The Patron Saint of Butterflies (21 page)

Honey makes a
hmm
sound between her lips. I can tell she wants to ask more, probably something about how much my Dad has changed over the years, but she is guarding her words in front of Benny and me. “Do you miss him?” she asks eventually.

Lillian looks up in surprise at the question. “I do,” she
says, placing a card down flat on the floor. There is a pause. “Gin,” she says. “I win.”

A few hours later, after Honey has disappeared into the shower and Benny has fallen asleep, I get under the covers and start my evening prayers, counting my consecration beads as I go. Lillian is in the corner with her back to me, undressing hurriedly. I close my eyes, trying to concentrate on the prayers and the beads. When I open them again Lillian is kneeling next to me on the floor, dressed in old sweats and a long blue T-shirt.

“What are you doing?” she whispers. “Saying night prayers?”

I am so startled by her presence that I just nod.

“Okay. I don’t mean to interrupt, but I just wanted to ask you a question.” My fingers are frozen around one of the beads, my eyes fixed on the arch of her red eyebrow. I’m not telling her anything about Dad, no matter how much she begs me. “Who has Honey been living with all these years?”

I narrow my eyebrows. “What?”

“I mean … ” She stammers, trying to find the words. “She lived in the nursery with you for a long time, right?”

I nod slowly. “Until we were seven.”

“Right, until you were seven. And then you went to live with your parents, right? In the house they lived in?” I nod again. Her forehead creases. “Ma told me that Honey went to live with a guy named Winky. Do you know anything about him?”

“Not really,” I answer. “He’s kind of … slow. They live in the Milk House.”

“Do you know anything else about him?” Lillian presses. “Is he a good guy?”

I stare blankly at her for a moment. Why is she asking me this? And why would Nana Pete be talking to Lillian about Honey?

The running water from the shower shuts off suddenly. I sit up. “Why are you asking about—” But Lillian stands up, cutting me off with a shake of her head.

“Never mind,” she says, walking back over to her side of the room. Her voice sounds garbled, like a small bird trapped inside her throat. “Good night, Agnes.” I watch as she slides under the covers next to Nana Pete and pulls the blankets over her head.

“Good night,” I whisper, not loud enough for her to hear.

HONEY

Sleep feels as far away right now as Mount Blessing. I turn on the TV, putting the volume on mute so as not to disturb anyone, but pretty soon my mind starts to drift. For some reason, I can’t get Lillian out of my head. I like her. She’s sort of sloppy, or at least it seems like she doesn’t really care all that much about her appearance, and she says things the way they are, even if what she’s saying doesn’t make her look all that good. I like that in a person. I’m so sick of all this striving toward perfection I could puke. After we were done playing cards, I was so disappointed when she stretched and then told us that she was going to bed.

“But it’s only eleven o’clock,” I said, trying to hide the disappointment in my voice. She looked at me—and let me tell you something, she has this funny way of looking at you—and smiled.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll have lots of time to talk tomorrow.”

“But I want to talk
now
,” I say aloud to no one. Throwing back the covers, I climb out of bed, unzip my knapsack, and pull out my sneakers.

The main lobby is bright with lights. A man is sitting behind the front desk, reading the funny pages on the back of a newspaper.

He looks up as I pad along the floor. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, pointing to the door. “I’m just going outside for some fresh air.”

The night air is sharp and cool. I inhale deeply, filling my lungs as I look around in the dark. It’s
really
dark. Just as I am about to turn back around and go inside again, I notice the Queen Mary parked a few cars away. I streak toward it, open the front door with a trembling hand, and scoot inside. Reaching under the front seat, I feel around until my fingers come in contact with Nana Pete’s keys. I turn on the engine, and then switch on the front beams until I can see the shrubs on the side of the motel. Okay. Much better.

I open my hand carefully and stare down at George lying in the middle of my palm. I have been clutching him so tightly that I am afraid he is broken. The chips in his tail and ear are still there, and everything else seems to be in place.

“Hey, George,” I whisper softly. “How are you, buddy? What’s new?”

There is a rapping sound on the side window. My head jerks around so suddenly that I pull a muscle inside my neck. “Agnes!” With only a sliver of light illuminating her wide face and her bare legs sticking out from under Nana Pete’s long brown cardigan, she looks like she is about three years old. I wrap George up tight again in my hand, roll down the window, and lean out toward her.

“God, you scared me!”

She cocks her head and pulls the edges of Nana Pete’s sweater under her chin. “What are you doing out here? It’s freezing. Do you know what time it is?”

I shake my head. “I just needed some air. It’s not that cold.”

She studies me, waiting for me to say something more, but I don’t. “Were you going to run away?” Her voice is wobbly.

“What? No!” I open the door and get out of the car. “I wouldn’t do that, Agnes. I promise. I wouldn’t leave you. Ever.”

She stares at the thick yarn weaving in and out of the cardigan sleeves. “You were ready to back at the hospital.”

“Oh, that’s just what I
said.
But I didn’t mean it. Not really.”

“Can I ask you something?” she asks.

I nod. “Yeah, anything.”

“Did Winky ever do anything to you? Like hurt you at all? I mean, since you’ve been in the Milk House?”

I take a step back. “What?
No!
Never! Why would you even ask me that?”

Her body shudders, trying to hold back the tears. “I don’t know. I just … ” She shakes her head. “I’ve been thinking … ,” her voice trails off softly. “Things have just … gotten so crazy all of a sudden.” She brushes her fingers across her eyes. “I don’t know what to think anymore. It’s so confusing.” She presses the edges of the sweater against her face. “I just want to do the right thing, Honey! I just want to be good!”

I wrap both of my arms around her and bury my nose in her hair. “You’re already good, Agnes,” I say after a moment. “Why can’t you believe that?”

She shakes her head. “I’m not good! I’m weak! I was terrible to Benny and I am always tempted to sin, especially out here, where everything is weird and freaky.”

“Have you ever tried to trust yourself to do the right thing?” I ask. “Instead of always waiting for some sign or trying to figure out what Emmanuel thinks is right for you?”

She raises her tear-stained face. “I couldn’t do that. I’m not
strong enough. I need Emmanuel to tell me what’s right. We all do.”

I shrug. “I don’t.”

“But that’s because you don’t care about being good!” Agnes wails. She looks at me intently. “Why don’t you want to be good? Why, Honey? Why?”

“I care about being good. I just—”

“Then what’s this?” Agnes pulls the pink flower barrette out from under the cardigan and shoves it at me.

I stare at her, speechless. “Where’d you find—”

“In your backpack,” she says sadly. “I noticed it sitting open by the door, just before I came out here. The barrette was right on top.” She shakes her head. “Why would you steal, Honey? Why? You broke a commandment!”

I shrug. “I just … I saw you looking at it in the store and … and then you went and put it back and … I know it’s wrong to steal, but … I just wanted you to have it, Ags.” I look into her blue eyes. “I just wanted you to have something for yourself for once. To feel pretty, instead of always trying to make yourself ugly with all those freaky penances you do. It’s not a sin to feel pretty, Agnes! It’s not!”

Agnes’s eyes blur with tears as I talk and when she blinks, they roll down her cheeks. “We’re not supposed to clothe the body,” she whispers. “Just the soul.”

“That’s garbage,” I answer. “God wouldn’t’ve given us bodies if he didn’t want us to take care of them.”

Agnes doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then she looks at me again. “I’m scared,” she whispers. “Everything’s changing.”

I take her hand in mine. “I know.” The words hang between us, heavy as stones. Out of nowhere, a drop of rain hits the
side of my face. I squint and look up. Two more drops splash my cheeks and then all at once, as if God has shaken a wet blanket in the heavens, thousands of drops scatter and fall around us. Agnes pulls the cardigan over her head.

“Get back in the car!” I yell, throwing open the door.

We sit there for a while, watching the rain run in soaking rivulets along the windshield. It’s coming down so hard that even with the lights on, I can’t make out the shrubs anymore. The glass looks like the inside of a thick piece of ice.

“Hey,” I say, grabbing Agnes’s sleeve. “Let’s run.”

Agnes looks at me like I’m crazy. “Run where?”

“Just run!
Race!
Like we used to! In the rain!” Something inside me starts jumping around, thinking about it.

But Agnes just stares down at her wet legs. After a moment, she curls them up under her. “I can’t.”

“Oh, why not?” I reach out and punch her softly in the arm. “Come on, Agnes, you know you w—”

“No, I can’t, Honey. I mean it.”

I sit back against the seat and pout for a minute. “Is it because you’re good at it? Is that why?” Silence. “It is, isn’t it? It’s just like the ‘pretty’ thing.” I sit up straight again and turn toward her. “Agnes, you know, I’ve been trying for a while to figure you out since this saint-wannabe thing kicked in. You used to be this really great, funny best friend of mine. Remember how hard you could make me laugh? So that I practically peed in my pants? Remember?” I nudge her a little with my elbow, but she doesn’t look up. “I can
kind
of understand the whole penance deal and praying all the time and all that. I really can. I know you want to be good. But this, this I don’t understand at all. You’re a really good runner. I mean it. And I
know you enjoy doing it. And now, because you think that being good at something must mean you’re taking glory away from him or … or whatever the hell it is … ”

“Would you
stop
using that word?”

“What word? Hell?”

Agnes flinches and then nods.

“Okay. I’ll try.” I take a deep breath. “I just … God, you already give up so much. You wear strings around your waist that practically cut you in half, and you barely eat, and you probably even sleep on the floor at night when you’re in your own room. Why do you have to give this up, too? I mean … it’s not necessary. I really don’t think God means for us to offer up everything, Agnes. I really don’t.”

She turns her head to look at me and for just a second I can see that clear, liquid light behind her eyes.

“Let’s run,” I whisper. “Come on, Ags. Just once. It’ll feel great.”

I switch Nana Pete’s beams to high. The bright lights slice through the rain like razors. It’s the only light we have to illuminate the length of the parking lot, but it’ll have to do. We line up at the far end of the lot, just past the hotel front door. Agnes is tipped forward, the way she used to in the old bicycle ring, her fingertips spread flat against the pavement, her rear end high in the air. She has taken off Nana Pete’s cardigan, and her new shorty pajamas are so wet they are practically transparent. I imitate her racer’s stance and then look over through my dripping strands of hair.

“Just one,” Agnes says, staring nervously ahead. “That’s it.”

“Ready … ,” I say, dragging the word out slowly. Her
fingertips tense beneath her. “Set … ” Her butt lifts up an inch more.
“Go!”

She doesn’t notice when I stop halfway across the lot. The rain is coming down so hard that I can barely see.

“Go,” I whisper, watching her run through the downpour, her elbows pumping alongside her hips, hair streaming behind her in thin ropes. “Go, Agnes.”

AGNES

The first thing I feel the next morning is the muscles in my calves aching. Although we ran just a single length of the parking lot, my legs had stretched and strained themselves, as if waking from hibernation. In the shower afterward, I massaged them gently, to avoid charley horse cramps. Now I lean up on my tiptoes to ease the tightness behind them and then relax again. I was shocked at how good it felt to run again—even better than I remember. There is something about moving that fast in the rain—it makes my heart beat faster, my legs stretch longer, my breath quicken in my lungs. I can’t think of a single thing to compare it to.

“Agnes!” Nana Pete calls. “Are you ready?” Sliding my arms back into my robe, I pin my hair back quickly into a knot and look in the mirror. I feel a little shaky inside, but at least I still look like a Believer.

Lillian wants to get back on the road right away, but Nana Pete says she’s not doing anything without her coffee first. We head across the street to a place called Perkins and slide into a green booth. Everything’s going along fine until Lillian orders pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream.

“I’m gonna have the same thing,” Honey says.

Then Benny points to the picture of the strawberries and pancakes and nods his head up and down.

I give him a little elbow in the ribs. “Strawberries,” I say, shaking my head. “You can’t.”

“Is Benny allergic to strawberries?” Lillian asks. I press my lips together and study the blue rim of Nana Pete’s coffee cup.

“No,” Honey says finally. “He’s not. But Believers aren’t allowed to eat red food at Mount Blessing.” I can feel Lillian and Nana Pete exchange a look.

“Oh,” Lillian says. “Right. I forgot about that one.” She pauses and then looks over at me. “But we’re not at Mount Blessing anymore, Agnes. I’m pretty sure you and Benny can eat whatev—”