Butterflies in Heat (68 page)

At first, she didn't say anything—just sat there dangling her coral-colored slipper in the air and smoking. Her mood seemed detached, almost haughty. It was as if she in some way were blaming him for his beating. Her smile was faint, her voice strained. "Don't tell me," she said. "Lola's behind what happened to you. I could pluck out every black hair in her head."

"She'd just wear a wig."

Now Anne was hovering over him.

Lost in her softness, he snuggled his head into her breasts, allowing sobs to wrack his body. Fifteen minutes later, he was still clinging. Through her warmth and love, he was being restored to life, learning to trust again. At moments the dark vision of last night descended, the blows raining down, then it would lift again, as he immersed himself in the sweet smell of Anne. Finally, he broke away, regaining control, feeling embarrassed. "What time is it?"

"It's morning," she said, straightening up. "About ten o'clock."

"Has Leonora been asking for me?"

"She knows you've been beaten," she said. "She was furious. First Dinah, now you."

"At least she showed some concern."

"Not about the beating," Anne said, "but about the loss of your services for today. The old island tour's set for this afternoon. Remember, Ruthie Elvina put Sacre-Coeur on the program? Everybody and his cousin will be here soon."

He sat up. "Tangerine, I just happened to remember. She's coming home today."

"Don't worry," Anne said, placing her hands on his shoulder and gently lowering him back. "Everything's okay. I hired a carpenter to seal up the hole and replace her stairway. Her place is a mess, though. I didn't have time to get over there and do much work myself. Most of her furniture, if you can call it that, was ruined in the storm."

"I talked to her yesterday," he said. "I tried to get her to stay on at the hospital. At least there someone would look after her. But she wouldn't listen."

"From what I hear," Anne said, "the staff will be only too glad to get rid of her. That's probably why they agreed to let her go early."

A new wave of dizziness was sweeping over him. Falling back against the pillow, he gently traced the swelling under his eyes with the tips of his fingers.

"I'll get an ice pack," she said, rising from the bed. "I don't know if you should get up or not. We had a doctor look at you last night. No broken bones."

"But I'm black and blue as that sick bitch, Lola," he said, seething at the very mention of her name.

"You look awful," she said. "Let's don't even talk about Lola. If I start thinking about her, I'd want to kill her. Let's face it: she's got an in with the sheriff. She knows she can do as she damn pleases in this rotten town, and get away with it."

"If it weren't for Tangerine," he said, "I'd split today. I've had it here!"

"Speaking of that," she said, her face brightening up. "The letter, the one you told me about. I think it's here."

Eyes wide open, he sat up in bed, ignoring his dizziness, "It did come." Eagerly he tore open the envelope.

In a bad, arthritic scrawl, these words rose up from the page:

"Dearest Numie,

Now I know what happened to you. I had figured you as gone forever. Your letter was a blessing, a real spirit-lifter. Living alone at eighty-three is not the easiest way of life. Bad heart, long drawn-out leukemia, and a few otherminorills such as arthritis
—
bu
t still grateful for God's wonderful blessings. I'm not even smoking the weed anymore
—s
o
you know I've changed. All my beatniks have gone and left me. As you know, Lisa ran off to Oregon with No-count. Bob and Spence have broken up their courtship. Spence went back to all his family's money, and Bob is now living in the city with some TV producer, a one-time popular vocalist. Different lives, but I love them dearly. Even Maria has gone, although she and I never warmed up to each othertoo much. But not one phone call, not one letter, until yours came today. You must grow old to appreciate being remembered.

No-count bad-mouthed you a lot before striking out for Oregon. Said you were a male prostitute. How dumb he must have thought I was. Men can't be whores. They're not biologically built that way. I've known a few of the female kind, though. One of my sons
—
lost both my boys in the war
—
rought one of those painted heifers up from the city one night. I was coming across the field with a pail of milk. Tossed the whole bucket right in her face. Later on, I regretted throwing away good milk on such a cheap slut.

The place here is going to rot. A disgrace to an old-time dirt farmer with a green thumb like me. Now I seldom dare look out on my sadly neglected garden. While resting on my bed, my line of vision is lifted above ground level to enjoy the tall chestnut tree I planted forty-five years ago.

Of course, you'd be welcome. Come on home. My farm is probably the only home you've ever had. Come and work it, Numie, and take care of me. In return I'll give it to you, the whole thing, when I pass on. It's the only way you're going to get your feet planted solid on ground. I won't have any use for the place where I'm going. I thought Lisa wanted it, but I guess she wanted No-count more. I told her at the time she was losing a good man, letting you get away.

Winter's coming on, and I fear I won't make it through January without some help. Sometimes, I can't even heat up a can of Campbell's soup.

You get on up here now just as fast as you can. Lot of work to be done before the snow comes.

Just for the occasion, I'll break my resolution and light up with you.

Love and God bless,
Grandma."

"Good news?" Anne asked.

"Good news," he said, smiling at her. He paused, then asked awkwardly, "Wanta come with me?"

"Thought you'd never ask," she said, running her hands through his hair. "Yes."

"You didn't ask where," he said.

"Does it matter?" she said. Her fingers snaked around his ear. "More to the point, do you love me?"

He hesitated. It was easier to say yes, but it wasn't honest. He'd never had an honest relationship with anyone. It was time to start now. "I don't know how to answer that. I want to love you, that's for sure. I'd like to tell you I love you. That you're the most important person who ever lived as far as I'm concerned. That you are. But until I'm different, until I've gotten over a lot of hangups, that isn't saying too much. There haven't been many important people in my life."

"I know that," she said softly. "I'm not asking much myself. That you let me go with you. We'll both try to survive ... together."

"We can give it a try," he said.

"Maybe that's what love really is," she said.

"I wish I was all fresh and pure," he said. "But, as you know, everybody's had me. Lola, Ralph—you name it."

"No one's ever really had you," she said. "Not even me. But one day I will. You'll see."

At the foot of the rickety steps to Tangerine's Taj Mahal white-coated attendants were heaving up the stretcher inch by inch.

"Steady there, for God's sake," its passenger directed. "This ain't no coffin. The body's still alive."

She didn't look like herself any more. The once-vibrant orange hair was now gray at the roots. The always colorful face was drained—not even a touch of its usual garish make-up. All that lost weight made the flesh hang from her bones.

Without her tinsel, Tangerine Blanchard was a very sad Christmas tree.

At the top, Numie was waiting. "Welcome home," he said warmly.

"Thought those clowns would never get me here," she said. "My God, look at you. They're letting you out of the hospital, but you look like you should go in."

"A little accident," he said, unsteady on his feet. "I was drinking last night and ran into something."

"The story of my life," she said. "I was in six car accidents before I turned sweet sixteen."

He held the screen door open.

"My God, I can't believe it," she cried from inside. "You boarded up that blasted hole—Blanchard's folly."

"Of course," he said. "We didn't want you taking another dive."

The attendants moved their burden into the living room and into a wheelchair. "I just can't believe it," she said. "The place is a mess."

"I told you about the storm."

"Christ," she called out, "new curtains."

"Yeah", he said. "They arrived at noon. Compliments of Lola La Mour. Now that she's completed her suite at the hotel, she fancies herself an interior decorator."

"Pale yellow, though," Tangerine said, childlike in her disappointment. "Not for me at all. There's nothing pale about me. I like color to vibrate."

One of the attendants came over to ask, "Don't you think we ought to put her to bed before we go?"

Good idea," Numie replied. "When's the nurse due?"

"Around four," he answered.

"I want to sit here and talk to my good-looking boy friend," Tangerine said. "I've had enough of beds unless there's some action going on in them."

"Okay, I'll take care of her," Numie said, ushering the attendants to the door.

"Numie," Tangerine summoned.

He sat down on the new sofa Lola had sent over. "How do you like it?" he asked, rubbing the red velvet and leaning back against the yellowy gilt frame.

"It was just great of Lola to do all these fancy things for me," Tangerine said. "But I was very attached to my old sofa. I know it wasn't in the best of shape, but a lot of my life took place on that sofa. I'd been meaning to get it repaired and upholstered."

"The storm completely ruined it," Numie said. She was making him feel guilty. "Really it did."

"Let's face it." Tangerine pushed back her hair, hesitating a long moment before speaking. "After all Lola—and I love Lola dearly—
Lola is colored
. I know that don't mean nothing to us. Both of us are liberated. We don't see color. We see only what's inside the person. But, honey, colored folks have a taste they brought over from Africa. It's not to white folk's liking."

Numie sat rigidly on the sofa, not saying a word.

Tangerine was eying the rest of the room skeptically.

Finally, he got up. "Let me get you some bourbon. I know you must be dry." He went to the kitchen. Three whole hours before the nurse was due!

He felt trapped. He knew Tangerine was dying and he did not want to face the pain her death would inflict on him.

"Numie," the demanding voice came from the bedroom where she'd wheeled herself. "My slop jar! The only thing my mama ever left me. It's gone! Numie."

Sunglasses covered her bruises, but otherwise Leonora gave herself her own seal of approval. The dress was perfect. A bit nostalgic perhaps, but with a touch of 'today.' The gown was oyster pink, dripping down, then caught up in intricate embroidery on her hips.

Already the report reaching her was that Sacre-Coeur was the highlight of the old island tour. Bringing in bartenders and plying all the guests with hard liquor helped make it so.

At the far end of the patio, a buffet table groaned with old island food: raw conch salad, conch fritters, shrimp in their shells steamed in beer, Spanish black beans, and picadillo, with big pitchers of Sangria and lots of key lime pie.