Last Night at the Telegraph Club(96)

Claire and Lana traded glances, and then Lana said, “How old is she? And how old are you?”

“Seventeen.” Lily remembered Tommy asking her the same question; she remembered Tommy’s thumb on her mouth, and now she blushed. “We’re both seventeen.”

“A little young for the Telegraph Club,” Claire said gently.

Lily’s blush deepened.

“I was sixteen the first time I went to a gay bar,” Lana said. “I can hardly believe it now. I was so young! But this is good news—if Kath’s only seventeen that means she couldn’t have been arrested. She’s not legally an adult. They probably took her to juvie.”

“But how can I find out? I tried to call her house—I even went there—and no one was home.”

“You should ask Parker,” Claire said to Lana. “He would know someone.”

Lana nodded slowly. “Yes. Maybe Parker could make a call. I could ask him tomorrow.”

“Who’s Parker?” Lily asked.

“A lawyer I know,” Lana said.

“He’s one of us,” Claire said meaningfully.

Lily nodded, not wanting to let on her confusion. “He’ll know where Kath is?” she asked eagerly.

“Maybe,” Lana said. “At least he’ll know how to find out.”

“Do you think Joyce will get her liquor license taken away?” Claire asked.

“I hope not,” Lana said.

The mood seemed to sour a bit, and Lana went to the living room to get the cigarettes and the obscene table lighter, which Claire laughed at, and then Lana and Claire lit their cigarettes and poured more wine. Slowly the conversation drifted away from the bar raid, but eventually it circled back again, as if there were no way to escape its dragnet. Lily gradually realized that Claire had come over to keep Lana company because Tommy, of course, was in jail. Parker was their lawyer friend—Lana was a secretary at his law firm—who was trying to get Tommy out, but he hadn’t been successful yet. That had something to do with money, which Lana didn’t like to talk about. There was another woman involved, too—someone unnamed—who had been attached to Tommy sometime in the past, whom Lana disliked. Lily felt as if she were a sort of detective, piecing together the story from bits and pieces of their coded conversation.

At one point Lana said, “Oh, why does it even matter? She’s just going to get in trouble again. I should leave her.” She noticed Lily then, still sitting quietly at the table, and seemed irritated. “I guess you’re hearing all the secrets tonight.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll leave,” Lily said, and scooted her chair back.

“Where will you go?” Lana asked bluntly.

“I—I don’t know. Somewhere.” She couldn’t go home. The thought of her parents looking at her—their disapproval and disgust—made her ill. She stood, feeling woozy and warm from the wine, and went back to the living room where she had left her sweater and shoes and socks, which weren’t quite dry yet. Nevertheless she sat down on the bench to put them on.

Lana came after her. “Lily.”

“Thank you for letting me in—and for the sandwiches,” Lily said, shoving her feet into her damp shoes.

“Stop it. Stay.”

Behind Lana, Lily saw Claire hovering in the doorway, looking worried.

“You can stay here tonight, all right?” Lana said. “It’s cold and wet outside and I know you’re not going home.”

Lily wiped at the corners of her suddenly brimming eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“This is an awful time for me to be here.”

Lana raised her cigarette to her mouth and took a drag, then exhaled slowly. “Would you like some more wine?”



* * *



—

The living room was thick with smoke; it hung in the yellow lamplight like a fog, and Claire got up from where she had been lounging against one arm of the sofa to push up the window.

“You’ll let out all the heat,” Lana objected. She was lying on the floor now, her head propped up on a maroon pillow that looked like it belonged in a Turkish harem.

“And some of the smoke too, I hope,” Claire said. “Otherwise we’re all going to suffocate.” She didn’t return to the sofa, where Lily was curled up at the other end, but instead went to the record player and began to shuffle through the albums leaning against the octagonal table. “Oh, I love this one.”

“What is it?” Lana asked.

“‘The Lady Is a Tramp.’”

“Oh, play it. I can’t get Tommy to sing that one.”

Claire put the record on and then flopped back down on the sofa, reaching for her wine. They had opened a second bottle, and Lily watched the two of them become languid and loose-limbed, their laughter coming more easily. Lily had had a glass or two also; she wasn’t keeping track. She felt as if the night had turned in a new direction at some point, she wasn’t sure when, but as the trumpets kicked in on the song, it seemed perfectly natural for Claire and Lana to start singing along.

Afterward, Claire asked, “Why won’t she sing it? People would love it.”

“Oh, it’s not a Tommy song,” Lana said. “I’ve heard her sing it in the shower though. She said she used to sing it years ago, back when she was Theresa Scafani, Ingénue of North Beach.”