Butterfly (54 page)

sitting in one’s typewriter. Linda had too much authority, was too firmly in control of so

many things—even on the set of
Five North,
where she told TV stars what to do—for her

to shrug it all off and pretend she was carefree and unencumbered.

She watched her masked companion as he paced the boudoir, speaking magnificently,

his lithe body at home in the black velvet coat and breeches. His voice was deep; it carried

an interesting quality that Linda had heard once or twice on the stage.

Let me enjoy the fantasy. Let me forget who I am. Let me experience at last what other

women experience in their lovers’ arms.

“Madam?”

She looked up. He stood close, towering over her, black eyes gazing intently down at

her.
Let me forget for just a little while all the committees and patients and medical charts. Let

me unburden myself; let me relax and enjoy you as I want to…

“I—” she began.

And suddenly he had her by the shoulders, was pulling her to her feet and covering her

mouth with his. “I want to make love to you,” he whispered hoarsely. “Now.”

The room seemed to swim around her. He had never done that before—acted impul-

sively before she gave the signal that she was ready. It made her giddy.

“Yes,” she murmured, “now…”

He hurriedly removed his jacket and waistcoat. The muslin shirt, with its wide sleeves

and ruffled lace, was tucked into the tight black breeches. With the white powdered wig

and bow at the back, and the black mask hiding half his face, he looked to Linda like a

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Kathryn Harvey

man about to duel. She imagined him striking the
en garde
pose and fencing with the

dash and expertise of a Casanova.

He kissed her while he undid the intricate lacings of her dress, held her with his

mouth while his hands worked quickly, urgently. Linda pressed up against the rock-hard

erection. Hurry, she urged. Hurry, hurry…

The whalebone panniers floated to the floor and he helped Linda step out of them.

Then he untied the many bows of her corset, slowly, one by one, lingering over them,

heightening her excitement. His mouth was upon hers again; they kissed in a mutual des-

peration. The corset dropped to the carpet; he slid the straps of the linen chemise off her

shoulders, down, over her breasts, until his hands circled her narrow waist and he pulled

her against him, hard.

But when he reached for the ties of her final petticoat, she stopped him.

Taking him by the hand, she led him to the bed. There she blew out the candles so

that the room was cast in a half-glow. She lay on the bed and pulled him down to her.

They kissed for a long time, reveling in each other’s body. He squeezed her breasts and

sucked her nipples. She reached into his breeches and clasped him tightly. But when his

hand strayed to the petticoat, to lift it up, to explore her, Linda took hold of his hand and

brought it back up.

“Now,” she whispered.
“
Do it
now.”

“No,” he murmured. “You’re not ready.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Let me touch you—”

“No.”

He entered her quickly, without touching her down there, as he knew she preferred,

and let her set the pace of his rhythm.

He rocked her gently for a long time, kissing her, his hands on her breasts, looking

into her eyes. She tried to give herself up to him, tried to let the magic of the fantasy cast

a spell over her so that she could believe, if only for a few moments, that she was someone

else and free to feel. But the more she tried, the less she succeeded. All she could think of

were episodes from the past, when she had made love with other men, men who had seen

her scars. They never came back.

She pushed those thoughts out of her mind and tried to concentrate. Her masked

companion was an expert lover; he was trying to please her. But Linda could not shake off

her inhibitions. The more he thrust inside her, the more she tightened up. And the less

pleasurable the experience became. Finally, she just lay there, trying to analyze what went

wrong each time, trying to dissect the act instead of enjoying it, realizing in the end that

the fantasy, again, had not worked.

And then it was over.

It’s all wrong, she thought. Fantasies and masks aren’t going to help my problem. I

have to confront my demons in the real world, with a real man.

She thought of Barry Greene.

32

It was here at last. The New Hampshire primary.

Today was the day that set the stage and players for the coming presidential election.

And Danny Mackay was on the ballot.

It was raining. Beverly looked out at the cold gray storm that was ravaging Southern

California. She felt the chill through the closed French windows of her living room,

smelled the wet earth, heard the torrent coming down all around her. She felt cut off and

alone, as isolated as if she were stranded on an island in the middle of the ocean. She kept

her eye on the drive, watching for the Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud that she had sent to fetch

Maggie and Carmen. The first results of the primary would start coming in soon; Beverly

wanted her two friends to be there with her.

She shivered. She wrapped her arms around herself. Her pulse raced. Was Danny

going to win…?

Finally she saw the Silver Cloud emerge through the rain like a ghost. Beverly watched

as the chauffeur got out and opened the rear door. The butler came down the steps with

an umbrella and escorted the two women into the house. Turning away from the window,

Beverly crossed the enormous living room in a whisper of silk as her midnight-blue

Galanos caftan swished around her.

Her friends came in shivering and shaking off the cold. Carmen went straight to the

fireplace that was taller than herself, and warmed her body in front of its roaring flames.

Maggie went to the buffet, where food had been set out with a silver samovar of steaming

fresh coffee. “Any news yet?” she asked when she came back with a lemon Danish and sat

on the antique rose-and-powder-blue sofa.

Beverly said, “No, not yet,” and glanced at the clock over the fireplace. She turned on

a Sony that sat on a mahogany credenza and joined Maggie on the sofa.

The three of them watched the TV screen.

Their faces were tense. The hands that clutched Maggie’s coffee cup were white at the

knuckles. Carmen, dressed in wool slacks and a silk blouse, stood in front of the fire

barely breathing. And Beverly felt her heart beat faster, faster….

Finally, the news came on. “And so, with only fifteen percent of the ballots counted,”

the anchorman said, “the surprise runaway leader is Danny Mackay with forty-two per-

cent of the votes…”

The rain came down harder. It pelted the windows. Palm trees thrashed against the

house. Sparks exploded in the fire place and flew up the chimney. A kind of low moaning

sound seemed to fill the house.

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Kathryn Harvey

“It would seem that the founder of Good News Ministries,” a commentator was say-

ing, “is winning on the sheer power of his personality. As you know, Jeff, Danny Mackay

has never held a political office. In fact, he is not yet an officially declared presidential

candidate. But the polls indicate that he has strong grass-roots support…”

Somewhere in the distance thunder rumbled. Maggie found herself mentally counting

the seconds. The heart of the storm was twelve miles away and getting closer.

The clock over the marble fireplace gently ticked away the hours. Maggie refilled her

cup several times; Carmen accepted hot chocolate from the maid and took a seat in a

wing chair; but Beverly never moved. Her eyes stayed fixed on the TV.

Danny Mackay was, astonishingly, continuing to take the lead.

“Thirty-six percent of the votes tallied,” the anchorman reported, “show Danny

Mackay with fifty-five percent of the votes. He is the projected winner in this first presi-

dential primary…”

Beverly and her friends sat without speaking through the long, wet afternoon and lis-

tened to what the experts had to say: “…is definitely headed for the Republican

Convention in June. Danny Mackay is clearly running away with the delegates, which is

phenomenal for a man who has never even held a political office…”

“The people are clearly making their choice known. Danny Mackay, the flamboyant

television evangelist, is most famous for his vigil outside Parkland Hospital in Dallas back

in 1963, and more recently for personally securing the release of missionary Fred Banks

from a Middle Eastern prison back in…”

The maids cleared the breakfast buffet and set out an early dinner of cold cuts, salad,

and fresh fruit. Maggie fixed herself a ham and cheese sandwich, with macaroni salad on

the side, while Carmen nibbled on some Gouda and crackers, raw broccoli and cauli-

flower. Beverly didn’t eat.

The day grew dark. Silent maids went through the house and turned on lights.

Carmen pulled a sweater over her silk blouse and Maggie withdrew under a hand-cro-

cheted afghan. Beverly didn’t seem to feel the cold. She didn’t seem to be aware of any-

thing except what was going on on the TV screen.

He was winning.
He was winning…
.

And anyone who didn’t know Beverly intimately would have thought she must at this

moment be celebrating—after all, she was contributing funds to his campaign. But only

a close knot of friends knew the real reason why Beverly was supporting Danny Mackay.

Last year, when he had announced that he was going to run for the presidency, Beverly

realized the time had come for her moment of revenge. She had read
The Prince,
she knew

what a terrible philosophy guided Danny.
A man who strives after goodness in all that he

does will come to ruin,
Machiavelli had written.
Therefore a prince who will survive must

learn to be other than good.

When Beverly read those words and others—
Aprince must always be ready to take the

way of evil—
she knew then what had fueled the strange light she had seen in Danny’s

eyes those many years ago when she had accidentally come across his school books and

Danny had spoken of his ambition to be a great man someday. Over the years she had

followed his rise to power, watching him, keeping a careful eye on him. She had known

BUTTERFLY

235

that someday he must be stopped, and that she would have to be the one to do it. It was

one of the things Beverly had lived all these years for. And now she had her plan to

destroy him at last. When she disclosed to Carmen and Maggie her intention, three

months ago, to hold a party to raise money for Danny’s campaign, they had been non-

plussed. But once they heard about Beverly’s plan—that, in order for her to have the

power to bring Danny Mackay down, it was crucial that she first supported him—they

saw the wisdom in it.

The three women gazed at the TV screen and at the handsome face they knew so well.

Danny was smiling victoriously into the cameras, and there was something chilling in the

fire that burned in his eyes.

All armed prophets have succeeded,
Machiavelli taught. And Beverly knew that this was

a tenet Danny lived by. Publicly he spoke of peace with the Russians; privately, she knew,

he believed in first strike.

Watching the reporters fight to get near him and seeing the crowd of fanatical sup-

porters behind him, Beverly knew what had to be done.

Danny Mackay had to be stopped.

April