Butterflies in Heat (70 page)

"The whole idea sounds less and less dull," he said.

She held her throat, her breathing growing faint. Suddenly reaching out, she was pressing his head against her naked breasts.

Slowly he withdrew. "Good night, sweet soul," he said in a voice foreign to him. "I'll be in the next room if you need anything."

"Good night," she said softly.

At the doorway, he paused to look back.

"Numie," she said, "my mama used to read the Bible to me. And once when I was very young, I believed it. But the Bible is a lie."

"In what way?" he asked.

"The meek do not inherit the earth," she said.

He lay quietly on the sofa, wide awake and dry-eyed. He was beyond tears.

It was morning now.

Tangerine was gone.

The men from the funeral parlor had come. They had taken her body away.

Reluctantly, he got up. First he locked the screen door. Then he pulled down the shades. At last, he lay back on the sofa.

In the afternoon, someone came up the steps, knocked, then called out. He didn't answer—nor did he recognize the male voice. Someone else came later. But he didn't budge from the sofa. Finally, whoever it was went away.

Lying there was strangely peaceful. The apartment was permeated not with the smell of death, but memories. The spirit of Tangerine haunted its walls.

The whole world was locked out—even the sick old woman he'd ministered to last night. Not she, but Tangerine, was inside him now.

Fern Cornelia Blanchard, his Georgia peach. His orange-haired clown. His loving friend and refuge. His Halloween.

Full of his own Tangerine, he smiled. Then power surged through his body.
Yes, she was inside.
All the best of his Tangerine.

In his excitement, he crouched on the edge of the sofa, ready to spring. At the first noise, he leapt to his feet.

Down below a hammer pounded. Was it the sound of building? Or of tearing away?

"I'm not wearing black and that's that," Lola was screaming. "I don't care whose funeral it is."

Pacing the hotel suite, Ned fumed. "You do not show up at funerals looking like some overripe sunflower."

"And why not?" she asked. "You could have said a fresh spring daisy. This daffodil color is just right for me. I sent the leftover material over to Tangerine's right before she died to make her some new curtains out of it."

"I'm not going with you unless you act like you got some raising," Ned said.

"De la Mer will be there all draped out in black," Lola said. "I'm not into that scene. We'll both end up looking like two black widows. Besides, black don't do nothing for me."

"This is no goddamn fashion contest," he said. "A woman has died. We're there to show our respects, even if she was white."

"Anyway, Tangerine's dying like this caught me off guard," Lola protested. "I think she willed herself to death with no concern or regard for her mourners. I've already had one death to go through. Tangerine should have thought of someone other than herself."

"I'll be damned," he said. "You're blaming her for dying. For doing
you
an injustice. Now I've heard everything!"

Behind the wheel of the Cadillac Ned was bumping along the rough stone lane to the graveyard.

In the back seat, Lola was virtually hidden under a black lace veil attached to a big black cloche hat. Black all over, she hated the feeling. Had she not been in such bad shape, she would not have given in to Ned.

"You'd think," she said, "with all De la Mer's money she would have hired the brass band. After all, Tangerine was her servant, not mine."

"De la Mer didn't want no brass band," Ned said. "That's why you decided to hire it. Tell it like it is, sister."

"You're way off," Lola yelled. "When my daddy died, I wanted to hire a brass band and couldn t afford one. I decided I'd become so rich the next time somebody up and died—even if I didn't know them too well—I was gonna go out and hire a big brass band."

The Cadillac screeched to a halt at the entrance to the necropolis. The funeral hearse was waiting.

Knowing who was footing the bill, the brass band—its members all smiles—was there to greet Lola. As Ned opened the car door to her, she was heralded by blowing coronets from the Delgado brothers and the rotten tuba playing of BoJo, her accompanist at the bar. In fact, BoJo was so bad, big Luis Machin was trying to drown him out with a bass drum.

The funeral march sounded as Lola made her way past the little white church into the graveyard. The band followed her.

On the periphery of her vision, rows of angels on marble guard seemingly made way for her, as she passed stone crosses and moss-green urns. She was acutely aware of the impression she was making in front of the dozen or so visitors gathered at Tangerine's grave site.

Lola was trying to work with basic black. The least she could hope for was that she'd stand out as a silhouette against the whiteness of the sunny day.

In lieu of pallbearers, the owners of the funeral parlor had recruited his four sons. Tilting and swaying the coffin, they crossed the mounds of earth, arriving at the site. Awkwardly, they put down their burden, standing uncomfortably about, the sun making their black, pin-striped suits appear purple.

Before the grave, Lola positioned herself in front of two gigantic crescent-shaped wreaths of pale yellow chrysanthemums she had ordered.

She was furious. De la Mer wasn't here yet. Just like the bitch to try to steal the show at the last moment.

It was then she noticed a black Lincoln pulling to a halt at the other side of the graveyard.

Lola's black veil swirled in the wind, revealing her face to a small group. It was a mask of anger.

De la Mer had dared wear all white!

The day was hot, the sun beating down fiercely. As Numie held the door back, Leonora emerged, a portrait in white and heavily veiled. Her white linen suit with a pleated skirt was simple, as were her white pumps. Her white veil was held in position by her large white leghorn hat. She was a tall, mysterious goddess.

"There!" Lola hissed loudly to Ned, hiding behind the yellow chrysanthemums. "See what I told you? Everybody's looking at her. Not at me in the goddamn soot color. You'll pay for this."

"Fuck off!" Ned said, "Who's everybody? There's ten people here at the most."

Propped up by Anne on one side and Numie on the other, Leonora made her way through the graveyard. On her right, she was passing her own unfinished tombstone. She knew it was there, but didn't dare look. The strong presence of Numie made her embarrassed—sorry that he'd ever seen her in such a weak condition. First thing tomorrow morning, she was going to order her tombstone destroyed. She had decided that when she did die, she didn't want to be buried in Tortuga. The port town had been her grave as a child, and then later in life. She much preferred cremation, her ashes tossed to the wind—a freedom she'd never known in life.

Facing Lola across the grave site, she glanced disdainfully at her. Her business with Lola was concluded. The details would be worked out by their attorneys. She had no more need to soil her life with trashy transsexuals.

Leonora's body shook at the thought of Tangerine. Poor, dear Tangerine. Of course, with Leonora leaving, Tangerine would have destroyed herself anyway—or else worked at Sacre-Coeur for Lola, God forbid. It would have been impossible to have taken Tangerine to New York. She wouldn't have fitted in. Without Leonora, Tangerine would have had no life. She was convinced that Tangerine knew that—not in her conscious mind, but deep down. It was as if she, Leonora, were a great queen, and Tangerine was one of her subjects. Was Tangerine symbolically throwing her body on the funeral pyre of the old Leonora because she had no place with the new one?

At first, Numie stood across the freshly dug grave facing Lola. She wasn't looking in his direction, and he was glad. Ned stayed concealed behind the mass of chrysanthemums. Funny, but he didn't hate Ned. Somehow he knew that Ned's attack on him was part of a job he'd fallen heir to. It was Lola he hated. But did he? Could you really hate the insane?

There stood Lola in her flaming, reckless way that even the blackness of the veil couldn't conceal. She was still gaudy, still contemptuous of life she couldn't control. All her blazing anger came from some force within her she couldn't direct. That force was burning away. In time, it would consume Lola in its fire. He didn't need to strike back at her. Besides, he was no fool. What did he expect, messing around with a psycho like Lola? He was lucky he'd gotten only a beating and hadn't been killed.

All eyes turned suddenly at the approach of a tall man from below. He wore a dark suit and sunglasses. It was Mike Morgan, the reporter from Associated Press. He'd cared enough to attend!

Joy swept through Numie. The joy of having someone here who'd known Tangerine in a younger, happier day.

As soon as Morgan fell into place next to a gloomy Lola, the pastor began to speak.

But who could listen? The pastor had never known Tangerine. How could his words connect with her life, her spirit? Numie bit his quivering lips.

Other than himself, only Morgan seemed at all moved. His face was an austere mask—except for one lone tear that fell, getting lost in his mustache.

Looking out across the graveyard, Numie's eyes were fixed on the overturned mossy slabs so ravaged by time. Why did people end up like this? On this lonely, windswept hill where nothing lived but lizards, wild grass, and weeds. "Oh, God," he said aloud.

Anne reached for him. But otherwise his outburst went unnoticed. Everybody else was intently staring at the coffin.

As the coffin was lowered into the grave, the brass band was playing, "Nearer My God To Thee."

The pastor's words, "Ashes to ashes and dust to dust," were carried by the wind.

Numie trembled. All that was left of Tangerine was in that cheap wooden box. His breath came in gasps—tears were blurring his eyes. The tears became frozen, then splintered like broken glass, blinding him.

He ran.