The Patron Saint of Butterflies (25 page)

Agnes shakes her head and pretends to study the orange and brown geometric pattern on the rug. “No.” Her voice is flat. “I don’t.”

“‘Don’t ever leave each other behind,’” I whisper. “‘Not here. Not ever.’ Remember?”

Agnes looks back up at me with her steely gaze. “Well, Nana Pete isn’t around to tell us much of anything anymore, is she?”

And with that sentence, I know I’ve lost her. For real. It’s as if she has gone through a door and locked it behind her. There’s no key, no hope. Nothing.

Things move pretty quickly after that. I watch for a few minutes, in a stunned paralysis, as Agnes moves around the room like a wind-up doll. First she goes over to the bed and draws the sheet Nana Pete is lying under up over her face. Then she makes the sign of the cross over her and presses her fingers to her lips. Finally she kneels down and blesses herself. Benny does, too. They pray together in silence for a few minutes. Benny lays his head down on Nana Pete’s sheeted thigh.

After a few minutes, Agnes reaches inside Nana Pete’s leather bag and pulls out the cell phone. She dials a number, sits down on a corner of the bed, and holds the phone to her ear. I can tell she is making an effort not to look at me as the phone rings once, then twice. Finally someone picks up.

“Mrs. Winspear?” Agnes says. There is a pause. “It’s Agnes. Yes, Agnes Little. Could I please talk to my father? Is he there?” She pulls on her earlobe as she waits. “Dad? Yes, Dad. It’s me.” Pink color fills her face as he begins shouting her name on the other end of the phone. She smiles and pulls Benny in next to her, holding him tightly. “Yes, we’re here, Dad,” she chokes out. “We’re safe. Yes, Benny’s fine. I know. I know. It was awful. I’m so sorry. Please, can you come get us, Dad? Please? We’re at Lillian’s. Yes. In Savannah. But we want to come home.”

I turn away, staring out the window as she gives him the exact street address.

“Dad?” Agnes says in a small voice. “There’s just one thing.” She takes a deep breath. “Nana Pete … um … died.” There is a long pause. I force myself not to turn around. “No, no, it wasn’t anything like that,” Agnes says. “It happened right here. We were sleeping. We all just went to sleep last night … ” She starts to cry. “I don’t know what happened. I really don’t.”

I drape my arms over the top of my head, shutting out the sound.

“Lillian?” she asks. “Um, I think she’s at work. She had to go in last night. But she’ll be back later, I guess. Maybe in the afternoon.”

“Okay,” she sniffles. “Yeah, okay, Dad. So you’re gonna
take a plane? You’ll be here by tonight, then?” She cries harder as he answers. “Okay, Dad. We’ll be right here. We won’t move.” She wipes her eyes.

“And, Dad? Do you think we’ll be in trouble? When we get back, I mean? With Emmanuel?” I hold my breath. Agnes is holding her breath, too, I realize, waiting for the answer. “Okay,” she says finally. “Yeah, I know. Okay, Dad. We’ll see you tonight.” She closes the phone with a dull little click and stares ahead at nothing. I watch as Benny slides the tiny phone out of her hands, places it carefully inside Nana Pete’s satchel on the bed, and then sits back down next to his sister.

I don’t ask. I don’t need to. I already know what awaits them when they return.

Something slides into place just then, like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle, sealing something inside of me once and for all. This is the end of the line, I guess, for both of us.

“Okay, then,” I say, lifting up my hand and backing out of the room. “I guess this is it.” Agnes watches me with dull eyes. “I love you guys. I do.” I nod my head over and over again, as if the action will propel me closer to the door. “Good-bye.”

Benny buries his face in Agnes’s shoulder.

And when she turns to stroke his head, I run like hell.

AGNES

The front door slams like a gunshot. In the silence, Benny and I stare at each other for what feels like an interminable amount of time. For the first time since everything happened, I’m glad my little brother has fallen mute. I know that sounds terrible, but I don’t want to hear what he is thinking or what it means when his eyes race across my face, pleading silently with me. I hold his shaky gaze instead, willing him to see my own thoughts running like a train behind my eyes.

I know I’ve done the right thing. I know it. I know it. I know it. I know it. Let her go. Who cares if I never see her again?

My muscles strain under my skin, trembling with deprivation.

If I go after her, she’ll think I’m making excuses. And if I give her even one opportunity to start talking again, she’ll never stop. She’ll start with all her crazy arguments and wheedling and I might not be able to stand up to her again.

Why did it take me so long to finally stand up to her in the first place? After all this time, the only thing it took to get her to back down was having a backbone. She’s just a bully, when all is said and done. Punching me in the face like that. Like a crazy person. And always talking, talking, talking, talking. Blah, blah, blah. Why do you think this, Agnes? How can you think that? Don’t you know there’s no such thing as hell? Don’t you know God is just some kind of slob, sitting on a bus? Yeah, right. Whatever, Honey.

…

She’s gone. My father’s coming to take me back and she’s not going with me. She’s gone. I might never see her again.

I bite my fists and then bring my legs up and cross them tightly under me, anything to quell the impulse to scream her name, anything to prevent my body from doing the opposite of what my mind is telling me.

Is this what it feels like not to give into temptation? Could Saint Thomas Aquinas have felt anything like this when he opened the door and saw the woman standing there? Is it possible that Saint Agnes struggled at all with denying her belief in Christ to avoid the sword on her neck?

No, it wasn’t. Saint Thomas picked up the iron poker, hot from the fire, and Saint Agnes shook her head, even to her executioner, when he offered her one last chance to reject Christ.

After a while, Benny buries himself under a mountain of blankets on the other side of the bed, a good distance from Nana Pete and, no matter how much I plead with him, refuses to come out. He’s humming a strange little tune I don’t recognize and at first it kind of scares me. But then I leave him and walk over toward the window. He’ll be okay. At least I know where he is. And that he’s still alive. Every time I look over at Nana Pete, the only thing I can see is her nose protruding like a little tent from under the blue sheet. It scares me. She’s dead.
Dead.

My Nana.

My Nana Pete.

Why am I not crying?

I stare out at Lillian’s wide, drooping tree, half expecting Dad to appear, although I know it will still be hours. I look at the clock on Lillian’s dresser: 5:30 a.m. I want to get out of here. Now.

My hands are cold, and when I place my palm against my chest, I can barely feel my heart beating. How strange that Nana Pete is the dead one in the room, when right now, I cannot even tell if I am breathing.

Out of nowhere, Mr. Pibbs wanders into the room. He rubs himself along the insides of my legs and mews softly. He’s probably hungry. Or maybe he misses Lillian. “Shoo,” I whisper. “Beat it.” He pushes the top of his head insistently against my calf. I stick my foot out and poke him away. He stares at me for a minute and then ambles out of the room again.

An hour passes like water leaking through a pinhole.

Drip
.

Drop
.

Drip
.

Drop
.

A soft crinkling sound from behind snaps me out of my stupor. Benny is sitting up on the edge of the bed, looking at something.

“Benny,” I say softly. “What’re you doing?” He holds a photograph out in my direction. His face is blank as a sheet. I take the photograph out of his hands and stare at it for a minute. It’s of Dad and Lillian, taken years ago. Even with her flowing red hair and enormous belly, Lillian is unmistakable. Her left hand is resting lightly on the swell of her stomach and the other hand is around Dad’s waist. She is smiling dutifully for the camera, but her eyes are turned down and her eyebrows are furrowed. Dad isn’t smiling at all. His posture is erect and rigid, both arms firmly at his
sides. I turn the picture over, looking for a date. There, in Dad’s handwriting, are the words: “Isaac and Naomi, Mount Blessing.”

Naomi? Who’s Naomi? The only Naomi I’ve ever heard of is Honey’s mother. This is Lillian. I’m sure of it. I turn the picture back over and study the face. Except for the long hair and the pregnant belly, the woman’s features are definitely Lillian’s. Why would the picture say …

Naomi?

“Where’d you get this?” I ask.

Benny points to the pile of pictures scattered around him.

I sit down slowly on the edge of the bed and pick up each one, studying them carefully. There is one of Honey and me sitting in our nursery crib, wearing diapers and nothing else. No more than two years old, we are huddled together over a book like two old women sharing a secret. I snatch another one, studying it closely. It’s one Nana Pete took just last summer. We are standing in the bicycle ring in our summer shorts and T-shirts, smiling for the camera. I remember that day vividly. It was a month after I received
The Saints’ Way
. Honey and I had argued just a few minutes earlier; she was angry with me because I would not race with her down the length of the field. My explanation for not wanting to run anymore wasn’t good enough, she’d said; in fact, it was downright crazy. She had conceded bitterly, but in the picture her arm is flung around my neck, her cheek pressed against mine as if nothing had happened.

I grab the picture of Dad and Lillian back from under
the pile and hold it next to the picture of Honey and me. My eyes flick back and forth between the two so rapidly that my head starts to hurt. There’s just no way. It’s impossible. It has to be.

After a while, I throw the pictures down and run into the bathroom. Curling up into a little ball, I fit myself in the space between the tub and the toilet and stare at the white porcelain, trying to clear my head. I think back to the conversation Lillian and I had at the motel, when she asked me about Honey and Winky. Now, suddenly, I understand. Or do I? How can this be happening? What would it mean? The fear is overwhelming, like a heartbeat all its own, a new blood pulsing through every vein in my body.

I reach around and pull my little book from inside my waistband. Opening it to the story of Saint Agnes, I start to read.
She went to her execution cheerfully, knowing that she was to meet her Beloved Jesus soon
. I read the sentence again, trying to decipher the words behind my tears. Suddenly I close the book and hurl it as hard as I can across the room. It doesn’t have far to go, and when it hits the opposite wall with a smack and then slides down against the floor, a sob breaks out of my chest.

My whole body begins to shake as I think about the punishment we will receive upon our return to the commune.

Dad’s answer—
One thing at a time, Agnes. Let’s get you home safely and worry about the rest later—
had not been comforting.

In fact, every time I run it through my head, trying to search for hidden clues, I’m filled with dread. Why is it that he can never come right out and say what’s really going on?
Why does he always present things under some sort of shroud, where in order to get to the truth I have to pull back layer after layer in hopes of finding it? Is he not who I think he is, either? Has everything been a lie?

“Help me,” I whisper. “Someone. Please. Help me.”

HONEY

The only thing running through my mind as I bolt out of the house is finding Lillian. If I can just find out where King’s is and get her to come home, maybe we’ll all still have a shot at this. Dawn is just breaking as I lunge through her front gate and run down the flagstone path. The air is pulsing with new, frail light. The sky is the color of an eggshell. I look around wildly, trying to determine which direction I should go.

And then all at once, out of the corner of my eye, I see it. A Zebra Longwing. She settles delicately inside the spiky fern for a few moments, collecting nectar with her nose stem. Her gossamer wings, elongated at the tips like fat teardrops, shudder every few seconds. The sun glints off the black-and-white stripes. I hold my breath. I’m afraid she will fly off if I breathe, and I don’t want her to go anywhere. Not after waiting for so long.

But when she is done with the summer sweet bud, she does fly off and suddenly I am aware that I am standing there with no idea what to do or where to go next. Maybe I should go back inside. Try to plead again with Agnes. Tell her one more time that I’m sorry. Why do I always have to be so mean about everything? Calling her a freaking lunatic was going too far. No wonder she never wants to see me again. Why do I get so impatient with her? Especially since I love her more than any other person in my whole life?

I turn around and close my fingers over the doorknob. It’s
small and cold in my hand. Lifeless. My fingers don’t move. After a few seconds, I let go and sit down on the front step. I can’t do it. I’m sorry that I’ve said things meanly and I’m sorry that I’m so impatient, but everything, every single word I’ve said about Emmanuel and Mount Blessing has been the truth. My truth. And I won’t go back—I won’t, I won’t—and pretend that it isn’t. Even for Agnes.

There is a scratching sound coming from inside the door. I open it carefully and stare into Mr. Pibbs’s blue eyes. Scooping him up, I sit back down on the steps and turn him around so I can look at his face again. “Hey, buddy,” I whisper. “I’ve got one just like you, only a little smaller. You know that?” The cat blinks his wide eyes and gazes back at me. “Has Lillian been a good mother to you?” I ask. Mr. Pibbs ducks his head and brings his left paw up to his face. With a tiny pink tongue, he begins licking his fur with small, short strokes. I press him tightly against my chest and bury my face into his silky white coat. He smells like wood and smoke and Nana Pete’s perfume. I bury my nose in deeper, trying to smell Nana Pete again. Alarmed, the cat leaps out of my arms and runs for the fence. I don’t stop him. I put my head down and sit there for a long time, not moving.