Butterflies in Heat

by Darwin Porter

  Two bottles of champagne later, Sunshine was putting the dessert on the table.

  "A little sweet-tater pone," the commodore said, dizzy and bleary eyed.

  "Can't eat any more," Numie said. "I'm full."

  "Lola said you were a man," the commodore replied, "but you don't eat like no man I've ever met." He was remembering the days he used to pick up fishermen down in Bayou country, stuffing their guts and getting them drunk on cheap whiskey before they gave in to his amusements.

  Lola, meanwhile, was devouring the dessert. "I like everything real sweet."

  A cynical smile crossed the commodore's lips. "Lola even thinks my gas is sweet."

  "Now don't tell that," Lola said, no longer bothering to conceal her growing irritation.

  "I'm perfectly serious," the commodore said, daring her to challenge him.

  Lola's chest heaved, and she pressed a fist to her mouth.

  Numie felt he was always coming out as part of a hate triangle on this island.

  "People ask what I see in Lola gal here," the commodore said. The champagne had warmed him, and he was once again feeling in a good mood. "I often have gas, have had all my life, and Lola is the only person who'll let me get rid of it in her bedroom. And she doesn't even strike a match—nothing insulting like that"

  Numie slammed down his fork in rage. He, too, was drunk, but enough was enough!

  Slurping some champagne, the commodore was on a demonical tear to display his power over people.

  A bad memory of Leonora crossed Numie's mind. Despite their completely different posturings, there was an amazing similarity between her and the commodore. It was easy to see why they were friends.

  "I understand ... " The commodore paused, looked over at Lola, then glanced back at Numie. "I understand you've been shoving it up Lola's glory canal since I been gone."

  Numie looked him straight in the eye. "You might say that."

  "It's okay with me," the commodore said. "Only thing wrong with it, I wasn't there to watch. Now don't get me wrong. I'm not one of those voyeurs like my buddy, Johnny Yellowwood. I like a little action just as much as the next guy." He reached over and fingered Lola's breast. "I also like to get into a little black pussy on the side." Then he dropped his hand back at his side. "But these last years have been hard on me."

  At this point, Numie was too drunk to think up a good excuse to leave.

  "We gonna go upstairs," the commodore said. "Just the three of us."

  The prospect of that horrified Numie. He hesitated, then said, "I think Leonora wants me to drive her around the island tonight."

  The commodore's mouth fell open in surprise. A hustler wasn't supposed to act like this. "I can arrange things with Leonora," he suggested with a leer. Seeing the disgust on Numie's face, he added quickly, "And I'm a most generous man, when I want something. How's a hundred dollars sound, boy?" His hand groped under the table for Numie's crotch.

  Numie hastily rose, pushing back his chair so that it made a screeching sound. It was hard for him to keep from puking right on the old bastard. He took a deep breath. All he wanted to do was get out of this bar as fast as he could. He began to back away from the table. "No thanks," he managed through clenched teeth, "I'm not into that tonight" He turned and walked quickly out of the bar, afraid to look back.

  Out on the street, Numie paused in the night air. The most money he'd ever been offered for a sex act. And he'd turned it down. Why this new-found independence? What did it mean?

  At this point, Castor Q. Combes, holding his calico cat in his arms, appeared in the doorway of the bar. "Violet eyes, one more night I'm gonna see if my cat can catch that rat. Got a feeling that rat is bigger than my cat."

  Ignoring him, Numie headed up the dark street.

  A nightmare, the same bad dream, always haunted Numie. It was spinning through his mind now, except he wasn't asleep.

  In the dream he was standing outside a great mansion, somewhat like Sacre-Coeur, and he was looking through the tall, wrought-iron fence. Inside the women were elegantly dressed. The men, courtly and charming.

  Along came a beggar woman. Her face was eaten with cancer, and her ash-colored clothes were rotting on her humped back. Spotting Numie, she stared at him, then started to scream. It was forbidden to look at the people in the garden.

  Suddenly all eyes turned on him. He started to run, but his legs were paralyzed. The elegantly dressed women and courtly men changed before his eyes. Their faces became the faces of wolves, with fire-red eyes. They were moving toward him, and he couldn't escape.

  Hands reached out, pulling him through the fence. Thrown on the rough, cold earth, he was knocked and beaten, his clothes ripped from his body. Fangs were watering. He was going to be devoured!

  Looking up at the sky, he saw the moon go behind a cloud, leaving the garden in total darkness. He couldn't see anything. Then the mouths were on him. They were eating him!

  At this point, he always woke up.

  On the street corner, he stopped under a lamppost. The dream seemed like the nightmare in the Commodore's bar. So real he forgot for a moment where he was.

  "Hustlers are a dime a dozen," he'd been told, usually by men stinking of cheap wine and holding five dollars in their hands. "You're hungry, punk, so better take it" He'd often taken it in desperation only. Always he'd feel more rotten afterward, going into the men's room, trying to wash the stench of tobacco juice off his cock.

  Weren't hustlers supposed to be insensitive? Weren't they supposed to fuck anyone who could pay the price? He was up for grabs—had said so about himself many times.

  Yet he was glad he'd refused the commodore. Maybe it was a final act of defiance before he surrendered completely to the forces on this island. Maybe he should right now pull off all his clothes and streak down main street, yelling, "Take me, take me," to anybody who wanted him. If anybody did.

  But what if he couldn't perform any more? Were his juices drying up? Could he no longer get it up on command? He certainly hadn't wanted to with the Commodore. He'd never had this problem before. Always he'd been able to blot out the object before him, losing himself in some fantasy to sustain the act until it was over.

  There was something about Tortuga, though, that was draining him, making it impossible for him to perform in his profession.

  Had all those mouths of long ago robbed him of his manhood? Could it, like an oil well, be used up one day?

  In the patio of Sacre-Coeur, the light from Anne's room was clearly visible. Ralph was probably in the guest cottage waiting for him. Leonora, hopefully, was asleep.

  He couldn't go to Ralph. Just couldn't face his demands tonight.

  He wanted warmth and comfort...and love.

  Almost blindly, he was up the spiral staircase and gently tapping on Anne's door.

  "Who is it?" she asked.

  "It's me."

  "Oh," she said sleepily. "Come on in, the door's unlocked. What's the matter?" Propped up in bed, a sheet wrapped tightly around her body, she was reading. She stared at him from behind the hair in her eyes.

  "I've come to make love to you," he said softly.

  She paused for a long moment, wondering if he were serious. Then she put down the book. "Of course," she said, "I wasn't going to let you if you asked, but seeing you didn't .. ."

  Chapter Twenty

  By ten o'clock in the morning, Numie knew it was going to be the hottest day of the year. He could just feel it in the air. The white sun was taking all his juice, draining him senseless from where he sat around the pool. The humidity was so stifling it gave him a dizzy head, the kind you get when you smoke too much in places without enough oxygen.

  He cursed the relentless heat, his miserable headache, and the general state of confusion in his life.

  Stripping out of his jeans, he raced across the bricks, their heat burning his feet, and plunged into the pool. Instead of cool refreshment, it was like a lukewarm bath. He quickly got out and dried himself off.


  Lying in the shade, he still couldn't stop sweating in the oppressive heat. Nor could he think sanely this morning. There was that trapped feeling again. But trapped by whom? Leonora? Lola? Ralph? Anne? Himself?

  He couldn't blame the heat entirely for the dullness in his head. First, there was that gnawing reality of last night spent with Anne. It had not been casual sex. It was more like it was with Lisa—warm, tender, loving, his giving because he wanted to give, and her receiving because she wanted to receive. She really gave, too, in the loving way a woman can. He wasn't having to perform, as in a sex circus.

  He was too experienced and had sex with too many people to get emotionally involved after a roll in the hay. Yet after he'd kissed her goodbye this morning, he sensed she felt too that there was more to it than one night's passion. A commitment somehow.

  The catch was, her husband was waiting in the guest cottage to begin a new arrangement with him. He'd stood Ralph up for Anne. How was he going to explain to Ralph why he hadn't shown up? And after last night how was he going to explain to Anne his living in the cottage with Ralph?

  A shadowy feeling of some vague threat moved over him. He was getting too involved with everybody. It could only lead to trouble. Then where could he go? Now he was asking that damn question. Where to go after Tortuga? Was it truly the end of the line? He could hardly imagine himself making the trip back up the road to the mainland.

  There was a hope, still not clear, that he'd make it in some way on this island. He wasn't asking for much—just something. He seemed to have moved through the island in a trance, reacting to other people's outrages and requests, not controlling them himself, as he felt he should. Giving in—that's what he'd done—not stating his own wishes more clearly.

  He'd had sex with Lola, Ralph, and Anne. Each one different. One, the past night spent with Anne, a moment of bliss. The other with Ralph, a time to play stud, yet he wasn't humiliated or demeaned. The third with Lola was the worst—strictly from hunger.

  He had to get himself together. He couldn't—or wouldn't—go back to Lola and that commodore. That was too sick. Even for him.

  Anne, he was trying to convince himself, was just one more person along the way. Loving, kind. But he had nothing to offer her. If he went back upstairs to that room where he'd spent the night, what could he say to her? She was just another hired hand at Sacre-Coeur, same as he was.

  That left Ralph. Ralph was in control, Leonora's right-hand man. After Numie had angered Lola and the commodore, Ralph was the only person who could save him now from the sheriff having him run out of town. It seemed a cowardly thing to do, but he had to go to Ralph and put himself under his protection.

  He desired and wanted Anne's warmth. But it was never that simple. He was in no position to stake a claim on what he himself wanted. The only thing he could do was make himself available to the person who wanted him. Of the three, Ralph had the clear edge.

  Feeling numb from head to toe, he was heading for the guest cottage ... and Ralph.

  Ralph was asleep in a double bed.

  Not wanting to wake him and not very fresh from a night spent with Anne, Numie headed straight for the shower. He stood under the water and tried to wash off the heat of the morning. Much colder than the pool, the water did the job. It ran so cold it must be well water, chilling his body to the bone. Maybe if he stayed here long enough, he could freeze his brain, make it free of doubt.

  Still confused about his thoughts of Anne, he was squinting his eyes shut and turning them directly under the cold spray. As he opened them again, Ralph was there with the shower curtain back.

  "Hi, lover," Ralph said, patting him on his wet ass. "I stayed up for you, but must have fallen asleep. Didn't hear you come in" With that, he was gone. No explanations needed.

  Numie's stomach was still twisted in a tight knot as he came out of the shower. Don't let your wanting Anne get you in trouble, don't make any false moves, he kept telling himself.

  "Here, let me dry you off, " Ralph offered.

  "Morning." Numie kissed him on the mouth.

  "That's more like it," Ralph said. "Sorry about biting your lip. I was uptight about your going back to the ebony queen's."

  Numie gave a little shudder and walked to the window. Outside on the patio there was no sound of life. "The commodore was there," Numie said, casually drying himself. "He invited me for one of the biggest dinners of my life—tons of champagne, spicy food."

  "That's strange," Ralph said. "The commodore can't drink. Bad heart. He's on a rigid diet."

  "Not any more." Numie's eyes narrowed, and he drew a deep breath. "He's going to have an operation for cancer."

  Ralph's eyebrows raised in surprise. "It's amazing he's still around."

  "I think he's trying to do himself in first," Numie said. "One last fling." His nostrils pinched, as he shook with rage. "There's just one problem."

  "There's always a but," Ralph said. "Now what is it?"

  Numie hesitated before speaking. "Part of the commodore's last fling was his wanting me to sock it to him. I couldn't do it."

  "Of course, you couldn't," Ralph said. He picked up the towel Numie had dropped and resumed his drying. "You're mine now. Didn't you tell him?"

  Numie's face grew distorted, and his shoulders slumped forward. "No, I didn't want to cause trouble. I know the commodore is Leonora's partner."

  Ralph's anger flared. "Let me handle that. I saw you first."

  Numie wearily crossed the bedroom, heading back to the bath. Over his shoulder, he said, "Lola saw me first."

  "I can handle her or him ... or it!"

  Numie sighed, his eyes a little glazed. "You're a better man than me if you can."

  "What can she do?" Ralph asked, walking toward him. "You're with me now. Besides, I don't think she's that interested."

  Numie was breathing more easily now. He'd thrown Ralph off the track. "Perhaps not."

  Before the bathroom mirror, Ralph nervously combed his hair. "We've got to get down to the fashion house. Let's take the Lincoln. When Leonora wakes up, you can drive back and get her."

  "Okay." Numie finished dressing.

  In the living room he heard Ralph at the door. "Oh, it's you. Morning."

  Who was he talking to? Numie wondered.

  "Take these letters down to the office," came a woman's voice.

  My God, Numie thought. It was Anne.

  "They have to be answered today," he heard her say. "Why did you spend the night out here? What's the matter with your own room? Been trick or treating again?"

  "I've got a surprise for you," Ralph said. "Come on out here, lover man."

  The trap Numie was fearing all morning just snapped shut. To delay any longer would only make it worse. Numie held his breath, then walked into the bedroom. "Good morning," he said.

  At first the only sound heard was the dry whispering of the palm trees in the patio. Anne's hands went instinctively to her mouth. "Numie!" she gasped.

  "Don't look so startled," Ralph said, with a smile. He reached for her arm.

  Biting her lower lip, she jerked back.

  Numie's heart jumped. He wanted to run and throw his arms around Anne. But all he could do was stand there weakly, while others decided his fate.

  "You might as well get used to having Numie around," Ralph said. "I may be your husband, but Numie is my new husband."

  Ralph's words were like a knife entering the back of Numie's throat.

  "When did this marriage take place?" Anne asked, retreating into sarcasm.

  "Last night," Ralph said, "after you left the pool."

  "I see." Anne turned and walked rapidly out the door.

  "I never knew her to be that jealous of me before," Ralph said.

  "Look," Numie said, not concealing his anger, "that was a pretty tough line for a chick to hear from her old man. Do you have to call me your husband, for Christ's sake?"

  "Yes," Ralph said, growing stem. "It's part of my coming out of the closet. Too long I'
ve hidden around and kept things secret. I'm fed up with that. This shouldn't surprise you. It was you who convinced me. You ashamed to be my husband?"

  Numie stared unblinkingly at him, his eyes narrowing, and his mouth tightening into a thin line. "Not at all. It's okay with anybody else. But in front of Anne ... come on, man."

  Ralph clutched Numie's arm until it hurt. "Anne will have to get used to it." He waltzed around the room. "So will Lola. So will her commodore. So will Leonora." He came to a stop in front of Numie. His face was stiff and expressionless. "So will you."

  The palms fluttered in the first real wind that had stirred this morning.

  Numie parked the Lincoln in an adjoining lot, then trailed Ralph up the flower-lined path to an old gingerbread house. Except for its size, no one would know it was a house of fashion. Only a small sign outside—fashions by De la Mer—provided a clue.

  Inside, the reception room was empty. A melange of flowers, monumental polka dots, and bold zebra stripes competed for attention. Everything, a monument to the ego of Leonora de la Mer.

  Pictures on the wall showed her with prominent figures of her heyday: Tallulah Bankhead, Walter Winchell, even Franklin

  D. Roosevelt. More pictures, of Leonora in her elegant, extravagant gowns.

  Mannequins displayed her latest creations. The range was vast: everything from Scarlett O'Hara dresses in white lawn to femme fatale stuff—skirts slit up to the crotch, long and tapering bare backs.

  The room itself was like a theater setting. White bird cages from Edwardian days hung in the comers. Pink hollyhocks scaled the cerulean walls. Like a Tiepolo ceiling, clouds floated overhead. Fitting rooms were shaped like gazebos in white trellis; and the lighting was from art nouveau lamps. The wind from outside was gently rustling the lavender organdy curtains.

  "What a place!" Numie said.