The Patron Saint of Butterflies (26 page)

When I look up again, the first thing I see is Nana Pete’s car. Her
car
. I run toward it at breakneck speed; maybe, maybe, maybe, yes! God, here are her keys. And that’s how it happens. I don’t know which direction to go in or even if Lillian’s workplace is in Savannah. I don’t even know what to do yet when it comes time to put more gas in the car. I know only one thing as I slip the silver key into the ignition and put the Queen Mary into drive.

It’s time.

My time.

And I am outta here.

Lillian lives on a street called East Gwinnet. It’s a pretty little street with exactly the kind of neat white houses I pictured when we left Mount Blessing. But it’s so narrow that I almost hit the first car that comes driving down the other side. The guy behind the wheel leans on his horn and then sticks his middle finger out at me. I’ve never seen such a gesture before, but I’m almost positive it’s not good. I ease up on the gas a little after that and then brake hard at the end of the street as two women cross in front of me.

“Excuse me!” I lean out the side window. The women are wearing white sneakers and shiny sweat suits that rustle when they walk. The slighter of the two has a pink foam curler in the middle of her forehead. “Have you ever heard of a place called King’s?”

The women exchange a glance and then shrug. “No,” the shorter one says. “Sorry.”

“You’re pretty small to be driving a great big car like that, aren’t you?” the bigger one asks. I sit back down in the seat.

“It’s my grandma’s,” I say, stepping on the gas and waving out the window. “She said I could drive it.” I ease through three more streets, rolling the word over and over again along my tongue. “Grandma.” It tastes good in my mouth, a new sweetness filling a bitter, empty space. Just as I am about to cross over West Charlton Street, I notice an elderly man putting a letter into a mailbox on the corner. I roll down the window again.

“Excuse me, sir? Have you ever heard of a place around here called King’s?”

The old man’s face, as worn and as wrinkled as a baseball glove, widens into a grin. “Eat breakfast there every mornin’.”

“Breakfast?” I repeat. “You mean it’s a restaurant?”

He leans against a brown cane and chuckles. “Yep. All-night diner. Good, too. Serves everything from eggs and bacon t’ hominy and grits.”

I sit back slowly. So she’s a waitress. Why am I disappointed? I lean forward again. “Can you tell me how to get there?”

The man lifts his cane and points down the street. “It’s right on the river. Get yourself down on Martin Luther King Boulevard and drive for a while, till you get to Broad. Then make a right. King’s is right at the end.”

I thank the elderly man and step on the gas.

I sit outside King’s for a good ten minutes, trying to work up the nerve to go in. If I weren’t sitting here staring right at it, I wouldn’t believe you could make a restaurant out of a couple of old train cars. But King’s is, in fact, three renovated train cars, each one shinier than the next, all hooked together on a neat, rectangular patch of green grass. A set of steps, flanked with two geranium-filled planters, leads up to the front door. Over the door, in curly, neon-pink letters is the word KING’S. I stare at the green-and-white checked curtains in each of the train windows. One frames a man spooning the inside of a soft-boiled egg into his mouth and gazing out at the river, which slopes quietly around the bend. Why am I hesitating? Nana Pete has just died! Agnes has just called her father, who is coming down as we speak to take her back to Mount Blessing!

Six faces at the front counter turn as I push open the front door. A little bell hanging from the top of it makes a tinkling sound. I shrink back, frightened by the stares. A woman in a pink shirt is behind the counter, rubbing it with a towel. She flicks her eyes at me and keeps rubbing. Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows and her arms are as big as ham hocks. Despite the ceiling fans, the heat inside is overwhelming and the salty smell of bacon frying fills my nostrils. I take a few tentative steps forward. My sneakers make a peeling sound across the black-and-white floor.

“Hey, hon,” the big-armed woman says. I jump a little at the sound of her voice. It’s deep and oily. “You here for Lillian?”

I look at her curiously. She has a faint mustache over her top lip and her forehead is shiny with perspiration. “How’d you know?” I ask.

“Look just like her,” she says. “You a niece or something?”

My heart does a somersault. The men at the counter turn around again to look at me. I drop my eyes and step on the rubber toe of my sneakers. “Um … uh… well, do you know if she’s here?”

“Of course she’s
here
,” the woman says, rubbing the counter again. “She’s always here. She owns the place.”

I swallow hard, trying not to let my amazement show. “Yeah, I know. I just—”

Just then Lillian charges out of a back room, her eyes riveted on a small black calculator in her right hand.

“Hey, Lil,” one of the men says as she rushes past him. “Someone here to see you.”

“He’ll have to wait,” Lillian says, not taking her eyes off the
calculator. She is punching one of the buttons furiously and her mouth is drawn into a tight scowl. I take a step backward.

“Willa!” Lillian says, beckoning to the heavyset lady with the rag. “Come here and do these numbers for me, will you? I can’t get these two columns to match for the life of me, and I’m about ready to hit something.”

Willa ambles over in Lillian’s direction and then says something in her ear. Lillian’s head snaps up. Our eyes meet and lock over the small room. Her lips part in a little
O
and her forehead crinkles.

“Honey?” she asks. “How did you get here?”

“You have to come home,” I say. “Right now.”

Lillian looks at a Coca-Cola clock on the wall above the counter. “I still have four more—”

“Nana Pete is dead,” I blurt out.

Lillian’s face contorts, as if I have just reached out and smacked her. “What?”

I take a step closer, suddenly aware of the hush that has descended over the room. I can feel two men’s eyes on me as I move closer to Lillian and for some reason it feels as though I have to get through them to reach her. “Nana Pete,” I say hoarsely. “She … died.”

Without looking at it, Lillian lays the calculator down carefully on the counter. “What are you talking about?”

I open my mouth and then shut it again helplessly. I know she has heard me. “We … you have to come home, Lillian. You just … have to … come.”

She is moving toward me, shaking her head back and forth, as if to stop a ringing in her ears. The only sound left in
the room is the whir of the ceiling fans overhead. “Honey,” she says, slowly moving toward me. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

I shake my head and take another step backward.

“What are you telling me? What’s going on? How did you even find this place?” Her eyes are scary looking, like Agnes’s just before she freaked out on me, and each question that comes out of her mouth grows more and more shrill.

Willa decides just then to intervene, and taking Lillian by the shoulders, leads her firmly out the front door. “C’mon, Lil,” I hear her say. “Let’s do this outside.”

I follow, glad to be rid of the men’s heavy glares, and catch the tail end of whatever it is Willa is saying to Lillian: “… Is she your niece or something?”

Lillian whirls around just as I stop dead in my tracks. Her eyes rove over my face, searching, it seems, for … what? I hold the tip of my tongue between my teeth and bite down hard.
She had laughed to see her hair on me. Saffron red with the same tiny curls just around the ears
.

“No,” she says finally, not taking her eyes from mine. “She’s not my niece.”

“Then who—,” Willa starts, but Lillian cuts her off.

“Get in the car, Honey.” Her eyes are flashing and for a split second she looks exactly like Nana Pete did when she ordered me into the car in front of the Milk House. “Right now.” I slide into the front seat, barely closing the door as Lillian puts the key in the ignition and guns the engine. “You got everything under control here, Willa?” she asks, leaning out the window. Willa nods, clutching her shirt collar at the base
of her throat. She looks alarmed. “I’m going to be a while, I think,” Lillian says tersely. “I’ll call you.” She squeals backward out of the lot and then throws the Queen Mary into drive. “Start talking,” she orders, looking at me out of the corner of her eye. “And don’t stop until you’ve told me everything.”

AGNES

I’m still in my little curled-up position between the toilet and the tub when the door slams downstairs. I lift my head. It feels fuzzy, like it’s been stuffed with cotton. Am I dreaming? Has all of this just been one long, horrible dream? There is a pounding of feet on the steps followed by a cry in the next room. “Ma! Oh, Ma!” It’s Lillian. Her voice sounds broken, on the edge of cracking down the middle. “Ma! Ma!” It’s the saddest voice I have ever heard and I stuff my fist into my mouth so that I won’t cry. Then I hear another voice. I strain forward, my heart pounding loudly in my ears.

“Where’s Agnes, Benny?” It’s Honey. I lean my face against the door and push my knuckles farther into my mouth. She’s back. A few seconds later, she is pounding against the door. “Agnes! Come on out. It’s me!” But I don’t move. Right now, the tiny bathroom feels like the only safe space left in the world.

For a long time, the only sound in the house is Lillian sobbing. It’s a terrible sound, like a baby crying, and it makes my heart feel lopsided, as if part of it has been scooped out. After what feels like hours, the sounds of slow movement begin again. Honey comes over to the door once more and begs me to come out, but I tell her to leave me alone.

“Well, will you let Benny in, then?” she pleads. “He’s scared, Agnes. For real.”

I open the door a crack and let my little brother inside. He rushes toward me and collapses in a heap against my legs. I put my arms around him and hold him tightly, resting my cheek against the top of his head. “It’s okay, Benny.” I take slow breaths. Mom and Dad will be coming soon. I have to get ready. “It’s all going to be okay. I promise.” Through the thin walls, I can hear Lillian and Honey speaking in hushed tones. Suddenly Lillian’s voice rises.

“Here? They’re coming
here
? Now?”

I bite my lip and curl over my little brother until we are both tight as a little ball.

“Agnes? Benedict?” There is a blur of movement as Benny lurches out of my arms and runs out of the bathroom door. I can hear him run down the steps, hear Mom cry out, “Oh, Benedict! Benedict! Oh my God, how are you? How’s your hand? Let me see your hand! Oh my God. Oh, let me look at you!”

“Where is Agnes?” Dad asks. There is a pause as Lillian says something to him, and then the pounding of feet on steps. Through the window, the sky is a dull gray color. I can’t even imagine what time it is. I think hours have passed. We must have fallen asleep. I stand up on shaky legs, glancing at my reflection in the mirror as I do.

It’s the strangest thing. For the life of me, I don’t know who the girl staring back at me is. A friend, perhaps? Someone I used to know? I jump as fingers tap the door softly, not taking my eyes off the mirror. The eyes are bigger than any eyes I’ve seen before. And empty, as if I can see directly
through the iris, the pupil, the cornea, all the way back into nothing at all. There is another tap at the door.

“Agnes?”

“I’m not ready.” I watch my mouth move. Did I just say that?

“Agnes? It’s Mom. Please, honey, come out. We’re here. We want to take you home.”

Home.

Let me take you somewhere safe, darlin’. A place where no one will ever hurt you like that again
.

“Agnes?” It’s Dad again. His voice isn’t as gentle as Mom’s. “Come on out now. It’s just us. Come on.”

Just us. He means no Emmanuel or Veronica. The eyes in the mirror get wider. Had they considered coming? What would I do if they were actually standing out there now, waiting for me to emerge? What would it feel like to hear Emmanuel’s voice coming through the door? Or Veronica’s?

“Agnes.” Mom again. “I know it’s been an incredibly stressful few days. I can’t even imagine what you’ve all been through. But please come out and talk to us about it. Let us help you.”

Let us help you until we get back to Mount Blessing. Then you’ll be Emmanuel’s problem.

“I’m not ready,” the mouth says again. Dad sighs exasperatedly. Mom is talking to him in a low voice. They walk away from the door, probably going over to stand by Nana Pete in the bedroom next door.

“Mother,” I hear Dad say in a low voice. There is the
squeak of bedsprings as he sits down. “Oh, Ma.” His voice collapses into his throat.

My eyes jerk at the sound, as if awakening suddenly. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard Dad’s voice waver. I blink a few times. A shudder ripples involuntarily through me, and the tips of my fingers tingle. I watch the eyes in the mirror shrink down to their regular size. They’re still empty, but I recognize them now as mine. I reach out for the bathroom doorknob and close my fingers around it. It’s cold, like a ball of ice. I turn it slowly and open the door, following the sound of my father’s fractured voice.

“Agnes,” Mom whispers as I come into view. She is sitting on the opposite side of the bed, holding Benny on her lap. Dad looks at me, smearing the tears away from his face with the heels of his hands. I walk over between them as they hold their arms out and pull me in tightly. Above me, Benny sniffles into my hair.

“Let’s go home,” Dad says.

Home.

I close my eyes and nod, holding on to Benny’s foot for dear life.

There is a female police officer standing in the hallway outside Lillian’s bedroom when we emerge. She is talking to a short, fat man with a tweed cap on his head. He tips the hat in Dad’s direction and sticks out his hand.

“I’m the Chatham County coroner,” he says in a syrupy drawl. “If you’re ready, I’ll perform my examination.” Dad nods somberly and adjusts the belt cord around his robe. “It won’t take long,” the man says, glancing over at Mom and
Benny, who are still in the room. “Why don’t y’all just wait downstairs? I’ll come down when I’m finished.”