Butterflies in Heat (61 page)

Leonora opened her eyes onto the new day. The half-light coming in from the closed shutters, the oppressive heat, the strange silence that layover Sacre-Coeur gave her the feeling that she was experiencing a living death. Her body was hot and moist. Frantically her eyes darted about her dark bedchamber, with its ominous oak furniture. The whole atmosphere was crushing, paralyzing—a tomb of her own making. Would she be able to rise from her coffin? Jerking her body up, she clawed at her face with her long-nailed hand. She was alive! Spared. Given another whole year before she had to face another September 13.

Off the bed and into her wardrobe, she was searching for a suitable gown. The hell with it! What did clothes matter on a morning like this? She reached for a blue chiffon cape, draping it over her shoulders. The panels attached to her bracelets flowed like butterfly wings as she raised her arms.

She had to let in the sun. For too long she'd avoided the day. Now she wanted it, needed it. Today would be different, different from all other days. Today, she'd outstare the sun!

Throwing back the heavy draperies, she stood at her French doors, the morning's glare filling the room. Opening the doors, she stalked out onto her balcony. Turning her head to the sky, she opened her eyes wide and glared at the sun, her arms outstretched. She would destroy her eyes if she wanted to. She'd seen all of life she cared to. Too much! Then, speaking softly in a voice strange and distant to her, she said, "I've made my decision. I'm going to write my memoirs."

Since the powers had decided to spare her, it must be for a purpose. This morning she knew what that purpose was. Many future fans, the young, were out there waiting to hear with open hearts and minds how to live their lives in total defiance of the world's standards. And to get away with it! "They'll probably make me the goddess of a cult—they're so desperate for a heroine these days," she said aloud. With the publication of her memoirs, she could become a legend.
A living legend.
All her life she'd rebelled against the petty details of life, preferring instead the realities of the inner woman. Through that emotional landscape, she'd walked alone. To tell the story of that journey now must consume her every hour.

She would begin right this morning. That's why she didn't care if she destroyed her eyes.
It
was all inside her, the whole story. She didn't need to see any more. She'd seen everything, done everything. She'd had all the fame, all the money, and all the sex she could possibly desire. All that remained was for her to make her experiences relevant for a new generation.

She closed her eyes. After all, she didn't really have to destroy them. She was thinking only in terms of a symbolic
gesture. The sun was always too powerful for her. She ran from
it.
She went out at night, or else carefully draped and shaded. She lived behind closed windows to escape the day.

She'd also go on a sex fast to purify her body and soul.

But she did need Tangerine to help her maintain her body. Oh, she was forgetting. Tangerine was still in the hospital. That being the case, she'd teach Dinah how to massage and preserve her body through the rigorous ordeal of writing the memoirs.

Into her bedroom, she studied her bruised face in the mirror. She'd have to stop being so vain. Her beauty was fabled enough.
It
was more important now that she make her reputation as a diarist.

She laughed silently to herself. Most people, she realized, learned by trial and error. They made mistakes, then they'd repeat those mistakes. She, on the other hand, was born instantly illuminated, receiving the complete truth the moment she entered the world. Dare she not share that with others?
If
she remained silent,
it
would be like a promise unfulfilled.

She'd never kept a written diary. Yet in her head she had. Every detail was engraved there. She would just write the date at the top of the paper, and then record her feelings and emotions at that time. Since she knew the complete truth at the beginning, and it was the same truth now, she could perform that feat.

Of course, along the way, she'd learned about surface reality. All of the people of the world had to learn about surface reality day by day. Obviously if somebody invented a better detergent, you'd learn about that. But truth was eternal, enduring. That she'd always known.

It
was good she was surrounded by trivial people such as Numie, Anne, Dinah. She needed them in her life to cope with the details. Numie, for instance, had experiences. They had made him bitter, cynical, jaded. But they had taught him nothing.

She was the opposite—an idea person who sold her creativity on the world marketplace. Numie didn't have anything to sell other than a body. Unlike Numie, she'd been doubly blessed, having a great body as well as creativity. She was a celebrated figure, no less!

Breathing heavily, she was frightened of and excessively stimulated with her new mission. She'd terrify the world with her own brand of truth. With that chilling thought, she entered the bathroom. Impurities had to
be
removed from her body. She couldn't begin her memoirs with impurities in her system.

The noonday sun was shining through the bathroom in the hotel suite of Lola La Mour. For the first time in her life, she had nothing to do. No orders from anybody. She was her own boss. The roles were reversed.
It
was she who was ordering people around now.

Let all the bitches who'd dismissed her as a silly drag queen look in on her now. She'd show them where it was at.

She thought back to a day in early childhood when there was no food in the house, not even some rice and beans. That memory was long faded. In a bucket on a table in the living room was champagne, the same brand Leonora de la Mer always ordered. No more rum toddies for her.

Today she'd also send out for some caviar. Once when the commodore had given her a taste, she'd hated it. But she'd order it from the grocery store, nevertheless.

Later on, she'd have Ned drive her around to her properties. She wanted to see if the storm had caused any damage. Perhaps she would stop at a jewelry store in the afternoon.

Ned was coming into the bathroom. "You've got an invite. The mail's just arrived from the mainland. An engraved invite to attend one of your lawyer's fancy parties, the kind the commodore never took you to."

"Of course," she said matter-of-factly, admiring the shine of her red nails. "I think that white man has a powerful attraction for me, aside from the business part of our relationship." Looking at herself in a hand mirror, she wet her lips. "Did you see how long he held my hand when we said goodbye?"

Ned frowned. "I was too busy hustling Sister Amelia's ass out of that office to notice much handholding."

Still in her wig, she splashed in her bubble bath, enjoying the rich lather of suds. Suddenly, she sat up. "Would you give up your life for me?"

At the edge of the tub, Ned was starting to pull off his pants to join her. "Hell, no, why should I?"

Lola's face grew stern. "Then you're not committed to the relationship. "

"I ball you," he said, taking off his pants. "Isn't that enough?"

"No, I demand total commitment, total loyalty," she said, sitting up more rigidly.

"I can't give you that," he said, turning a startled face to her. "I've given you all I can. But not that."

Taking some of the bubbly capping off the creamy froth of the water, she tossed the suds at him. "Then get out!" she screamed.

"That suits me just fine," he said, reaching for his pants. Slipping into them, he walked rapidly into the living room. Quickly he poured a drink, downing it so fast it burned his throat.

In moments, she was in the room, dripping soap. She reached for a flimsy nightgown. "Just where do you think you're going?"

"I'm going out," he said, the color of his skin deepening. "Following your orders."

"You're going nowhere unless I dismiss you," she said. "No one walks out on Lola La Mour." Barging over, she slapped the glass from his hand, sending its contents spilling onto the new carpet.

"You ordered me out, remember?" Empty glass in hand, he said, "Baby, this ain't the only place in town where I can get a drink." Making for his wardrobe, he pulled out a shirt.

"You walk out of here, and you die," she threatened.

"If
I stay,
I'll
die," he said, covering himself with cologne until he reeked of it. "You watch me like a hawk. I need some real pussy for a change. You leave a man with nothing." He grabbed hold of himself. "You're after balls."

"You don't know how to live with a
star—that's
your problem." Her shrill voice was more high-pitched than ever. "You're not man enough."

"Okay, it's my problem," he said, turning his back on her, as
if
that would drown out her voice. "But I've got to have breathing space. I can't stand this shit no more."

"Shit!" Lola laughed in pain. "You call the love I offer shit?" She waved her hand in a sweeping gesture. "After all I've done for you. The sacrifices I've made."

"I don't need you," he said, posing at intense concentration. "I wanted to get my share of the commodore's bread, but the price ain't worth it." He withdrew from her instinctively. "I'm going back to Dinah."

She hated the sound of Dinah's name—hated her youth, her beauty. Mostly she hated what was between her legs. What could men possibly see in that awful smelly thing? "Have you finished your little high school recitation?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm through." He clutched his throat. "Up to here I'm through. I need some severance pay. After all, I helped you pull off that deal with Sister Amelia. I need enough money to set myself up, be my own boss."

"My needs—not
yours—will determine the course of this relationship," she said, pressing her hands to her forehead. "And right now I've got a letch for you." She coolly surveyed him.

"I'm not selling my dick—at least not to you." The closeness of this creature, the airless room, seemed to nauseate him.

"I told you, I have this letch for you." She sank back slowly into her white sofa at the far end of the room.

"Fuck off!" he said. "I'm leaving." He had the door slightly ajar. "Keep the clothes, keep everything."

"Ned, baby," she said warmly, feeling the excessive heat of the room which was matched only by the blood-boiling fury inside her. "You just don't understand," she said, fixing colorless, bizarre eyes on him. "You walk out that door, sugar, and
I'll
shoot you in the back."

He turned.

On the sofa, she was holding a revolver she'd found in the back of the commodore's desk. "I will kill you just as sure as I'm looking at your pretty brown eyes." She tried not to show her nervousness. "I never thought the commodore's gun would come in so handy. You know I'll kill you, don't you, boy?"

"I believe you would."
His face was blank.

"You're finally getting my message, she said contemptuously. "I'm not some little black pussy on her first date at the drive-in movie." Quickly she jerked off her wig and
tossed it across the room. "Come over here and look at this face." In the harsh light, with the afternoon sun beating in, without her adornment and frills, she knew exactly what her face looked like. That's why she took so much time every day to make it up.
It
was old, quite old. When I say this is your mother talking, I mean it. You see before you not some ravishing lady with her cherry glowing a virginal red. You see before you an aging, forty-five-year-old, burned-out lady!"

He paused a long time before speaking. "I never knew you was that old. You always told people you was twenty-four. I didn't exactly believe that. But forty-five!" A strange laugh came from him. "That's a record for me. I've always been into young stuff."

That remark seemed to pierce her flesh. "Let's face it: you're young enough to be my son."

He smiled sardonically. "At that ripe age, you're holding up pretty well. I must say."

"You mean, I can create an illusion?" She seemed momentarily hypnotized by a remembrance of her long-vanished youth. "Who am I kidding? In a. year—maybe two—I'm going to be washed up." She paused like a figure in a period picture. "I've based my whole life on youth and beauty. I'm losing both. I can get more flamboyant, but I'm not going to get more beautiful—certainly not any younger." Her voice broke into a strangled sob. The words were incoherent. When she finally spoke, it was in gasps. "I'm afraid.
Afraid."