The Patron Saint of Butterflies (20 page)

“Now, the Queen Mary is an automatic, sugar, which means you don’t have to do much of anything except steer once you put her in drive.” Nana Pete points at the two pedals just under my feet. “Just use your right foot when you want to speed up or slow down, all right? Let your left one sit off to the side. Think of it as just being along for the ride. It’s not going to do anything.” I run the insides of my hands up and down the smooth ridges of the steering wheel. It’s much smaller than Dorothy’s wheel. And there is no clutch, thank God. That was the hardest thing to learn with Dorothy. “Keep your foot down hard enough on the gas so that this little red stick”—Nana Pete leans over and points to the speed gauge—“stays around sixty-five. Don’t go past seventy, no matter what. The last thing we need is to get pulled over by the police. Keep it level. You’ll get the hang of it.”

“What if I have to turn?” I ask.

Nana Pete shakes her head. “We’ve only got another hour on this highway,” she says. “Straight through to Raleigh. No turns.”

“Okay.” I take a deep breath. “I can do this.”

And I really believe I can.

As I step on the gas, my breath collects itself into a pocket at the top of my lungs and sits there like a balloon waiting to be released. My hands grip the steering wheel with white fingers, swerving the car nervously to the left and then to the right and then back again. I try not to think about the fact that Dorothy doesn’t go any faster than twenty-five miles per hour and I am traveling now at almost three times that speed. But after a while, my fingers loosen and my hunched shoulders relax.

“Beautiful,” Nana Pete says approvingly. “Just beautiful. You’re a pro, Honey. I knew you could do it.” Her words relax me even more, and soon I can feel my lower back sinking into the seat. The muscles in my legs begin to unknot themselves and my breathing goes back to normal. Even when I glance over at Nana Pete, whose head is lolling heavily on her chest, I don’t panic. I’m driving a car. I’m doing it!

“Ags!” I whisper, sitting up a little so that I can see her in the rearview mirror. “Look at me! I’m
driv
ing!”

Agnes looks away, but Benny, who is curled up against her like a puppy, looks up and grins.

“Hey, Benny boy! How ’bout this? Huh?”

He nods and smiles. I look back over at Agnes. Her face is set like stone.

“You better watch the road,” she says, still looking out the window. “You’ve only been doing this for about thirty minutes, you know. Don’t get smug.”

I bounce up and down in the seat a little. “I think I got it figured it out, though! It’s not too hard once you sit back and
relax a little. Take in a little of the scenery, even, instead of staring at the little yellow squares in the middle of the road.”

Agnes rolls her eyes. “Now you’re a pro all of a sudden?”

I giggle. “Yeah. How about that?”

Agnes’s jaw tightens. “When were you at Mr. Schwab’s?”

I stop bouncing. “Oh, you know. Just a couple times with Winky when he had to go over and get stuff for the garden.”

She’s holding my gaze. “And he let you drive his tractor?”

I nod, looking back between her and the road.

“You know that’s forbidden,” she says. “Going off the grounds like that.”

I shrug. “Yeah, well I guess it doesn’t really matter now, does it?”

She turns away when I say that, as if I have reminded her of something painful.

I try to change the subject, but she won’t look at me. And while I know we’re miles away from being on the same page, for some reason right at this moment, I’m desperate for her to talk to me. “Hey,” I whisper. “You want to know a secret?”

Agnes’s eyes flit to a spot away from the middle of the window, but she doesn’t turn her head.

“We’re on our way to see your aunt Lillian. Right now.”

Agnes’s head whips around on her neck like a spring.
“What?”

I nod. “I don’t know all the details, but Nana Pete said she’s meeting us halfway. I guess so she can help out with the trip and all.” I pause. “She’s the one you’ve never met, right?” I talk quickly, hoping my words will overtake the shadow that is crossing Agnes’s face. But it’s not working. She glares at the back of Nana Pete’s head with hateful eyes and then sits back in the seat.
Her lips are trembling. “Now, don’t get all worked up,” I say. “I know you’re not supposed to talk about her or anything, but—”

“We’re not supposed to have
any
thing to do with that woman.” Agnes says the words through clenched teeth. “My father forbids it.”

“But she’s your aunt! You guys are blood relatives! Aren’t you even the least bit curious about what she
looks
like? What she might have to—”

“No,” Agnes interrupts. “I’m not curious in the least. My father told me that she was full of sinful behavior. That’s why he gets upset whenever Nana Pete even mentions her name.”

“What sort of sinful behavior?”

“I don’t know,” Agnes says. “He didn’t tell me. But it was bad.”

“Why was it bad? Because your dad thinks it was bad?” Agnes nods. I roll my eyes. “For all you know, Agnes, Lillian’s ‘sinful behavior’ could have been using a curse word. Or eating a strawberry.”

“No, I’m sure it was a lot more serious than that,” she says. “Besides, what she
did
is not the point. The point is that Nana Pete is breaking a major rule by letting us see her—and she’s making us break the rule, too. Against our will, I might add. Dad’s going to be furious when he finds out.”

“How’s your dad gonna find out anything, Agnes?” I say. “He’s history, remember? We’re leaving him and—” I stop as Agnes’s eyes get wide in the rearview mirror. “I mean … he doesn’t have to find out … ,” I stammer, trying to repair the damage I have just created. But Agnes isn’t listening. She’s withdrawn completely inside herself, staring out the window again, chanting her prayers.

I drive for a long time after that without saying anything. I guess I’ve said more than enough. I glance back once or twice, just to see if Agnes is okay, but her forehead is pressed against the window, and she seems lost in thought. I feel so sad all of a sudden, so lonely, as if the darkness settling down around us is going to swallow me up. A little while later, as the sun sinks completely behind the low green hills and the light disappears, I start to get nervous. The road is harder to see in the dark and I don’t like it. I elbow Nana Pete.

“Huh!” She sits straight up, as if someone has just pinched her.

“It’s getting dark, Nana Pete. And we just passed a sign that says Raleigh is twenty miles away.”

Nana Pete looks out the side window and rubs her eyes. “Lord Almighty, Honey, you did it. I think you can do just about anything you put your mind to.” She points to a motel billboard up ahead. “That’s where we’ll stay tonight. It won’t be fancy, but all we need are a few comfortable beds. We’ll get a good night’s sleep and then hit the road tomorrow, nice and refreshed.”

She pulls out her phone and dials a number.

“Hi, darlin’,” she says into the mouthpiece. “Yes, we’re here.”

AGNES

Lillian is prettier than I imagined she would be. She has curly strawberry blond hair, cut close to her head. Seven silver hoops run along the edge of her left ear, but there is nothing at all in her right one. Her nose is long, but not too long, and she has very small, square teeth, exactly like Dad’s. Her slight, graceful build is accentuated by a pair of lemon-colored corduroy pants and a white T-shirt. I try hard not to look at her for too long—(I will tell Dad later how I avoided her at all costs)—keeping my eyes on her shoes when she walks over and stands in front of us. Brown leather ankle boots with lug soles. The one on the left has a torn shoelace.

“You must be Agnes and Benny,” she says. “I’ve heard so much about you.” Her voice is soft, barely above a whisper. “And Honey.” Her voice cracks on the word “Honey,” which is what finally makes me look up. When I do, she looks away from Honey and gives me this great big fake smile. “I’m your aunt Lillian.” She extends her hand. I drop my eyes again until she lowers her arm. But then Benny steps forward, his good hand stretched out just a few inches. Lillian drops to one knee. “Benny.” She studies his face for a few seconds. “You look just like your dad.” I sidle a glance over at my little brother, whose hand Lillian is now gripping, and resist the urge to push his hand away from hers. He doesn’t know any better.

Benny reaches out and runs his finger along the display
of silver lining Lillian’s ear. She doesn’t move. “You like those?” she asks after a minute. Benny nods. “I got one put in every year after I turned twenty-five.” She grins. “Helps keep me young. I hope.” I do a mental math check in my head. Seven hoops. She’s thirty-two.

“Well, let’s go inside,” Nana Pete says, running her hands up and down the sides of her arms. “I’m freezing.” Lillian stands back up and looks at her mother.

“Freezing? It’s at least sixty degrees out here, Ma.” She takes a step toward her. “You look a little shaky. Are you feeling okay?”

“Oh yeah,” Nana Pete says. “But lying down for a while wouldn’t kill me, either.”

“You sure you don’t wanna play, Agnes?” Lillian asks me. “Final round? Double or nothing.” I look up from my book that I am pretending to read and shake my head for the third time. Lillian, Honey, and Benny are sitting on the floor between the two beds, playing gin rummy. Lillian’s back is pressed up against the side of my mattress. Nana Pete is in the other bed, sleeping like a log.

“Don’t ask her again,” Honey says. “She’s doesn’t do anything fun anymore.”

Lillian turns around to look at me. “Is that true, Agnes? You don’t like to have fun?”

I roll my eyes and turn over on my other side.

“See?” Honey says. “I told you. All she ever wants to do is read that ridiculous book.”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here.” I’m talking to the wall, but I know Honey can hear me.

“Don’t tell me what to do. You’re not my mother.” Honey’s voice is edged with a meanness that I don’t recognize. It makes my heart jump a little. I lower my head and stare down again at the picture of Saint Germaine, who was treated like a slave by her own family for most of her life, forced to sleep in a barn, nearly starved to death, and beaten regularly. She had offered everything up for the glory of God, refusing to succumb to her earthly torment. If only I could do the same.

“So, Lillian,” I hear Honey ask. “What was it like growing up with Agnes’s dad?” She’s using her fishing voice, trying to extract information that isn’t any of her business. “You guys just don’t seem to be anything alike. I wouldn’t even guess you two were related.” I grit my teeth and roll back over soundlessly, holding the book in front of my face.

Lillian doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then she clears her throat. “Actually, I used to be a lot like my brother. Or at least I wanted to be. He was smart and funny and a great athlete. You know, just an all-around wonderful guy. When we were growing up, I followed him around like a puppy dog. He never made me feel bad about it, either. He let me come along when he played basketball with his friends or whenever he went out for a hamburger at the Friendly’s on the corner.”

I feel a twinge, thinking of how often I have told Benny to scram when he comes around Honey and me. But it fades again as Lillian keeps talking.

“When he went away to college in Iowa, I thought I was going to die from loneliness. I was still in the same high school we had gone to together, but it felt like being in jail or
something without him there. Not being able to see him when I walked down the halls or listen to my friends scream his name when he lined up for a foul shot on the basketball court just really tore me up inside. I literally counted down the days until he came home for his first break. All I wanted to do was go down to the hamburger place and sit in one of the booths and talk with him.” She pauses. The cards snap and flutter under her fingers.

“And?” Honey asks. I lower my book slightly so I can see the top of Lillian’s head.

“Well, the first few times he came home things were all right. I remember during fall break of his sophomore year, he brought home a girl he was seeing. I think her name was Fern. Or maybe it was Bernie. Something like that. Anyway, he took me along for just about everything he and Fern did together that weekend. The three of us went out to the movies, we hung around the house, we even went horseback riding.”

“I bet ol’ Fern loved you,” Honey says.

Lillian grins a little. “Yeah, she wasn’t too happy about it. She made it a point to tell Lenny in front of me that the next time they were going to go to her house—so they could be alone.”

“Ha!” Honey laughs. “Good for her.”

Lillian starts dealing the cards again slowly, placing each one on the carpet until two neat piles form. “But then in his third year,” she says, “when he came home for Thanksgiving he was … different.” I lower the book some more.

“What do you mean, different?” Honey asks.

“He just wasn’t the same Leonard I knew. It was like he had turned inward, away from all of us. Away from me, anyway. And definitely from Ma. He spent the whole time just locked in his room. He didn’t even come down for Thanksgiving dinner, even when Ma cried.”

I listen intently, my eyes fixed on a weird curlicue shape in the yellow wallpaper.

“And then in the spring, a year before he was supposed to graduate, he started talking about this man that he had met named Emmanuel. You would have thought it was Jesus himself the way he talked about his prayer and healing services, the meetings he held at this little house of his off campus. Ma and I asked him questions about it and tried to seem interested, but it was kind of strange.”

“How so?” Honey asks.

“Well, we’d just never seen him like that before. Ma actually used the word ‘mesmerized.’ And that’s what he was. He was just completely obsessed with everything about Emmanuel.”

“Yeah,” Honey says. “That sounds about right.” I press my lips together hard. Why can’t she just be
quiet
?

“He disappeared pretty soon after that,” Lillian says. “It took us a year to find out that he had moved to the East Coast and was living with the Believers at Mount Blessing.”