block-long swathe of darkness. None of the field lights were on; only the lights from the long gym windows glowed through the mist. At the end of the block, Lily looked east down North Point Street toward Fisherman’s Wharf. Ghirardelli Square’s giant lighted sign was like a mirage floating in the distance, the normally brilliant letters smudged by fog. In Fisherman’s Wharf, all the restaurants and clubs would be brimming with light and music at this time on a Saturday night, but here in the shadows of Fort Mason, the city felt hushed and lonesome.

They continued on Van Ness in the foggy darkness. They passed a couple on the sidewalk, the woman’s arm linked through the man’s. She was wearing his trench coat; it seemed to swallow her shoulders, the belt flapping behind her as they walked. There was an unexpected burst of laughter, followed by the receding sounds of a conversation they couldn’t make out. The fog was so thick they couldn’t see more than ten feet ahead.

Lights began to come into focus. They were near the Maritime Museum, its long white submarine shape a dim curve in the night. Concrete bleachers were stacked up on either side of the museum, creating a viewing stand for the dark bay ahead. Down below, Lily couldn’t see the ocean at all, but she could hear it, the waves sounding a rhythmic shhh-shhh, as if the ocean itself were hushing them. The fog had closed like curtains behind them. They were quite alone, it seemed, here on the edge of the water.

A foghorn moaned in the distance. Lily was cold now. She felt the damp chill of the mist against her bare forearms and face, and she shivered noticeably as the wind kicked up, whipping back her hair.

Kath took off her jacket. “Here,” she said, offering it to Lily.

“But then you’ll be cold. It’s my own fault I didn’t bring my coat.”

“I have long sleeves. You take it.”

Lily relented. Kath’s jacket was wonderfully warm, the fabric a soft corduroy, and she buttoned it all the way up and tucked her hands in the satin-lined pockets. “Thank you,” Lily said. They stood together quietly, and Lily looked out at the blackness, imagining she could just discern the faint motion of the water. She felt enveloped in a private little cocoon with Kath. She knew they were standing right out in the open, not far from the brightly lit Maritime Museum—its shadow slanted down the bleachers toward the water—but the fog made it seem as though she and Kath were hidden from view.

“What was it like when you went to the Telegraph Club?” Lily asked.

Kath didn’t seem surprised. Maybe, Lily thought, she had been waiting for the question since she first told Lily about it.

“It was . . . I don’t know how to describe it. I’d never seen anything like it. The performers there are sort of famous, you know. Like Finocchio’s, but with women.”

“Finocchio’s. The one with the female impersonators?”

“Yes.”

“The tourists go there. They come to dinner in Chinatown and then they go to Finocchio’s. Do they go to the Telegraph Club too?”

“Some of them.” Kath hugged herself against the chilly kiss of the fog. “Maybe half the audience was tourists the night we were there.”

“What was the other half?”

“Women.”

The ocean shushed against the sand below. The foghorn blew again. Lily asked, “Did you see . . . Tommy Andrews?”