Butterflies in Heat (54 page)

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.

"Yes, that's why I'm here," she said softly.
"I c
alled the hospital. The operation's this afternoon."

He was trying to read her face for any trace of compassion but found no clues. She was matter-of-fact, but not cold, the way Ralph had been. "I
k
now," he said finally. "How did Leonora take the news?"

Anne wasn't finding the sofa agreeable. "She didn't seem overly concerned." Then she sighed. "Said when you've seen as many deaths as she has, you can't get hysterical over another one. Then she barged around the room in a fit, claiming all her lovers—except one, that unspeakable Joan—were dead."

Anger flashed through Numie. "I
hope you reminded her she has another one," he said.
"If
that's what Dinah is called."

"I
didn't, of course," Anne said.

He was upset by Anne's casualness about Tangerine. "I
hope Leonora gets
it
through her head Tangerine isn't dead."

"She is as far as Leonora's concerned." Getting up from the impossible sofa, Anne paced the floor. "Poor Tangerine, will she be okay?"

Numie warmed inside. For the first time today, Anne was responding the way he wanted her to.
It
just took her a little while to get it out. He could understand that. All those years at Sacre-Coeur had to have some kind of effect.
"r
hope she will," he said.

Anne seemed embarrassed to be in Tangerine's apartment alone with him. "How about a beer?" she asked, breaking the tension building between them.

He laughed. "You know Leonora doesn't like you to drink beer."

"Forget her," she said, heading for the kitchen. "Bronx girls drink beer—and that's that. They learn it from their daddies."

"Okay, beer it is," he said, squeezing past her. He could smell the sweetness of her body, fresh from the rain storm. Opening the refrigerator door, he removed two cans.

On their return, Anne's mood had changed to serious once again. "I've applied for a job in New York as a secretary." She sought his face.

But he turned from her, shifting his eyes again to those two dying plants.

"I'll know if I got it in a week or two," she continued.

"You're really going through with it?" he asked, still not looking her in the eye. "Does Leonora or Ralph know?" He was grasping for some words floating on his mind, but couldn't reach them.

"Neither one," she answered.

"Thanks for trusting me with this," he said, enjoying the coolness of the beer inside him. He felt the breeze stirring restlessly in the living room.

After a long moment of silence, she said, "Nothing good is happening on this island. I have a feeling it's going to get worse."

Numie stood up. He was flushed, as if his head were about to explode. "Will you get a divorce?"

"Yes," she said. "I shouldn't have married Ralph in the first place."

This was old news to him. He went and stood by the window. His hand was shaking. He didn't dare expose his vulnerability .

"I want to be free," Anne said, talking to his back. "Just in case anybody else ever comes along." She laughed nervously. "Guess I sound like Tangerine. Waiting for the man who never turns up."

"There's a slight difference between you and Tangerine," he said almost bitterly. "That poor girl didn't have much of a chance."

In a voice growing harsh, Anne said, "She had just as much chance as the rest of us. But she blew it."

He resented Anne for making this judgment, yet suspected it was true. He felt they weren't really talking about Tangerine anyway—but about themselves. That sounds pretty hard on her."

She didn't say anything for a long time.

He kept his back to her, his eyes glued to the scene below.

"Now that you know my plans, what about you?" she asked.

"I'm just hanging in for a little longer," he said. He clutched his sweat-soaked hands, his body tightening into steel. "I don't intend to go to New York. I've spent my last days on those streets."

"Ever thought about going inside?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, knowing perfectly well what she meant.

"Get off the streets," she said.

"I've tried that," he said sharply. "Far as I got was a stoop."

The rain stopped almost as quickly as it had begun. The moist air smelled fresh and pure.

On the sidewalk below, a long-haired girl haggled over price with three drunken sailors. Two young men in jeans were sharing a joint.

The sleazy bars were getting ready for the night.

On the mainland, the temperature had been in the upper eighties all week long. Construction workers building a new airport terminal paused in the muggy weather to look at a car coming to a screeching halt in the parking lot.

"A pimpmobile," one of them called out.

A fat eat's dream of Detroit art, it was a two-tone Cadillac in chartreuse and cream. White walls, silver initials on the side, special chrome attachments—psychedelic poetry in motion.

Lola snuggled back against the hand-rubbed, green-dyed leather, resting her platform shoes on the white shag carpet. She felt much like a pussycat. Leonora de la Mer could have her tired old leopard skin.

In the back seat mirror, she checked out her make-up. Perfect! Christ, she was looking good today. For her first meeting with the commodore's sister from New Orleans, Lola had decided to dress modestly. Instead of a blonde wig, she chose a straight black one that hung gracefully down her shoulders. Even though it was only afternoon, she was wearing a long-bodied, green satin gown, with tulle shoulders and sleeves sprinkled with satin flowers.

In the driver's seat, Ned was also preening his feathers. For the occasion, Lola had his hair straightened and styled and dressed him in a robin's egg blue suit with a matching silk scarf and shirt. In his alligator shoes, and with his cock almost completely revealed in his too tight pants, he practically danced out of the front to open the rear door for her. "These wheels are out of sight, but I wanted you to order your own machine—custom designed by me."

"Fuck off," Lola said, getting out of the car and adjusting her rhinestone sunglasses in the glaring light of the airport parking lot. "When I saw those initials, all gleaming silver, I knew it was for me."

"But the cat who owned this car was gunned down," Ned protested. "It's bad news to take some dead cat's car over."

She ignored him. "Just look at those three silver L's. They're perfect for me. Lola La Mour Le Blanc."

"Le Blanc," Ned said. "What kind of name is that?"

"That was my commodore's last name, stupid," Lola said. "It means
white.
Didn't you know, I'm the new Mrs. Le Blanc." She caught herself. "The late Mrs. Le ... hell,
you know what I mean."

"You forgot," Ned said, poking her in the ribs, "you're a widow."

She looked at him with fury. "Like hell I forgot. That's one thing I'll never forget." She adjusted a satin flower.

"C'mon, we're late. Amelia is already landing."

In a roped-off section, Lola stood with Ned.

Two university students were also waiting for an arrival. Dressed in plaid Bermuda shorts and T-shirt, one of the young men eyed Lola strangely.

Hands on her hips, Lola returned the stare. She couldn't go anywhere. Even out on business, without men looking at her with desire. On a normal day, she would welcome the students' attention. But not today—not with Amelia arriving and threatening to destroy her dreams. Time for goodlooking young students later.

The man was whispering something in the ear of his friend. The other student turned and looked at Lola, snickering.

No respect, Lola thought. Even when she dressed conservatively, men still treated her as a whore. White men especially. It was getting so that all white men these days wanted a black chick. She just didn't feel safe on the streets any more. "Do you think Ralph was suspicious?" Lola asked, her mind returning to business.

"About what?" Ned said.

"You hustling him and then volunteering to drive up to the mainland to meet my commodore's sister? That would sound mighty peculiar to me. But then again, white men are so dense."

"After old Ned finished with him, Ralph had something else on his mind."

"He obviously fell for it," Lola said, fearing she was sweating too much. "Here we are.
If
he knew I was here, his balls would tum somersaults."

"How you gonna spot the sister?" Ned asked.

"My commodore had a big family album back in Tortuga," Lola said, smiling at her own cleverness. "The face of that ugly bitch is pasted allover it. Looks like a prune."

Just then, the first passengers from New Orleans started to arrive. Most of them had filed out before a tall, gray-haired woman appeared.

Lola moved toward her, then hesitated. It just had to be the one. The woman was the only one on the plane who looked like a Jehovah's Witness. Her skin had a transparency, revealing knotted veins. She walked stiff and upright, her eyes small, but with sharp vision. Her outfit was simple: a green and white gingham shirt dress under a straw-brimmed hat.

"That's her," Lola whispered loudly to Ned. She pranced over to the woman. "How do you do?" Lola asked. "I'm Mrs. Le Blanc."

"You mean, you're looking for
Miss
Le Blanc?" Amelia asked.

"No, that's you," Lola answered. "I'm
Mrs
.
Le Blanc."

The commodore's sister dropped her purse.

"Help the lady with her bag," Lola commanded of Ned. "I've been dying to meet my sister-in-law," she said, kissing the distraught woman on the cheek. "You're everything my commodore said you were."

"I beg your pardon," the woman said feebly, rubbing her cheek with a hastily drawn handkerchief. "I think there's been a terrible mistake."

"You are Amelia Le Blanc?" Lola asked, polishing her Old Mine diamond.

"Yes," she protested, "but I was to be met by a representative of Miss De la Mer."

"Consider her represented," Lola said, waving her ring in the air. "You are with family now, child, so relax and enjoy yourself."

"Surely I didn't hear you say you were Mrs. Le Blanc." Amelia's eyes widened in horror, and her breath was coming in short gasps.

"That's right, a name we share," Lola said interlocking her arm with Amelia's, even though the smell of her violet perfume was repugnant to her.