Butterflies in Heat (26 page)

Few things shocked or surprised him any more. But it seemed that Leonora had deliberately tried to catch that boy's hand in the car door. Maybe Numie was exaggerating, but her cruelty appeared profound. Did she hate that much?

The same fear he had about Lola's madness was consuming him about Leonora. Would he be safe with her? Or would she tum violently against him the moment he displeased her?

He'd have to be more careful with her. After all, he didn't want to get his hand caught in any car door. Or, in anything else.

Sighing, he took a deep breath. For this job, he was getting seventy-five dollars a week. What a joke! Now he knew why he'd never wanted a regular job before.

On the earphone again, Leonora was urging him to stop. There was nothing in sight this time, except fields of mangrove.

Helping her out, he wanted to say something about the boy, but thought better of it.

Shading her sunglassed eyes from the sun, she pointed to the deserted fields. She was filled with pride. "This land is all mine ... and Commodore Philip's."

Numie took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "You and the commodore seem to own everything in town."

She smiled at him, feeling confident and self-contained. "We do a great deal. We're partners in real estate."

"Sacre-Coeur, too?"

"No," she said. "That's the only thing I own in my own name. The bar is totally his. Even my fashion house is jointly owned"

He surveyed the wide expanse. "What are you going to do with all this land?"

"Develop it some day," she said, "when the price is right. Tum it into high-rise condominiums" A bird flew over her head, and she ducked almost in fear. Regaining her composure, she advised, "Hold onto land, Numie. It's going to be the most valuable thing there is"

Was she kidding? "I can hardly buy land on my salary," he said pointedly.

She looked at him harshly, realizing what she'd said and how ridiculous it sounded.
If
she didn't change the subject soon, he might be hitting her for another raise. "Let's not talk about money, darling. It's not only a vulgar subject, but bores me this hour of the morning."

Their next stop was the Sunset Trailer Court. The main sign to the camp was held up by a pair of round pillars made of conch shells cast in cement. Another sign out front promised free showers and laundry, but warned of no pets.

Helping her once again from the car, Numie was puzzled. "This is where my daddy and mama finally ended their days," she said. "At their paradise in the sun. When their .house burned down, along with my school, I got this for them"

Inside the picket fence surrounding the camp was a trailer off to the right. It had been here the longest. Since 1947, she remembered exactly. Funny, she thought, lookingatitnow, but it had been considered luxurious at the time. "That's where they lived," she said, waving her hand.

"What do you want with that thing?" he asked.

"Sentimental reasons," she said, turning her back to him.

Hibiscus growing from the trailer's tiny front patio made access to the door difficult, but she refused to have it cut. Behind the foliage, the boxy trailer was made of plywood, and the humid weather had done cruel things to it. Its tires had long gone flat and were rotting. The orchid paint had peeled and cracked, revealing previous colors of slime green and yellow. A sagging flower box nailed to a small window held plastic tulips.

Leonora inserted the key and went inside, shutting the door in Numie's face.

The air was stale inside. Very little light came in, as the cracked window glass was fogged. In the center of the room was a fold-up card table and a pair of bridge chairs shaded by a pink silk fringed lamp.

She sat in her usual chair, after carefully dusting
it.
Her eyes drifted around the trailer. For a few minutes every week, she came here—just to sit and meditate. For as long as she lived, she wanted to remind herself of her origins.
It
was worth the price she paid.

That price was staring at her in a photograph her mama had tacked to the wall decades ago. Norton Huttnar, her miserable excuse for a husband, and the most hideous man she'd ever met.

She shuddered just thinking about the repulsive bastard. Except for this weekly interlude, she tried to forget how awful he was. But she remembered all too well.

Very old and very rich, with a fondness for teenage girls—that was Norton Huttnar. He'd first spotted her at a dancing class, right in Tortuga. Her body was starting to fill out some then, and she was on her way toward becoming spectacularly attractive. He owned Sacre-Coeur—which was his winter house, though he spent his summers in Southampton. At first he'd been interested in Ruthie Elvina, but then his interest had shifted to Leonora.

Why did she marry him? The answer was all too obvious. One look at where her parents ended up was all the reason she needed. In those days, she would have done anything to get out of Tortuga. Every night, the same. Her daddy would come home drunk, smelling of dead fish. He'd beat hell out of her mama, and Leonora had to watch. Once she stepped between them, trying to break it up, but he'd bashed her mouth in, knocking out her two front teeth.

When Norton had wanted to marry her, her daddy had been only too willing. Besides, her future husband had offered to set her daddy up in business.

A tear came to Leonora's eye. She was literally purchased like a slave on the auction block. She was only sixteen years old at the time.

Norton, the son-of-a-bitch, was seventy four!

She'd been so innocent on their honeymoon until Norton introduced her to the bizarre. She'd been in bed, lying there terrified, and he was spending an eternity in his dressing room. Finally, the door creaked open. When she saw him, she screamed.

Never in her young life had she ever been confronted with such a thing. There Norton stood, his mouth painted like bee-stung lips, his cheeks heavily rouged. He was wearing a white wig, the color of eggshell—three tiered at that. He'd painted his eyebrows jetblack with mascara, even though the gray still showed through.

His flamenco red harem pantaloons were held up by spaghetti straps. You could see right through to his jockstrap studded with pink pearls. He'd painted his breasts a turkey-comb red, and had pasted sequins around them. Iridescent beads dangled from his neck. Red silk stockings covered his legs under those pants. They were held up by garter belts, trimmed in lace. He was teetering on heels dangerously high for a man of his age, his shoes glittering with rhinestones.

Right in front of her, he'd parted those red lips and removed his false teeth. Remembering, she fell back against her chair.

That awful kewpie doll face. That sagging chin, those thick jowls. As he got closer to her, his disgusting perfume made her want to vomit. And he was wearing pancake makeup. She held her breasts. She could still feel those horrible gums working over her tender breasts, sliding up and down, slobbering over her. She'd clawed his back. He'd taken it for passion, but it was really punishment for violating her.

After she'd endured that night, she knew she could endure anything. No experience she'd ever had since equalled the horror of her wedding night. But she'd been determined. While Norton was assaulting her, she had tried to fill her mind with beautiful fantasies to blot out what was happening. But his bestiality had been so overpowering it had destroyed her dreams.

She'd known that if she failed him, she was doomed. What did she have waiting for her back in Tortuga? At the time it would have been possible to put up with anything. And she did. Night after night until Norton was finally dead. She still was grateful that he'd lived for only four more years. But those were the four longest years of her life.

She smiled in triumph and rose to her feet, a little wobbly on the trailer floor. She'd inherited everything after Norton died. And she'd earned it!

With Norton's money and the influential contacts she had made as his wife, she was launched into fashion.

The rest was history.

Outside the trailer again, Numie looked up at the Royal Poinciana trees blanketing the camp. Their leaves were fern-like and delicate, and many of them had scarlet and orange blossoms.

Noticing where he was looking, Leonora said, "When I was a child, we called this the flame tree. These trees always made me sad."

"Why?" he asked, wondering what she'd been up to in the trailer.

"They are so beautiful from June to September, but then long green pods filled with seeds appear on them. In winter, these pods tum black. The tree is bare of both leaves and flowers and looks strangely forlorn."

"They're mighty pretty now."

Eyes fixed on the tree, Leonora wandered over, reaching out to touch its bark. She fingered it, her nails digging in.

"I used to imagine those pods were dead bats sleeping through the winter. I kept praying for spring when they would fly away"

The road was winding along the water's edge.
It
was of rough coral, without streetlights or fencing. He braked the Lincoln as they neared a neon sign that read, simply, JOAN'S.

In the back seat, Leonora motioned for him to go ahead.

He looked up the driveway, then shifted gears. The car bounced along the rock-strewn road until a square, two-story white building emerged from behind a stumpy key lime grove.

The house was an acid green. The second story had a long balcony, each cut-out spoke painted a different pastel. An overgrown passion vine devoured the railings and posts, climbing to the roof.
It
provided a screen for two women, sitting in a row of rockers and peeking out. Overhead a string of colored lights continuously blinked.

Opening the door for Leonora, he helped her out. The piercing cry of birds meant the morning was far advanced.

Leonora's hand touched her hat. "This house used to belong to a Baptist preacher," she said, amused. "A real redneck." She clutched the fedora again, seemingly protecting it from the birds. "Built in 1875. Wish he could see it now."

Eyes glued to her every move, Numie wondered what new adventure she was taking him on. "Is this a restaurant?" he asked.

Leonora shook her head then looked in the direction of the house. She laughed. "Yes, dear heart, the garden of delights!" Then she walked quickly up the steps, ignoring the women on the porch, and passing through cranberry-etched glass doors into the central hall.

Numie trailed her, noticing how fresh and exotic she was in contrast to the shabby setting. In the hallway, he paused.

Down an open mahogany staircase came a short, stocky woman—dressed in a tailored salt-and-pepper tweed skirt, a shirt with a man's necktie, and a jacket that almost concealed her enormous bosom. Her bleached, brittle hair was cropped short, and she wore no makeup. She gasped when she saw Leonora. "You didn't tell me you were coming."

A sudden revulsion swept over Leonora, the same feeling she always had when she saw Joan. Her loose, flabby skin infuriated her. Leonora's eyes met Joan's, and they maintained locked for a moment. "Joan," she said sharply, "this is Numie."

As he shook Joan's hand, he sensed her trembling. "Glad to meet you," he said. Was he looking in on yet another vendetta?

"Hello," Joan said, hardly noticing him.

Crossing the foyer, Leonora said, "You knew I was coming." She'd always liked to nail liars on the spot. Turning again, her face was a mask of brutality. "You smell like you've just had a whole package of Clorets."

Joan looked like a little girl caught by her mother at something evil. "I was just chewing some gum."

Leonora carefully removed her fedora, enjoying the suspense she was creating. She turned almost in profile, knowing this was the best frame for her splendid jaw. "I think you've been cheating me," she accused, fascinated by the strident tone in her own voice. "I was making more money last month."

Joan's hands went up in a defensive gesture. "I tum over all the cash to you. I've never cheated you."

Knowing she was giving a performance for Numie, Leonora replied, "You cheated on me the second night we were married. Stop the pretense!" She barged through the beaded curtains into the parlor.

Numie couldn't have felt more awkward. He rocked a bit on the balls of his feet. He gave Joan a tired smile. The smile was not returned.

Joan ran after Leonora. At a cabinet in the parlor, she removed a wooden box, opening it to reveal some marijuana cigarettes wrapped in colored paper.

Leonora eyed them contemptuously. "I want a lavender one today.
It
fits my mood."

"I don't understand how you can smoke those filthy things," Joan said, "and complain because I take a drink now and then."

Rage shot through Leonora. How dare Joan equate her filthy habits with those of Leonora's. "A drink?" she almost screeched. "My dear child, you finish off a bottle of Scotch a day. Have ever since I've known you."

Numie was much the uninvited guest, yet at the same time he knew he was a necessary audience to watch them play out their little drama.

Joan looked over at him. "Now you're giving this kid the wrong impression." She offered Numie the wooden box. "Here, have one."