The Patron Saint of Butterflies

by Cecilia Galante

  “And did she?” I ask.

  “Well, you know, the whole reason I came to Mount Blessing in the first place was because I had just found out I was pregnant. I was in my senior year of high school and while Ma and I got along okay, I didn’t want her to find out. She had big plans for me, you know? Wanted me to go to college, get my degree in architecture … Anyway, Leonard was calling me regularly by then, telling me that I should drive out to Connecticut to visit him and meet everyone at Mount Blessing. I always stalled and made excuses why I couldn’t go because, frankly, the whole idea of a commune sort of weirded me out. But all that changed when I found out I was pregnant. I figured it was my way out of having to tell Ma, or by the time I did, it would be too late for her to do anything about it. So I came to Mount Blessing. I was only two months pregnant, so it took a while before I began to show. After a while, of course, my belly started to pop out. I tried my best to hide it, especially since Emmanuel was calling me in at least four or five times a week by then to play for him. I wore those horrible blue robes for days at a time and tried to take as few showers as possible, in case anyone saw me. But pretty soon it just became impossible to hide. When Leonard found out the truth, he went ballistic. And then, a month before I gave birth, Veronica found out.”

  I am holding my bottom lip so tightly between my teeth that it feels numb.

  “It was just what she needed. She went straight to Emmanuel and told him.”

  “And?” I ask, releasing my lip.

  “It was as if I or my violin had never entered his life,” Lillian says softly. “He referred to me from then on as the harlot.”

  My mouth tastes hot inside. “Harlot?” I repeat.

  “Yes,” Lillian says. “And a few days after I had you, Leonard came into my room and said that I had to leave. Apparently Veronica had told Emmanuel that she wouldn’t tolerate my presence any longer, that I was an insult to the rest of the female Believers who were trying to live pure lives.”

  I want to cry, scream, bite, kick, spit. I don’t know if I have ever hated anyone more than I hate Veronica right now.

  “But that still doesn’t explain why you didn’t take me with you,” I press.

  “I should have,” Lillian says. “I know that now. But Leonard convinced me to let you stay. Veronica had told him that harlots didn’t deserve to be mothers.”

  I snort. “Ha! She should talk!”

  Lillian nods sadly. “I didn’t want to do it. I told him no at first, that I couldn’t bear to leave you. But he promised me that he would look after you, that you would grow up in a comfortable, loving environment, and that your cousin Agnes, who had been born only a few weeks earlier, would become your soul mate.”

  “But he didn’t!” I scream, leaping up from the couch. “He never looked after me! Agnes and I never knew we were related or that—” My voice breaks, thinking of it. “Or that Nana Pete was mine, too.”

  “I was a fool to believe him,” Lillian says, searching my face. “I thought I was doing the right thing, but you were my responsibility, Honey, and I failed you.”

  “You’re damn right you did,” I say bitterly. “Why didn’t you at least come to visit? Like Nana Pete did? Even if you weren’t allowed to say who you were?”

  Lillian shakes her head. “I wasn’t allowed anywhere on the grounds. Emmanuel forbade it. And after I left Mount Blessing, I had a terrible time of it. I never touched the violin again. Ma and I lost contact and I began to drift around, in and out of work, struggling to get by. I was just massively depressed. I didn’t want to … ” Her voice drops to a whisper. “You know, go on anymore. I just didn’t see a way out.”

  I have no time for her sob stories. “Well, you’re obviously still here.”

  “Yes,” Lillian whispers. “And the thing that kept me going was all those pictures Ma took of you every summer and mailed to me at whatever address I was living at at the time. Then last year we started talking again, trying to rebuild things between us. Ma bought that restaurant for me so I could start over, and then, just a few days ago, everything happened with you telling Ma about that horrible room … ”

  “The Regulation Room,” I say. “Did you ever see it when you lived there?”

  Lillian shakes her head. “No,” she whispers. “He liked me at first, remember? And then … well, I guess there was no need for it later. I was as good as dead to him.”

  “I hope I’m dead to him,” I say, and I mean it with my whole heart.

  The room is silent except for the sound of Mr. Pibbs padding over the floor. I sit up suddenly as a cold dread, like a hand, wraps itself around my throat.

  “We have to go back,” I say, standing up. “Right now. Agnes and Benny will never make it at Mount Blessing without us.”

  “Now?” Lillian asks.

  “Yes,” I say firmly. “Right now. We can’t waste another minute.”

  AGNES

  Thirty thousand feet below me, the world looks like a patchwork quilt. I press my forehead against the smooth bit of window next to me and stare at the different squares of green, the rectangular fields of gold, teardrop-shaped swimming pools, and narrow rivulets of water, which, even from this distance, I know are moving. A strange sensation builds inside of me as I peer at the miniature topography below. I don’t know what it is at first, maybe fear, maybe trepidation, maybe just anxiety. I reach around, pulling my shirt up a little to remove my book before I realize it’s not there. Panic fills me like water. Where is it? Suddenly I remember throwing it across the bathroom floor in Lillian’s house. How could I have forgotten to go back and get it before we left?

  The plane dips to the right suddenly, turning in a wide arc, and my stomach falls with it. I close my eyes and bite my tongue, trying to push the photograph of Dad and Lillian out of my mind’s eye. Why did he call her Naomi just before we left? It will be a two-hour flight back to Newark Airport in New Jersey. Dad says that someone from Mount Blessing will be waiting there to pick us up for the two-hour ride back. I wonder if my heart will survive the distance.

  I glance down the row we are seated in. Dad is on the edge, his feet sprawled in the aisle. His chin is propped against his hand and he is staring pointedly at the seat in front of him, lost in thought. Mom is next, her head on Dad’s shoulder, small hands loose and open in her lap.

  I look over at Benny, who is sitting cross-legged in his seat, although Mom has already told him twice that he can’t sit that way. He has taken his seat belt off and is fiddling with his shoelace. He’s also rocking back and forth. But at least he’s not humming.

  I nudge him a little with my elbow.

  “Hey,” I whisper, jerking my head toward the window. “You wanna see something?”

  He closes his eyes and shakes his head.

  “You don’t? It’s kind of amazing. Come on, get up here on my lap and you can look.”

  Benny doesn’t move.

  “You might not be able to see it again, if you don’t.”

  His finger stops twirling his shoelace as he glances over at the window. I can see the fear in his eyes, behind his glasses. I put my arm around his shoulder. “Come on, Benny. Right here. Right on my lap. Come and look.”

  He crawls over slowly, peering out the tiny window with a rigid expression on his face.

  I point with my finger. “See over there? That tiny little blue circle? That’s someone’s pool.” I grin as Benny’s eyes widen. “I know! It’s so tiny, right? Can you believe it? It looks like a pin!” He nods. “And look over there. See that dark little winding thing? The one that goes up and down, all over? I think that’s a train track. Like a real train would run on.” Benny nods, his face getting pink. “Look over there, at those little red dots. I’m pretty sure those are barns. Just like the horse barn at Mount Blessing.”

  But Benny’s face darkens at the mention of Mount Blessing. He crawls back off my lap and rearranges his legs so they are crossed over each other again.

  I watch as he starts to rock ba
ck and forth, fiddling once more with his shoelace. Leaning my head against the window, I fight back tears. God, I miss her. Oh my God, it’s been only three hours and I miss her. A tear rolls down the side of my face and I lift my hand to wipe it.

  But Benny reaches out as I do and pulls my hand into his. Without looking at me, he lifts up the armrest between us, scooches himself down against my thigh, and curls around it like a little squirrel.

  At the airport, I spot the midnight blue Honda Accord with the sunroof on top and the orange rust stains along the edge of the front wheels, and something settles a little in my stomach. I’ve never been inside Claudia’s car before, but I’ve seen it a hundred times parked alongside the Field House. Its familiarity is comforting. Dad gets in the front with Claudia, while Mom arranges herself between Benny and me in the back. The car smells like peanuts and lemon peel. There is a tiny rubber hummingbird hanging down from the rearview mirror. It swings gently from side to side as the car begins to move.

  Dad talks the entire time about getting back to work at the mattress place, what he had to tell his boss about the time off he took, and the possible sales he missed during his absence. He’s worried about not making his monthly quota. Claudia listens next to him, her jaw clenched so tightly I wonder if she will crack her teeth. I reach down and unzip the front pocket of my book bag, looking for the pink barrette. I just want to hold it. But my fingers come into contact with something else, something flat. I pull out the Polaroids as carefully as I can, staring at the pictures of Honey’s lacerated back with horror. Where did these come from? And how did they find their way into my bag? Did she do this? Is this how she wants me to remember her? Mom turns her head, glancing in my direction, and I hide the pictures as quickly as I can under my leg, away from her prying eyes.

  Claudia cuts Dad off midsentence suddenly, looking at me in the rearview mirror. “How’s Benny’s hand, Agnes?”

  Mom shifts uncomfortably in her seat and looks over at me. Dad frowns at Claudia and then gives me a look.

  “Oh, it’s great,” he answers for me. “I checked it out just a little while ago.” He gives a short, harsh laugh. “I can’t tell anymore which is Emmanuel’s work and what they did in the hospital, but it looks pretty good, I’ll tell you that.”

  I fold my hands in my lap. “Actually, they had to undo everything Emmanuel did,” I hear myself saying slowly. “I talked to the surgeon. He said Emmanuel butchered Benny’s hand. And that there was no miracle. None at all.”

  The silence in the car is so loud that I am aware of the whoosh of tires coming from a car twenty feet behind us. Then Dad smiles, one of his bright, quick smiles that makes me cringe inside. Fear flickers in his eyes.

  “Of course he said that. He’s not a Believer, Agnes! Non-Believers can’t see miracles, even when they’re staring at them in the face. You know that.”

  I look down. Close my eyes. Wait for the voices battling inside my head to stop:

  But I asked him! I asked Dr. Pannetta. Twice! Right to his face! And he’s gone to medical school. He knows. He must know! He fixed Benny up right.

  Did he? Or was he already healed? There are many temptations out in the real world, which, if I embrace them, will cause my faith to weaken and then disintegrate. Was Dr. Pannetta a temptation, trying to turn me away from all I believe in?

  What do you believe in?

  I don’t know.

  Yes, you do.

  No. I don’t.

  “Agnes?” It’s Dad. I raise my face to look at him. His face is shiny, practically glowing with my anticipated response.

  “Why did you call your sister Naomi?” I ask.

  Dad’s fake smile fades against the dark interior of the car. Next to me, Mom freezes.

  “Naomi?” Claudia says. “Now, that’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. You’re talking about Lillian, right?”

  Frightened, I try to hold Dad’s gaze. But his eyes are cutting through me. “I don’t know,” I croak out. “I think so.”

  “Yeah,” Claudia says, unaware that Dad’s breathing has become rapid and shallow. “I remember her.” She glances over at Dad. “How’s she doing, anyway? She still play the violin?”

  Dad turns toward Claudia. “You mind your own business, Claudia,” he says in a terrible voice. He points a finger at me. “And you are not to utter another word until I permit it.” There is a pause. “Do you understand me, Agnes?” Something in me folds in on itself, like a pair of wings closing. I nod, silent and obedient. It’s what Saint Agnes would do.

  Dad sits forward anxiously as flashing red and blue lights slice through the darkness at the top of the hill in front of the Great House.

  “It’s the police,” he whispers. “Why in God’s name are they here?”

  “What do you think it is, Isaac?” Mom asks. “Do you think it has anything to do with us?”

  Dad looks at her sharply. “Of course not. How could … ,” his voice trails off. “Unless Naomi … ” His face pales. “Oh my God.” By now Claudia has parked the car behind the Great House, along with all the other cars. Dad pushes open the door and disappears around the front of the house.

  “Well,” Mom says, putting her arms around me. “We’re home.” She gives me a tight smile. “Let’s go.”

  My knees feel like Jell-O standing in front of the Great Door again. Benny makes a whimpering sound and buries his face in the side of Mom’s leg.

  “He’s scared,” I say, stepping forward. “It reminds him of … ” But Mom only picks him up silently and walks through the door.

  Although all two hundred and sixty Believers are present in the large room, it feels like a tomb inside. Dressed in their blue robes, some of them are kneeling in front of the crucifix on the wall, silently mouthing desperate prayers. Christine is among them, but she is just staring at a point on the wall next to the crucifix. She is not praying. Her face is pasty, her lips trembling. Dad is already in one of the far corners, whispering with Amanda Woodward’s father. Everyone else is sitting at one of the long tables, staring ahead, not saying a word. Mr. Murphy lifts his head as we walk back into the room, but gives no expression of recognition. Iris is sitting next to him, swinging her feet under the bench. Mom pulls a clean blue robe over Benny’s head and then hands me one. I slide into it carefully and tie the cord.

  “What’s going on, Samuel?” she whispers.

  Mr. Murphy looks scared and tired. “Some kind of police investigation,” he says.

  Mom’s face darkens. “Why? Who made allegations?”

  Mr. Murphy shrugs. “No one knows. The police drove up here out of nowhere, just about an hour ago.”

  Mom takes a deep breath and then closes her eyes. “We must pray.” Taking my hand, she begins to chant in Latin. Mr. Murphy joins her. I stay silent, staring first at Benny and then at Iris, who are looking at each other across the table.

  “Are you okay?” Iris mouths.

  Benny nods.

  “Does your hand hurt?”

  He shakes his head from side to side.

  “I’m glad you’re back.”

  Benny smiles sadly at her.

  I look at my brother, really look at him, for maybe the first time. What is he trying to say? What does he need to tell me? Why won’t he talk?

  Dad comes over then and sits down with his back to me. He stares grimly at my mother. “No one seems to know anything just yet,” he says in a low voice. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Just then something bounces off my arm. I look up. Winky is sitting two tables over, waiting for me to look at him. He points toward the Great Door. “I have to tell you something,” he mouths.

  I sit back a little in alarm. Aside from when I came to get Honey from his garden, Winky has never said more than “hello” and “good-bye” to me. He scares me a little, if you want to know the truth. I don’t like looking straight at his face.

  “Please.” His lips form the word carefully.

  I look over at Mom and Dad. T
hey are still deep in conversation.

  Winky is waiting for me outside the restroom when I get there.

  “Honey’s not with us,” I whisper. “She stayed behind in … ”

  He shakes his head and pushes a piece of paper in my hands. As I open it and see Honey’s handwriting, my hands start to shake.

  Dear Winky:

  Please don’t be mad at me. Nana Pete and Agnes and Benny and me are all running away. Bad things have been happening to us. Emmanuel has a secret room called the Regulation Room that he takes us to and beats us with belts in. I have marks on my back to prove it. Nana Pete found out about the room and she is taking us away from this horrible place. I think we are going to Texas, but we haven’t really worked everything out yet, so I will let you know when we get there.

  There is one thing I need you to do for me. I think there may be a slight possibility that Agnes will come back. Even if I don’t come with her. I don’t have any proof; it’s just a gut feeling. And if she comes back, Emmanuel will make her and Benny pay in a way that I can’t even let myself think about. I’m afraid he will hurt them terribly. So please, if you find out that Agnes is returning, please call the police and tell them what I have told you. Tell them about the room. Tell them that all of the kids here are being hurt. Please, Winky. If I can’t save Agnes, please help me do it for her.

  All my love,

  Honey

  P.S. I’m sorry I was too chicken to say good-bye to you myself. But I know I will see you again and when I do, I will be able to do it the right way.

  “It was you who called the police when you found out we were coming back?” I ask when my voice finally returns.

  Winky nods.

  “And you … you told them about the Regulation Room? And everything Honey said?”

  Winky nods again, more vigorously. “They already talked to me,” he whispers hoarsely. “But I didn’t show them the note yet. I figured you’d want to see it first. I told them you would know more. When they find out you’re back, they’re gonna talk to you, too.” He nods toward the back of the Great House. “They’re in there now, poking round that Regulation Room.” He takes a step toward me. “Please, Agnes. I didn’t know anything about that room. I swear on God Almighty. I never seen it. Not once. And Honey never told me nothing all these years.”