The Patron Saint of Butterflies

by Cecilia Galante

  “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—”

  “No, we can’t eat whatever we want. Just because we’re not on the grounds of Mount Blessing, does not mean we have thrown away everything that makes us Believers!” I glare at Honey.

  Honey’s face darkens. “Don’t start with your snippy little—”

  “All right,” Nana Pete interjects. “I know both of you have a lot on your minds. And I also understand that emotions are running high, and sometimes words will be said.” She flicks her eyes between Honey and me as she talks. “But we have to support one another as much as we can right now, not tear one another apart.” She takes a sip of coffee and pats her upper lip with her handkerchief. “You know, when Leonard and Lillian were little and they used to fight, I wouldn’t let them leave the room until they had apologized to each other.”

  “‘A divided house always falls,’” Lillian says, smiling at her mother.

  Nana Pete nods. “Which means, girls, that we’ve got to stay on the same team if we want to make it. Okay?”

  “But we’re not on the same team,” I say, pushing my plate away. “Remember? Benny and I are still Believers. You and Honey aren’t.”

  Honey looks at me, confused.

  Nana Pete puts her palm over the top of my hand. “You’re still my granddaughter, Agnes Little, and Benny is my grandson. That puts us on the same team.” Her eyes shimmer as she talks. “Okay?”

  Just then our waitress reappears, her pad poised in her hand.

  “You look so nice!” she says, staring at my blue robe. “Did you sing in the choir at church this morning, honey?”

  I gasp, horrified, and stare at Nana Pete. “What day is today?”

  “It’s … Sunday, I think,” Nana Pete answers. “Yes, it’s Sunday. Why?”

  I clap my hand against my forehead. “We have to go to Sunday services!”

  Nana Pete looks up at the waitress and smiles. “We’ll need just a minute,” she says sweetly.

  “Sure thing,” the woman says. “You holler when you’re ready.”

  “You don’t understa
nd.” I jab my finger against the glossy green tabletop to emphasize my point. “I cannot miss a Sunday service, Nana Pete, and neither can Benny. We just can’t.”

  “Get ahold of yourself, Agnes,” Honey says. “We’re traveling across the country, for crying out loud. What are we supposed to do?”

  Nana Pete nods her head. “I do think there’s something called traveler’s dispensation, Mouse, which kind of clears you from going to church when you’re on the road.”

  “Kind of?” I repeat. “Kind of isn’t going to cut it when the sun goes down tonight, Nana Pete!” My nose starts to wiggle. “We have to go to Sunday service! We have to!”

  Across from me, Honey clenches a fist. “You know, I’ve bailed on tons of Sunday services, Agnes, and I have yet to disintegrate into a pile of ashes at sundown.”

  I look away from her and shake my head. How could I have let her talk me into running last night? What is wrong with me?

  Lillian stares at Honey, trying to comprehend her words, and then over at me. “Disintegrate into a pile of ashes?” she repeats. “Is that what Emmanuel told you would happen if you missed services?”

  My breathing, which is dangerously on the edge of hyperventilation, slows down. “I know all of you think everything Emmanuel ever taught us is wacky, but I don’t.” I stab at the center of my chest with my index finger. “I still happen to believe in some things. And Sunday service is one of them.”

  “Okay, Mouse,” Nana Pete says gently. She reaches out and pats my hand. “Okay. Just relax, darlin’. We’ll find you a Sunday service somewhere.”

  Mount Olive Southern Baptist Church, recommended to us by the cashier at Perkins, is a tiny brick building with a narrow white steeple and wide red doors, just five miles outside of Raleigh. From the front, it barely looks big enough to hold the five us. As we climb the front steps, I hear loud, strange singing coming from the inside. I stop and hold my breath, wondering if I should tell Nana Pete that this is a mistake.

  For starters, I’ve never been inside an actual church. All Sunday sacrament services at Mount Blessing are always held in the Great House, after the long tables have been cleared away and the benches rearranged into neat rows of pews. Second, when Nana Pete asked me what kind of service I wanted to attend, I hadn’t known how to respond. In fact, up until that moment, I didn’t realize any options outside of the Believers even existed.

  “Would a Baptist service be all right?” she’d asked. “Or maybe a Methodist one? Lutheran? Catholic?” The words were foreign to me; I stared blankly at her.

  Honey rolled her eyes. “I think anything involving Jesus and God will be fine,” she said.

  And so here we are, standing outside a Baptist church in the middle of Greenville, North Carolina, where not only am I unsure we will have room to kneel and stretch out our arms, but the sound of singing is coming through the walls. Before I can open my mouth to say anything, the door opens. A thin black man in a neatly pressed suit beckons us inside with a low bow. We nod and take our seats in the very last pew. I am surprised at how much room there is inside. The ceiling is wide and high and there are at least twenty pews on each side of the church, each filled to capacity. The floor is covered with thin red carpet and all along the walls are wooden engravings of Jesus at different stages of his life. But the only thing I can look at is the black woman up on the altar.

  She has wild, curly hair and gold bracelets on her wrists. Her shiny purple robe sways with her as she moves back and forth, her eyes closed, holding her hands up to the ceiling.

  She is singing a slow, slow song that draws murmurs from the congregation and makes my heart ache.

  I’m troubled

  I’m troubled

  I’m troubled in mind

  If Jesus don’t help me I surely will die.

  She sings six separate verses, all by herself. Each one is about being in the dark, about trying to find the light. The strange thing is, it feels as if she is singing only to me. I keep looking around, but no one else seems to notice. There is never any singing at the Sunday services at Mount Blessing. Singing, Emmanuel says, disrupts the flow of meditation, which is the whole point. We chant our “songs” instead, repeating strings of Latin phrases endlessly, until it is time for Emmanuel to preach. Here, everywhere I look, people are either smiling or crying with happiness. Some raise their hands to the ceiling along with the singing woman, while others clutch handkerchiefs to their faces, dabbing at the tracks their tears have made.

  After the woman is finished singing, a man wearing a red robe (a red robe!) gets up from a chair alongside the altar and walks to the front of the church. He has dark curly hair cut close to his scalp and a strange-looking scar that makes the side of his face look puckered, as if it has collapsed beneath itself. He opens a small Bible and looks at something on the page. Then he shuts it again. I close my eyes. Emmanuel does the same thing just before he begins to preach. Now we’re getting somewhere, I think. Now we’ll have a real Sunday service, complete with stern lectures from the Bible and commands to strive higher, reach farther, try harder to be perfect. But then the man sits down. Right on the top step of the altar.

  “I want to tell you a story,” he says, smiling at us. The scar on his cheek disappears when he moves his mouth. People in front of me sit forward eagerly. Someone in the back says, “All right, Reverend!” My head snaps around. They’re allowed to talk during Sunday service?

  “There was once a boy named Zachary who had a terrible kidney disease,” says the preacher. “It was so bad that if he did not get a transplant, he would die. His parents were frantic. Neither of them were a match, and when they asked their younger daughter, Josie, if she would get tested, Josie started to cry. She had a terrible fear of needles. But after a while she gathered her courage and shut her eyes and went for the test. She was a perfect match. If Zachary was to be saved, he would need to be operated on the very next day. Her parents were overjoyed but a bit apprehensive. They told Josie that if she wanted to, she could give her older brother one of her kidneys—but only if she wanted to. She would have to undergo a painful operation that would involve many needles. It was her decision. Josie listened quietly and asked her parents if she could think about it for a while. An hour came and went and when Josie approached her parents, they held their breath. She would do it, she said. Zachary could have her kidney. The parents cried with joy and hugged Josie tight. ‘But,’ Josie said, ‘when I die tomorrow, will you promise not to forget me?’ “

  I look around as the sound of sobbing fills the church. A woman behind me is weeping openly, nodding and swaying in her seat. Across from her, the woman in the purple robe is sitting in a pew. Her eyes are closed and she is nodding as the preacher continues to speak. His voice gains strength suddenly, causing me to look up.

  “If a child can love in this way,” he says, pausing for a moment, “imagine what Jesus can do when we turn to him. All we have to do is ask. We don’t have to be perfect or pure.” He stands up. “Heck, we don’t even have to feel good about it!” A series of murmured amens sweeps throughout the church. “All we have to do is ask. Just show up and ask.” The man closes the Bible and presses it to the front of his chest. “Lord, here I am. Show me the way.” He bows his head. “Show me the way.”

  A woman yells “Alleluia!” from the pew in front of us. She is wearing a pink dress and a matching pink hat, and she pumps her fist in the air. Honey giggles. Lillian pokes her in the shoulder.

  “There is nothing greater than love,” the preacher says, his voice gaining power. “It is stronger than any evil, any darkness.” More shouts erupt from all over the church.

  “Yes!”

  “Show me the way, Jesus!”

  “Love is the answer,” the preacher continues. “If we love one another, then we need not fear anything else. Love”—he raises the Bible in the air—“is everything.” His last word is spoken loudly, and as if that is the cue needed, the congregation rises as one and stamps and yells and claps.
I glance nervously from side to side, only to see Honey, Nana Pete, Lillian, and Benny all on their feet. Benny is waving his good hand in the air and Lillian and Honey are howling and shouting along with everyone else. Nana Pete is standing there, grinning from ear to ear. I shake my head and press my lips together tightly. The woman in the pink hat stands up and points her finger at the preacher. “Ain’t nothin’ but the truth, Reverend!” she says, before sitting back down.

  Finally the woman in purple comes back up to the altar, followed this time by the rest of the choir. They start off slowly, barely over a whisper, and then pick up speed, their voices rising to a crescendo over the shouting that is still coming from the rest of the church:

  Walk together, children

  Don’t you get weary

  Walk together, children

  Don’t you get weary

  Oh talk together, children

  Don’t you get weary

  There’s a great camp meetin’ in the promised land.

  Benny takes my hand just as the song is ending and squeezes it tightly.

  A myriad of emotions floods through me as the service comes to a close and people start to move for the door. I feel confused and sad and scared and a little freaked out by the whole thing. But I feel happy, too, and I don’t know why.

  As we are descending the steps, I notice the man in red at the very bottom, greeting and hugging people. The lady in the pink hat is standing next to him, doing the same thing.

  “Come on, Nana Pete,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.” But it’s too late. As soon as we come into view, the lady in the pink hat swoops down on the four of us. She has a pair of tiny wire glasses balanced on the end of her nose and the largest breasts I have ever seen. When she presses herself against us, I worry for a moment that I might get smothered.

  “Visitors!” She smiles hugely, exposing a single gold tooth along her upper gums. “Look, Reverend! We’ve got visitors today!” I stand rigidly under her embrace, watching as the reverend turns his attention in our direction.