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.
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 M
ary 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.
The Patron Saint of Butterflies Page 20
