Butterflies in Heat

by Darwin Porter

  Numie turned around, ready to go. His boots clumped along the bricks. Blinking at the sky, he looked toward the gate. He was always nervous and uneasy around Leonora, more so this morning than usual.

  "Don't be impatient," Leonora said, almost reading his thoughts. Self`doubt about her appearance was stabbing at her. Her bones seemed to have a certain rudeness this morning, as if they were rebelling against their stations after all these years. She couldn't trust them. For one brief moment, she considered canceling her appearance. "We're late, but I wanted to arrive after everybody else was there." Her face became grim and ominous. "After all, I am the most important guest."

  Numie steered the Lincoln in between Lola's white Facel-Vega and the commodore's antique Rolls-Royce. The town's barflies were waiting between the curb and the bar, ready to enjoy the show.

  The doors were wide open, the wedding crowd assembled inside.

  Standing at the entrance was a minister, about thirty-five, his dark, wavy hair combed neatly. He was really a clean-cut, all-American boy type, with pale green eyes.

  "Miss De la Mer," he said warmly, "I'm Roy Alberts. I've heard a lot about you, and I've been anxious to meet you. I had everybody wait until you arrived."

  Like an eccentric red raven, Leonora extended her red-gloved hand. 'That was kind of you, my young man." She was observing a tiny knot of drying blood on his white shirt collar, probably from a shaving nick. Right away she determined that anyone so careless about his appearance wasn't to be trusted.

  "You look beautiful as a rose," he said, eying her costume. "More so."

  She smiled benignly, not being one to succumb to flattery ever.

  Numie was noticing an old drunk eating peanuts, crushing their shells, then tossing them on the sidewalk. It was like enjoying popcorn at the movies. Right at this moment he knew he'd feel more comfortable joining the drunks than participating in the action in any way. Instead, he stepped up to the minister and said, "I'm Numie Chase."

  The minister shook his hand, a firm grip. "Glad to meet you, too."

  Numie liked Roy Alberts at once.

  "Aren't you the 'gay pope'?" Leonora asked, her voice smooth as cold steel.

  The reverend frowned. "I hope not."

  Numie instinctively backed away. He was beginning to learn when Leonora was preparing for the kill.

  "Yes," she continued, "I think I've heard you called that when you're not being referred to as the 'gay Billy Graham'." A nerve tugged at her left wrist. She really didn't know why she was insulting this kindly man. These unexplained impulses took over now and then. However, now that she'd launched the attack, she was determined to see the battle through.

  "I resist labels," Alberts said softly. "I believe that God didn't limit love to jocks and bunnies."

  Numie was surprised at his use of those words. This man didn't talk like any minister he'd ever met. He smiled to himself, wishing his own mama had the pleasure of meeting Roy Alberts.

  "That's why I gladly accepted the Commodore's invitation to perform the wedding ceremony." Alberts went on.

  Leonora searched his face carefully, her eyes probing it like a needle after a splinter. She was determined to find one weak and vulnerable spot. She focused on his mouth. It was petulant. Now she knew why she instantly disliked the man. She positively loathed petulant mouths. "But I read that a bishop suggested calling these gay marriages a 'celebration of commitment'. Why not that?"

  'That's up to the individual," the reverend said. "If Miss La Mour and the commodore want to be joined in the eyes of God, then it's my duty to help them achieve that union."

  She glanced ahead at the shadowy figures in the bar, but they were too dim and her eyes too weak to make out any distinct features. However, she could sense that all eyes were on her. "But they don't believe in God," she said, raising her voice. "I happen to know both of them are devout atheists."

  "A devout atheist," the minister said, "is about the same as a true believer."

  "Frankly, dear heart," Leonora continued, "I'm attending this so-called wedding because the commodore is a business associate of mine." She moved closer to Alberts, although his cheap shaving cologne offended her sensitive nostrils. "Confidentially, I disapprove mightily of homosexuality. It's a disgusting perversion!" She stepped back to survey the damage she'd caused. Indeed, the reverend's face showed his anguish. "I, myself," Leonora went on, "was married to a most delightful creature, a darling man named Norton Huttnar. I loved him so much I've never been able to look at another man since his untimely death at the age of seventy-eight."

  The minister's back stiffened. "Miss De la Mer,' he said, "I don't understand you at all. You know I'm a self-admitted homosexual, yet you insult me by calling my love a disgusting perversion." His hand trembled. 'The commodore and Miss La Mour represent a new style of family. Disgusting to some maybe, but so is hatred of all things we don't understand."

  The heat of the morning was causing her to see spots. She'd have to go inside and quickly. "But this flamboyance," she protested. "Even my chauffeur here called it a spectacle." Her eyes wandered around in search of Numie, but he was off somewhere talking to a drunken bum.

  "Maybe it is,' the reverend said, "but I prefer flamboyance to closet queens."

  Leonora's fingers began a crawling descent down her costume. "I beg your pardon."

  "Between us, dah-ling," the minister said, effecting a mincing, high-pitched voice, "in that rose number, with a diamond stalk coming out of your head, you're the biggest drag queen here."

  "My God," Leonora said, "I've never been talked to this way in my life." Motionless, she stood at rigid attention.

  "If you don't want to attend," the minister said, resuming his natural voice, "you don't have to. To me, this is a serious ceremony of two people pledging fidelity to each other as abiding friends—husband and husband or husband and wife, whatever you want to call it. You can either enter into the spirit of it, or else leave. Good day, Miss De la Mer."

  'The vicious swine!" Leonora said to Numie, now at her side.

  Numie sighed with relief at his own good judgment at staying away for a few moments so he wouldn't have to hear their words. "Do you want to get out of here?" Numie asked. "I do."

  "Darling," she whispered, "all my life I've been the victim of the vilest type of character assassination." Hand at her forehead, she was breathing with difficulty. The intense heat seemed to be molding her costume to her body. In fact, the whole grimy sidewalk seemed to be molding itself to her. She wanted to turn and go, but dared not. Unsteady for a moment, she reached out with her long fingers for Numie's hand. But it was sweaty, and she withdrew instantly at the touch. "I'm not going to allow one faggoty minister's attack to rile me." Her voice was shrill, like a wounded leopard. "I am going to attend." By now she'd regained her balance and those blasted spots were disappearing in front of her eyes. "My public expects it of me." The dim figures in the bar were taking actual shapes—vague faces she recognized on her rides throughout the town. "See," she said, gesturing to Numie, "they're looking at me now."

  About seventy persons were gathered. Never had the bar been filled to such capacity. A newspaper photographer near the door recorded Leonora's entrance. She tipped her head slightly to acknowledge his presence.

  Once again, Numie had an image of Leonora as a silent-screen star arriving at the premiere of a film. The outfit was different, but the stiltlike stride was the same as the first night he'd met her.

  Leonora's pique at the gay minister faded quickly in the wake of attention she was receiving. Her rose costume attracted much interest. Lola was nowhere in sight.

  Numie retreated to the far comer of the bar.

  "Violet eyes," came a voice. "Don't step on my toe. It's infected with pus." There stood Castor Q. Combes, holding his calico cat.

  "You follow me everywhere," Numie said. He didn't understand why he was always glad to see Castor.

  "The other way around, if you ask me," Castor countered. "Who was
taking a shit at the bus station when you came barging in?"

  'That was a mistake," Numie said, his face growing sad with thoughts of Tangerine. "I didn't know you were in there. I was looking for someone."

  "I bet!" Castor abruptly dropped his calico. Her body twisted in the air, and she landed on her feet. "Some place to look all right."

  Castor had the incredible ability to make Numie feel guilty about anything.

  "After this wedding ceremony, you won't be seeing me at this stinking bar no more."

  "Why's that?" Numie asked. He felt he and Castor shared a number of secrets.

  "My cat caught that blasted rat," Castor said with pride. "Was it ever big! She drug it to my house."

  "I saw her with it," Numie said, looking at the calico who was fascinated by a giant roach.

  "Oh, man, you lie," Castor said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out some chewing tobacco. "Do you ever lie!"

  "No, it's true," Numie said, smiling in spite of the fact Castor never believed a word he said. Numie had a warm feeling, the kind you get when sad music is played at the movies.

  "If truth was a hammer and hit you on the head, you still wouldn't feel it," Castor said, biting into the tobacco aggressively. "I'm warning you, next time I go take a shit, I don't want no queer barging in on me when I'm conducting private business." Wide-eyed, he stared at Numie defiantly. "You hear?"

  "Only too well," Numie said, suddenly aware of the others in the bar. "So does everybody else. Could you lower your voice?"

  "You have good reason to be ashamed, let me tell you." The morning sun breaking through stained glass gave Castor a yellow glow. "One more thing, if that Lola bitch comes down the aisle all dressed in white, I've warned her. I'm gonna stand up and shout to everybody, that bitch is no virgin."

  "I believe you would," Numie said, glancing nervously at the clock on the wall. Its hands said six o'clock, though it was clearly noon. Off schedule, like everything else in this town. "But give a girl a break. You know Lola just loves white."

  'The color makes me sick. I've made my statement, and everybody in this town will tell you that Castor Q. Combes stands behind his word." He spat again.

  The circular platform, on which Lola usually did her musical numbers, had been turned into an altar, draped in her favorite material, white satin. Vestments in white and gold were hanging loosely. Covering the platform was a lacy canopy of streamers adorned with flowers. The last Royal Poincianas of summer were draped about.

  From a room in back, Commodore Philip appeared. Looking haggard and slightly stooped, he was obviously ill. But he summoned his energy, and with the help of a cane, made his way to the altar where the Reverend Alberts was waiting. The Commodore was wearing white baggies, a purple ruffled shirt, and a pink silk scarf. His shoes were two-toned, in white and brown. His most attractive feature, his silver gray hair, had given way to jet-black, a bad dye job.

  A mountain of yellow fabric appeared from around the corner of the building. It was Erzulie, the voodoo queen. At the head of the procession. She was followed by Sunshine, the commodore's cooking cousin, and six other bearers carrying a pole strung with tropical fruit and flowers. They laid it at the altar like an offering.

  Two candlebearers appeared next. Ned and Dinah, in long white robes and multi-colored bean beads strung around their necks. As she stood at the doorway, Dinah—completely devoid of her usual makeup—looked like a vestal virgin. It was clear to all that she was entirely nude under her thin robe. Then Ned stepped into the light. His genitalia were arranged for display.

  Back at the platform, Bojo looked sober this morning. On his miniature piano, he started the wedding march. It was more like New Orleans jazz than a wedding march, but at least he was sitting up straight on his swivel stool.

  Then Lola appeared, one arm resting daintily on the sleeve of her escort, Johnny Yellowwood. The sheriff seemed embarrassed at the presence of the newspaper photographer. With his eye, he signaled Dave, his deputy, to stop him. As a flashbulb popped, Dave grabbed the camera from the photographer's hand. A brief skirmish, but the march went on.

  Lola's anger at not getting photographed was clearly apparent. But she gracefully continued her walk to the makeshift altar.

  Fortunately, she had not worn white, as Castor Q. Combes was carefully observing. Rather, a full-length bridal gown in silver gray—covered with sequins, crystal beads, and rhinestones shaped like stars and crosses. Her pageboy wig was pillow white, and she'd generously shadowed her eyes in silver as well. Her usual flaming mouth had given way to raspberry mocha, a color she'd retained for her fingernails showing through open mitt lace gloves and her toenails peeking through silver slingback platform shoes. Dangling cross-shaped gold earrings, with rhinestones pasted on, hung from each pierced ear. Proudly she carried a rhinestone bib on her chest. Draped around her shoulders was a pearl-white chinchilla shrugette. In her arms she carried a bouquet of gladiolas sprayed with silver paint. A rhinestone tiara crowned this decorative mass of black flesh, fabric, stone, and glass.

  All too much for Numie. For the actual ceremony, he ducked out back, sneaking a beer from the big refrigerator the commodore kept outside.

  Slowly sipping his beer, Numie was an alien. He didn't belong at this mock wedding. No part of him.

  His mind wasn't on the ceremony taking place inside the bar, but lost in the world he'd been slipping into.

  The last two weeks with Ralph—all a charade of pretended affection. Ralph was constantly looking for some sign of rejection from Numie. It was hard, real hard, for Numie to pretend love when none existed. At least, with his johns in the past, he had to give sex—and only sex—but Ralph was demanding love. How could you demand love? Ever.

  After the morning she'd discovered Numie in the guest cottage with Ralph, Anne had avoided him. She kept their conversation at a minimum. Ralph still didn't know the reason for this hostility. He just assumed Anne was jealous of him because he'd taken a lover.

  Wasn't Numie better off not getting involved with anybody? In these past few days, he kept repeating that question to himself.

  To travel light in the world—that had been his goal. Free of possessions. Commitment and concern, two elements missing from his life.

  He could also add that he was bereft of ideas, or even the ability to articulate and define his experiences, shaping them into a meaningful insight.

  How long could he go on being owned by Ralph? Or how long would Ralph want to continue to own him? To recognize that all things in life are temporary had been easy for Numie. To try for some permanent arrangement seemed as futile as cursing the darkness.

  He downed such a hefty swig of beer he almost choked.

  Tensely alert now, Numie could hear every word of the ceremony from his position behind the altar. The trelliswork concealed him.

  The commodore was putting a ring on Lola's finger.

  "You should have had it shined, sweet daddy," she whispered in a voice too soft for any of the audience to hear.

  "It's an Old Mine diamond, bitch," the commodore said. "Belonged to my great-grandmother."

  "But you really should have had it shined," Lola admonished. "Everybody will be wanting to see my ring, and I don't dare show them this dull thing."

  A murmur rose from the crowd.

  "Shall we go on with the ceremony?" the Reverend Alberts inquired.

  "Darling," Leonora interjected, "an Old Mine diamond refers to the way it's cut. It's very valuable. Everything doesn't have to shine to have value."

  "Listen, Miss Rose Bush," Lola said, "I have you to know I know a thing or two about diamonds. Diamonds are supposed to shine—everybody knows that."

  "Please," the minister pleaded.

  "Very well," Lola said, raising her voice slightly, "but, daddy I've never been so humiliated in my life. And on my wedding day. Everybody will make fun of me."

  After this whispered conversation, Lola allowed the commodore to put the antique diamond ring on her finger.
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  Vows specially written by the Reverend Alberts were exchanged. Commodore Philip Le Blanc and Lola La Mour were now married.

  The crowd was rushing to the platform, some to shake the Commodore's frail hand, others to kiss Lola, who warned them not to mess up her makeup. She turned her wedding band around on her finger so that the diamond was hidden inside her hand.

  Numie sought out Leonora to take her back to Sacre-Coeur.

  Alone on the patio of Sacre-Coeur, Numie was on his sixth Scotch, far exceeding the limit set by Leonora.

  All at once, Anne was there, in nothing but shorts and a halter. "There's something melancholy about September,' she said. "Something in the air, I can't place it."

  It was the first time since his night of love with her she'd acknowledged him as a fellow human being.

  "It's the end of summer," Numie said, "and that's always sad."

  "I see you're all by yourself tonight," she said.

  "Yes, Ralph hasn't shown up all day." After the blood-boiling heat of the day, Numie was hoping to relax. Anne's presence was disturbing. He feared trouble.

  "You'll get used to it. I did." Laughter sounded on the patio, but it was so faint it could have been the wind. "He used to disappear for one or two weeks at a time."

  Numie searched for some vision of concern in her soft brown eyes, but they were vacant. "We don't have to talk like two wives waiting for the old man to come home," he said, getting up. "That's not where it's at—not with me anyway."

  She smoothed back a lock of hair from her temple and gazed at him. "I'm sorry I've offended you."

  "Forget it!" He brushed the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. The pressure of being with her under these circumstances was getting to him.

  She went behind the bar and took a saltine, smothering it with Tabasco sauce. Then she opened her usual beer, pouring it into a glass. "I'll never be an elegant lady like Leonora."

  For a long while, there was nothing but silence. Numie was tense and keyed up.

  Finally, Anne slammed down her glass. "There's a bug in my drink. The island's crawling with insects. Get me a clean one."