Last Night at the Telegraph Club

“Lily—”

“Nobody made me go there,” Lily said angrily. “Nobody forced me to do anything. I went there because I wanted to. I don’t want to go on any dates with Will Chan, and you know he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me! We are not going to be double-dating with Calvin and Will—isn’t that what you want? I know you’re dating Calvin. I saw him drop you off in North Beach.”

Shirley’s face went white. “What does that have to do with this?”

“You said I was lying to you. You were lying to me too.”

Shirley, who had been gaping up at Lily, got to her feet. “If you know so much, you know why I kept that to myself.”

“Because he’s a Communist.”

“He’s not a Communist! Don’t be a child. He’s not a Communist—he’s an American with a right to go to whatever meetings he wants to go to. There’s nothing wrong with Calvin. I love him.” Shirley’s face flushed as she spoke, her voice rising. “But there’s everything wrong with that nightclub. And with Kathleen Miller. The shame you will bring on your family—”

“Shame?” Lily interrupted. “You know what’s worse than shame? Being deported.”

Shirley flinched.

“You can believe whatever you want about Calvin, but it doesn’t matter if he’s really a Communist as long as the government thinks he is one. Did you know the FBI interviewed my father about him? Did Calvin tell you? They wanted my father to say Calvin was a known Communist, and he wouldn’t, so they took his citizenship papers. My father is in danger because he was protecting your boyfriend! If they deport my father because your boyfriend wants to be an American who can go to meetings— You’re being so stupid!”

Lily was breathless with anger; it had spilled out of her in one hot rush.

Shirley’s face shut down immediately. All emotion fled from it as if she had turned into a mannequin; even the two red spots on her cheeks looked painted on. She took a quick, sharp breath. “If that’s what you think, we have nothing left to say to each other. I don’t think you should come with me to the Miss Chinatown judging anymore. I can’t have someone like you there. You should know that your parents are going to find out. Everyone’s going to find out because Wallace Lai’s a gossip, and if you won’t even bother to deny it, I can’t help you. I tried. I told you last fall—don’t you remember?—I told you about Kathleen Miller. I warned you, but you didn’t listen. I’ve been trying to watch out for you.” Shirley’s voice betrayed her with the slightest hitch. There was a sudden brightness in her eyes that she blinked away. “Obviously you didn’t appreciate it,” Shirley said, and started for the door.

Once, Lily had admired the way Shirley sailed through the world with such confidence, as if she wore an impenetrable armor that protected her against all slights, real or imagined. Lily had envied Shirley that armor, but now she saw that it was an illusion, and those who possessed the right knowledge could pierce it at will. Lily knew Shirley better than anyone; she could wound her thoughtlessly, and she had.

I love him, Shirley had declared. Love was the justification for all her secrets, but it also made her vulnerable. And Lily understood. She suddenly felt horrible.

“Shirley, wait,” Lily said. She reached for Shirley’s arm as she passed, pulling her back.

The expression on Shirley’s face stopped her cold. It was plain repugnance. Shirley’s eyes dropped to Lily’s hand, and she pulled away.

Horrified and humiliated, Lily said, “You can’t think—”

Shirley didn’t look at her. “I think you should stay away from me from now on.”

Lily almost laughed. “Oh my God. You think—I’ve never—” She fell silent, her face burning.

Shirley marched to the kitchen door and yanked it open, going to collect her things from the bench on the landing. Lily didn’t move; she couldn’t believe what Shirley had implied. The silence between them seemed to pulse. Lily heard every thump and slide as Shirley put on her shoes, every rustle as she slung her garment bag over her arm. And then suddenly Shirley came back into the kitchen doorway. She was pulling something out of her purse, holding it out to Lily.

Her scarf. It dangled from Shirley’s hand like a brown woolen snake, the fringed end discolored as if it had been dragged through a gutter.

“This is yours, isn’t it?” Shirley said.

At the end of the scarf a cloth tag had been sewn onto the wool, and a name was embroidered on it in white thread: L HU. Lily had done it herself. She remembered missing her scarf after she fled the club, but it had seemed so inconsequential at the time. She felt faint.

“Wallace found it on the street,” Shirley said. “He brought it over to Calvin this morning. I told them there had to be a mistake, maybe someone stole it, but—” Shirley shook her head. “I thought I should bring it back to you, so at least they don’t have it.”

When Lily said nothing, Shirley tossed the scarf onto the nearest kitchen chair and left.

As she descended the stairs, Lily distinctly heard the crunch of the key in the lock; she heard the creak of the hinges as the front door opened; and then she heard her mother’s voice.

“Shirley! What brings you here?”

In the pause before Shirley answered, Lily was fatalistically certain that Shirley was going to tell her mother the whole story right then and there, but Shirley merely said, “I came by to talk to Lily about Miss Chinatown. She’s not coming tonight.”

“But I thought—what happened?”

“It’s just better this way. I’d better go.”

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