Butterflies in Heat

by Darwin Porter

  Winter's coming on, and I fear I won't make it through January without some help. Sometimes, I can't even heat up a can of Campbell's soup.

  You get on up here now just as fast as you can. Lot of work to be done before the snow comes.

  Just for the occasion, I'll break my resolution and light up with you.

  Love and God bless,

  Grandma."

  "Good news?" Anne asked.

  "Good news," he said, smiling at her. He paused, then asked awkwardly, "Wanta come with me?"

  "Thought you'd never ask," she said, running her hands through his hair. "Yes."

  "You didn't ask where," he said.

  "Does it matter?" she said. Her fingers snaked around his ear. "More to the point, do you love me?"

  He hesitated. It was easier to say yes, but it wasn't honest. He'd never had an honest relationship with anyone. It was time to start now. "I don't know how to answer that. I want to love you, that's for sure. I'd like to tell you I love you. That you're the most important person who ever lived as far as I'm concerned. That you are. But until I'm different, until I've gotten over a lot of hangups, that isn't saying too much. There haven't been many important people in my life."

  "I know that," she said softly. "I'm not asking much myself. That you let me go with you. We'll both try to survive ... together."

  "We can give it a try," he said.

  "Maybe that's what love really is," she said.

  "I wish I was all fresh and pure," he said. "But, as you know, everybody's had me. Lola, Ralph—you name it."

  "No one's ever really had you," she said. "Not even me. But one day I will. You'll see."

  At the foot of the rickety steps to Tangerine's Taj Mahal white-coated attendants were heaving up the stretcher inch by inch.

  "Steady there, for God's sake," its passenger directed. "This ain't no coffin. The body's still alive."

  She didn't look like herself any more. The once-vibrant orange hair was now gray at the roots. The always colorful face was drained—not even a touch of its usual garish make-up. All that lost weight made the flesh hang from her bones.

  Without her tinsel, Tangerine Blanchard was a very sad Christmas tree.

  At the top, Numie was waiting. "Welcome home," he said warmly.

  "Thought those clowns would never get me here," she said. "My God, look at you. They're letting you out of the hospital, but you look like you should go in."

  "A little accident," he said, unsteady on his feet. "I was drinking last night and ran into something."

  "The story of my life," she said. "I was in six car accidents before I turned sweet sixteen."

  He held the screen door open.

  "My God, I can't believe it," she cried from inside. "You boarded up that blasted hole—Blanchard's folly."

  "Of course," he said. "We didn't want you taking another dive."

  The attendants moved their burden into the living room and into a wheelchair. "I just can't believe it," she said. "The place is a mess."

  "I told you about the storm."

  "Christ," she called out, "new curtains."

  "Yeah", he said. "They arrived at noon. Compliments of Lola La Mour. Now that she's completed her suite at the hotel, she fancies herself an interior decorator."

  "Pale yellow, though," Tangerine said, childlike in her disappointment. "Not for me at all. There's nothing pale about me. I like color to vibrate."

  One of the attendants came over to ask, "Don't you think we ought to put her to bed before we go?"

  Good idea," Numie replied. "When's the nurse due?"

  "Around four," he answered.

  "I want to sit here and talk to my good-looking boy friend," Tangerine said. "I've had enough of beds unless there's some action going on in them."

  "Okay, I'll take care of her," Numie said, ushering the attendants to the door.

  "Numie," Tangerine summoned.

  He sat down on the new sofa Lola had sent over. "How do you like it?" he asked, rubbing the red velvet and leaning back against the yellowy gilt frame.

  "It was just great of Lola to do all these fancy things for me," Tangerine said. "But I was very attached to my old sofa. I know it wasn't in the best of shape, but a lot of my life took place on that sofa. I'd been meaning to get it repaired and upholstered."

  "The storm completely ruined it," Numie said. She was making him feel guilty. "Really it did."

  "Let's face it." Tangerine pushed back her hair, hesitating a long moment before speaking. "After all Lola—and I love Lola dearly—Lola is colored. I know that don't mean nothing to us. Both of us are liberated. We don't see color. We see only what's inside the person. But, honey, colored folks have a taste they brought over from Africa. It's not to white folk's liking."

  Numie sat rigidly on the sofa, not saying a word.

  Tangerine was eying the rest of the room skeptically.

  Finally, he got up. "Let me get you some bourbon. I know you must be dry." He went to the kitchen. Three whole hours before the nurse was due!

  He felt trapped. He knew Tangerine was dying and he did not want to face the pain her death would inflict on him.

  "Numie," the demanding voice came from the bedroom where she'd wheeled herself. "My slop jar! The only thing my mama ever left me. It's gone! Numie."

  Sunglasses covered her bruises, but otherwise Leonora gave herself her own seal of approval. The dress was perfect. A bit nostalgic perhaps, but with a touch of 'today.' The gown was oyster pink, dripping down, then caught up in intricate embroidery on her hips.

  Already the report reaching her was that Sacre-Coeur was the highlight of the old island tour. Bringing in bartenders and plying all the guests with hard liquor helped make it so.

  At the far end of the patio, a buffet table groaned with old island food: raw conch salad, conch fritters, shrimp in their shells steamed in beer, Spanish black beans, and picadillo, with big pitchers of Sangria and lots of key lime pie.

  No people were lingering at Ruthie Elvina's house, if they even made it over there at all. Everybody was at Leonora's.

  Guests were milling about, inspecting her porcelain collection, criticizing her art, and testing out her antique chairs. In the faraway Edwardian gazebo a young couple were making love, seemingly oblivious to the audience they were attracting. At the edge of the garden, one hairy-legged man in Bermuda shorts was vomiting, his dirndl-clad wife slapping him on the back.

  Leonora stood in the parlor, looking out. Too many flowers, she thought. The house looked funereal. Too much wax was on the parquet floors. She nearly slipped.

  In the garden, she was bathed in vibrant colors. The sharp blue of the sky, the blinding yellow from the sun, the flame from the flowers—everything convinced her she'd selected the right color, oyster pink, for her gown. It softened nature's vividness, giving her a subtlety and femininity no one else had.

  Curiously stiff, she moved through the crowd. No one seemed to pay attention to her. Perhaps she should have worn a more striking gown, if vulgarity were needed to attract the masses.

  Then she realized this impression was wrong. They were noticing her, but shyly, too afraid to approach. They seemingly knew they were invaders in her home, and were respectfully keeping their distance.

  Despite her earlier protests, Leonora was glad Ruthie Elvina had advertised Sacre-Coeur on the old island tour. Somehow it had all become part of Leonora's plan to face the public again. How fitting she should throw open the gates of Sacre-Coeur after keeping them closed for all these years. Leonora belonged to the world now, the world with all its grossness and horror as reflected in her garden today, but belong she did.

  Back like a predatory bird of prey, Teddy Albury, the realestate agent, was at her side. His sharp beak was pecking her cheek. She withdrew at this sudden familiarity. That and the smell of stale vodka were offensive.

  "I didn't think you'd dare set foot in Sacre-Coeur again after what you did to me," she said.

  "Everything's cool, baby
," he said.

  "Don't baby me."

  "Your Picasso's outside, all neatly wrapped up in a newspaper," he said. "No damage." He sighed. "Now we can be friends."

  "Where did you find my Kandinsky?" she asked.

  "In a trailer park," he said, "but that's a long story."

  "I've heard enough of your long-winded tales," she said.

  "I found out where the culprit lived from someone who saw us leaving Commodore Philip's. When I got to the trailer park, I surprised him at the door. I grabbed him by the neck of his shirt, slapped him hard across the face, and said, 'It's me'."

  "Please," Leonora protested, "after two attacks on my household staff, I can't stand another story of violence."

  He ignored her protestations. "He pretended not to know me," Teddy said. "'You know who in the fuck I am, and you know what I'm here for, ' I said. I placed my knee on the boy's throat in the appropriate thug fashion, then I cracked him in the face again."

  "I beg you," Leonora implored.

  "'If that painting's not here, it's going to be bad, bad for you', I said. 'I don't know what I'm doing when I get drunk,' he said. 'I'll get it for you'. The Picasso was in the trunk of his car, resting on a pile of luggage."

  Leonora breathed with relief, hoping this was the end.

  "I told him," Teddy said, 'You're just lucky I don't beat you so bad you'll never rob someone gay again. I know you're married, and I know you think you're straight. But you ain't, you see. You're gay!"

  In horror Leonora glanced at her guests. All eyes were turned on them.

  Teddy went on. "'Remember?' I asked him. "We went to bed together. And as for the change you stole from my pocket, I want you to keep it to pay back the next man you go down on.' That was it, Leonora. I just don't trust anybody any more."

  By now, Leonora had had enough. "And I don't trust you," she said, motioning for one of the waiters. "I'll have the painting brought in. If it's all right, I'll drop charges against you."

  "You can afford to be generous," Teddy said.

  "What do you mean?" she asked.

  "The whole town's heard about the deal you made with Lola," he said. "She's getting this old white elephant. If the termites stopped holding hands, Sacre-Coeur would collapse."

  "That's insulting!"

  "You traded Lola half a million dollars worth of beach property for this firetrap," Teddy accused.

  "I beg your pardon," Leonora said.

  "Look, baby, you're going to have to negotiate with me if you want to sell the beach property," Teddy said. "High rise is coming to Tortuga. Progress is on its way. Just two nights ago Ruthie Elvina finally agreed to our price."

  "Really?" Leonora asked, "Half a million. You must think I'm Lola. This is no dumb transsexual you're talking to." She arched her back. "One million dollars—or else."

  "One million!" Teddy staggered back. "You must be out of your mind."

  "The whole town keeps saying that about me," she replied. "We'll see who's out of her mind. Without my land, you can't have risers on the beach. I control too much of the property."

  "One million dollars—that's robbery," he charged.

  "But something tells me you boys will come up with it," Leonora smiled.

  "You're a bandit, you know that," he accused. "First you rob Lola. Now us."

  "Lola robbed the commodore to get the claim to the property in the first place," Leonora said. "Dare I look into the shady pasts of the rest of you entrepreneurs. Now if you'll excuse me, my guests are waiting."

  By her side were a bull-necked husband and his wife with her black hair coiled and contorted.

  "Are you the Leonora de la Mer?" the woman asked.

  Bowing theatrically, Leonora responded with an elaborate smile. "Indisputably," she said.

  That night Numie wanted to be alone; he didn't even want to see Anne. Crossing the street from Tangerine's, he stayed much too long at a bar there.

  It was after midnight when he noticed the time. He'd promised to relieve the nurse at ten. During his last Scotch, he finally staggered out on his way to her apartment.

  Anne was waiting on the balcony, "Hi," she said, just a touch of anger in her voice. "You'd better sober up."

  "Anne, what are you doing here?" He kissed her gently on the lips.

  "The nurse quit," she said. "Called me at Sacre-Coeur. Said Tangerine was insulting."

  He stumbled in. "She probably was. After all, dying doesn't bring out the best in us. How is she?"

  "Okay, I guess," Anne said. "I've been letting her sleep."

  He entered the bedroom. At first, there wasn't a sound, not even Tangerine's usual heavy breathing. In panic, he flipped on a light.

  There Tangerine lay helplessly on the bed steeped in her own wastes. She'd lost control, like the man at the hospital. Her open eyes were the saddest he'd ever seen.

  Trembling, he had to turn away. He was going to be sick himself from too much Scotch. Rushing into the bathroom, he vomited.

  "Help me, Numie," Tangerine moaned as he came back in the bedroom. "Help me."

  "It's okay, baby." He approached the bed slowly, reaching down and lifting her hand in a squeeze.

  Anne was at the door. "My God," she said, seeing the mess. "Look, we've got to have round-the-clock nurses. They're trained for things like this."

  He looked down at the filthy bed, fighting a lifetime of disgust. "Okay," he told Anne, "bring me some hot water." Just as he finished removing Tangerine's last soiled garment, a pan was placed on the nightstand.

  Tangerine heaved herself up slightly in bed, watching Numie's maneuvers. Her lips were moving in some silent and feverish prayer.

  "I'll need some washcloths and soap," he told Anne. "See if there are fresh sheets in the hall closet." The vomiting and the shock of seeing Tangerine had momentarily sobered him.

  Gently, and with Anne's help, he moved the sick woman to the clean side of the bed. Then he began to wash her naked body. Within moments, she was no longer his old friend but a dying stranger who had to be helped.

  Anne slid the sheets out from under, as he lifted Tangerine. Then Anne made up half the bed so Tangerine could be rolled onto them.

  As soon as he'd finished, he rushed out. In the bathroom, he peeled off his clothes and jumped in the shower. Then, dressed again, he joined Anne in the living room.

  She sat there on the newly bought sofa, smoking a cigarette. "You were very good," she said. "I'm going to be in fine hands if I ever get sick."

  "Thanks a lot," he said. "We can't handle this, though. Somehow I've got to talk her into going back to the hospital. That's where she belongs."

  "Do you think she's okay for tonight?" Anne asked.

  "Don't worry," he said. "I'm spending the night on the sofa."

  "I wish I could stay with you, but I have to get back to Leonora," she said. "That creature is driving me up the wall. I don't know how much more I can take."

  "We won't be here long, I promise," he said. "We'll stick it out a little longer, and then we've got a date with grandma. We need a little more money before we leave."

  "Good night," she said.

  He held her for a long moment, kissing her goodbye.

  She left without saying another word.

  He went right back to the bedroom—relieved to find Tangerine as he'd left her, lying on the fresh sheets.

  She opened her eyes slowly and looked up. "Sugar," she whispered, "don't let it happen again. You won't, will you? Please." She reached for his hand and held on.

  He searched her eyes carefully, looking for some trace of the woman who'd so enchanted him. But there was none. "I won't, sweetheart," he promised. "I won't let it happen again. You've got to go back to the hospital tomorrow."

  "No," she said, her voice desperate. "No, I'm not going to leave my bed—my own Taj Mahal." Her face was so white she seemed to have powdered it. Peering at him with desolate black eyes, he knew she was aware of her trap.

  "We can't take care of you here withou
t nurses, you know that," he said.

  "I'm not going to be a bother to no one," she said. "Really I'm not. I'm not going to be a bother no more."

  Her words were unexpected. What did she mean? That she was going to kill herself? "It's not that you're a bother," he finally said. "It's just that we're not prepared to take care of you here."

  "I know," she said, sighing. "It's time to go when you can't look after yourself."

  "You'll get better soon," he assured her. "You'll be up and about." His words sounded hollow.

  "What about you?" she asked, taking his hand. "Who's going to take care of you?"

  "I've always gone it alone," he said. "But things are changing now."

  Her hand dropped. "Both you and me, Numie, we're born losers."

  "That's one hell of a cheery note." He drew back from her. Was she using her illness as a license to say what she really thought about him?

  "Trouble with me is," she went on, "I've been too cheery all my life, never facing up to the truth. But you've got to."

  She coughed suddenly. "You're not going to gain anything from Leonora or Lola—only trouble, more than you can handle. You can't cope with those crazy ladies."

  "I've learned that," he said, not wanting to hear it.

  "With Anne, it's different," she said weakly. "For the first time in your life, someone has come along to offer you something." She seemed impatient. "She's in love with you. You have a chance at a life together." Tears were forming. "I wish somebody had come along and offered me that long ago."

  "Anne and I can make it, I'm sure," he said.

  "You can't make it here," she said. "I've told Anne that."

  "She's convinced," he said.

  Tangerine's head was reeling.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  "No." She paused for a long, awkward moment. "What broke my heart was wanting things I could never get. If I'd been more honest with myself, I'd a come out one hell of a lot better." The cough returned. "Why can't you settle for less than your big dream of striking it rich? Us southerners always think we're going to be rich one day. Your own roof over your head, a decent job where you're not put down, and someone to love you—maybe that's what it's all about."