The Patron Saint of Butterflies (11 page)

“Shit!” I yell, sitting down hard next to the pile of dirt. George digs into the soft part of my thigh inside my pocket. Furious, I reach inside, pull him out, and throw him as hard as I can into the trees across the road. He lands with a soft
plop
behind a mound of bushes.

Winky stares at me for a minute and then lowers his wheelbarrow. “What’d you go do that for?” he asks. Suddenly I realize what I have just done. Without waiting for an answer, Winky plods across the road.

“Don’t bother!” I yell, feeling like a three-year-old, but not
caring, either. “Leave him! I don’t want him anymore! Just leave him, Winky!”

He ignores me. I watch with dull eyes as he pushes back brambles and tall weeds, sinking to his knees alongside the patch of bushes, pawing the ground with his thick, stubby hands.

“She’s probably just as insane as everyone else here,” I mutter. “Who in their right mind gives a ceramic cat to an infant right before abandoning her?”

Suddenly Winky stands up straight, holding George triumphantly in his hand. Holding a sob of relief in my chest, I shake my head as he sits down in the road next to me.

“Take him,” he says, balancing the tiny figurine carefully on my kneecap. “This here’s the only thing you’ve got of her. So hold on to him, even if you don’t know what it means. Then when you find her someday, you can ask her.” He is looking directly at me, something he rarely does when we talk.

“You think I’ll find her someday?” I ask.

Winky nods. “Yup.”

“Why?”

Winky struggles to his feet. “ ’Cause you want to. It’s a fire thing inside you. And when you got something burning like that inside, nothing else really matters till you find a way to put it out.”

I pick George back up with two fingers. The top half of his left ear is missing. I rub my finger over it tenderly and then insert him back into my pocket, pushing him down deep until he reaches his usual place against the curve of my thigh.

“Come on, now,” Winky says. “Let’s clean up this mess.
We’re gonna be late for prayers.” He looks over his shoulder as I get to my feet. “And no more pouting.”

The Great House doors are unlocked, which means that dinner is over, but evening prayers have begun. Winky and I slip in quietly and kneel down at the very back of the room. The service is interminable, as always, and I soon stop chanting and begin looking around for Agnes and Benny. I strain to the right and then to the left, looking around the throng of robed bodies, but I don’t see either of them anywhere. Mr. and Mrs. Little are kneeling in front, right behind Emmanuel and Veronica, counting off the prayers on their consecration beads, but the space next to them is empty.

Emmanuel completes the service by standing in front of everyone and making the sign of the cross over our heads.

“
In nomine Patris
… ,” he intones.

I hate your guts,
I think to myself.

“…
et Filii
… ”

You big phony. You monster
.

“… et Spiritus Sancti.”

In a little while, you’re never going to see me again.

“Amen.”

All around me, people bow their heads, murmuring “amen” under Emmanuel’s raised arms. They do not move until he recedes from view, head lowered over his folded hands, and disappears into his room at the back of the house. I angle my way through the crowd, sidling carefully over to the bench outside his door and reach under it for my shoes. They’re there. I feel a weird sort of tenderness toward them as I pull them back out, as if they have been lonely without me.

Now I head over to Mrs. Little so that I can ask her about Agnes, but someone has already gotten hold of her and is steering her toward the kitchen. That leaves Mr. Little. I swallow hard and walk up to him.

“Do you know where Agnes is?” I ask.

Mr. Little looks down at me as if regarding a bug on the sidewalk. “Excuse me?” He takes a step backward the way he always does, as if I have cooties or something.

“I said, do you know where Agnes is? I didn’t see her during prayers.”

Mr. Little inserts his arms, one at a time, into the billowing sleeves of his robe and fixes his gaze at a spot in the middle of my forehead. He has a buzz cut and it makes his head look pointed on top. “Agnes and my mother took Benedict down to the Field House. Benedict got ill during dinner and had to go to bed.”

“Oh. Okay. Thanks.”

“You’re not to go down there,” Mr. Little says. “I mean it.”

A sour taste fills my mouth. “I’m not going to
do
anything. I just want to check on Benny. And say good night to Agnes.”

Mr. Little doesn’t blink. “Benny doesn’t need checking. And Agnes will be fine for one night without a good-night from you.” His eyes squint at the corners, exposing a fan of wrinkles. “Actually, maybe it will do her some good. Whenever you’re around, Agnes gives in to all sorts of temptation and sin. She becomes like jelly around you. She thinks nothing of disobeying orders, which is exactly why she ended up in the Regulation Room this morning … ”

Other Believers within hearing distance are looking over at us. I stare at the floor and bite my lower lip.

“… and why I found her at the frog pond this afternoon,” Mr. Little continues, “instead of at the house, as I ordered. As far as I’m concerned, the less time you spend with my daughter—especially during this holy time—the better.” His eyes move from my forehead directly to the center of my eyes. It feels as though he is shooting lasers into my pupils. “For all of us.”

The weight of his words feels like a stone on my chest. I’ve known for years that the man didn’t like me, but this,
this
feels like hate. Suddenly a hand drops on my shoulder.

“Come on, Honey,” Winky says. “Let’s go.”

I follow him somberly down the hill, past the lilac bushes and along the length of Sanctity Road until we get to the Milk House. A little farther down, through the pine trees, I can make out the edge of the Field House, where Agnes is.

“I’m going down there,” I say, striding past Winky toward the Field House. “He’s not my father. He can’t tell me what to do.”

But Winky grabs my arm. “Don’t.” His eye is twitching terribly. “He’ll ask her t’night if you came, and you know she won’t lie. And then she’ll have t’pay for it.”

I stop and then whirl around, furious. “God, Winky, do you have to have
all
the answers tonight?”

His eye slows down a little as he lowers his voice. “C’mon. It’s already ten. The game’s prob’ly half over by now.”

“Who’re they playing tonight?” I ask grudgingly.

“Cleveland. And they’re good this year.”

I arrange myself at the foot of his bed as Winky pulls out the TV and adjusts the wire antenna on top. In thirty seconds, there is a fuzzy picture of the Cleveland pitcher throwing a ball to the catcher. A Yankee strides up to the plate. Winky
pulls nervously on his bottom lip. “C’mon, buddy,” he mutters. “Let’s get a move on.”

I pull out my butterfly journal from Winky’s bookshelf and page slowly through the sketches and information I’ve collected over the years. So far I’ve recorded seeing one hundred and forty Spangled Fritillaries (the most common butterfly in these parts), sixty-four Clouded Sulphurs, ninety-two Northern Cloudywings, sixteen whirlabouts (they prefer ocean air, which we’re not close to), twenty-nine Spicebush Swallowtails, two hundred ten American Coppers, nineteen Spring Azures, and twenty-seven Silvery Blues. I’ve got a rough sketch of each species, including the caterpillar stages. Tonight I mark down the Yellow Fritillary I saw in the field today with Agnes and then the two White Admirals Winky pointed out to me on the way back from the farm.

Next I pull out
The Encyclopedia of Butterflies
. I always open it to the same page and stare at the same butterfly, which Winky pointed out to me a few years ago. It’s called a Zebra Longwing and it is so beautiful, with its white-and-black-striped wings and long, teardrop shape. Winky says he’s seen only one in all the years he’s had his garden, and that when he did, it was one of the best days of his life.

I’d like to have one of those days.

My eyes feel heavy as I close the book and look up at the TV screen. Cleveland is up by two. “I’m going to bed,” I say. “I’m tired.”

“Okay,” Winky says. “Night.”

I climb the steps to my loft, pull the heavy drape across the front, and put on my pajamas. With George in one hand, I crawl into bed and count to ten, but it doesn’t do any good. My
little heart night-light burned out years ago and I haven’t wanted to ask Christine for a new bulb. She doesn’t need to know that I’m still afraid of the dark.

“Wink?” I call out after a few minutes.

“Yup,” he says, getting up and clicking on the tiny lamp atop his dresser. The light makes a soft halo on the ceiling. “Sorry. I forgot.”

AGNES

It’s almost ten thirty by the time Mom and Dad get back from the Great House. Benny has been asleep for hours, but I am still awake, trying to find a bearable position atop the layer of rocks under my sheet. Lying on my back again is impossible, but I discover that if I lay perfectly still on my belly, it is not quite so bad. I prick my ears as Dad and Nana Pete start arguing in the next room.

“But you said I could see them until I leave again,” Nana Pete says. “You said it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“And when I explained the sacredness of this week to you,
you
said you would take them down to the house and do something quiet,” Dad retorts. “Half an hour later, I find you stuck in the mud with a frog in your hand.”

Nana Pete clears her throat. “Well, we certainly won’t do that again. I promise.”

“I’m sorry, Mother, but the children need to be in their groups tomorrow,” Dad insists. “They are making all the banners for the march, as well as new robes this year. There is a lot of work still to be done and it’s not fair that they get to be excused.”

“Leonard—”

“Isaac,”
Dad interrupts. “It’s Isaac, Mother, okay?”

Nana Pete takes a deep breath. “Isaac. Please. I’m only staying a few days. Please just let me take them for the day tomorrow. I won’t ask for any more time after that. Please.”

I can hear Dad hesitate. I squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath, praying silently to Saint Jude, who is the patron saint of lost causes.

“The afternoon only,” Dad says finally. “They must attend all prayer services and work on their banners and robes in the morning. After lunch you can take them.” He pauses. “Back here, to the house.
Only
the house, Mother. Nowhere else.”

“Okay.” Nana Pete sounds disappointed, but I smile in the dark.

“Oh,” I hear Dad say. “Veronica approached me after prayers this evening. She said that Emmanuel would like you to join them for breakfast tomorrow, after morning prayers. Ruth and I have been invited, too.”

“Why?” Nana Pete sounds perplexed.

“What do you mean,
why
? Because he knows you just drove nine hundred miles and he wants to share a meal with you. He’s a gentleman.” Nana Pete coughs lightly. No one says anything for a moment. “All right?” I hear Dad say finally. “Mother?”

“Okay,” Nana Pete says. But her voice sounds faint. “All right, then. Fine. I’ll be ready.”

The next morning, Nana Pete is in the kitchen, dressed in a clean pink shirt and freshly ironed blue pants. Her hair has been brushed, braided, and pinned back up around her head, and she has put on a coat of pink lipstick.

“What are
you
doing up?” Benny asks sleepily.

Nana Pete grabs him and plants a kiss on his cheek. “Good morning to you, too, darlin’.” She looks over at me. “I’m going up to morning prayers with y’all and then on to
breakfast with Emmanuel.” I glance over at Dad, barely able to contain my happiness. He nods and grimaces.

During morning prayers, Honey nudges me and then nods her head in Benny’s direction. I watch as he puts his hand under his robe and pushes something down in his pants pocket. There is a muffled croak as he jams his hand down again, harder this time. Honey giggles. “The frog,” she mouths. “From yesterday. He still has it.”

I can feel the blood run out of my face. Pressing my lips together, I sneak a look behind me, wondering if any of the Believers kneeling on all sides of us have noticed Benny’s squirming. Claudia is a little ways off to the right, but she and all the other adults have their eyes shut tightly, lost in prayer. I transfer my gaze again to the cross on the wall and try to do the same.

“
Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra
… “

“I get y’all after lunch,” Nana Pete says, putting her arms around the three of us after prayers have ended. “And I have some really fun stuff planned for us to do.” Dad gives her a sidelong glance. “At the house, of course.” She kisses us each on the forehead. “I’ll see you after lunch.”

“Come on, Mother.” Dad looks jittery and pale as Mom takes his hand. “We don’t want to keep him waiting.”

“Where’re they going?” Honey asks as we watch them walk away.

“Emmanuel invited Nana Pete into his room for breakfast. Mom and Dad got to go, too.”

Honey’s face pales a little. “He did? And she’s going?”

I glance at her sharply. “Yes, she’s
going
. Why wouldn’t
she? Emmanuel’s just trying to be nice after her long trip. He’s a gentleman.”

At the other end of the room, Christine is herding all the kids around the first table, where we will eat breakfast. I pull on Honey’s arm, but she doesn’t take her eyes off Nana Pete, who has just disappeared around the corner. “Come on, Honey. It’s time to eat.”

Breakfast, like every other meal this week, is lean. Still, the slice of toast set before me and the tiny glass of apple juice look as good as any five-course meal. I am so hungry I feel like I could eat my arm. The yellow scent of butter wafts inside my nostrils, making my head spin. Honey, who always eats as if she is starving, inhales her toast and then looks over at me. “You gonna eat that?”