Butterflies in Heat (38 page)

'That was a mistake," Numie said, his face growing sad with thoughts of Tangerine. "I didn't know you were in there. I was looking for someone."

"I bet!" Castor abruptly dropped his calico. Her body twisted in the air, and she landed on her feet. "Some place to look all right."

Castor had the incredible ability to make Numie feel guilty about anything.

"After this wedding ceremony, you won't be seeing me at this stinking bar no more."

"Why's that?" Numie asked. He felt he and Castor shared a number of secrets.

"My cat caught that blasted rat," Castor said with pride. "Was it ever big! She drug it to my house."

"I saw her with it," Numie said, looking at the calico who was fascinated by a giant roach.

"Oh, man, you lie," Castor said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out some chewing tobacco. "Do you ever lie!"

"No, it's true," Numie said, smiling in spite of the fact Castor never believed a word he said. Numie had a warm feeling, the kind you get when sad music is played at the movies.

"If
truth was a hammer and hit you on the head, you still wouldn't feel it," Castor said, biting into the tobacco aggressively. "I'm warning you, next time I go take a shit, I don't want no queer barging in on me when I'm conducting private business." Wide-eyed, he stared at Numie defiantly. "You hear?"

"Only too well," Numie said, suddenly aware of the others in the bar. "So does everybody else. Could you lower your voice?"

"You have good reason to be ashamed, let me tell you." The morning sun breaking through stained glass gave Castor a yellow glow. "One more thing, if that Lola bitch comes down the aisle all dressed in white, I've warned her. I'm gonna stand up and shout to everybody, that bitch is no virgin."

"I believe you would," Numie said, glancing nervously at the clock on the wall. Its hands said six o'clock, though it was clearly noon. Off schedule, like everything else in this town. "But give a girl a break. You know Lola just loves white."

'The color makes me sick. I've made my statement, and everybody in this town will tell you that Castor
Q.
Combes stands behind his word." He spat again.

The circular platform, on which Lola usually did her musical numbers, had been turned into an altar, draped in her favorite material, white satin. Vestments in white and gold were hanging loosely. Covering the platform was a lacy canopy of streamers adorned with flowers. The last Royal Poincianas of summer were draped about.

From a room in back, Commodore Philip appeared. Looking haggard and slightly stooped, he was obviously ill. But he summoned his energy, and with the help of a cane, made his way to the altar where the Reverend Alberts was waiting. The Commodore was wearing white baggies, a purple ruffled shirt, and a pink silk scarf. His shoes were two-toned, in white and brown. His most attractive feature, his silver gray hair, had given way to jet-black, a bad dye job.

A mountain of yellow fabric appeared from around the corner of the building. It was Erzulie, the voodoo queen. At the head of the procession. She was followed by Sunshine, the commodore's cooking cousin, and six other bearers carrying a pole strung with tropical fruit and flowers. They laid it at the altar like an offering.

Two candlebearers appeared next. Ned and Dinah, in long white robes and multi-colored bean beads strung around their necks. As she stood at the doorway, Dinah—completely devoid of her usual
makeup—looked 
like a vestal virgin. It was clear to all that she was entirely nude under her thin robe. Then Ned stepped into the light. His genitalia were arranged for display.

Back at the platform, Bojo looked sober this morning. On his miniature piano, he started the wedding march.
It
was more like New Orleans jazz than a wedding march, but at least he was sitting up straight on his swivel stool.

Then Lola appeared, one arm resting daintily on the sleeve of her escort, Johnny Yellowwood. The sheriff seemed embarrassed at the presence of the newspaper photographer. With his eye, he signaled Dave, his deputy, to stop him. As a flashbulb popped, Dave grabbed the camera from the photographer's hand. A brief skirmish, but the march went on.

Lola's anger at not getting photographed was clearly apparent. But she gracefully continued her walk to the makeshift altar.

Fortunately, she had not worn white, as Castor
Q.
Combes was carefully observing. Rather, a full-length bridal gown in silver gray—covered with sequins, crystal beads, and rhinestones shaped like stars and crosses. Her pageboy wig was pillow white, and she'd generously shadowed her eyes in silver as well. Her usual flaming mouth had given way to raspberry mocha, a color she'd retained for her fingernails showing through open mitt lace gloves and her toenails peeking through silver slingback platform shoes. Dangling cross-shaped gold earrings, with rhinestones pasted on, hung from each pierced ear. Proudly she carried a rhinestone bib on her chest. Draped around her shoulders was a pearl-white chinchilla shrugette. In her arms she carried a bouquet of gladiolas sprayed with silver paint. A rhinestone tiara crowned this decorative mass of black flesh, fabric, stone, and glass.

All too much for Numie. For the actual ceremony, he ducked out back, sneaking a beer from the big refrigerator the commodore kept outside.

Slowly sipping his beer, Numie was an alien. He didn't belong at this mock wedding. No part of him.

His mind wasn't on the ceremony taking place inside the bar, but lost in the world he'd been slipping into.

The last two weeks with Ralph—all a charade of pretended affection. Ralph was constantly looking for some sign of rejection from Numie. It was hard, real hard, for Numie to pretend love when none existed. At least, with his johns in the past, he had to give sex—and only sex—but Ralph was demanding love. How could you demand love?
Ever.

After the morning she'd discovered Numie in the guest cottage with Ralph, Anne had avoided him. She kept their conversation at a minimum. Ralph still didn't know the reason for this hostility. He just assumed Anne was jealous of him because he'd taken a lover.

Wasn't Numie better off not getting involved with anybody? In these past few days, he kept repeating that question to himself.

To travel light in the world—that had been his goal. Free of possessions. Commitment and concern, two elements missing from his life.

He could also add that he was bereft of ideas, or even the ability to articulate and define his experiences, shaping them into a meaningful insight.

How long could he go on being owned by Ralph? Or how long would Ralph want to continue to own him? To recognize that all things in life are temporary had been easy for Numie. To try for some permanent arrangement seemed as futile as cursing the darkness.

He downed such a hefty swig of beer he almost choked.

Tensely alert now, Numie could hear every word of the ceremony from his position behind the altar. The trelliswork concealed him.

The commodore was putting a ring on Lola's finger.

"You should have had it shined, sweet daddy," she whispered in a voice too soft for any of the audience to hear.

"It's an Old Mine diamond, bitch," the commodore said. "Belonged to my great-grandmother."

"But you really should have had it shined," Lola admonished. "Everybody will be wanting to see my ring, and
I
don't dare show them this dull thing."

A murmur rose from the crowd.

"Shall we go on with the ceremony?" the Reverend Alberts inquired.

"Darling," Leonora interjected, "an Old Mine diamond refers to the way it's cut. It's very valuable. Everything doesn't have to shine to have value."

"Listen, Miss Rose Bush," Lola said, "I have you to know I know a thing or two about diamonds. Diamonds are supposed to shine—everybody knows that."

"Please," the minister pleaded.

"Very well," Lola said, raising her voice slightly, "but, daddy I've never been so humiliated in my life. And on my wedding day. Everybody will make fun of me."

After this whispered conversation, Lola allowed the commodore to put the antique diamond ring on her finger.

Vows specially written by the Reverend Alberts were exchanged. Commodore Philip Le Blanc and Lola La Mour were now married.

The crowd was rushing to the platform, some to shake the Commodore's frail hand, others to kiss Lola, who warned them not to mess up her makeup. She turned her wedding band around on her finger so that the diamond was hidden inside her hand.

Numie sought out Leonora to take her back to Sacre-Coeur.

Alone on the patio of Sacre-Coeur, Numie was on his sixth Scotch, far exceeding the limit set by Leonora.

All at once, Anne was there, in nothing but shorts and a halter. "There's something melancholy about September,' she said. "Something in the air, I can't place it."

It was the first time since his night of love with her she'd acknowledged him as a fellow human being.

"It's the end of summer," Numie said, "and that's always sad."

"I see you're all by yourself tonight," she said.

"Yes, Ralph hasn't shown up all day." After the blood-boiling heat of the day, Numie was hoping to relax. Anne's presence was disturbing. He feared trouble.

"You'll get used to it. I did." Laughter sounded on the patio, but it was so faint it could have been the wind. "He used to disappear for one or two weeks at a time."

Numie searched for some vision of concern in her soft brown eyes, but they were vacant. "We don't have to talk like two wives waiting for the old man to come home," he said, getting up. "That's not where it's at—not with me anyway."

She smoothed back a lock of hair from her temple and gazed at him. "I'm sorry I've offended you."

"Forget it!" He brushed the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. The pressure of being with her under these circumstances was getting to him.

She went behind the bar and took a saltine, smothering it with Tabasco sauce. Then she opened her usual beer, pouring it into a glass. "I'll never be an elegant lady like Leonora."

For a long while, there was nothing but silence. Numie was tense and keyed up.

Finally, Anne slammed down her glass. "There's a bug in my drink. The island's crawling with insects. Get me a clean one."

"Okay," he said. A sullen and vaguely injured look crossed his face. "The day chauffeur is a night bartender, huh?"

"Sensitive?" She stared disdainfully at him.

With burning eyes and a quivering lip, he glared at her. "Yes, I am. I'm tired of being treated like somebody's nigger all the time."

Lighting a cigarette, she blew smoke from her nose. "You put yourself in that position." Her manicured nails shone in the evening light. "Whores have to please, don't they?"

He was absorbing her presence, as never before. Up to now, he'd been thinking of her as a girl. But he was seeing a
woman—bitter,
cynical, a woman with a lot of mileage on her. "I please when I get paid," he said sarcastically.

The spots from the wall of the house were throwing shafts of red light across the patio. Anne's face was clearly defined. He tried to read it. She looked like someone who had experienced something deeply, and from that experience had grown wiser, but would be more cautious in the future.

"I can vouch for your pleasing when you get paid," she said after a long pause.

At the bar, he hesitated then poured another beer. "Let's stop this," he pleaded. "I'm not in the mood.
If
you've got it in for me, then let me have it." He searched for her tormented eyes, desperate to make her understand. "What difference does it make to you if I live with Ralph? He was never your husband in anything but name only."

As she took the beer from him, her eyes blinked and her voice grew softer. "How true."

'Then what's pissing you?" he asked, his heart pounding insistently for a verdict.

"You."

He flinched. "What does that mean? Do you hate me for making love to you?"

"No, I don't hate you for that," she said calmly. "I hate you for not carrying through with it."