“It was a well-deserved gift.”
Mary’s mind exploded; she’d never heard of such a thing. “From who?”
“No time to go into all that now.” Lillian went to the door. “You must be dying for a bath. I’ll go draw one for you.”
Lillian was still full of secrets, but Mary planned on getting all the answers while she was there.
Bubbles expanded in the water, from a bottle labeled Roseland Body Bath. Mary had never bathed in a ceramic tub before but wasn’t going to tell Lillian that. At home, the bath was a pail and strictly a splash, wash, and go situation. Get in there and hit the hot spots, Hazel would say. It took forever to boil enough water to fill the pail, and so they didn’t.
The water rose quickly to fill the depth of the basin, and the bathroom began to smell syrupy, like Lillian.
“I like my bath on the hot side,” she said. “Turn this knob to adjust. Make yourself at home.”
The door closed, leaving Mary to investigate the contents of the little glass bottles and containers on the sink. Her face tingled after slathering a scoop of Lillian’s cold cream on her face. It began to burn, and as she bent over the sink to wash it off, the constraints of the leather belted pouch dug into her waist. Undressing, she saw it had chafed and bruised her skin. The pouch was damp with sweat, and she had to struggle to remove a thick stack of bills from it.
She counted a thousand dollars. It was more money than she’d ever seen, and more than she’d need if she planned to stay in Los Angeles for only a few months.
In the middle of her third count, Lillian knocked on the door. “The washrags are in the cabinet.”
Worried she might try to come in if she didn’t receive a reply, Mary shouted, “Thank you!”
It had to be a mistake, she thought of the money as she sank into the tub, letting the water wash over her chin and mouth. She closed her eyes, comforted by the warmth, until dread washed over her as she realized what some part of her already knew: her mother didn’t have a thousand dollars to give—mistakenly or otherwise.
She leaped out of the tub, barely covering herself with her towel before entering the hallway.
“I was just coming for you.” Lillian had an armful of dresses. “My friends are waiting.” As their proximity narrowed, she frowned. “Is everything all right?”
“I need to call my momma.”
Lillian walked into Mary’s bedroom as if she expected her to follow. “It’s late there. We really need to get going.” Mary silently agreed. She needed privacy, and Lillian only had one phone.
“I brought you a few things to wear until we go shopping.” Lillian pointed to a white lace dress on top of her stack. “This would look pretty on you.”
“I don’t have any clothes as fancy.”
“I had to buy all new clothes when I came. Didn’t want to look country.”
“You always dressed so nice.”
“Thanks. I used to get all my clothes for free.” Mary wondered why Lillian never gave her any of her old clothes.
Lillian nudged a pair of white heels near the bed with her toe. “Sorry, they’re a little scuffed.” The heel was only two inches high, like her church shoes, but Lillian’s, as always, were better.
Lillian crossed to the vanity at the window, giving Mary the opportunity to tuck the leather pouch inside her suitcase lining. “Let me go finish washing up.”
When Mary returned, Lillian was fluffing her hair at the vanity, “Tonight we’re going to Mitch’s. Everyone from the studios goes there after work. It’s just up the street.” Lillian spun around in the chair to look at her. “I hope you don’t mind, but we need to dress you up some. You look like such a little girl.”
Mary wasn’t offended; she wanted to be taught to do all the things women were supposed to do. But when Lillian painted Mary’s lips in her signature red, she blotted it, reminded of one of those clowns who dressed in blackface. Mary chose a petal-pink color instead.
“I can’t even see it now.” Lillian dabbed some red on top. She pawed through Mary’s hair, which had formed ripples from the bath steam. “Have you ever ironed it?”
“You mean hot comb?”
“No, an iron. White people iron their hair if it’s curly.”
“No.” Mary never used a hot comb either. “Give me the brush.” All she did to ensure her hair stayed pin straight was brush it back and let it dry. She demonstrated, using the bristle brush to wrangle her hair into a low bun.
Lillian looked relieved. She secured a rose-adorned hairpin in the back and touched her cheek to Mary’s, admiring their reflection. “Sisters.”
Mary beamed from the inside out. But as quickly as the joy came, it was replaced by a nagging question. “Why didn’t you ever write me?”
“There was nowhere for you to write back to.” Lillian pouted her lips in the mirror and pulled Mary from the chair. “We’re so late.”
* * *
Mary had assumed Mitch’s was a fancy place with candles, tablecloths, and napkins. In reality, it was half bar and half restaurant, a step above diner décor, made worse with dim lighting, dark-red carpet, and a fog of cigarette smoke. A few couples swayed to whatever was playing from the jukebox lodged in the back right corner. Mary couldn’t hear the music over the clank of glasses and buzz of conversation between sips and puffs.
Lillian led her through the crowd. Everyone in the room was White; there wasn’t even a Negro waiter. Being the only one, or even among a handful of Negroes in a room full of White people was never ideal. She pulled the back of Lillian’s dress. “Should we be in here?” Jim Crow wasn’t law in the West, but that didn’t mean the Whites who lived there weren’t in support of the rhetoric.
“Don’t be silly.”
Three White women in a booth in the back waved in their direction. “Emma!” they called.
When Lillian waved back and hustled over, Mary realized that Lillian was passing.
They stood in front of a table of eager eyes. “Everyone,” Lillian said, wrapping her arm around Mary’s waist, “this is my sister, Kitty. Kitty Karr.” She pointed around the table to introduce Judy, with brown hair, then the blond twins: Daphne, with the shorter hair, and Meredith, chubbier, on the end. All three women slid around the booth to make room.
Mary sat, knowing she had no choice but to pass too. That meant saying little and listening a lot, so she didn’t contradict anything anyone said. Was it “Emma” Lillian called herself? She didn’t remember what Lillian had called her either.
Meredith pushed the Bundt cake with white icing, sitting in the middle of the table, toward Mary. “I had to go all the way to my maid’s apartment on Central, but it’s the best coconut cake you’ll ever have. I hope you like it.” Her eyes pleaded for acceptance. “Emma said you love cake.”
“I would love a slice; thank you.”
“We can order ice cream if you want.”
“No ice cream,” Lillian answered before Mary had to.
Judy started cutting slices and passing plates. Daphne poured champagne. “The bubbly is nearly flat.”
Lillian apologized. “Kitty’s train was late.”
“It’s fine. I’ll order another bottle.” Daphne looked for a waiter, tapping her blood-red nails on the table.
Mary finished half her piece of cake before anyone else had taken a bite. She had never had coconut before and liked the unexpected complexity of it. It was fitting for the moment.
“How do you like LA so far?” Daphne turned the table’s attention to “Kitty.”
“She just got here,” Lillian said. “She can’t have an opinion yet.”
Mary could tell Lillian wanted to protect her from idle conversation, but Daphne waved her off. “Every city has its own mood, an energy.” She raised her brows at “Kitty.” “So? What does it feel like?”
“Free.”
Daphne looked impressed by her answer and raised her glass. “To being free.”