Butterflies in Heat

by Darwin Porter

  Her fingers brushed the night air. The answer was clear: she'd be accepted again when she returned to New York. After all, America doted on self-destructive heroines. Such ladies mirrored their own mortality and spoke of the very impermanence of life itself. To see Leonora de la Mer still clinging to life, still surviving, would evoke at the very least a sympathetic response. She was, in the final analysis, a monument to endurance.

  Convinced of this, and feeling she had little choice, she was determined to creatively live out the time remaining to her. Let the spotlight shine on her. She was pursuing life to its fiery and incredible ending.

  The years had taken their toll. But she was going to be back there on center stage.

  The memoirs, a new spring line, publicity, television, public appearances, interviews, her head was spinning.

  She was truly alive! For the first time in almost half a century!

  In a corner of Leonora's dressing room, Numie was enjoying the second of her blue-wrapped marijuana cigarettes. "I've been listening to your tapes," he said. "They're terrific." He sucked in more smoke. "I didn't know all those things happened to you."

  She responded as if challenged. "Of course, they happened to me." She looked at him calculatingly, then was filled with pity. He, who had had nothing. She, who had had it all. "The luminaries of the 20th century have passed through my life. I charmed each and every one with my extraordinary personality." Beneath her self-glorifying description, she felt another Leonora was trying to get out. A desperate woman who hadn't had it all. But she kept burying and repressing her. Waving her hand through the air, she said, "My memoirs are my glamorous carnival of memory."

  He looked at the tape as if it were an obscene record. "I didn't know you could publish things about people like that.· Fearful of angering her or intruding upon her guarded isolation, he added quickly, "I mean, really personal things."

  "It doesn't matter," she said impatiently. "Many of the people I write about are dead now anyway." She slipped gracefully off her table and moved demurely through the chamber. "Like a supreme Michelangelo, death has chiseled away at my heart with each and every passing."

  He was disturbed by her this morning. Her painted mouth, usually so carefully tended to, seemed slashed across her face.

  "But I have captured and retained the presence of those I knew," she said. She stopped at her draperies, pulling them back herself, letting in the morning sun. She stood before. them, looking like a holdover from the night who hadn't yet gone to bed. "Everybody written about in my memoirs-my garden of loved ones-will become timeless." Her eyes traveled across the plant life behind the walls of Sacre-Coeur. It was like a savage city erected behind black ramparts. "In my memoirs, the light will always be shining."

  Head reeling, Numie moved across the room to a stack of papers recently typed by Anne. "You write here-I just heard it a little while ago-that you missed out on the most creative role in your life."

  "My worst mistake," she confirmed, holding onto the drapery for support. "I turned down an opportunity to become the First Lady of the land."

  He raised his eyebrow, not really sure but what these were the ravings of a lunatic, the wildest fantasy dreams of a disappointing life, a last-ditch attempt to rewrite her history the way she wanted it to be. "I didn't even know you knew .. ."

  "I was stronger than he was," she said, stiffening her back and feeling powerful again. "I would have consumed him." She sighed inaudibly. "He would have been completely destroyed by me." She stopped, her hand nervously plowing through her hair. Perhaps she was exaggerating, but she had met him. Once, at a reception. "I left him," she said bitterly to Numie. How she remembered the look of desire on his face. It could have been. Who is to say it couldn't? "Oh, God, I must tell all of this to my tapes. I have a whole new insight." At her desk she was pressing the buzzer. When there was no immediate response, she tried to rip it from its casing. "Anne. Anne. Anne," she screamed.

  Sunshine was at the door, the local newspaper in hand. "Lola's up to something. Look at this!"

  Across the front page was a picture of Leonora. The most unflattering picture she'd ever seen, snapped when she'd been drugged half out of her mind at a party at Commodore Philip's years ago. Alongside it was a picture of her in her school dress, with the caption: "From Priscilla Osterhoudt to Leonora de la Mer." Underneath it was a three-column wedding picture taken the day she first departed from Tortuga. Staring back at her from the page was the unmistakable image of Norton Huttnar! She thought she'd destroyed every picture of him ever taken. But obviously not.

  The headline, "Old Island Homecoming Salutes Leonora de la Mer." Her tribute--a gala party at Commodore Philip's bar-was being paid for by Lola La Mour!

  "I can't believe it," Leonora said. "If that cheap drag queen thinks she can flatter me into dropping plans to break the will, she's dead wrong."

  "Like to hear you say that, Leonora," Sunshine added. "After all, that money belongs to me."

  She glared contemptuously at him. "That is debatable. But you're all I have to work with."

  "You're not going to that fag's party?" Sunshine asked.

  "Of course, how can I not go?" Leonora said, horrified at the man's stupidity. "The whole town will be there. Besides, it's not her party. It's to honor me. I assure you-no one will notice Lola La Mour when I make my appearance."

  The next afternoon the breeze from the ocean was blowing through Numie's hair as he stood in Erzulie's front yard. The tall grass was green after the huge rainfall that came with the tropical storm. Chickens ran over old automobile tires. Scattered bits of a picket fence and an overturned doghouse littered the grounds.

  In her sunflower yellow dress, Erzulie was sitting on her porch shelling peas.

  "Hi," Numie called.

  She scratched her breast. "Another two dollars from that white bitch?" she asked.

  "No, it's not that time of the week," he said, standing there awkwardly in the dry summer heat. "Came to report on your piment oiseau, the hottest sauce I've ever had in my life. Me and my girl put it over a dish we made up last night." He blew out air in memory. "She had to drink eight beers, and even then said her mouth was on fire."

  "You complaining?" Her face tightened, and one eye half closed.

  "No, just telling you what happened," he explained, laughing slightly.

  "Your girl?" Erzulie eyed her badly ripped shoes, which left her almost barefoot. Then she looked up at him. "Does that mean what I think it means?"

  He stood staring back for a moment. "It means I won't be needing your other special sauce." Smiling with confidence, he added, "No problem there at all."

  "See, Erzulie was right." She chuckled. "You just weren't making it with the right party." Her eyes drifted to the sea, as if it were an accusing mirror. "I know back in Haiti I cured many a man of impotence." A pig came right out of the house, looked in all directions, then headed back. "One night with me, and I turned them into wild stallions."

  "I bet." He straightened up. Her words had reminded him of something. Was she another Tangerine, lost in yesterday's sexual fantasies?

  Erzulie smiled. Her teeth were decaying into a yellow-green, just like the old shoeshine man's.

  He sat down on the porch, stretching out and looking toward the water. It was calm today.

  "Got any drinking whiskey on you?" she asked, staring right past him to buzzing bees.

  "No, not a thing," he said, a hammer pounded inside his head. "I'm getting over a hangover."

  Snapping her fingers, she tried to stop a rooster chasing a hen across her front yard. Her warning went unheeded. "I'm going to kill that rooster and fry him up tonight."

  He sighed. "He'll have one great memory."

  "Better enjoy the piece he's getting," she said, swerving dangerously in her chair. "It'll be his last."

  Restless, Numie was walking around the porch, avoiding a discarded bedspring.

  "Look inside my house and bring me my purse sitting there in the living
room," she ordered, shifting her weight as shadows stretched across the porch.

  Brushing away the flies, he went in. On a stove in back, the same pot was simmering. Out on the porch again, he handed her a snakeskin purse.

  Rummaging through it, she pulled out a change purse. "What do you know?" she said. "I forgot to go to the bank today." She turned a sharp eye on him. "Why don't you run down the road apiece and come back with some whiskey for my headache?"

  "Sure, I'd be glad to." Was she hustling him?

  "Pay for it yourself and just deduct the money lowe you from what that white bitch gives me." She seemed solidly anchored to one spot, a great ball of yellow butter.

  "Will do," he said, surprised. Hadn't she denounced Leonora for giving her the money? Now she was speaking of it as if it were her due.

  In the Lincoln, he headed down the blacktop road to a liquor store and passed Joan's. Or was it the Garden of Delights? He was secretly amused that Amelia Le Blanc was going to be supported on the earnings of a cathouse.

  Back with the whiskey, he could not find Erzulie anywhere. Going once more into of the sweet decay of her living room, he saw she was asleep. He placed the liquor on a nearby table, then gave Erzulie a silent goodbye. This was probably the last time he'd ever see her.

  On the way back to the Lincoln, he stopped to stare at the rooster. All red feathered, with a mighty comb, it stood proudly, cock of the front yard. He shuddered to think of that poor rooster's fate. Then he quickly got in the limousine and headed out down the road. The rooster's crowing resounded in his ears. What kind of rooster would crow at three o'clock in the afternoon?

  That evening a sea of faces, many of them unknown to her, was waiting to greet Leonora as she stepped from the limousine. Behind the wheel, Sunshine jumped out and opened the door to the back compartment. Numie had asked that he not drive tonight, and she'd granted his request.

  Stepping onto the pavement, Leonora was proud of her outfit. Even though it was late summer, she'd detected a chill in the air which allowed her to wear what she called her apres mid i. It was a turquoise and ivory Persian lamb topcoat muffled around the neck with double fox boas dyed to match.

  Out to greet her on the sidewalk was Ruthie Elvina, looking very plain in flowery cotton. Behind her was a group of broken-down, prune-like hags.

  Al though Leonora had hoped never to see her lifelong enemy ever again, she held out a gloved hand to Ruthie Elvina.

  Ruthie Elvina smiled and shook it firmly. Then she turned and looked at the women behind her. "These are the last of our class, Priscilla."

  Leonora was horrified and at first suspected this was another diabolical attempt on Ruthie Elvina's part to humiliate her. After all, these relics could hardly be contemporaries of hers. Acutely embarrassed, she shook each and every hand, searching behind the withered masks for some semblance of the young girls of long ago who'd rejected her. She could find no one she knew, because she'd never really looked into their eyes before.

  "That's it," Ruthie Elvina said with a sigh. "All the others are dead--or else moved away so long ago we can't find a single trace of them."

  Lola, at the door to greet Leonora, was all smiles, in a silver-embroidered gown with high-heeled, ankle-strap shoes. "My commodore," she said, "my legal husband, would have wanted me to do this for you, darling."

  "Legal?" Leonora asked contemptuously. "I guess I am behind the times. Has this state changed the law to permit same-sex marriages?"

  "Child," Lola said, hands on her hips, "this ain't no man looking at you."

  "Perhaps you're right," Leonora said. "If it acts like a woman, talks like a woman, looks like a woman, then perhaps it is. But in the eyes of the law .. ."

  "I'm legal, sister!" Lola said. "I can see now we're going to have to go to extremes to prove it." She gestured toward the ringside table. "Your favorite champagne is waiting. I had a few bottles left over from the supply I'm drinking."

  The endless parade filed past Leonora's table. Greetings from everybody from Johnny Yellowwood to rubbery-legged Teddy Albury. Each and every one Leonora treated with respect. After all, they were here to honor her even though she wouldn't speak to most of them on any other occasion.

  By her side, Sunshine was already into the second bottle of champagne.

  The lights dimmed. A pink spot lit the stage. At the piano, BoJo started playing warm-up music.

  Leonora gasped in fright that Lola was going to perform. At first she was tempted to leave, but the menacing drag queen had seated her in the prime position. She was a trapped audience!

  From out of the back Lola was now in the spotlight. In her best baby-doll voice, she said, "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to my cabaret."

  This public pronouncement of ownership didn't impress Leonora one bit.

  Moistening her lips, Lola stared at Leonora through mascara-ringed eyes. "We cabaret entertainers are always being asked questions in interviews. Like "Miss La Mour, what do you look for in a man?" I've always got an answer to that one. Twelve inches!"

  A catcaller in the audience yelled, "How often do you find it?"

  "Not often enough, shorty!" Lola yelled back. The audience laughed.

  Practically in the spotlight herself, Leonora remained stone-faced.

  "There are those in the audience who have dared suggest I'm not a real lady," Lola said. "We'll see!" she whispered confidentially as the lights dimmed.

  The stage was pitch dark. BoJo began playing, "Whatever Lola wants ... " Red spots flashed around the smoke-filled room where liquor flowed.

  A feeling of uneasy anticipation was in the bar; more coming from Leonora than anybody else. "What dreadful thing is she going to do next," she asked in a whisper to Sunshine.

  When the spot went on again, it revealed Lola's new outfit, a skin-tight white gown glittering with sequins shaped like red hearts. Radiantly raunchy, she gyrated around the stage. Slit up to the thigh, the gown revealed her chocolate legs. Almost panther-like in grace, she titillated the audience.

  Every eye, including those of Leonora's, was glued to the stage.

  Lola's bracelets dangled and swirled, and in a moment she'd snapped away the white gown. Her arms reached toward the ceiling.

  A murmur rose from the audience.

  Lola stood revealed in a red halter and red-spangled panties.

  She began to move her belly like a dancer's. She was asking the audience to beg for more.

  "Show your tits!" a man yelled.

  At this point Leonora was truly ready to get up and leave. She'd just about had it, yet in some strange way she also found Lola's act compelling.

  Still at the piano, BoJo was at his best, milking the song for its suggestiveness.

  Spinning, Lola was moving incredibly fast. In a flash her halter was gone, and her boobs revealed.

  The audience was screaming wildly.

  Ruthie Elvina and her coterie at the back murmured about leaving, but remained in their seats.

  Leonora looked away in disdain.

  Yet the act wasn't over. Gyrating and contorting her body, Lola was sensuality itself--at fever pitch. Then the music became real lowdown.

  Leonora was again paying attention. What could Lola possibly do for a finish, she wondered.

  Provocatively Lola slipped down her red-spangled panties half an inch at a time. Then in a wild stamping dance, her high heels hit the floor like a fandango dancer. Sweat was dripping from her face, her whole body was glistening like black-colored bronze. There was the look of a wild thing in her eyes. Those eyes were now concentrating with ferocity on Leonora.

  It was a direct challenge. Opening her almond eyes all the wider, Leonora met Lola's stare.

  It was as if all the other patrons at the gala didn't count. The number was nearing its finish. BoJo was beating the piano as if it were a drum.

  With a snap, the panties came off. The pink spotlight went out. A cold, harsh white light was focused on only one spot.

  Lola La Mou
r was indeed a woman!

  The light was on just long· enough for everybody to get a good look, then it faded. Lola scampered from the stage.

  Making her way through the crowd, Leonora was heading for her Lincoln. Opening the rear compartment by herself, she screamed at a drunken Sunshine. "Take me back to Sacre-Coeur!"

  "Who would have ever thought it," Sunshine said, opening the glass panel to the back. He steered the car from the curb. "She's had it cut off all these years.·

  "You're not going to get the commodore's money," Leonora said with fury. "In this state marriage to a transsexual woman is legal. Lola was right."

  "Leonora," he cried out, "you mean .. ."

  "Yes, I do mean what I say," Leonora said. "Lola's the legitimate heir."

  "But, Leonora, that leaves me .. ." Sunshine nearly ran off the road.

  "I'm considering giving Numie Ralph's job," Leonora said. "I'll be needing a chauffeur."

  "But I was going to have my own yacht," Sunshine protested. "Not driving around as somebody's chauffeur."

  "Take it or leave it!"

  Sunshine sighed. "Okay, Leonora, I'll take it."

  "From now on," she said firmly, closing her eyes, hoping to blot out what she'd seen at the bar, "you'll address me as Miss De la Mer." After a block, she called to him, "You're like Tangerine. You were always meant to be a servant."

  Sunshine kept his eyes on the road ahead.

  In her all-white apartment, Lola threw herself on her satin bed. "I hated to do what I did tonight," she screamed at Ned.

  "Baby, you was great!" he said, caressing her bare back. "All these times I've been going to bed with you, I never knew you had a real pussy. Why did you always cover it up?"

  "I can't stand the thing!" she said, turning over and sobbing. "I'm still a rear-door girl. I don't like it the front way at all. The commodore made me do it."

  "Like it or not," he said, "you'd better get used to it that way, "cause that's what I like. How long ago did you become a woman?"