Butterfly (15 page)

way Danny did, her voice going up at the end of the sentence. “We make bets on how fast

she can do it? I’ll write down maybe twenty numbers four columns wide, and as soon as

I’ve drawn the line underneath, Carmelita here has the total. She beats us every time.”

“I would think you could do something with a gift like that,” Rachel had said, warm-

ing to her new friend. She had not slept; she had spent the night throwing up and wish-

ing Danny would come back for her. But there, in the hard light of morning, in the

presence of the other girls who lived in Hazel’s house, girls with moon-colored faces and

backward-looking eyes, Rachel had realized the harsh truth of her situation. And she had

found herself feeling grateful to have a moment to forget about herself. “You could work

in an office,” she had said to the Mexican girl. “You could be an accountant.”

But Carmelita had shaken her head and closed her sketch pad. “I ain’t educated. What

could I do? I can add columns faster than an adding machine, but I can hardly write my

own name. No,
amiga,
the numbers are just fun, a game to make me forget for a while.

I’m where I belong. I know that.”

And here was Carmelita again, four weeks later, trying to distract her.

But all Rachel could think of was Danny.

The bedroom door opened and Rachel spun around, suddenly hopeful. But it was

only Belle, the third girl who completed their tight knot of friendship. She was older—

seventeen—and she took care of them. It was Belle who had comforted Rachel through

those first nightmarish days, and who had soothed her when she cried as if her heart were

going to break. If Rachel and Carmelita were like little girls, Belle was like a grown

woman. After three years in Hazel’s establishment, she had lived a lifetime.

“Sorry, kiddo,” she said. “It’s only me. Wish I were Danny. I truly do.”

Tuesday mornings were always slow at Hazel’s house—dead, in fact. That was when

the eighteen girls who lived there got their laundry and mending done, wrote letters

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61

(those who knew how to write), or slept all day. In another age Rachel would have spent

the time consuming books. Now she waited for Danny.

“Listen,” said Belle. “If he doesn’t come, do you want to go to the show with me?
High

Noon,
Rachel! Down at the Majestic. My treat. I got enough money.”

“You already seen that movie six times,” Carmelita said, throwing herself down onto

one of the two twin beds and inspecting the new coat of Max Factor polish on her nails.

“And I’ll see it
sixty
times if I want to. Come on, Rachel. What do you say?”

But Rachel only glumly shook her head.

Belle exchanged a look with Carmelita, then went up to her young friend and, laying

a hand on her arm, said quietly, “Maybe his car broke down. That can happen, you

know?”

“He’s got to come today, Belle. He’s just got to.”

“And what will you do if he doesn’t?”

“I’ll run away.”

Belle shook her head. “Kiddo, we all dream of runnin’ away. But the thing is, we don’t

get far, not even in our dreams. We got no money, no wheels, and, most important of all,

no
protection.
If you ran away, where would you go, what would you do, how would you

live? You don’t even know where your folks are.”

Belle spoke for most of the girls in Hazel’s house. The majority had been brought here,

or had come here out of desperation, out of need for shelter and protection. The days of

hippie communes and youthful hitchhikers on the highways lay far in the future. These

girls sold their bodies and dreamed of one day leaving respectably, on a man’s arm.

Belle’s dream was to go to California. Everyone said she looked just like Susan

Hayward; she even had the flaming hair. It was her ambition to get into movies, and in

preparation for the day that she was sure would come, she lived inside movie magazines.

The walls of her room were covered with pictures from
Photoplay;
she always bought the

lipstick the stars wore; tried to imitate their lifestyle with the bit of money she earned at

Hazel’s. Nylon gloves were currently in vogue; Belle had a pair that she wore constantly,

no matter how badly they made her hands sweat. She had a pink felt skirt with poodles on

it, and a tube top for a blouse, just like the one Jane Russell wore with capris. She even

had a pair of fake Dior “knock ’em dead” stiletto heels, except that she hadn’t yet learned

how to walk in them. When the call came, as seventeen-year-old Belle was certain it

would, she didn’t want Hollywood to catch her unprepared.

That was one of the things that made Rachel so special to her: she had actually been

born
there. When Rachel had first told Belle, she might as well have said she was born on

Mars, Belle was that skeptical. But when Rachel had shown Belle her birth certificate—

Mother:
Naomi Burgess;
Baby:
Rachel;
Born at:
Presbyterian Hospital, Hollywood,

California—Belle had stared at it as if it were a holy relic.

But there were other reasons for Belle’s deep affection for Rachel. There was the

girl’s unusual honesty—a commodity rarely found around Hazel’s house. Rachel could

be disarmingly frank, but you always knew she spoke the truth. So when she had told

Belle that she thought Belle one of the most beautiful girls she had ever seen, they all

knew Rachel meant it. There was also the aura of vulnerability that surrounded the sad

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Kathryn Harvey

little Rachel; it seemed to bring out maternal instincts in even the most hardened girls.

If they could no longer care about themselves or about the men who used them, they

could care about this waif with the pathetically homely face.

And she made fantastic hamburgers too. Some of the girls were starting to put on

weight because of Rachel’s magic with hamburger meat. And once she got together with

Carmelita, who showed her how to add jalapeño peppers to ordinary french fries, Rachel’s

fattening dinner was much in demand.

But Rachel’s best quality was her storytelling gift.

On slow days, when they were all bored and getting too close to thinking about their

miserable lives, there would be Rachel, spinning an incredible tale of adventure in faraway

places. The fact that they were not Rachel’s own original stories didn’t matter. These girls

had never read any of the books she had read; each story, no matter how old or classic—

Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice, Captain Blood
—was brand-new to them.

And then, perhaps, they loved her most of all because of her ability still to hope—a

flame that had been snuffed out in all but the greenest of them. To see hope glimmer in

one so sad meant that there was hope still for them all. And the most hopeful in Hazel’s

house were Carmelita, who just knew Manuel was going to come back for her someday,

and Belle, who dreamed of the Hollywood producer who was going to walk through

Hazel’s front door, set his eyes on the Susan Hayward look-alike, and take her away from

all of this.

They dreamed together, the three of them.

But today, on this fourth Tuesday after Rachel’s arrival, the brittle dream was coming

dangerously close to being shattered. There had been no Danny on the day he had prom-

ised to come, no visit to the Alamo, no burrito dinner in Little Laredo. The way she sat at

the window every Tuesday made some of them mad enough to want to see Danny

Mackay suffer.

And then: “There he is!” Rachel cried, hands pressed against the window. “It’s Danny!

Danny’s here!”

They ran to the window and looked out. It was indeed he, like a wish materializing

right down there on that street. Danny Mackay, his almost-reddish hair catching the

morning sun; his white shirt dazzling; black pants perfectly pressed; shoes polished. He

was tall and lean and good-looking, and because he had finally come they all forgave him.

Rachel hugged her friends, gave herself a final look in the mirror, and flew down the

stairs.

He was already in the kitchen and talking to Hazel, who was saying, “She’s doin’ okay,

but she needs to be told a few things. I’ve had a few complaints.”

“DANNY!”

He opened his arms and she flung herself into them. “Hey!” he said, kissing her and

laughing. “What’s all this, darlin’?”

“Oh, Danny, Danny.” She held him as tightly as her thin arms could, and buried her

face in his chest. “Oh, Danny, you came.”

“Shoot, darlin’. I told you I would. Look what I brought ya.”

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63

She looked at the daisies as if they were diamonds, and took them from him to dance

around the room with them. “Oh, Danny! They’re beautiful! No one ever gave me flow-

ers before!”

She went to a cupboard and took down three milk glasses. “I’m going to share them

with Carmelita and Belle. Is that okay?”

“Sure!” he said, laughing.

“They never get flowers. And daisies, Danny! They’re so pretty! Like stalks of sunshine!”

When the little vases were arranged, she turned around and beamed at him. “Oh,

Danny,” she said again.
“Flowers!”

“I told you I’d come,” he said with a grin. “You didn’t doubt me, did you?”

“Well…”

“Still want to see the Alamo?”

“Yes! Oh yes! And can we go for burritos?”

“I might be able to arrange that.”

“And go down along River Walk and look in the shops?”

He laughed and took her into his arms. “You can have anything your heart desires,

darlin’. I just want you to be a good girl, okay?”

“I’ll be anything you want, Danny,” she murmured against his shirt.

He looked over her head at Hazel, who nodded slightly.

“Say, darlin’,” he said. “Before we go out, what do you say we go up to your room and

have a little talk?”

She drew back and looked up at him. “What about?”

He mussed her hair and touched the tip of her nose. “Don’t be soundin’ so fretful. I

just want to be alone with you, is all. Hey, it’s been a month since we’ve been together,

doncha know?”

She pouted. “I know. I’ve counted every single hour since I saw you last.”

He took his arms away from her and stepped back. “You’re not going to scold me now,

are you? I don’t want no girl who’s going to nag me like a wife. Let’s go upstairs.”

She went, leaving the three little vases of daisies down in the kitchen.

They went into a vacant bedroom and he closed the door, quietly locking it. When he

turned to her, he found Rachel sitting on the bed, smiling. “I’m so glad you’re here,

Danny.”

“Listen, Rachel.” He came over and sat next to her. “Hazel tells me you’ve been giving

her trouble. I can’t have that. She’s doin’ us a favor, you know?”

Rachel bowed her head. “I know.”

“Then why aren’t you behavin’? It looks bad for me.”

She raised pleading eyes. “Danny, she makes me do terrible things! I get sick every

morning! I throw up all the time!”

He frowned. “You’re using the sponge she gave you, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes,” she said impatiently. “It’s nothing like that. I’m sick from what I have to do.

Some of the customers are, well, just
awful.
They force me to do horrible things with

them.”

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Kathryn Harvey

“Look, Rachel,” he said softly, laying an arm around her shoulders. “It don’t help if

you fight it. You have to cooperate. After all, this is a house of pleasure.”

“Pleasure!” she cried mournfully. “How can men find pleasure in what we’re doing

here? I thought that when men and women make love, both of them are supposed to

enjoy it.”

“Shoot, Rachel. You’re not
making love
with anyone. You’re getting paid to let these

guys fuck you.”

She covered her ears with her hands. “Please don’t talk like that, Danny. I hate that

word.
They
use it, when they’re with me. They like to say it while they’re doing it. And

then I get sick!”

“All right, all right,” he said, drawing her against him. “It won’t be much longer,

Rachel. You’ll see.”

“Do you have a job yet, Danny?”

“I told you to stop nagging me! Didn’t I say I’d take care of you?”

“Yes, but—”

“And didn’t I come today? Didn’t I bring you flowers? Is this any way to treat me?”

“Oh, Danny! Please don’t get mad at me. It’s just that I want us to be together all the

time.”

“You think I don’t want it, too? It’s not easy finding a job, you know. Life is harder for

us guys than it is for you girls. We don’t have no one to take care of
us.”

“I’ll take care of you, Danny. I promise.”

He softened. “I know you will, darlin’. But you’ve got to do what Hazel tells you to

do.”

“But it’s so awful…”

“I tell you what. Why don’t you show me what it is you have to do. That’ll make it eas-

ier for you with the other guys. Just close your eyes and think it’s me.”

He took hold of her resisting hand and brought it down to his groin. “Come on. Do

for me what you do for the customers. Huh? How about it? And then we can go see the

Alamo and get burritos. What do you say?”