Butterflies in Heat

by Darwin Porter

  "I can't help you," he said, looking as if he felt strong, handsome, masculine, immune from her plight. "Put down that stupid gun and let me go."

  She closed her finger around the trigger. "I'll kill you. Then I'll kill myself!"

  "You really mean it, don't you?" His eyes widened.

  "Of course, I mean it." She made a gesture to the door, silently defying that it would ever be opened without her permission. "I'm going to hang on to you; even if I have to kill you to do it." Her voice was getting even more high-pitched, her gestures airier. "I've always lost everything I've ever wanted." She sobbed. "Lola is tired of losing!"

  "Come on ... " He raised his hand toward her, then backed away.

  "Take off your clothes," she commanded. "Get in that bubble bath." She lowered her voice. "I'll be in to rub your back." She glared at him, searching for some show of defiance. He was giving in, submitting, she could tell. As an afterthought, she added, "and anything else I want to rub any time of the day or night I want to rub it. You're mine!"

  He sighed in defeat. Not saying a word, he was heading back to the bathroom. He got out of his clothes slowly and into the water; he let the bubbles float over his head.

  In front of the bathroom mirror, Lola adjusted her retrieved wig. Then she generously applied flaming red lipstick as a prelude to joining him in the bath.

  Intimidating Ned had been easy, almost too easy. She couldn't quite believe it.

  Getting Numie into her stable would be more difficult. But still an imminent prospect.

  "The water's got cold,· he yelled.

  "Don't worry," she said over her shoulder. "Your mother's going to make it scalding!"

  Leonora in anger answered the sound of the buzzer. "Anne, you know I don't like to be disturbed when I'm meditating. What is it?"

  "It's Sunshine," she said.

  "Sunshine?" Leonora asked incredulously .. "You know I loathe it."

  "No," Anne said, exasperated. "Sunshine is the commodore's cousin. He's demanding to see you.·

  "Really!" An idea flashed through Leonora's mind. Lola had taken care of Sister Amelia. But one relative was just as good as another when your aim was breaking a will.

  "Show the young man up,' Leonora commanded.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Numie had a hard time falling asleep that night. Tossing and turning, he wrestled the bedcovers in the guest cottage at Sacre-Coeur. In the dark, he was reaching back in space. Where had everything gone wrong? At what point in life had he taken that bad a turnoff? The same question, endlessly repeated.

  Images clogged his brain, giving way to memories, both distant and close--all blending into one melting pot that churned inside his head. Tears filled his eyes, and at times he seemed on the verge of some new insight. But then it was gone. Everything became elusive again, including the solution for his escape.

  If only an answer to his letter would come. Maybe it had gotten lost! Getting out of bed quickly, he flicked on the lamp. Its glare gave him a headache. At the desk, he sat down and began to write once more a letter that remained his only hope for escaping Tortuga.

  Shortly before dawn, he left Sacre-Coeur. As he walked down the deserted sidewalk, the whole island looked as if it was washed with purple paint.

  The sun was up now, casting light on the rows of little shanties that bordered the graveyard.

  Out early, the old shoeshine man was here, rocking on his front porch-his smile revealing decaying, yellow-green teeth. "Morning, young man."

  "Morning, old timer. You get up early."

  "Don't want to miss no business."

  "I said next time I was wearing shoes, I'd be right over," Numie said, walking up the rickety steps. "Here I am."

  Shining his shoes, the old man sang a loose-lipped tune, a kind of Dixieland. Between shines he paused to take a swig from a half pint of liquor tucked away under his ornate stand. Stretching his back, he scratched the sweaty armpits of a yellowing, pin-striped shirt. Then he snapped his dirty rag and went to work. Eyes squinting, he held the shoes up to his face, testing the gleam. "Right fine shine I gave you."

  "Best I ever had," Numie replied, putting a dollar bill in the withered, outstretched hand.

  In the now clear light of morning, Numie saw that the polish was applied too thickly, that it was the wrong color, and that some of the areas had been completely missed. "See you around," he called back at the shanty.

  Beyond the graveyard, he was pleased about one thing: he'd carried out his vague commitment to return to that old man to get the shine. A small incident, perhaps, but it was important to him.

  He planned to return again and again to have his shoes shined by that old man-just as long as he continued to live in Tortuga and the old man continued to live.

  Back at the guest cottage, he dozed for hours. The heat made him toss and tum in sweaty sheets. He woke late in the afternoon.

  Opening his eyes fully, he was startled by a tapping on his door. He must be dreaming. But, no, the tapping was growing louder. Bolting up, he reached for his robe and rushed to the door. "Anne," he said, startled. "Come on in." He was really glad to see her, though slightly alarmed at the prospect of bad news. "Does Leonora want me to drive her somewhere?"

  "No, she's resting now after dictating her memoirs to me for hours." She glanced quickly at the disheveled room, then at his sleepy face. "I'm beat! Anything to drink out here?"

  At the bar he checked a small refrigerator. "No beer," he said, smiling. Her presence warmed him.

  She paused for a moment, hesitating. "Then Scotch," she replied.

  "Sorry I don't have any cubes," he said, handing her a half-filled glass. Her words, the tone of her voice, was suddenly having a disturbing effect on him.

  She downed some of it. "Why don't we go for a drive?" she asked. A little sigh came from her. "I'd like to get away."

  "Where to?" he asked. He was sorry his question sounded a little cold. It wasn't meant that way. He had a hard time expressing feeling.

  In his presence, she looked helpless. Hand at her throat, she seemed to be in some sort of pain. "Any place away from here."

  On the way to nowhere in particular, he drove the Lincoln past a saloon with swinging, green-shuttered doors, a dingy grocery store, then a Navy shop, and finally a red-brick bank building.

  "What am I going to do?" he asked, not expecting an answer.

  Her look was strange. "Correction," she said. "What are we going to do?"

  Numie's eyes were wide and glazed. Did she mean that? Afraid to ask, he didn't say anything, just kept his eyes glued on the road.

  "We're in the same boat," she said after a long pause.

  He could almost sense her nerves tightening. His certainly were.

  "Each of us wanting to get out of this hole," she said, "but not knowing how to go about it."

  Outside, sallow-faced young men hung out on street corners wearing their masks. He mentally transferred his own face onto that of those mannikins, remembering too well how he used to stand around waiting for some miserable excuse of life to come to him. Turning the corner, he wanted to escape the tawdry town, with its decaying bars, its yellow-streaked windows, its termite-eaten lumber. "I've written a letter," he said impetuously. "But haven't got an answer yet."

  Anne rolled down the window, letting in the smell of the late afternoon. Soon all the bars were gone, giving way to birds of paradise growing alongside the road.

  He turned from their sight. Their long-pointed tongues seemed to be sticking out at him, mocking him. God, he was paranoid today.

  "Hope it comes soon," she said, shifting in her seat.

  He was heading for the ocean, to the childhood haunt and ghostly memories of Leonora. The land that spelled such defeat and despair for her gave him a curious kind of solace. It was the doorway that could bring change to Tortuga. If Ruthie Elvina, Lola, and Leonora could be tempted to sell, high-risers would go up on its shore, signaling the end of the long and sleepy isolation of the i
sland town. He wouldn't be around to see it, but he sensed its coming.

  "My own hope of getting a job in New York is getting pretty slim," Anne said in a warm, confidential tone.

  Suddenly, the thought of Erzulie and his own impotence came racing through his mind. Fear struck him, forcing him to turn from the ocean and head in another direction to the lonely pier at the end of the street. As he neared it, he was relieved. No sign of life anywhere.

  "This place is creepy," she said, crossing the rotten boards with him.

  At the edge, with the water right at their feet, he pointed to some distant boats on the horizon. "Some day, I'd like to get on one of those boats and go away. Way out there." A sea gull dropped a dead fish nearby, then scooped down to reclaim it. "To visit all the islands south of here." In a near whisper, he added, "To dock in all the strange ports."

  Her voice had a sudden sharpness. "Looking for what?" she asked, seemingly impatient with childish fantasies.

  "I don't know," he said defensively. He felt like a little boy in her presence. "What were you looking for when you came to this port in the first place?"

  "People never look for anything but themselves," she said, turning her face from the water. "That's what I think." In total contrast to his restlessness, she seemed anchored to the spot, like granite statuary. "They may tell you they're seeking money or peace or fame or love, but they're not." Her voice softened. "That's all part of finding out who you are."

  A rustling in the garbage pails behind him caused him to jerk around, startled. But it was only some alley cats. One looked like Castor's calico reincarnate. How he wished it were! "Do you really want to find out about yourself?" he asked her.

  "Probably not," she said. "I'd be terrified for sure." Moving closer, she held tightly to his arm. "I didn't quite tell you all. The job in New York." She faced him squarely. "I was turned down."

  Dark clouds, like a late summer rainstorm, seemed on the horizon. Remembering the storm and the panic of Leonora, he didn't respond at first. Then he asked, "What will you do?"

  The first drops of rain began to fall. Still she stood there motionless. "Stay on here unless I get a better offer." A streak of lightning tore across the sky. "I have to eat." She smiled. "An old custom my daddy taught me back in the Bronx."

  Numie felt tension building and he thought an unbearable explosion was about to go off inside him. He didn't care whether he got soaked or not. After that other storm, it wouldn't bother him. "Then you're not leaving after all?"

  The rain was pouring down now, coating the furry boards of the old pier. Even the pelicans were gone, and the cats were off under a warehouse seeking shelter.

  "I'm going to leave," she answered, rain hitting her in the face, "but not as soon as I'd like." She turned to the sea for a long moment, arching her neck. "When you go, guess you'll go alone?"

  Under her thin cotton blouse, her breasts were clearly outlined. "I guess," he said, taking his eyes off her long enough to glance at the waves washing up against the pilings. "Who would go with me?" he asked the water, not daring to face her.

  "Dammit!" she finally said. Her hair was streaky wet, her features hard. Through eyes half closed to protect them from the lashing rain, she yelled, "Do I have to print an engraved invitation?" Night was moving in. "I couldn't make it any clearer. "

  When he didn't speak, she said, "It's obvious you're not interested." Turning her back, she walked rapidly across the rain-splattered, dilapidated docks.

  He steadied himself on a piling. Bewildered, he wasn't really understanding what was happening. Temples throbbing, he stared at the rain hitting the sea. Soon Anne would be gone. Suddenly, he was overcome with the feeling she was his last chance. Just as Tortuga seemed to be his last chance when he first got here, now she was the embodiment of whatever it was that drove him here in the first place. No more time to think. He'd figure out everything later.

  "Hey, wait up," he called. After the first running steps, he nearly slipped on the rubbery, rotten wood.

  She stopped at the sound of his voice. When she saw he was falling, one hand reached out to grab him, even though she was yards away.

  That was all he needed to see.

  At the Sunset Trailer Court, all was quiet. The storm was over.

  Inside Leonora's trailer, Anne, nude, was lying on an orchid chenille bedspread, her head resting in a nest of throw pillows.

  At the other end of the trailer, Numie was in the kitchen galley, heating a pot of water on an electric hotplate. Waiting for the water to boil, he studied the fireboard walls and ceiling. Decals made of cutout seed packages and catalogues formed a frieze around the ceiling and windows. A long and narrow wooden shelf held an accumulation of years of living for Leonora's parents: an empty perfume bottle with a pretentious stopper, a miniature birch bark canoe, a drinking glass filled with partially burned birthday candles, and a dime store ashtray afloat with cigarette butts.

  A sharp pain shot through Numie's groin. He'd made passionate love to Anne about half an hour ago. The first night with her had been different. Both of them had been clutching, hungry. The love-making between them this afternoon was tender, more complete. He'd greatly enjoyed the first experience, but had found the second time infinitely more fulfilling.

  He hadn't concentrated on his feelings for Anne, allowing them to drift into that vague and uncommitted part of his brain. He didn't want her to know just how lonely he was. For that matter, he didn't want anybody to know just how much he needed someone else. A t the same time, he kept secretly hoping she would see through his mask to the man beyond. He knew it was unfair. She couldn't be expected to read his mind-yet he hoped she would.

  Back on the bed, he caressed her. Instinctively, her body moved closer to his, though she appeared to be asleep. How long could he lie with her in silence? What could a man who'd always been paid for sex say to her? "This was strictly for free," or something stupid like that. What could he offer her?

  When she woke up fully, she smiled gently at him; there was no need to talk. There was perfect and silent communication. Her body was soaked with perspiration, as was his.

  Running a bath for them, she insisted he get in first. With a big sponge, she soaked his chest, then, using her long deft fingers she lathered his whole body. Alternatively, she massaged the tired muscles in his neck and back. The warm water soothed every cell, and he lay back against the porcelain, giving himself up completely to her tender ministrations.

  Then his own hands reached out and cupped her upturned breasts, squeezing them, but ever so gently. She got into the tub with him; and his hands were sponging and lathering the hidden parts of her body. Slippery smooth, her skin was not only a delight to him, but was arousing him once again.

  Lifting her by the waist, he sat her on his lap, impaling her. Bobbing up and down, he let the water swirl around them like waves. He was not only plunging into her empty void, but fulfilling the empty void in himself.

  Gripping him around the neck, she kissed him tenderly then almost violently as she neared her climax. For the first time in his life, he realized what a form of communication lips were between lovers.

  She was biting his neck, and he was clutching her to him. Then it was over. But he lingered, holding her close, until the water turned cold. Kissing the bridge of her nose and then her eyebrows, he got up and lifted her out of the tub.

  He felt closer to her than he'd ever felt to another person. It was a new and exciting experience. He didn't want to overwhelm her, frighten her away. He wanted her to take time, make up her mind without pressure about how much she wanted him and trusted him.

  The night was passing quickly, and he was savoring every moment.

  Tape recorder on, Leonora was puncturing the early evening air with her beaded cigarette holder. Then, turning off the tape, she got up. Puffing furiously, she was creating a gray smokescreen around herself. She opened the green shutter doors and walked out onto her balcony, overlooking the garden below.


  Lips contorted, she let the night air bathe her body. It soothed her. Swaggering a bit, she held on to the railing.

  It was then she noticed Numie and Anne crossing the garden. What were those two up to? She'd have to watch them more closely.

  Earlier in the evening, one disturbing thought kept crossing her mind, as she played back the tapes. At first, she was mesmerized by the sound of her own voice. Later, she began to worry that her memoirs sounded as if she were playacting at life~reating an illusion, missing out on the actual experience.

  Much of her life had been spent trying to carefully preserve an image of herself as she was forty years ago. To do this, she had to by-pass reality. Now, coming out of her fantasy-world, she welcomed the resurgence of life.

  She couldn't go on acting young forever. Who could? She'd have to let the vintage Leonora de la Mer out of her cage.

  The truth was, she had never been innocently new or absurdly antique. She had always been herself-goading herself into new horizons, falling back when she allowed hurt and weakness to dim her brilliance, but rising again with the strength of angels to some glittering triumph, growing and expanding, forever reaching out to the stars. At times she'd been a disappointment to herself, but she never failed to dazzle her audience. That was because she'd allowed her romantic vision to become a reality in life. At times, the race got out of control, as if she were challenging the wind to catch up, but she always returned to her solid Virgo core, stabilizing herself for a while before flying again.

  She was no longer the child who'd married Norton Huttnar. To dwell on the past would only bring about that which she most feared. Would longtime admirers abandon their admiration if they saw what she looked like today? Could she truly face the glare of lights at a talk show? Did interest in her border on necrophilia? Was something missing in her? Something long gone-never to return?

  Even more than an unknown audience, she was afraid of herself. Wasn't it better to leave the past alone? Wasn't it reckless to dredge it up again? What awful ghosts waited there to be rediscovered? Did she need the self-inflicted pain?