Butterflies in Heat (47 page)

Getting back into the car, he drove off quickly.
If
it
were Castor's cat, he couldn't face those wide, accusatory eyes.

At the beach he welcomed the salt air.
It
seemed to be forming crystals all over his body, a coating to heal damage left by the night. Finding a spot near the edge of the ocean, he sat down, stretching his legs toward the sea. The water lapped over his feet.

On the completely deserted beach, he could watch the coming and going of the waves.

Did he begin somewhere out there?

He had lived thirty-two years, a thimble of water compared to the vast pitcher before him. Yet he was beat when he should be in the best part of his life.

He lay back on the sands. Let the ocean take him back again. He didn't belong on the land.

No place for him anywhere.

Numie awoke to the sound of hungry sea gulls circling over him in search of their breakfast. He sat up and looked at this spectacle of life feeding upon life.

On the still deserted beach, the beams of the early morning sun bounced off the white sands and green sea as
if
they were crystal.

He'd spent the night on the beach, falling asleep shortly before dawn. His throat was clogged, and his chest ached. Had he caught cold?

Pushing himself up from the wet sand, he clenched his arms together for whatever warmth that gave him.

Just thinking about his pre-dawn hours made him shudder. What bothered him most was the gnawing fear he might have killed Castor's calico cat. Funny, but that concern was far more important to him than his being kicked out by Ralph.

The morning had a virgin freshness. Within the hour, overworked husbands would leave their small houses to earn money that was never enough. Housecoat-clad women with limp hair and white-green faces would holler some last-minute command to restless children who'd play until the burning sun drove them inside again.

Numie didn't really envy the domestic life of Tortuga. Yet at the same time he was attracted to anybody who had roots. Let them have their picnics, weddings, and TV dinners. What he wanted was the sense of belonging that made their often dreary lives worthwhile. There was a lot to be said for a daily routine.

How he wished somebody this morning would reach out to him, tell him that everything was going to be okay, that tomorrow would be better, that the worst was over, that he was loved for himself, that his cock was appreciated and enjoyed, but it didn't matter
that
much, that he would be just as appreciated, just as loved, if he weren't as accomplished in bed, that he wouldn't be cast aside if something happened to him, if he lost his power,
if
he got old, if ...

He ran his fingers along the ridge of his nose. Didn't he deserve a second chance? Maybe there really was a God. Maybe you could bargain with him. Maybe, just maybe, God would make it a little easier for him. Give him peace one day.

A man can hustle his ass just so much, and then he's got to stop. A man,grows tired. He wants to live for himself, do what
he
wants to do for a change.

Summers in Tortuga were something to
be
endured. Scorching traps for victims who couldn't afford to run away to shady worlds.

This bright morning sun, already growing hot, called for a focus on Numie's part. Some goal, something.

Why had he come here? What did he hope to gain?

This island was isolated. So was he. The sea washed up on its shore, but the contact was momentary.

Under the gray overcast of this day and on this deserted beach, he was certain of only one thing:
he was not for sale anymore.

That day was over.

At the Lincoln, he put his hands on the door before deciding to walk along the coral road a bit. He couldn't face Sacre-Coeur, at least not now.

In the distance, Erzulie's shack came into view. A mass of yellow fabric, she was out front, feeding her chickens.

"Morning," he called, going up to her.

At first she was suspicious, then, recognizing him, "What brings you here? It's too early in the week for that white bitch to be dispensing those two dollars."

"Tm not her messenger boy today," he said, feeling weak and apprehensive. "Just out on my own. I couldn't sleep at the house last night. Wandered to the beach. Fell asleep there."

"Nobody can sleep on this damn island," she said, casting the rest of the grain before the hens. "It's haunted—that's why."

At first he wasn't sure what she was suggesting. "What do you mean?"

"On some hot summer nights I can hear buccaneers and the Chinese slaves they used to torture carry on something awful—right out there on the sea. Sometimes when the captain thought he was going to run into a patrol boat, he tossed the slaves overboard, their bodies weighed down with balls and chain. The wind picks up their dying screeches, and the cries sound off inside my head. Last night was one of those nights."

"For everybody, I reckon." He looked awkwardly at her, not really knowing why he was here. Almost for want of something to say, he asked: "Why do you always wear that yellow dress?"

"You liked it?" she asked.

"It's very bright, like the sunshine."

"This is the dress I'm going to be buried in." She smoothed the wrinkles of the night from it.

"But why wear it now?" Erzulie made no sense to him.

"I'm an old lady. I just might die in my sleep, and I want to be dressed and ready. Don't want any of those undertakers in this town dressing me like I'm some hen ready for the roasting oven. I know what they do to women before they put them in coffins."

He smiled, more out of embarrassment than anything else. "I don't think that would happen to you."

"Are you saying men don't want me?" Anger flashed across her face.

"Not at all," he said, fearing he'd come upon yet another colossal ego.

"I'm not known as the Haitian Venus for nothing: she said.

He shuffled his feet awkwardly. Did she really call herself the Haitian Venus?

"My skin," she said, "the color of coffee."

Just as he did with Lola or Leonora, he decided to play the game. "I bet a lot of guys wanted to get it on with you."

"Now you're talking!" Her cool tone was replaced with warm, sympathetic chatter. "Back in Haiti, I had three French lovers and the handsomest black stud in Port-au-Prince. I could stir up the passions not only of men, but Gods."

"Gods?" Now he knew she was crazy.

"Yes, gods."

"I didn't know there were gods in Haiti." He stared at the sky. Another crazy lady in his life he didn't need right now.

"Man, you are ignorant," she charged. "Haven't you ever heard of
loas?"

"Never." He was only half listening to her jabber.

"They're a link between man and the higher God," she said. "But they behave like imps. Many of them wanted me as their private mistress. But I would never surrender myself to anyone—man or God."

"If
you believed they were gods, weren't you afraid of making them mad?"

"I did just that by defying them," Erzulie continued. "That's why I was run out of Haiti. They became cruel to me when I turned them down."

"You really had some tough luck." He was just humoring her now.

She picked up on his condescension right away. "I don't want your sympathy, or the charity of that white bitch. I can look after Erzulie all by myself."

"I'm sure you can." He held his breath until his heart started to pound. Wanting to ask her something, he couldn't come right out with it.

"Look, I don't have all day to stand around gossiping with you," she said. "In fact, I'm not even sure I like you."

"I didn't mean to take up your time." Rather curtly, he started to say good-bye, then he decided what the hell. He might as well come right out with it. "Actually, I'm here to see you on a professional matter."

Her eyes brightened. "That's more like it. You realize, of course, I charge for my services."

"I'm willing to pay." He could see little glittering points of light dancing in those eyes.

"Come inside then," she said.

In her shack, Erzulie chased out two chickens. "I didn't always live in poverty like this. You wouldn't know it to see me now, but I come from an elite class, the
gens de couleur.
My father was French. We had a fantastic Victorian house in Port-au-Prince and a fabulous summer villa at Cap-Haitien. We were very rich." She paused for a long time. "But that was long ago."

"I'm sure you were," he said. He looked into her contorted face, and all of a sudden he felt paralyzed, shrunken. "You're still surviving—not as
well~
but surviving."

"There's a lot to be said for that," she countered. "Now what's your problem?"

His heart sank. "I fear I'm losing some of my power as a man." He said that so fast it seemed to leave an echo ringing in his ears.

She drew a deep breath and raised her voice. "What makes you think so?"

The natural way she accepted what he'd laid on her put him more at ease ... It happened last night."

"That's nothing," she said, glancing at a shelf of bottles. "Maybe just a case of guilt:

He nodded, then paced the room anxiously. "But I'm afraid if I try it again, the same thing will happen." His eyes were pleading. "Can't you give me something?"

"I can give you anything you want," she said. "In fact, I once saw to it that an eighty-eight year old man fathered a baby. That's how potent some of my stuff is."

"Then I can buy some off you?" He was sweating, and feeling very much like a goddamn fool, indulging in black magic.

"No, because I don't think you need it," she said. "Try it with someone you really like the next time, then come to me if you need help."

A lump rose in his throat, and he stood for a long time facing her ... But. ....

"Erzulie has told you what to do. I'm not used to having my word questioned, except by that white bitch."

"Okay, I'll try it your way." Flies buzzed over his head. The room smelled of sweet decay. "Say, I'd better be going."

"Wait, before you go," she said. "Come into the kitchen out back." On the stove rested a simmering pot.

"Is that your special brew?"

"No, this is something different," she said ... It's a sauce my mama taught me in Haiti. And it's edible.
Piment oiseau,
and is it fiery hot! The black people on the island here and some of the Cubans like it. Put
it
on their rice and black beans. All day I stand over this stove, making my special sauce. I sell it—that's how I earn enough money to live. Not from Miss De ... whatever she calls herself, not from her charity."

"I'd like to try it," he said, not really meaning it. Having confided what he had to her, he was anxious to be off.

"Remember, you have to put it on something," she said. "Just too hot by itself. Here's a bottle I made yesterday:

He took it. "Thanks."

"Cost you a dollar."

"A bargain." He dug into the pocket of his pants.

In her front yard, he made for the road again. He looked back only once.

Erzulie was tossing a rock at a stray dog.

Without really meaning to go there, he found himself driving up the road to JOAN'S. The front porch was deserted, a burgundy-colored woman's bathing suit resting over a wicker chair. The string of bulbs overhead was still flashing, but the lights seemed best suited to the night.

Through the cranberry-etched doors, he made for the parlor.

There, sprawled across the mission oak sofa was Joan, her housecoat as electric a green as the fabric on which she lay. Her bleary eyes challenged him. She resented his presence.

He was clearly intruding on a private moment early in the morning. At first he was tempted to tum and leave. There was nothing for him here. Yet he felt some strange comfort in her presence. "Have a good night?" he asked.