Butterflies in Heat

by Darwin Porter

  Through the front window came the sound of an old car starting up in back. "Well, drop out," she said, slightly raising her droopy eyes.

  "Don't say 'well'," he said facetiously, trying to pierce her hostility. "You know Leonora doesn't like the word:

  Sliding down in slow motion, she slumped to the floor. "I couldn't give a fuck what Leonora likes or doesn't like." She practically spat. "I've spent enough time catering to what that one wants." Her eyes rolled back in her head like a cow so that only the whites showed. "Now, Lola La Mour. Talk about double jeopardy!"

  He lit a cigarette, then tilted his head back to watch the little puffs of blue drift up to the dusty ivory-white ceiling. The smoke just seemed to hang in the comers, like balls of clouds. "I agree with you," he said. "I'm in the same position—caught in the middle between those two."

  Joan was like a pump trying to get her body moving, but her . motor wasn't working. "Don't try to get on my good side," she warned him. "You and me, buster, aren't exactly allies."

  "Okay," he said, "but we don't have to hate each other." He shifted his feet uncomfortably.

  "I don't hate you," she said, reaching for her bottle of Scotch, but finding it beyond her grasp. "I just don't want you around."

  "Okay, I'll leave," he said impatiently. He turned for the door, heading through the beaded curtains. Something told him he shouldn't have come here in the first place. Every time he didn't obey his instincts he paid.

  "Wait!" she called in a frantic voice.

  For a brief second, he considered keeping on walking. "What's the matter?" he asked finally, turning back.

  "Could you help me up?" Eyes in focus once again, she was pleading.

  "Sure," he said reluctantly. He lifted her massive body, squirming slightly at the piggish quality of her flesh.

  One of her huge breasts tumbled out, but she didn't bother to conceal it. "Look at me," she ordered, standing on wobbly legs. Her voice broke. "Look what has become of me." In front of a mirrored wall, she stared at her image. "Leonora used me up: She choked. "Took everything." With force, she placed her breast back inside her housecoat. "Now I'm like some fucking milkcow."

  Remembering her first attack on him, he said bitingly, "I'm sure you were a beautiful movie star once."

  For a moment she looked as if she would strike him. "That's right, goddamn you. You cheap hustler. Always telling people what they want to hear." She headed toward her bottle of Scotch. "But you're not hustling me."

  His hands were shaking. Saliva dribbled out of his mouth. He wiped his chin. "Okay, what do you want to hear? That you look like a tub of suet? That you're ugly and fat? That you've had it!"

  The bottle in hand, she jerked up, catching her back. "You bastard!"

  "It's true," he said. "You told me I was washed up." He wanted to stop talking, but couldn't help himself at this point. "I can slap it right back at you."

  "I've not had my last fling." She faced him squarely. The wrinkles in her face were more pronounced. A vulnerability he'd once seen there was gone—replaced by a caustic mask. "I can go upstairs any time of the day or night I want." She smiled smugly. "The girls have to satisfy me. I make them work, let me tell you. Make them suffer every agony I've ever put up with."

  He folded his hands and squeezed tightly. "What agony is that?"

  She pursed her mouth. "You should know. You've been on the same trip. I've been everything and done everything, including working in a whorehouse catering strictly to dykes." Her tongue was like a flamethrower, searing Numie with fire. "A shock trooper, they called me. They used to haul me in, and four or five would make smorgasbord out of me." Once again, she tottered precariously on wobbly legs. "Those fat old broads would crawl on top of me, and I had to take it. Now I'm getting back." She stopped all of a sudden. "But, shit, Idon't know why I'm telling you anything."

  He moved toward the sofa. Now he was feeling faint and weak. "You're just confiding in another burnt-out whore."

  "Get out of here!" she yelled, stumbling back against the wall.

  He reached to brace her up.

  "Get your hands off me," she shouted, jerking away. "I don't like men to touch me. Those days are over."

  He was really furious at her now. "Don't be a fool. Do you really think I get my rocks off touching your blubber? No way!"

  Her fist sailed through the air, but he was too quick for her. "Men have got off using my body," she said. "Plenty of 'em. But when I learned just how tender and gentle a woman could be, I swore off men for life." On her own legs, and with the now-rescued bottle in hand, she wobbled to the door, disappearing through the beaded curtains.

  Lifting the lid of the wooden box, he took out one of Leonora's marijuana cigarettes. No blue this time—nothing his color—so he settled for red. On the sofa, he sucked in the smoke slowly, savoring it.

  Someone in a room upstairs flipped on a radio. It picked up a station from Havana. A mad cacophony sounded throughout the house. Suddenly, the radio was turned off.

  "Keep it down, you cheap spik." The bellowing voice upstairs was a man's.

  He closed his eyes. A picture of Joan flashed below the lids.

  Bitter and cynical, she was fed now only by the harm she could cause others. She'd not prepared herself for any other life once she could no longer peddle her body.

  "Don't let it happen to me," he said softly. "Not that."

  Through the beaded curtains came Maria, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans. Her breasts were small and firm; her limbs, long and slender. At the sight of him, her usually dead eyes came to life. Shaped like almonds, those eyes gave her a faintly Oriental slant. "Baby," she said, ·share some of that weed with your cousin."

  He handed her the cigarette.

  Greedily she sucked in the smoke. "Got this goodie from the wooden box, didn't you?"

  "Yeah." He wanted the girl to go.

  "I ain't allowed in there," she said. "Got in once and Joan beat the hell out of me." She finished the cigarette, failing to offer him another drag. Then her hands started to snake up his leg.

  "Not in the mood,· he said, brushing her away. "Besides, you're too young."

  "Shit, I've worn out bigger men than you." Through his pants, she kissed his crotch with her small mouth. Her movements were slow, lacking vigor.

  He reclined on his back, making no effort to help her.

  She unzipped his pants and pulled out his cock. Licking and kissing she worked slowly up the shaft.

  Yet it had no effect on him. He just lay there—immune to the energy she was generating.

  "Sweetie, I'm trying everything I can to put some life in it," she said. "Can't you do something?"

  An uncontrollable rage came over him. Her eyes seemed to be staring, accusing. Without thinking what he was doing, he slapped her across the face. Blood formed at the comer of her mouth.

  Zipping up, he bounded from the sofa, passing through the curtains.

  The ocean breezes brought him back to his senses. Why did he strike her?

  Looking back only once, he saw Maria on the porch, hand at her mouth. "It wasn't my fault—really it wasn't."

  He was now inside the Lincoln, starting the motor and speeding up the coral road, the rocks bouncing off the fenders. Stepping on the accelerator, he said out loud: "It never happened."

  Glancing occasionally at the road, he kept his eyes on the tall coconut palms bent by tradewinds, the white sand between the highway and the open sea.

  This was hurricane season, he'd been told. Yet the weather was fine.

  How could that cathouse stand out there on exposed land and not be washed away by now?

  Maybe this season a hurricane would sweep over it and reclaim it for the sea. The sea had a way of cleaning off the debris left on shore by man. But could the sea blot out the memory of what happened in that house? He did strike that girl in the mouth. But it wasn't Maria he was striking. Had he become like Leonora? Out for revenge, not caring about his victim?

  Then he
started to cry. He forgot how long it'd been since he last cried. But he was making up for it now.

  On the patio of Sacre-Coeur, Numie's duffel bag was laying in the sun. Reaching down, he picked it up, fondling it—his traveling office.

  The muscles in his arms and shoulders ached, and his legs were weak. He wondered if he still had a room at Sacre-Coeur.

  Fresh from the pool, Anne was beside him. She wore a thin robe slightly open. Underneath she was nude. She lifted a tentative hand to the top button, then dropped it.

  Her body was undeniably lovely to him—flaring hips sloping swiftly to a tiny waist. Her proud breasts jutted out from under the clinging robe. He swallowed hard, se(lrching her face. Finely constructed, delicate, it revealed nothing. "Let me get you a towel," he finally said.

  "No thanks, I like to let the sun dry me." She stared intently. "How is it I never get to see you any more?"

  He was breathing more easily. That was definitely a friendly question. "Between Lola and Leonora, not to mention Ralph, everybody eats up my time."

  "As far as Ralph's concerned, she said, "I understand you're completely free."

  He tightened his hand into a ball. "He told you that?"

  "Yes," she said, "this morning before he left for work." She looked squarely at him, her face drained of emotion. "He's moved back into his own room upstairs—left the guest cottage to you."

  At first he didn't know what to say. After all, she was Ralph's wife. He listened for some note of triumph in her voice. But there was none. "You predicted we wouldn't last:

  "I don't always like to be right," she said. She seemed to look away from him in embarrassment. "Actually, I feel sorry for Ralph."

  He winced at this statement.

  "Nothing ever works out for him," she continued. She cleared her throat and walked to the corner of the garden where Leonora grew roses.

  Hands clasped together, he followed her. "Your sympathy's wasted on that one."

  She studied his face closely, then glanced back at the flowers, as if they held some hidden meaning for her.

  From her expression he could tell she was angry he had said that. He was sorry.

  "Perhaps it is," she said. Stopping, she pulled up a weed, examining it momentarily, then tossing it to the edge of the garden. "What happens to you now?" Even though the sun was hitting her directly in the eye, she glared at him. "Back to Lola?"

  "Never!" He said that with a fury that seemed not so much directed at her, but at the garden, the house, the birds, any creature listening. When he vowed he wasn't for sale only this morning on the beach he'd meant it!

  Her eyes smiled. "That's good to hear," she said. From her position, she noticed blood on his foot. "Say, barefoot boy, you've got a bad cut there." Getting up quickly, she lifted his foot, balancing it on her knee.

  "I'll get something for it," she said, placing his foot gently on the ground.

  A disturbing frown crossed his face. The sun burned into his forehead. Heat waves bouncing off the patio bricks distorted his vision. He waited patiently.

  Minutes later, she was back, bathing his foot in peroxide and rubbing the crusted blood from the top. "Don't you like shoes?"

  "I left in a hurry last night," he said. "Wasn't really thinking." He leaned back in his chair, trying to remember when anyone had ever helped him like this. He couldn't think of one time. "You should have been a nurse:

  "A more useful career than the one I've had," she said, looking up at him. "If you can call what I've got now a career."

  Through the open windows of the parlor came the whir of a vacuum cleaner. The old grandfather clock struck ten. "It's a living," he said.

  "A damn good one at that," she answered, standing up now, inspecting her work. "I'll miss it."

  He paused, caught between looking at his bandaged foot and comprehending what she'd just said. Her statement won out. "You leaving?"

  There was a kind of odd fear in her voice that made her look at him closely before she said, "Yes."

  He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. Silt and sediments of uncertainty were clouding his emotions right now. "Where you going?" He dreaded her answer.

  "I don't know," she said, closing the lid to her first aid kit. "I'm just leaving, that's all. Been planning to for the last five years. If I don't do it now, I never will." She held a hand to her mouth. Moving the bones in that hand as if to get rid of a cramp, she said, "There wasn't that much here anyway."

  "You can say that again!" he said. He got up from his chair, crossed the patio, heading for the bar.

  She followed him. "I knew from the first moment you arrived at the bar that things wouldn't work out for you."

  This momentarily made him flare up, but he contained his rage. Why did she want to go and say a thing like that? It could only hurt him.

  "This town can bum up a guy faster than anything," she said. "Leave you with absolutely nothing."

  Was she talking about herself? he wondered.

  "At least I flatter myself I'll be leaving with something," she said.

  He didn't dare ask what she meant. Instead he said, "Thanks for fixing the foot. I'll be more careful in the future where I walk."

  "I hope so," she said softly, then smiled.

  Cool, distant, controlled, Anne was a mystery. He never knew how far to go with her. She was looking at him with concentrated interest. He leaned back on the bar stool, trying to shut out his thoughts. There were many things he wanted to say to her, but somehow the words wouldn't come out. He wanted to break through to her. Would he sound too pushy to speak up now? Too much the hustler speaking? After all, he had to be careful with her. Her husband had kicked him out only the night before. Did she know the reason why? Pray that she didn't!

  Upstairs the sound of operatic music filled the air.

  "Leonora must be up," Anne said.

  He bit his lips to keep from speaking and making a fool of himself. Instead he said, "Our day has begun." Almost uncontrollably, he found himself reaching for her arm.

  But she moved away.

  He cringed as he felt rejected. He'd misjudged her. She was behind him, massaging his neck muscles, relieving them of last night's tension. Slowly, almost without knowing what he was doing, he rested his cheek against her hand. She gently withdrew it, tightening it around his neck and inching toward his scalp. "Can we talk later?" he asked.

  "Talk is cheap," she said coldly, a woman who'd been hurt too many times before.

  At first he bristled at her statement, finding himself pulling away from her. But then a new wave of understanding came over him, and he kept the soft intimacy in his voice. "It doesn't have to be."

  "Of course," she said, finishing the massage, "we can talk after our lords and masters have finished with us for the day. You're like me now. No special status in the household. Another servant."

  "That thought has crossed my mind," he said painfully.

  "I'm not even granted the status of wife," she said.

  He was sorry she kept bringing up that subject. But he felt compelled to balance it in some way. "As for me, I'm no longer the kept boy: No sooner had he said that then he resented the sound of his own voice.

  She ignored the remark. In the yellow-red sun, she stood before him, casting a shadow. Her robe was still undone, but she was completely casual about her nudity. It was clear she wasn't being provocative, just natural.

  Through half-closed eyes, he took in her curves. He wanted to reach out—to touch, to fondle. But now was the wrong time. It wasn't that he wanted her sexually, not this morning at any rate. He desired something else: a quality she had. An approach to life that was free of games, all Lola and Leonora knew how to play. That Anne was recognizably normal in a crazy world was in itself compelling.

  The wind stirred, but was interrupted by a loud, buzzing sound. "That's her calling,· Anne said.

  He sighed in despair. "Think she wants me to drive her some place?"

  "Not today,· she answered. "Sh
e's having a guest over she hasn't seen in fifty years." She smiled sardonically. "Leonora will need all morning to make herself appear beautiful."

  "Exactly what do you do for Leonora?" Ruthie Elvina was asking.

  Sitting at the bar, Numie was fascinated by twp lizards on a rock. Until questioned, he was thinking of Anne. At first, he didn't understand what Ruthie Elvina meant. Then he said, "I'm just the chauffeur."

  "Just?" She adjusted the gardenia in her gray-blonde hair. "Chauffeurs are very special people."

  "I don't think so," he said, hoping to end all talk.

  Ruthie Elvina was not put off by so easy a rejection. "When my husband, the late Captain Bray, was alive, we once hired a chauffeur to drive us around Paris." She sighed. "Now I'm behind the wheel myself—bad legs and all." Her voice was reminiscent of Southern girls who early in life were shipped off to school in the north or to England. However, Ruthie Elvina deliberately seemed to retain her regional speech .

  . He was most uncomfortable, having nothing to say to her. As the hired hand, he didn't think it was his job to amuse Leonora's guests while she kept them waiting. He poured himself another drink. Already he'd consumed his quota of Scotch for the day. But Leonora wasn't keeping check. The commodore's death had caused panic in her. From behind the bar, he could observe Ruthie Elvina more carefully.

  In the afternoon sun, her moon-peach lipgloss was wearing thin, and her blue-green eye shadow was running. Amply displayed, her large breasts were modestly obscured by organdy ruffles. Smoothing down her floral print dress, she said, "I like to wear the colors of the sea." She smiled at him. "The sea has been good to us here on this island—it's part of our blood, and we should pay proper respect to it." Her voice, though polite, unmistakably carried the awareness that she was talking to a servant. "Don't you agree?"

  "I certainly do," he said, almost willing to agree to anything if it would make her shut up. He'd wanted to say a lot more to Anne, and was resenting his tongue for freezing at a time like that.

  Just then, Theodore M. Albury emerged from a long tenure in the toilet. Urine spots showed on his bright red slacks. On rubbery spindle legs, he weaved across the brick patio. "Young man," he called to N umie, "another martini—and make this one real dry."