Nana Pete frowns as the woman moves on, filling Benny’s bowl next to me. “Not eating, Mouse?”
I shake my head. “I’ve decided to fast for a while,” I answer quietly. “For the … sins I’ve committed today.”
Dad nods his head slowly and smiles. I wonder if that means I am back on his good side.
Suddenly there is a commotion on the other side of the room.
“I told you, I don’t want it!” Iris Murphy yells. “I feel sick! If you make me eat it, I’m going to throw up!”
I roll my eyes. Just last week, Iris threw herself on the floor at dinner and screamed about having a headache. Emmanuel hadn’t been eating with us, but it had still ended badly, with Emmanuel taking her into the Regulation Room. Why doesn’t she learn? All heads turn in her direction.
Mr. Murphy yanks his wild-eyed daughter to her feet. “Shut your mouth!” He is shaking with rage.
Iris tilts her head back and wails. “But you’re not listening to me! I just—”
Emmanuel cuts Iris off before she can finish her protest. “Bring her here, Samuel!”
The room is deathly quiet as Mr. Murphy drags the crying girl over to Emmanuel’s table. Next to me, Benny’s legs stop moving. Iris, who is in his age group, is one of his best friends. As she struggles and twists against her father’s grip, his lower lip begins to tremble. I lean over and take his little hand in mine. He knows as well as I do that Emmanuel has no qualms about disciplining someone in public—he says a lesson for one is a lesson for all. Now, as Mr. Murphy and Iris stand quivering, Emmanuel wipes his mouth, pushes back his chair, and stands up.
But as he does, Nana Pete stands up, too. Her movement is so quick and so sudden that she knocks over her bowl of soup. It crashes to the floor with an angry sound, splattering corn and potatoes everywhere. Emmanuel looks over, startled, but Nana Pete meets his gaze over the ocean of heads and doesn’t flinch. Her fists are clenched so tightly that I can see the knuckles straining under her skin.
“Why, Petunia,” Emmanuel calls out. “No one told me you were here.” His eyes flick over toward Dad, who bows his head.
“Yes,” Nana Pete answers. Her voice is steady and strong. “I’m here.”
For what seems like forever, the two of them stare at each other. My eyes dart back and forth between the two of them, but neither of them blink. What is going on? My stomach churns with dread. Finally Emmanuel turns back around to regard Iris, who is still standing in front of him. Her face is white, and she shrinks under his glowering eyes. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing my whole body for the imminent sound of her face being slapped. Next to me, Benny puts his fingers in his ears and starts to rock back and forth in his seat.
But there is no slap, no sound of a body collapsing to the floor, or even a cry. Instead, as I open my eyes slowly, I see Emmanuel putting his hands on Iris’s head. He closes his eyes and begins speaking in Latin: “Gratia vobis et pax a Deo Patre nostro et Dominio Jesu Christo … “ It is a prayer said at Sunday sacrament: “The grace and peace of God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ be with you.”
Iris begins to cry quietly as Emmanuel’s hands move down from the top of her head to just under her chin.
“Go finish your meal,” he says firmly, “and act like the child of God you are.”
Iris nods, wide-eyed, and backs away, new tears streaking down her pink face.
Mr. Murphy bows low in front of Emmanuel and then turns, following Iris back to their table.
Emmanuel turns around, too, flicking his eyes briefly in Nana Pete’s direction. She is still standing, rigid as a soldier. He smiles thinly at her and then sits back down at his table.
Benny is leaning forward with a strange look on his face. Suddenly all the bread and soup he has just eaten comes pouring out of his mouth. He gags, choking, and then throws up some more. The Believers around us jump to their feet and rush to clean up the mess. Mom gathers Benny in her arms. He is sobbing quietly now, his small body shaking.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“It’s all right,” Mom hushes. “Shh … ” She takes Benny’s soiled robe off him and hands it to me.
“Let me take him back to the house,” Nana Pete says, putting her napkin on the table. “He needs to rest.”
“We have evening prayers in a few minutes,” Dad says. “He can go afterward.”
Nana Pete stands up and gives him a look of disgust. “This child has just vomited all over himself.” Her voice is way over the Great House decibel range. “I am taking him to bed.”
“Is there something else on your mind, Petunia?” Emmanuel’s voice comes drifting over to our table. Dad stiffens.
“Not at all.” Nana Pete’s voice is like ice. “I’m just taking a sick child to bed, where he belongs.” She glares at Dad, scoops Benny up in her arms, and strides out of the room.
“Go with her,” Mom whispers, putting her arm around my shoulder. “I don’t think she knows where any of Benny’s nightclothes are. And take Benny’s robe with you. I’ll wash it out tonight.”
Giving Dad a tentative look, I dart from my place at the table, and rush to catch up with Nana Pete.
HONEY
I have every intention of getting cleaned up and going up to the Great House for dinner after Agnes’s father finds us all down at the frog pond, but then I run into Winky, who is just finishing up in the garden.
“Hey,” he says, peeling off his dirty gloves. “Mr. Schwab says he’s got a big ol’ pile of compost for me at the farm. You want to come help me bring it back?”
“Absolutely!” I answer. “Let’s go!” Pushing all thoughts of the kinds of trouble we could both get into out of my head, I pull the smaller wheelbarrow out of Winky’s garden shed. Emmanuel can stretch me out on a rack tonight and torture me, for all I care. As soon as Nana Pete gives the word, we are going to hightail it out of here and nothing is going to change that.
Winky takes one of the back roads down to Mr. Schwab’s farm, just in case anyone is out looking for us. He walks quickly, even with his wheelbarrow in front of him, and I have to struggle to keep up. Winky is better acquainted with the woods and outlying boundaries outside of Mount Blessing than I am, since he’s always on the hunt for new and interesting plants he can bring back to the garden. Actually, that’s how he first met Mr. Schwab, a corn farmer who lives two miles down the road. Winky says Mr. Schwab was a little leery of him at first—not because he was slow, but because he was wearing a heavy blue robe with a silk cord around his waist in the middle of August. Still, they became fast friends after Winky told Mr. Schwab what it was he was looking for. Mr. Schwab’s wife, Libby, apparently has a flower garden of her own and knows all about wild plants and shrubs.
Mr. Schwab is one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. He’s middle-aged, like Agnes’s father, but he looks younger. He has black hair and a nice, plain sort of face. It’s always tanned because he is outside so much and his teeth are very white. One time he even took me for a ride on Dorothy, his tractor. I got to stand in the little space right behind his seat with my hands on his shoulders and look out over what seemed like miles and miles of hills. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. His wife, Libby, is great too. She invited me into the farmhouse one afternoon while Mr. Schwab and Winky were digging up a milkweed plant, and sat at the kitchen table with me while I ate a piece of her red-raspberry pie. I forked bite after bite into my mouth, swallowing my twinge of guilt about eating red food, and nodded politely as she told me all about her favorite flowers. When I was finished, I asked for another piece.
By the time we reach the edge of the Schwabs’ farm, I have a stitch in my side and am panting for breath. The stripes along my back and legs feel as if they were on fire. I am just about to stop and sink to the ground when I see Mr. Schwab. He is sitting on Dorothy, waving to us from the other side of the empty cornfield. Behind him, the sky is a pale charcoal color, tinged orange at the bottom like a slice of cantaloupe.
“Winky! Honey!
Over here!” The sight of him gives me renewed vigor and I scramble again to my feet. “I was hoping you’d come tonight,” Mr. Schwab says, looking down at me from the tractor seat. My head barely skims the middle of Dorothy’s enormous rear wheel. Mr. Schwab is wearing his usual red baseball cap, faded pink from the sun, blue overalls, and a white shirt. The soles of his work boots are caked heavily with dried mud. I wonder if Veronica would make him take them off before he came into Emmanuel’s room—not that he ever would.
“Oh yeah?” I ask “Why?”
Mr. Schwab’s eyes twinkle. “I thought you might like to take Dorothy for a spin.”
I gasp. “You mean drive her?”
Mr. Schwab laughs and then nods. “I only have a few rows left in the back of the field over there before I call it a night. It’s just tilling, nothing too fast or exciting. Think you’re up for it?”
“Yes!” I burst out. “Absolutely!”
Mr. Schwab laughs again. Then he looks at Winky, almost apologetically. “You okay going over to the house by yourself, Winky? Libby’s there waiting for you.”
Winky nods and waves. “You be careful, Honey.”
I’ve been atop Dorothy before, but only in the tiny space behind the driver’s seat. Now, sitting in the driver’s seat with Mr. Schwab behind me, I feel like a king. Mr. Schwab takes a long time explaining the four pedals on the floor to me. There is something called a clutch on the left, two brake pedals on the right, and the throttle all the way over on the other side. By the time he lets me insert the key into the ignition and start the engine, the sky is a pale purple. My hands are trembling with excitement.
“Just take her real easy,” Mr. Schwab says as the engine roars to life. “Dorothy responds best to a nice, gentle touch.”
My face burns as the tractor lurches and chokes to a stop under my tentative direction, but Mr. Schwab keeps talking to me in a low, steady voice, and a few minutes later Dorothy is rolling smoothly over the soft dirt.
“Yeah!” I scream. “Look at me! I’m driving a tractor!”
Mr. Schwab throws his head back and laughs. “I’m glad you like it. You’re good, too, Honey. A natural. There’s still a bit more work to do, though. Can you turn her to the left now?” I follow his instructions as he leads me to the far end of the field. An hour passes like a heartbeat as I lower the sod till in the back and let Dorothy drag it up and down the neat rows. The smell of warm dirt fills the air as the sky around us gets darker and darker. I can’t remember ever feeling so happy.
And then Mr. Schwab goes and blows it.
“Boy, if your folks could see you now!” he shouts as I make the final, narrow turn down the field. He looks over at me and raises his eyebrows. “Right?” Mr. Schwab doesn’t know anything about my parental situation—or more accurately, my lack of it—and so I know his comment is completely innocent, but something inside of me deflates anyway. I nod quickly and then look away. We drive in silence for a few more minutes until the last row is finished and then I turn around.
“Thanks a lot,” I say quietly. “It was fun. Winky and I should be getting back, though. It’s almost time for evening prayers.”
Mr. Schwab nods his head knowingly. He doesn’t ask us very many questions about Mount Blessing, but he knows we have weird rituals like evening prayers and Ascension Marches. “Okay then,” he says. “Let’s go get Winky and get you guys back.
The walk back is a long one, especially since it is dark and Winky and I are pushing wheelbarrows filled to the brim with Libby’s special compost. Although mine feels like it weighs two hundred pounds, the weight in my chest feels heavier. Winky walks alongside me for a little while, watching me out of the corner of his eye. He points out a cluster of White Admiral butterflies flapping around a chokecherry bush, and then two Silvery Checkerspots who seem to be mating atop a budding stalk of purple dragon flower. But his voice sounds far away. I don’t answer him. The night air, edged with just the whisper of a chill, makes the hair on my arms stand up. My mouth feels dry. When we come to a fork in the road, Winky turns sharply and I tilt my wheelbarrow too fast, trying to keep up. Suddenly the whole thing tips over, spilling compost in every direction. A horrible smell, like cow manure and rotten eggs, fills the air.
“Shit!” I yell, sitting down hard next to the pile of dirt. George digs into the soft part of my thigh inside my pocket. Furious, I reach inside, pull him out, and throw him as hard as I can into the trees across the road. He lands with a soft plop behind a mound of bushes.
Winky stares at me for a minute and then lowers his wheelbarrow. “What’d you go do that for?” he asks. Suddenly I realize what I have just done. Without waiting for an answer, Winky plods across the road.
“Don’t bother!” I yell, feeling like a three-year-old, but not caring, either. “Leave him! I don’t want him anymore! Just leave him, Winky!”
He ignores me. I watch with dull eyes as he pushes back brambles and tall weeds, sinking to his knees alongside the patch of bushes, pawing the ground with his thick, stubby hands.
“She’s probably just as insane as everyone else here,” I mutter. “Who in their right mind gives a ceramic cat to an infant right before abandoning her?”
Suddenly Winky stands up straight, holding George triumphantly in his hand. Holding a sob of relief in my chest, I shake my head as he sits down in the road next to me.
“Take him,” he says, balancing the tiny figurine carefully on my kneecap. “This here’s the only thing you’ve got of her. So hold on to him, even if you don’t know what it means. Then when you find her someday, you can ask her.” He is looking directly at me, something he rarely does when we talk.
“You think I’ll find her someday?” I ask.
Winky nods. “Yup.”
“Why?”
Winky struggles to his feet. “ ’Cause you want to. It’s a fire thing inside you. And when you got something burning like that inside, nothing else really matters till you find a way to put it out.”
I pick George back up with two fingers. The top half of his left ear is missing. I rub my finger over it tenderly and then insert him back into my pocket, pushing him down deep until he reaches his usual place against the curve of my thigh.
“Come on, now,” Winky says. “Let’s clean up this mess. We’re gonna be late for prayers.” He looks over his shoulder as I get to my feet. “And no more pouting.”
The Great House doors are unlocked, which means that dinner is over, but evening prayers have begun. Winky and I slip in quietly and kneel down at the very back of the room. The service is interminable, as always, and I soon stop chanting and begin looking around for Agnes and Benny. I strain to the right and then to the left, looking around the throng of robed bodies, but I don’t see either of them anywhere. Mr. and Mrs. Little are kneeling in front, right behind Emmanuel and Veronica, counting off the prayers on their consecration beads, but the space next to them is empty.
Emmanuel completes the service by standing in front of everyone and making the sign of the cross over our heads.
“In nomine Patris… ,” he intones.
I hate your guts, I think to myself.
“… et Filii … ”
You big phony. You monster.
“… et Spiritus Sancti.”
In a little while, you’re never going to see me again.
“Amen.”
All around me, people bow their heads, murmuring “amen” under Emmanuel’s raised arms. They do not move until he recedes from view, head lowered over his folded hands, and disappears into his room at the back of the house. I angle my way through the crowd, sidling carefully over to the bench outside his door and reach under it for my shoes. They’re there. I feel a weird sort of tenderness toward them as I pull them back out, as if they have been lonely without me.
Now I head over to Mrs. Little so that I can ask her about Agnes, but someone has already gotten hold of her and is steering her toward the kitchen. That leaves Mr. Little. I swallow hard and walk up
to him.
“Do you know where Agnes is?” I ask.
Mr. Little looks down at me as if regarding a bug on the sidewalk. “Excuse me?” He takes a step backward the way he always does, as if I have cooties or something.
“I said, do you know where Agnes is? I didn’t see her during prayers.”
Mr. Little inserts his arms, one at a time, into the billowing sleeves of his robe and fixes his gaze at a spot in the middle of my forehead. He has a buzz cut and it makes his head look pointed on top. “Agnes and my mother took Benedict down to the Field House. Benedict got ill during dinner and had to go to bed.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks.”
“You’re not to go down there,” Mr. Little says. “I mean it.”
A sour taste fills my mouth. “I’m not going to do anything. I just want to check on Benny. And say good night to Agnes.”
Mr. Little doesn’t blink. “Benny doesn’t need checking. And Agnes will be fine for one night without a good-night from you.” His eyes squint at the corners, exposing a fan of wrinkles. “Actually, maybe it will do her some good. Whenever you’re around, Agnes gives in to all sorts of temptation and sin. She becomes like jelly around you. She thinks nothing of disobeying orders, which is exactly why she ended up in the Regulation Room this morning … ”
Other Believers within hearing distance are looking over at us. I stare at the floor and bite my lower lip.
“… and why I found her at the frog pond this afternoon,” Mr. Little continues, “instead of at the house, as I ordered. As far as I’m concerned, the less time you spend with my daughter—especially during this holy time—the better.” His eyes move from my forehead directly to the center of my eyes. It feels as though he is shooting lasers into my pupils. “For all of us.”
The weight of his words feels like a stone on my chest. I’ve known for years that the man didn’t like me, but this, this feels like hate. Suddenly a hand drops on my shoulder.
The Patron Saint of Butterflies Page 8
