The Patron Saint of Butterflies (6 page)

“Wow, this garden is really coming along!” I put my hands on my hips and survey the neat rows of butterfly bushes we planted last night. “It’s gonna be huge this year!” This is the time of year when Winky’s butterfly garden, which he dug and planted all by himself ten years ago, begins to turn into a carpet of color. The pepper and butterfly bushes will bloom in just a few weeks, small pink, purple, and white flowers that will perfume the air with a wonderful lemony smell. By the end of May, most of the purple phlox, French marigolds, nasturtium, and verbena plants will have opened, and in June the rows of purple coneflowers, scarlet sage, and wild zinnias will take center stage.

Of course, the best part of the garden—and the reason Winky planted it in the first place—is the butterflies it attracts. Winky is obsessed with butterflies. He says that the healthiest environments are the ones that attract lots of butterflies. (Don’t think it’s any accident that Winky had to actually
build
a butterfly garden himself to get butterflies to come to Mount Blessing, but that’s beside the point.) At the height of summer, there will be hundreds, maybe even thousands, of winged visitors to his garden, each one hovering inside its favorite flower. Winky has planted specific flowers for specific butterflies and
they love him for it. At times the air seems to hum with the beating of paper-thin wings.

“I don’t know,” Winky says, twisting his head to look up at the sky. “
Farmers’ Almanac
says it’s supposed to be a dry summer. It might not do so good this year.”

“Well, I’ll pray for rain.”

Winky snorts. “You? Pray?”

I kick at a loose clod of earth. “Hey, did you hear anything about Emmanuel buying a new car? A Mercedes?”

Winky nods. “I heard Beatrice talking about it. It’s for Veronica. Her birthday, I think.”

I shake my head. “It’s just unbelievable. It really is.”

“What, the car?”

“
Yeah
, the car. And the TV and the stereo and the baby grand piano and all the rest of it. I mean, how stupid
is
everyone, just nodding and smiling whenever he brings some other ten-thousand-dollar toy into the place?”

“I think the Mercedes cost a little more than that,” Winky says.

“Well, whatever.” I reach down and scoop a handful of the dark earth into my palm. It is cool and dry against my skin. “Seriously, Wink, are we the only two people who think it’s just
slight
ly ludicrous that Emmanuel gets to be the exception to every single one of his rules? I mean, the man is a complete hypocrite! All the way through!” I lob a small stone into the distance. It arcs cleanly over the garden, landing in the field behind it. “And I’ll tell you what, one of these days, I’m going to do something about it.”

Winky turns around and squints up at me. Even with his
swollen tongue hanging out of his mouth, I can tell the left side of his face is cocked up into a grin. “Oh yeah? You and what army?”

I shrug. “Maybe I don’t need an army. Maybe I’ll figure out something on my own.”

Winky shoves his scissors back into his rear pocket and looks around carefully. “What’re you talking about exceptions for, anyway? You know I got a TV under my bed.” He acknowledges this with a hoarseness in his voice, as if the guilt is eating him alive.

“Oh, who cares?” I say impatiently. “The thing barely even
works
, Winky. And the only thing you watch is baseball, for crying out loud.” I pause. “Unlike me.” I mutter this last statement, but Winky jerks his head up and eyes me suspiciously.

“You watching those bad shows again when I’m not around?”

I kick at the ground as the blood rushes to my cheeks. “They’re not
bad
, Winky. I told you that. They’re just … ”

He struggles to his feet and cuts me off roughly with a wave of his hand. “I
told
you, Honey!” His face gets red; spit flies out of his mouth. “I told you be
fore
!”

I raise my hands against my chest. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I won’t do it ever again, okay? I promise.”

“You said that last time,” Winky says accusingly. His nostrils flare under his wild eyes. “You lied.”

I hang my head. “I’m sorry. I really am. I won’t do it again.” I watch shamefacedly as he drops down again to his knees and begins yanking at a patch of weeds. Minutes tick by in an awkward silence. The only sound is the forceful ripping of roots
from the ground. After a while I get down on my knees opposite Winky and start weeding my side of the garden, pretending with every pull that I am wrenching Veronica’s head out from between her shoulders.

It feels good.

AGNES

As Benny and I wind our way down the path that leads to the Great House, I catch a glimpse of Nana Pete’s green Cadillac parked in the driveway. The Queen Mary.

I stop momentarily, regarding the physical proof of her presence with an inflating sense of happiness. “Wow, it really is her.”

“I told you!” Benny says, jumping up and down. “I told you!” He yanks on my hand, nearly dragging me down the rest of the hill. “Hurry up, Ags! She’s waiting!” We break into a dead run, but as we approach the Great Door, I reach out and pull Benny back.

“I know. I
know
,” he says irritably, shrugging me off.

Weighing close to a hundred pounds, the Great Door is a thing of beauty. Carved from the trunk of a maple tree fifteen years ago by two of the Believers, it is meant to slow whoever approaches with its intricate carvings of suns, moons, and stars. Etched along the top of the top, like an enormous banner, are the words “
Glori Patri
,” which is Latin for “Glory to the Father.” Benny and I drop to one knee beneath the watchful phrase, crossing ourselves in a somber genuflection. Then it takes both of us, straining under our full weight, to push open the door. When I lean against it, the scent of old sap fills my nostrils. It creaks and moans and then seals shut with a gasp behind us.

The inside of the Great House is one gigantic, long room.
It is filled with blue-robed Believers sitting at the long wooden table doing any number of things. Because this is Ascension Week, most of the men who work in town are here instead, getting ready for the feast day. Mr. Murphy, Iris’s father, is in the corner a few feet away, polishing the life-sized crucifix on the wall. His cloth lingers reverently over the exposed rib cage and the blood-mottled skin. Over in the corner, Beatrice, who is one of the head kitchen women, is giving instructions to other women who are peeling potatoes and onions and chopping celery. Lynn Waters, who paints beautiful portraits of Emmanuel, is in the midst of a deep discussion with four women who are holding hand-painted Ascension banners. Four more men are washing the floor-to-ceiling windows, which line the length of the far wall. Despite the amount of activity, no one speaks above a hushed whisper. Emmanuel himself resides in the rooms at the very back of the Great House and must not—under any circumstances—be disturbed.

“There she is!” Benny points to the left side of the room where three leather couches are arranged neatly around a dead fireplace. Nana Pete’s signature braids, pinned tightly across the top of her head, gleam like a silver moon above the soft leather. Mom and Dad are seated on the couch opposite her, their robes fastened tightly under their chins. Mom’s face is set tight, the way it always is when she is in the same room as Nana Pete. Dad looks as though he might faint. Although it is forbidden, Benny breaks into a run down the length of the Great House, his sandals slapping the black-and-white checked linoleum floor.

“Benny!” I hiss.
“Walk!”
But he is too fast for me. I watch with dismay as he barrels headfirst into Nana Pete’s soft lap.

“Ooof!” She laughs delightedly. “Benny! My
word
, darlin’!” She holds him at arm’s length, gazing up and down. “Look at how much you’ve grown!”

I walk up slowly, my arms tucked into the opposite sleeves of my robe.

“Mouse!” She uses the name she gave me after my nose started doing that wiggling thing. “I was wondering when y’all would get here!”

I close my eyes as she encircles me tightly and inhale the familiar, lovely scent of her: Wrigley’s peppermint gum, Nina Ricci perfume, and the slight tang of sweat. But a rustle of material makes me open my eyes again. Mom and Dad stand before us, erect as soldiers, their silk cords swaying from side to side. Loose hairs from Mom’s bun cascade softly along her shoulders and there are dark circles under her eyes.

“Sit. Down.” Dad’s voice is as faint and threatening as thunder. “Both of you.” His mustache twitches, and his nostrils flare white. Nana Pete stares up at Dad and then over at us. I wonder how long it is going to take this time for an argument to explode between them.

“Oh, Leonard,” my grandmother says, waving her hand. “Don’t start on the children. I just got here—”

Mom cuts her off. “Petunia, please lower your voice. And please stop calling him Leonard. You know that’s no longer his name.”

Nana Pete winces, either at Mom’s use of her full name, which she despises, or the fact that three years ago, after Dad was received into Emmanuel’s inner spiritual circle, he was rechristened Isaac. Nana Pete’s not too happy about it, but this is pretty common at Mount Blessing. Mom’s name used
to be Samantha, but Emmanuel renamed her Ruth at her inner-circle ceremony. Most of the Believers have new names. It’s a symbol of their willingness to shed their old life and start a new one. Someday, if I’m ever so blessed, Emmanuel will bestow a new name upon me, too.

Nana Pete smiles offhandedly at Mom. “Of course,” she says, rearranging herself back into the couch. “I remember.”

Mom sits back down on the couch next to Dad and shoots Benny and me a look. “Fasten your robe, Benedict,” she whispers. “And tie your belt cord. You must remember that you are in a sacred place.”

Benny scrambles again to his feet. I help him adjust his robe and cord until they both hang down neatly around him. Nana Pete watches us with a slightly pained expression on her face.

“That’s better,” Mom says, nodding. “Now sit back down and lower your voices.”

I sit carefully, putting my hands on the seat first and then sliding my bottom over them, biting my tongue so that I don’t wince.

Nana Pete is watching me. “Is something wrong, Mouse?” she asks.

I look up quickly, as if I have been caught. “No, no,” I answer, shaking my head.

Nana Pete’s violet eyes crinkle a little the way they do when she knows I am not telling the truth. I stare at Mom’s feet, which are encased in brown sandals. Her toenails need to be cut.

“Did Emmanuel call for you and Honey this morning, Agnes?” Mom asks, pulling her feet abruptly under her
robe. I nod, keeping my eyes on the space where her feet have disappeared. This is all that needs to be said between us. They know the rest. Later, when we return to our own house, they may ask the reason why I was sent to see Emmanuel; then again, they may not. It is not up to them to discipline me for the major wrongs I commit; that is Emmanuel’s job.

Nana Pete looks confused for a moment by the things not being said between my parents and me. She opens her mouth, leans toward Mom, and then closes it again. Putting her arm around me, she pulls me in close. “I’m so glad to see you, darlin’,” she murmurs. She squeezes Benny, who is on the other side of her. “And you too, cowboy.”

A faint ringing sounds from inside Nana Pete’s leather bag. “Pardon me,” she says. A muscle in Dad’s cheek moves as she begins rummaging through her bag. The ring gets louder as she pulls out a thin silver box. We stare as she flips open the top of it, gazes at something for a moment, and then shuts it again with a
click
. The ringing stops.

“Cool!” Benny breathes, leaning over Nana Pete’s lap. “Is that a phone?”

Nana Pete laughs. “Of course it’s a phone, Benny!” I watch out of the corner of my eye as she flips the top up again and holds it out for him to see. “It’s a cell phone! Haven’t you ever seen one of these?”

Benny and I shake our heads. Mom clears her throat.

“Mother.” Dad sits forward a little in his seat. “
Please.
Put the phone away. You know things like that are not allowed here. And turn it off so it doesn’t ring anymore.”

Nana Pete slides the tiny phone back inside her purse and, exchanging a look with Dad, crosses her pink rattleskinsnake boots at the ankle. “Fine. But are you really serious about not leaving here for the rest of the afternoon—even to visit with your old mother?”

Dad sighs and glances apologetically at Mom. “Mother. Keep your voice down, first of all.” Nana Pete presses a finger against her lips. Dad closes his eyes briefly, as if searching inside for an untapped source of patience. “As I said before, Ruth and I are in the middle of planning the details of the Ascension March, which is taking place here Thursday evening. It’s a very, very big deal, one of the holiest days of the year, and this year Emmanuel has asked me and Ruth to lead all the team meetings.”

Mom casts her eyes down at the floor. “To be asked to plan such an event is an enormous honor,” she says.

Dad draws his thumb and index finger over the sides of his mustache. “I remember telling you specifically about this whole thing the last time we spoke on the phone, Mother.”

“Which would have been when?” Nana Pete asks, reaching under the leg of her pants to scratch her shin. “Eight months ago?”

“Yes, eight months ago. Don’t you remember? I explained everything to you then, from start to finish.” Dad rubs the tops of his knees, as if to stunt the flush that is creeping up along his neck. “Ascension Thursday is the root of our deepest beliefs here, Mother. I know you know that. And for you to just show up—without warning—and expect us to realign our plans according to your whims is just … just
incredibly
rude!
” He leans back into the couch, red-faced from his outburst, and wipes his lips. A long silent moment passes as Nana Pete stares at Dad. No one moves.

“Well,” she says finally. “You’re exactly right, Leonard, come to think of it. I shouldn’t have come swooping down on you out of the blue. I’ve had some things come up unexpectedly over the past few weeks that I thought I would share with you. But you’re right. I should have at least called. My needs are no more important than yours. They can wait.” She reaches down and tugs at the bottom of her white button-down shirt until the wrinkles disappear. Then she places one palm on my knee and one on Benny’s. “I won’t stay long. A few days at the most. And while I’m here, I won’t get in your way. I promise. But will you give me some time with the children until I leave again?”