The Patron Saint of Butterflies (7 page)

Dad’s face softens at his mother’s conciliatory words. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Of course,” he says. “But it
is
Ascension Week, which means the children must stay quiet. No running around the grounds like they usually do with you. You’ll have to take them back to the house and visit there until dinnertime.”

“Fine,” Nana Pete says. She gets up, pulling Dad to his feet, and kisses him hard on the cheek. He looks uneasy. “Have you called Lillian?” she asks in a low voice. “Even just to say hello?”

Mom looks up sharply.

“You just never know when to stop, do you, Mother?” Dad drops Nana Pete’s hands. “Let’s go, Ruth,” he says. “We have work to do.”

…

Nana Pete takes my hand as we walk out to her car. Benny has already raced on ahead and climbed inside. I run my thumb gently over the raised green veins on the surface of her hand. They are soft as velvet.

“Why do you always bring up Lillian, if you know Dad’s just going to get mad?” I ask gently.

Nana Pete tilts her head and studies a turtle-shaped cloud. “Oh,” she says finally. “That’s just what mothers do.”

I don’t press her. The only thing I know about Lillian is that she is Dad’s younger sister and that there was some kind of falling out between them years ago. To this day, I’ve never heard Dad talk about her, and for some reason, he has forbidden Nana Pete from discussing her at all with us. Still, I can’t remember a single visit where Nana Pete hasn’t mentioned Lillian to Dad at least once.

“So why did you come now, instead of in August like you usually do?” I ask.

“Well, I can’t come in August, Mouse. My doctor wants to do a few tests on me then, so I won’t be able to travel for a little while.”

I stop walking. “Tests?” I repeat. “Why? What’s wrong?”

Nana Pete laughs. Her teeth are the color of dimes. “Now, don’t get yourself in a tizzy, darlin’. I’m not getting any younger, you know. And this is what happens when you get to be my age. My doctor just wants to check out this old body of mine to make sure everything’s still ticking.”

“Oh. So it’s just a checkup, then?”

Nana Pete nods, staring straight ahead. “Exactly right, Mouse. A checkup.”

The inside of the Queen Mary smells faintly of onions.
One of Nana Pete’s weaknesses is junk food, especially something called Funyuns, which she brings us (secretly) every year. They’re puffy little things that taste like onion-flavored air. I like them all right, but I’ve tried only a few and that was a long time ago, before I started reading
The Saints’ Way
. For one thing, they’re completely against the rules here. For another thing, saints would never fill their bodies, which are temples of the Holy Spirit, with junk food. But Benny is addicted to them. Now he waits in the backseat, his mouth hanging open like a puppy, until Nana Pete pulls a bag out of the glove compartment.

“Nana Pete,” I start. “Please. You know … ”

She laughs and tosses the bag back into Benny’s outstretched hands. “I know. I know, Mouse. But they’re not going to kill him. I promise.”

I turn and glare at Benny. He already has four of the puffed rings inside his mouth. His jaw freezes as our eyes meet.

Nana Pete reaches out and cups his chin in her hand. “Oh leave him
alone
, darlin’,” she says. “Let him enjoy something.” She squeezes Benny’s chin and, as if on cue, he starts chewing again. I turn back around and stare straight ahead. Nana Pete laughs and then pokes me in the arm. “You don’t have to be so serious about everything
all
the time, Mouse.”

“Can we go back to the house now so I can lie down for a while?” I ask, not taking my eyes off the windshield. “I’m pretty tired.” Nana Pete slides her hands over the white leather wheel. Her fingernails, painted a shiny purple color, glitter under the sun.

“Actually, Mouse, I think that’s a fine idea.” She starts the
engine and revs the gas. The radio turns on immediately, filling the car with pounding drums and a wailing woman’s voice:
Sweet dreams are made of these, Who am I to disagree?

I clap my hands over both ears. “Turn it off!”

Nana Pete leans over quickly and switches off the radio. “I’m sorry, Mouse. I forgot.” The tires make a crunching sound beneath us as she backs the car out of the driveway. “Why aren’t you two in school?” she asks after a moment, steering the car onto Sanctity Road. “It’s Tuesday, isn’t it? Is this a holiday?”

“Emmanuel always shuts school down during Ascension Week,” Benny says.

“The Ascension,” Nana Pete murmurs. “Which one is that again?”

I almost laugh out loud, until I remember that people like Nana Pete who don’t know the holy days of obligation, let alone recognize Jesus Christ as the one and only Lord and Savior of the world, are going to end up burning for all eternity in hell. Dad says that Nana Pete is a heathen because she doesn’t believe in any kind of religion at all. But when I asked her once about that, she said that believing in God and believing in religion were two different things. Which doesn’t make any sense at all.

“It’s when Jesus Christ rose up to heaven,” I answer.

“Ah.” Nana Pete nods her head. “Of course. And what about that march thingie your father was talking about? What is that, exactly?”

I tell her about the annual tradition, the biggest one of the whole year for Believers, when everyone, including the children, dress in snow-white robes (made especially for the
occasion) on the evening of the sacred night. Then we will wind our way up a sloped gravelly path until we reach the highest point of the hill where, as a congregation, we will reenact the Ascension itself.

“And let me guess,” Nana Pete says dryly. “Emmanuel plays the part of Jesus Christ.”

“Well, yeah,” I answer. “Of course.” Her tone of voice irritates me, but I stay quiet. There’s no way my grandmother could ever understand how amazing a thing it is, how last year, as I stood between Christine and Mr. Murphy and stared at Emmanuel, who lifted his arms toward the purple sky and tipped his head back, an energy began to emanate from him. It was like an actual heat began to radiate from his body, and his feet very nearly lifted off the ground. It was incredible, just like the picture of Saint Joseph of Cupertino, who used to float off the ground when he meditated.

There is a pause, the only sound in the car the
pat-pat
of Benny batting his empty Funyuns bag between his hands.

“So have you been staying up late to practice for this Ascension March?” Nana Pete presses. “Is that why you’re limping?”

I shake my head as my cheeks flush hot. “I’m not limping.”

“Okay.” Nana Pete eases the bulky car into the narrow driveway of our house and throws it into park. “Can I ask you another question, then?” I can feel her eyes on me. “What did your mother mean earlier when she asked if Emmanuel had sent for you and Honey? Were you in some kind of trouble?”

My blood runs cold. The batting of the plastic bag behind us stops.

“Did Emmanuel take you guys into the Regulation Room?” Benny asks.

I snap my head around and glower at him. His eyes are as wide as softballs behind his glasses.

“The
what
?” Nana Pete asks, looking at Benny.

“Benedict.” My voice feels and sounds like steel. “Shut your mouth. I mean it.”

My little brother whimpers and then slumps down behind the backseat, disappearing from view. Nana Pete turns off the car engine.

“What exactly,” she asks, staring at me, “is the Regulation Room?” She says the last two words very slowly, as if something bitter has just filled her mouth. My nose starts to wiggle. “Agnes? Talk to me.” Nana Pete never calls me Agnes unless something is seriously wrong. I swallow hard and shake my head.

“It’s nothing. Really. It’s nothing.” The sting of tears pinches the back of my throat.

My grandmother reaches out and grabs my hand. “Agnes. Darlin’. Look at me. Please. Don’t tell me it’s nothing. I know that’s not true.”

But I just shake my head harder. My nose is going into overdrive thinking about having to tell another lie today, a frantic little knob of a thing that is moving so hard that I am afraid it’s going to take flight off my face. I grab the door handle and yank it open.

“Mouse!” Nana Pete pleads.

Slamming the door behind me, I break into a run, ignoring the white-hot burning of my legs, and disappear into the house. It is not until I get into my room that I realize
she has not followed me. I listen to the Queen Mary’s engine as it revs furiously, like a rabid animal growling, and then fades into the distance.

Slowly I take the stones out of my pocket, lining them up one by one on top of my bed. Then I lie down, trying not to wince as they dig and poke into my back. If Saint Rose could do it, then so can I.

HONEY

Winky’s butterfly garden is my favorite place to be. Not only is it beautiful—even in the pale light of winter when the furrowed, frozen earth looks like the surface of the moon—but it is also a complete little world all its own. The butterflies’ whole cycle of life—from beginning to end—takes place here. The Believers refer to it only in a patronizing kind of way; I’ve actually heard some of them call it “Winky’s little hobby,” which makes me want to scream. Like he’s down here digging in the dirt with a spoon or something. They have no clue how complex the whole thing is, or how much work Winky has put into it over the years.

The garden itself is divided into two parts: a weed section and a nectar section. The weed section, which is filled with plants like snapdragons, turtleheads, thistles, wild fennel, mint, sassafras, and violets, is basically one big food source for the caterpillars, which have hatched from eggs the female butterflies have laid earlier. The nectar section consists of flowering plants and bushes, which have been carefully chosen according to the butterfly population in our part of the country. Purple phlox and aster, for example, are some of the Clouded Sulphur butterfly’s favorite flowers. Violets and sassafras are favored by the admirals. We have to check the nectar source plant leaves every day when it starts to get warm, because sometimes the caterpillars wander over there and start eating. When we find them, we transfer them back into
the weed section so the nectar source plants have a chance to grow big and healthy.

This is what Winky and I do for the next hour, pushing back the leaves of every single nectar source plant—there are at least fifty—searching for caterpillars. We work silently, peeling off the tiny worms one by one and, when our palms are full, transporting them back to the opposite end of the garden. Every so often, I look over at the top of Winky’s head, hoping he will raise it again and talk to me, but he stays quiet. I’m not sure which situation he is angrier about: that I have been watching his television without asking, or that I have been watching soap operas again. But I don’t want to ask. I’m afraid it might make things worse. Winky has been angry with me before; once we got into an argument and I blurted out that he was an idiot and he refused to talk to me for two days. They were the two longest days of my life. I did not sleep, and for some reason, the ache inside for my mother, which most days I am able to put on a back burner, intensified like a sharp stick poking at me from the inside out.

“Hey, Wink?” I venture now. “You still mad?”

He straightens up, holding a palmful of tiny green worms, and looks directly at me. “Yup.”

“How mad?” I watch as he turns and strides toward the weed section. Without his belt cord, which he always removes before working in the garden, his robe flaps open in the middle, exposing his ample belly. I make my voice louder. “Sorta mad or mad like you’re not going to talk to me for two days mad?”

Instead of answering, he pushes the worms from his palm onto a sassafras leaf and then leans down, double-checking to
make sure none of them have fallen into the dirt. When he is satisfied, he turns, and as if he has all the time in the world, strolls back toward me.

“Sorta mad,” he says finally, and then he grins and I know that everything between us is still okay. I smile back at him and then head over toward the weed section with my own worms.

“Why’re you walking funny?” Winky asks. “You hurt yourself?”

For an eighth of a second, I wonder what would happen if I broke down and told Winky what Emmanuel and Veronica did to me this morning. But I dismiss the thought just as quickly. What good would telling Winky do? It’s not like he’d be able to
do
anything about it. I don’t even know if he could comprehend the details. And, oddly enough, the Regulation Room has been Mount Blessing’s dirty little secret for so long that talking about it would feel really weird. I mean, even Agnes and I barely talk about it.

“Yeah, I was messing around on my bike the other day,” I say. “You know, acting like a goof. I tripped over one of the pedals.”

Winky starts to respond, but is interrupted by the squeal of tires. A pale green car shoots into view, coming to a halt alongside the lawn. I stare as Nana Pete opens the door of her car and starts marching across the lawn. Something about the way her mouth is set in a straight line is setting off alarm bells in my head.

“Nana Pete?” I call. “Hi!”

She beckons me forward with one hand. “Honey! Come with me! Now!”

Now the bells are ringing really loudly. Usually there is a hug and kiss, a “How have you
been
, sugar pie? You’ve gotten so
tall
since I’ve seen you last!” Maybe even a supersize bag of Funyuns hidden behind her back. There is none of that now. My suspicions sharpen even more when I get a glimpse of Benny sitting in the back of the car, staring out the window.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Where’s Agnes?”

Nana Pete is next to me now, almost out of breath. She leans over and hugs me quickly, as if to get it out of the way.

“Please darlin’. I’ve been looking for you for over an hour. Please just come with me. I need to talk to you. Right now.” She puts her hands on her hips and looks over at Winky, noticing him all at once.

“Winky,” she says, extending her hand. “Hello. I don’t know what window my manners flew out of on the way up here, but I do apologize.”