Butterflies in Heat

by Darwin Porter

  Tangerine seized this moment to escape. Heading straight for a young man in a white uniform pouring drinks, she said, "Bourbon on the rocks. "

  "Honey," Numie said, coming up behind her, "you're getting that 'I'm gonna get bombed' voice. Better cool it with the booze."

  "If you wasn't so young and beautiful," she said, "I'd swear you was my daddy, giving me hell about that old devil moonshine." Someone caught her eye. Almost in panic, she broke away and crossed the room, bumping into strangers and knocking one glass out of a hand.

  Quick on her trail, Numie came to a stop in back of her, reaching out to support her.

  "Why, Mike Morgan, as I live and breathe," Tangerine said. "After all these years, I would have known you anywhere."

  A tall, gray-haired man with a walrus-mustache stood staring blankly at her. "I don't think I've had the pleasure," he said finally. Narrow-eyed, he had a guttural voice in a deadly serious tone.

  "You've had the pleasure all right! I'm Fern Cornelia Blanchard."

  "Fern!" he said. "I can't believe it. It's been years."

  "What you mean is, you didn't think I'd look so frisky after all this time," Tangerine said, assuming a distorted mask she evidently thought was sexy. "Well, it's all me—ready and raring to go." She leaned toward him, planting a wet kiss on his mouth."

  He stepped back slightly, barely resisting the temptation to wipe his mouth.

  "That mustache tickles," Tangerine said, giggling. "In more places than one, I bet!" She winked as she smiled.

  He drew back from her, red faced in embarrassment. His summer sports jacket, tight as sausage casing, seemed even tighter. "Who's your friend?"

  "Numie Chase," he said, extending his hand. He wanted to rescue Tangerine from this man, but didn't know how.

  "Good-looking guy," Mike said to Tangerine. "You always did like 'em young." He elbowed her. "That's one thing you and I are in accord about, Fern."

  She stepped back, eying him skeptically. "People today call me Tangerine."

  "What an apt name," he said, his eyes traveling from her badly painted mouth to her hair. "From your hair, no doubt."

  Just then, a middle aged man and woman appeared, accompanied by a girl. "Mike, darling," the woman called.

  "Good to see you again, Mike," the man said.

  "I'm so glad you could come," the woman said. "Here's Helen. She's been dying to meet you. It's rare that a big-time reporter like you comes down here to our little island."

  "Helen," Mike said, all smiles. "Everything your mom and dad told me is true."

  Helen gave Mike her hand.

  He held it for a long time.

  "I can't tell you how many delicious things I've heard about you," Helen said. "I look for your column every day. I miss it now that you're on vacation."

  "What say I tell you what I would have written tomorrow?" Mike said, taking Helen by the arm. "Excuse me, Fern ... Tangerine. Nice seeing you again." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "What are you doing these days?"

  "I'm a goddamn movie star," Tangerine said in disgust.

  Already absorbed by Helen, Mike answered, "That sounds nice."

  Tangerine was left standing—without a goodbye.

  "Don't you think we've had enough partying for one night?" Numie asked. He was going to leave regardless. No more could he witness humiliation for Tangerine.

  "Yes, it's time to go," she said after a long pause. "Hell, yes."

  On the gangplank, she was pleading, "Take me home, right away." Shivering in the night air, she protectively pulled her rabbit stole around her.

  Silence, all the way back to her place.

  In front of her house, she turned before heading upstairs. Tears were forming in her eyes. "Thanks for everything."

  "Glad to help out—anytime," he said, kissing her on the mouth. "Want me to come up for a drink?"

  "No, bless you," she said, nervously patting his hand. "Leonora has tired me out today," she sighed. "I didn't know just how much."

  He watched as she climbed the rickety steps, nearly stumbling once.

  She grabbed the railing for support. It was as wobbly as she.

  Right after the screen door shut, he stood there nervously just waiting for something to happen. But what?

  Then he knew.

  Up the steps two at a time, he darted through the front door and into the hall. A black blur, and it was too late. He was reaching for her. But he was too far away.

  She was falling—one leg plummeting down through the hole in the hallway.

  The next morning, L.M. Jenkins, surgeon at the county hospital, walked down the dull tile of the corridor to a waiting Numie. Chart in hand and stethoscope around his neck, the doctor had the manner of a man used to telling people the world wasn't coming to an end.

  "How is she?" Numie asked. He looked helplessly at the doctor, feeling powerless to put into words his deepest fears.

  Dr. Jenkins eyed Numie skeptically. "You're not a relative, are you?"

  In a strained voice, Numie said. I'm her closest friend—doesn't that count?"

  The doctor didn't respond. A nurse appeared and whispered something into his ear. Before going, he turned to Numie. "Tangerine's a pretty tough girl—agile as hell for a woman of her age." He shook his head. "But this is bad, real bad. I've seen the x-rays."

  Numie found himself leaning forward to catch the doctor's words.

  "We've got to put a metal pin in her hip plate this afternoon," Dr. Jenkins said. "We'll know in about two weeks if the operation's successful."

  "Can I see her now?" Numie asked. He glanced unhappily down the hall. "I've been here all night."

  "Yes, but make it short," the doctor said, already moving down the hallway. He called over his shoulder, "Room 102."

  With trepidation, Numie turned away, heading down an annex to Tangerine's room.

  She lay in the hospital bed covered with a sheet. A towel was tied around her head like a turban, concealing her orange hair. Slowly, she opened her eyes.

  He smiled.

  Staring back at him, her eyes were vacant. "Sugartit," she said softly, tears pouring down her face. "Thanks for sticking around."

  "Hello, baby," he said, giving her a kiss on her flabby cheek. A thin trace of last night's lipstick remained on her mouth. "I leave you for one moment—and look what happens."

  She stopped crying and smiled faintly. "Does everybody know I got soused last night and fell on my ass?"

  "Listen, Lady Blanchard," he said, "don't you know you're the wickedest woman on this island?" He softly rubbed her face. "I'll bet the whole island thinks you're here having a baby—probably mine."

  She chuckled. "Wish it was true." With a shaking hand, she reached out to him. "Guess the doctor told you about my hip."

  "Yes," he said, taking her hand. The Mexican rings were gone. He pressed her hand against his cheek. "Did anyone ever tell you you're my favorite girl?"

  "Don't waste all your time on an old bag like me," she said, pretending to push him away.

  He made a mock fist. "Shut up or I'll sock you one."

  Out of the building and into the blazing morning sun, he was dizzy from lack of sleep. He opened the door of the Lincoln and crawled in. Without meaning to, he propped his head on the steering wheel. It burned his cheek, but he remained there as if paralyzed. The windows were rolled up, the air dead. Yet he rested there—not wanting to move, backward or forward. He felt suspended in time and space. A part of nothing. A candidate for extinction.

  At Sacre-Coeur, the maid told Numie Ralph wanted him in his upstairs bedroom.

  Numie looked at her and nodded imperceptibly. His lips parted, as if to say something, then his eyes dropped.

  Up the steps two at a time, he rapped loudly on a large oak door. No sound from inside. He knocked again.

  "Who's there?" came Ralph's sleepy voice. There was a sudden stirring.

  "Numie," he said coolly. He stood back a step or two, not really wanting to enter Ralph's room
for what he felt would be another humiliation.

  "It's unlocked," Ralph called out.

  Slowly Numie cracked the door. The bedroom was nearly dark; the smell, rancid. Two figures lay under a sheet on Ralph's fourposter bed.

  "Morning, " Ralph said breathlessly.

  "Morning," Numie answered in a voice larded with stress. He was tired, he told himself, and not ready for any of Ralph's games.

  "What a workout I had last night," Ral ph said in a deliberately seductive manner.

  Numie walked briskly to the window, pulling back the draperies so he could see better. "You wanted me?"

  Ralph smiled with a leer. "You interested in a three-way circus at this hour?"

  "Some other time," Numie replied curtly. The jangling of a telephone in Leonora's study startled him.

  "You don't know what you're missing." With that pronouncement, he pulled the sheet down, revealing the body of a tall, muscular black.

  It was Ned!

  "My God," Numie exclaimed.

  "My reaction exactly," Ralph said.

  Ralph was completely unaware of the reason for Numie's response. Apparently, Ralph knew nothing of Ned or his connection with Lola. At first, Numie decided to say something, then thought better of it.

  "He's completely worn out after last night's workout," Ralph said. "I've tried to wake him up once or twice."

  Numie turned his back on the exhibition. Frowning and staring at the garden below, he asked, "What do you want from me?"

  Ralph pulled the sheet up back over Ned, hardly suppressing an oath. "You'll find out," he said bitingly. "I've got to get up and get dressed." He jumped out of bed and reached for his trousers resting on a maroon leather chair. Dangling them in front of Numie, he said, "I'll meet you in the patio where I'll have my coffee. See that it's there."

  Eyes steady and flat, Numie turned and left the room. "Sure," he said over his shoulder.

  On the patio, Ralph was badly hung over. He sipped his coffee, burning himself. "You look worse than I do."

  "I was up all night," Numie explained. All around him the world seemed lifeless and as unappetizing as Ralph. "Tangerine's in the hospital." He paused for some look of concern on Ralph's face. There was none. "Broke her hip."

  Scanning the headlines, Ralph barely looked up. "Probably fell down drunk. I don't know why Leonora puts up with her."

  Numie could feel his face redden. "I don't think you heard me," he said forcefully. "Tangerine fell down and broke her hip."

  Ralph turned the page. No response whatsoever.

  "Man," Numie protested, "do you know what that means for a woman of her age?"

  "I know perfectly well how dangerous it is," Ralph said, discarding the paper on the bricks. "But Tangerine's not my charge." He got up quickly, tossing the black coffee into a hibiscus bush. "Listen, if you're going to work around here, you'd better shave before reporting for duty."

  A note of uncertainty struck Numie. He feared Ralph was getting ready to close him out. "I would have if it wasn't for the accident."

  "Accident or no accident," Ralph said, spitting out his words, "you'd better shape up." He looked up at his bedroom window. "You're no longer enjoying any special privileges around here."

  Numie stared straight into Ralph's cold bullet eyes. "I know that."

  Ralph confronted him, trying to outstare him. "I tried to get in touch with you all night, but I couldn't."

  Numie was feeling slightly sick. It was an effort to move his fingers. "I told you, I was at the hospital." The terrible indefiniteness of his situation was really getting to him now.

  "You were needed to drive up to the mainland to pick up the commodore's sister," Ralph said. He went to the bar and poured himself a beer. It tasted foul; he slammed it down on the counter. "Beer," he said with disgust. "A habit I picked up from Anne. The only habit, thank God."

  It seemed to Numie he ought to say something, but nothing came out. He could only wait.

  "His sister is flying in from New Orleans," Ralph said, checking his watch. "But now you don't have to pick her up."

  Here it comes, Numie thought. He was getting fired. "Who's going to pick her up?" he asked hesitantly.

  "Ned," Ralph said matter-of-factly.

  Numie smiled to himself. "Ned,· he repeated.

  "Yes," Ralph replied defiantly. "My new lover. He doesn't have your problem."

  The words stung Numie, but still he said nothing.

  "For some reason," Ralph went on, "Ned seemed very anxious to pick Amelia up." He shrugged his shoulders. "The drive to the mainland is a bore anyway."

  Numie was secretly amused. "Can you trust him?"

  "No problem,· Ralph said, scratching his beard. "If Ned doesn't make it there, I'll put in a call for a limousine. Joan's the one who got Amelia to come." He paused. "But Leonora is calling the shots. She's out to break the will.·

  Ralph's rude treatment of him this morning, and his lack of compassion for Tangerine, silenced Numie for good. Lola was behind this, and he wasn't going to blow it for her. If she could get to Sister Amelia before Leonora and Ralph, more power to her. Numie owed none of them any favors nor any loyalty.

  "Seeing that you like Tangerine so much," Ralph said sarcastically, "why don't you stay at her place?" The breeze rustled through the coconuts. A smirk came on Ralph's face.

  "Now that Ned's on the scene, the guest cottage is going to be occupied."

  "I see," Numie said, expecting this. He wondered if Dinah had spent the night with Leonora. Would she be the one to turn Ned in?

  "When Leonora wants you,· Ralph went on, "Anne can call you at Tangerine's." He ran his hand through his hair. "In the meantime, you'd better get some sleep." He pinched Numie's chin between his index finger and his thumb.

  Numie winced with pain, then pulled back.

  "This morning you really look your age," Ralph said.

  The wind was blowing over the island, whisking in mosquitoes from their swampy beds. Rain—orsomething more ominous—was in the air.

  The sun had disappeared, and the streets were empty and foreboding, as Numie made his way back to Tangerine's apartment. Luxuriant plants swayed in the breeze, their leaves making soft, peculiar sounds.

  They were whispering a warning. He knew it. The air was alive with danger!

  He rushed into the apartment just as the first roar of thunder tore apart the sky. Rain began to beat against the weary walls.

  The room smelled musty. The windows had been shut all day. As he flipped on a light, a cockroach, big as a mouse, darted under the sink.

  Unbuttoning his shirt, he collapsed on Tangerine'·s old iron bed. He was about to explode.

  For all he knew, he was no longer welcome at Sacre-Coeur. Ralph hadn't actually kicked him out, but had made it obvious he was to start trucking down the road.

  By now, though, Numie should have become accustomed to dismissals. He'd had enough of them. Each one hurt a little bit, but he always prided himself on never showing pain. Play it cool, the rule of the hustler world. Johns liked a cool hustler. In fact, many who had enjoyed him liked him to show no emotion at all. Why those types didn't get it on with statues in the park he'd never understand.

  It was strange he'd chosen such a life when he really wasn't cool at all. He felt. He cared.

  There he went again, feeling sorry for himself. Truth was, he chose his life. The easy way, or so he had thought.

  Being with someone in any intimate relationship was more than he could handle. He'd never had to approach anyone. Just made himself available, and a score, usually a man, came to him. In fact, he wasn't certain he liked males sexually. But it was easier to pump it to a man than hustle a chick.

  What a way to live! He'd ended up with nothing to show for his trouble. Of course, he'd survived, and he couldn't entirely put that down. Ralph was the latest disaster. The line had been long.

  If he thought his situation was bad, what about Tangerine? That was a real tragedy. Her life was nearly over
—even her fantasy had been taken away. The Saskatchewan sailed away with that even before the accident.

  She'd known the hole was there. In fact, she'd never repaired it, in spite of the trouble it caused. He was certain her fall was a suicide plunge. At least with a broken hip, she could become an old lady and stop hanging onto the dream of finding a man.

  But what about him? He was half Tangerine's age. Yet at times he'd been accepting his state in life as paralleling hers. He wasn't in her trap. There was a lot of living left for him yet. Of course, he'd have to approach life ,on different terms, but surely he could do that. At least try. Couldn't he?

  He needed a companion, someone to help him along when he got deep down depressed. Someone to make it all seem worthwhile . . .

  Just then, a loud rapping sounded on the screen door frame.

  Into the hallway he bounded. "Anne!" His voice carried a desperation, as if she were a rescue party finally arrived.

  "I'm glad you're here." He threw open the screen door. "Come on in."

  "I'm soaked," she said, wiping her dripping hair. "What a cloudburst. "

  She moved through the room so quickly his vision of her seemed almost fleeting. "Let me get you a towel." In Tangerine's bathroom he was searching desperately for something clean. Everything was damp and dirty. He found only a washcloth. "I always seem to be getting something to dry you off," he said, back in the living room.

  With an athletic sureness, she reached for the cloth. "You mean, I'm wet most of the time?"

  "Most of the time," he said smiling. He stood there looking awkwardly at her in the gray of the afternoon. His mind whirled.

  Outside the wind was picking up. The shutters on the window rattled.

  She turned from him suddenly, finding a cigarette. Seeking the most comfortable seat, Tangerine's Salvation Army sofa, she studied him.

  He rubbed his arms and moved about. "This apartment sure is cold and damp." The two plants in Tangerine's living room were almost dead. Was it worth it to water them? He turned around and faced Anne. "You've heard about Tangerine's accident?" It was almost like an accusation.