Last Night at the Telegraph Club

“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?”

“Yes. There was a show. Tommy Andrews was one of the performers. She sang—some of the songs had the lyrics changed.”

“Like what?”

“I can’t remember the lyrics. You’d know the songs. But the whole point of it was, you know, she’s dressed like a man. She sings to the women in the audience. She’s very . . . handsome.” Kath gave a nervous, selfconscious huff that was not quite a laugh. “She came around to our table afterward—well, she comes around to all the tables near the stage, and the stage is so small that she comes to everyone’s—anyway, Jean couldn’t get enough.”

Lily had imagined Tommy’s performance countless times, but hearing Kath describe it aloud made her quiver with excitement. She sings to the women in the audience. She took a deep breath of foggy air. “Oh, I wish I could see it,” she said, looking at Kath, and Kath was looking back at her with a strange expression on her face—a mix of fear and excitement. “What?” Lily asked. “What is it?”

“Well, we could go. To the Telegraph Club.”

Lily was surprised. “I couldn’t—”

“You could. We could. Why not? It’s on Broadway. Plenty of people go.”

Lily said nothing, but her mind was spinning. Again she imagined herself at the club, sitting at a small round table on the edge of the stage, Tommy Andrews singing to her.

“How old are you?” Kath asked abruptly.

“Seventeen. Why?”

“You need to be eighteen.”

Her dream was instantly quashed—and replaced with a kind of unwelcome relief. “Then I can’t go. I don’t turn eighteen until April.”

“I wasn’t eighteen when I went either. Jean got me a fake ID. I could get you one.”

“That’s illegal,” Lily said. She thought immediately of false immigration papers. What would the police do to someone like her if they found her carrying a fake ID? She curled her fingers into fists inside the pockets of Kath’s coat. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“You really only need a fake ID to buy drinks. They never even asked for mine when I went.”

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