“I told you!” Benny says, jumping up and down. “I told you!” He yanks on my hand, nearly dragging me down the rest of the hill. “Hurry up, Ags! She’s waiting!” We break into a dead run, but as we approach the Great Door, I reach out and pull Benny back.
“I know. I know,” he says irritably, shrugging me off.
Weighing close to a hundred pounds, the Great Door is a thing of beauty. Carved from the trunk of a maple tree fifteen years ago by two of the Believers, it is meant to slow whoever approaches with its intricate carvings of suns, moons, and stars. Etched along the top of the top, like an enormous banner, are the words “Glori Patri,” which is Latin for “Glory to the Father.” Benny and I drop to one knee beneath the watchful phrase, crossing ourselves in a somber genuflection. Then it takes both of us, straining under our full weight, to push open the door. When I lean against it, the scent of old sap fills my nostrils. It creaks and moans and then seals shut with a gasp behind us.
The inside of the Great House is one gigantic, long room. It is filled with blue-robed Believers sitting at the long wooden table doing any number of things. Because this is Ascension Week, most of the men who work in town are here instead, getting ready for the feast day. Mr. Murphy, Iris’s father, is in the corner a few feet away, polishing the life-sized crucifix on the wall. His cloth lingers reverently over the exposed rib cage and the blood-mottled skin. Over in the corner, Beatrice, who is one of the head kitchen women, is giving instructions to other women who are peeling potatoes and onions and chopping celery. Lynn Waters, who paints beautiful portraits of Emmanuel, is in the midst of a deep discussion with four women who are holding hand-painted Ascension banners. Four more men are washing the floor-to-ceiling windows, which line the length of the far wall. Despite the amount of activity, no one speaks above a hushed whisper. Emmanuel himself resides in the rooms at the very back of the Great House and must not—under any circumstances—be disturbed.
“There she is!” Benny points to the left side of the room where three leather couches are arranged neatly around a dead fireplace. Nana Pete’s signature braids, pinned tightly across the top of her head, gleam like a silver moon above the soft leather. Mom and Dad are seated on the couch opposite her, their robes fastened tightly under their chins. Mom’s face is set tight, the way it always is when she is in the same room as Nana Pete. Dad looks as though he might faint. Although it is forbidden, Benny breaks into a run down the length of the Great House, his sandals slapping the black-and-white checked linoleum floor.
“Benny!” I hiss. “Walk!” But he is too fast for me. I watch with dismay as he barrels headfirst into Nana Pete’s soft lap.
“Ooof!” She laughs delightedly. “Benny! My word, darlin’!” She holds him at arm’s length, gazing up and down. “Look at how much you’ve grown!”
I walk up slowly, my arms tucked into the opposite sleeves of my robe.
“Mouse!” She uses the name she gave me after my nose started doing that wiggling thing. “I was wondering when y’all would get here!”
I close my eyes as she encircles me tightly and inhale the familiar, lovely scent of her: Wrigley’s peppermint gum, Nina Ricci perfume, and the slight tang of sweat. But a rustle of material makes me open my eyes again. Mom and Dad stand before us, erect as soldiers, their silk cords swaying from side to side. Loose hairs from Mom’s bun cascade softly along her shoulders and there are dark circles under her eyes.
“Sit. Down.” Dad’s voice is as faint and threatening as thunder. “Both of you.” His mustache twitches, and his nostrils flare white. Nana Pete stares up at Dad and then over at us. I wonder how long it is going to take this time for an argument to explode between them.
“Oh, Leonard,” my grandmother says, waving her hand. “Don’t start on the children. I just got here—”
Mom cuts her off. “Petunia, please lower your voice. And please stop calling him Leonard. You know that’s no longer his name.”
Nana Pete winces, either at Mom’s use of her full name, which she despises, or the fact that three years ago, after Dad was received into Emmanuel’s inner spiritual circle, he was rechristened Isaac. Nana Pete’s not too happy about it, but this is pretty common at Mount Blessing. Mom’s name used to be Samantha, but Emmanuel renamed her Ruth at her inner-circle ceremony. Most of the Believers have new names. It’s a symbol of their willingness to shed their old life and start a new one. Someday, if I’m ever so blessed, Emmanuel will bestow a new name upon me, too.
Nana Pete smiles offhandedly at Mom. “Of course,” she says, rearranging herself back into the couch. “I remember.”
Mom sits back down on the couch next to Dad and shoots Benny and me a look. “Fasten your robe, Benedict,” she whispers. “And tie your belt cord. You must remember that you are in a sacred place.”
Benny scrambles again to his feet. I help him adjust his robe and cord until they both hang down neatly around him. Nana Pete watches us with a slightly pained expression on her face.
“That’s better,” Mom says, nodding. “Now sit back down and lower your voices.”
I sit carefully, putting my hands on the seat first and then sliding my bottom over them, biting my tongue so that I don’t wince.
Nana Pete is watching me. “Is something wrong, Mouse?” she asks.
I look up quickly, as if I have been caught. “No, no,” I answer, shaking my head.
Nana Pete’s violet eyes crinkle a little the way they do when she knows I am not telling the truth. I stare at Mom’s feet, which are encased in brown sandals. Her toenails need to be cut.
“Did Emmanuel call for you and Honey this morning, Agnes?” Mom asks, pulling her feet abruptly under her robe. I nod, keeping my eyes on the space where her feet have disappeared. This is all that needs to be said between us. They know the rest. Later, when we return to our own house, they may ask the reason why I was sent to see Emmanuel; then again, they may not. It is not up to them to discipline me for the major wrongs I commit; that is Emmanuel’s job.
Nana Pete looks confused for a moment by the things not being said between my parents and me. She opens her mouth, leans toward Mom, and then closes it again. Putting her arm around me, she pulls me in close. “I’m so glad to see you, darlin’,” she murmurs. She squeezes Benny, who is on the other side of her. “And you too, cowboy.”
A faint ringing sounds from inside Nana Pete’s leather bag. “Pardon me,” she says. A muscle in Dad’s cheek moves as she begins rummaging through her bag. The ring gets louder as she pulls out a thin silver box. We stare as she flips open the top of it, gazes at something for a moment, and then shuts it again with a click. The ringing stops.
“Cool!” Benny breathes, leaning over Nana Pete’s lap. “Is that a phone?”
Nana Pete laughs. “Of course it’s a phone, Benny!” I watch out of the corner of my eye as she flips the top up again and holds it out for him to see. “It’s a cell phone! Haven’t you ever seen one of these?”
Benny and I shake our heads. Mom clears her throat.
“Mother.” Dad sits forward a little in his seat. “Please. Put the phone away. You know things like that are not allowed here. And turn it off so it doesn’t ring anymore.”
Nana Pete slides the tiny phone back inside her purse and, exchanging a look with Dad, crosses her pink rattleskinsnake boots at the ankle. “Fine. But are you really serious about not leaving here for the rest of the afternoon—even to visit with your old mother?”
Dad sighs and glances apologetically at Mom. “Mother. Keep your voice down, first of all.” Nana Pete presses a finger against her lips. Dad closes his eyes briefly, as if searching inside for an untapped source of patience. “As I said before, Ruth and I are in the middle of planning the details of the Ascension March, which is taking place here Thursday evening. It’s a very, very big deal, one of the holiest days of the year, and this year Emmanuel has asked me and Ruth to lead all the team meetings.”
Mom casts her eyes down at the floor. “To be a
sked to plan such an event is an enormous honor,” she says.
Dad draws his thumb and index finger over the sides of his mustache. “I remember telling you specifically about this whole thing the last time we spoke on the phone, Mother.”
“Which would have been when?” Nana Pete asks, reaching under the leg of her pants to scratch her shin. “Eight months ago?”
“Yes, eight months ago. Don’t you remember? I explained everything to you then, from start to finish.” Dad rubs the tops of his knees, as if to stunt the flush that is creeping up along his neck. “Ascension Thursday is the root of our deepest beliefs here, Mother. I know you know that. And for you to just show up—without warning—and expect us to realign our plans according to your whims is just … just incredibly rude!” He leans back into the couch, red-faced from his outburst, and wipes his lips. A long silent moment passes as Nana Pete stares at Dad. No one moves.
“Well,” she says finally. “You’re exactly right, Leonard, come to think of it. I shouldn’t have come swooping down on you out of the blue. I’ve had some things come up unexpectedly over the past few weeks that I thought I would share with you. But you’re right. I should have at least called. My needs are no more important than yours. They can wait.” She reaches down and tugs at the bottom of her white button-down shirt until the wrinkles disappear. Then she places one palm on my knee and one on Benny’s. “I won’t stay long. A few days at the most. And while I’m here, I won’t get in your way. I promise. But will you give me some time with the children until I leave again?”
Dad’s face softens at his mother’s conciliatory words. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Of course,” he says. “But it is Ascension Week, which means the children must stay quiet. No running around the grounds like they usually do with you. You’ll have to take them back to the house and visit there until dinnertime.”
“Fine,” Nana Pete says. She gets up, pulling Dad to his feet, and kisses him hard on the cheek. He looks uneasy. “Have you called Lillian?” she asks in a low voice. “Even just to say hello?”
Mom looks up sharply.
“You just never know when to stop, do you, Mother?” Dad drops Nana Pete’s hands. “Let’s go, Ruth,” he says. “We have work to do.”
…
Nana Pete takes my hand as we walk out to her car. Benny has already raced on ahead and climbed inside. I run my thumb gently over the raised green veins on the surface of her hand. They are soft as velvet.
“Why do you always bring up Lillian, if you know Dad’s just going to get mad?” I ask gently.
Nana Pete tilts her head and studies a turtle-shaped cloud. “Oh,” she says finally. “That’s just what mothers do.”
I don’t press her. The only thing I know about Lillian is that she is Dad’s younger sister and that there was some kind of falling out between them years ago. To this day, I’ve never heard Dad talk about her, and for some reason, he has forbidden Nana Pete from discussing her at all with us. Still, I can’t remember a single visit where Nana Pete hasn’t mentioned Lillian to Dad at least once.
“So why did you come now, instead of in August like you usually do?” I ask.
“Well, I can’t come in August, Mouse. My doctor wants to do a few tests on me then, so I won’t be able to travel for a little while.”
I stop walking. “Tests?” I repeat. “Why? What’s wrong?”
Nana Pete laughs. Her teeth are the color of dimes. “Now, don’t get yourself in a tizzy, darlin’. I’m not getting any younger, you know. And this is what happens when you get to be my age. My doctor just wants to check out this old body of mine to make sure everything’s still ticking.”
“Oh. So it’s just a checkup, then?”
Nana Pete nods, staring straight ahead. “Exactly right, Mouse. A checkup.”
The inside of the Queen Mary smells faintly of onions. One of Nana Pete’s weaknesses is junk food, especially something called Funyuns, which she brings us (secretly) every year. They’re puffy little things that taste like onion-flavored air. I like them all right, but I’ve tried only a few and that was a long time ago, before I started reading The Saints’ Way. For one thing, they’re completely against the rules here. For another thing, saints would never fill their bodies, which are temples of the Holy Spirit, with junk food. But Benny is addicted to them. Now he waits in the backseat, his mouth hanging open like a puppy, until Nana Pete pulls a bag out of the glove compartment.
“Nana Pete,” I start. “Please. You know … ”
She laughs and tosses the bag back into Benny’s outstretched hands. “I know. I know, Mouse. But they’re not going to kill him. I promise.”
I turn and glare at Benny. He already has four of the puffed rings inside his mouth. His jaw freezes as our eyes meet.
Nana Pete reaches out and cups his chin in her hand. “Oh leave him alone, darlin’,” she says. “Let him enjoy something.” She squeezes Benny’s chin and, as if on cue, he starts chewing again. I turn back around and stare straight ahead. Nana Pete laughs and then pokes me in the arm. “You don’t have to be so serious about everything all the time, Mouse.”
“Can we go back to the house now so I can lie down for a while?” I ask, not taking my eyes off the windshield. “I’m pretty tired.” Nana Pete slides her hands over the white leather wheel. Her fingernails, painted a shiny purple color, glitter under the sun.
“Actually, Mouse, I think that’s a fine idea.” She starts the engine and revs the gas. The radio turns on immediately, filling the car with pounding drums and a wailing woman’s voice: Sweet dreams are made of these, Who am I to disagree?
I clap my hands over both ears. “Turn it off!”
Nana Pete leans over quickly and switches off the radio. “I’m sorry, Mouse. I forgot.” The tires make a crunching sound beneath us as she backs the car out of the driveway. “Why aren’t you two in school?” she asks after a moment, steering the car onto Sanctity Road. “It’s Tuesday, isn’t it? Is this a holiday?”
“Emmanuel always shuts school down during Ascension Week,” Benny says.
“The Ascension,” Nana Pete murmurs. “Which one is that again?”
I almost laugh out loud, until I remember that people like Nana Pete who don’t know the holy days of obligation, let alone recognize Jesus Christ as the one and only Lord and Savior of the world, are going to end up burning for all eternity in hell. Dad says that Nana Pete is a heathen because she doesn’t believe in any kind of religion at all. But when I asked her once about that, she said that believing in God and believing in religion were two different things. Which doesn’t make any sense at all.
“It’s when Jesus Christ rose up to heaven,” I answer.
“Ah.” Nana Pete nods her head. “Of course. And what about that march thingie your father was talking about? What is that, exactly?”
I tell her about the annual tradition, the biggest one of the whole year for Believers, when everyone, including the children, dress in snow-white robes (made especially for the occasion) on the evening of the sacred night. Then we will wind our way up a sloped gravelly path until we reach the highest point of the hill where, as a congregation, we will reenact the Ascension itself.
“And let me guess,” Nana Pete says dryly. “Emmanuel plays the part of Jesus Christ.”
“Well, yeah,” I answer. “Of course.” Her tone of voice irritates me, but I stay quiet. There’s no way my grandmother could ever understand how amazing a thing it is, how last year, as I stood between Christine and Mr. Murphy and stared at Emmanuel, who lifted his arms toward the purple sky and tipped his head back, an energy began to emanate from him. It was like an actual heat began to radiate from his body, and his feet very nearly lifted off the ground. It was incredible, just like the picture of Saint Joseph of Cupertino, who used to float off the ground when he meditated.
There is a pause, the only sound in the car the pat-pat of Benny batting his empty Funyuns bag between his hands.
“So have you been st
aying up late to practice for this Ascension March?” Nana Pete presses. “Is that why you’re limping?”
I shake my head as my cheeks flush hot. “I’m not limping.”
“Okay.” Nana Pete eases the bulky car into the narrow driveway of our house and throws it into park. “Can I ask you another question, then?” I can feel her eyes on me. “What did your mother mean earlier when she asked if Emmanuel had sent for you and Honey? Were you in some kind of trouble?”
My blood runs cold. The batting of the plastic bag behind us stops.
“Did Emmanuel take you guys into the Regulation Room?” Benny asks.
I snap my head around and glower at him. His eyes are as wide as softballs behind his glasses.
“The what?” Nana Pete asks, looking at Benny.
“Benedict.” My voice feels and sounds like steel. “Shut your mouth. I mean it.”
My little brother whimpers and then slumps down behind the backseat, disappearing from view. Nana Pete turns off the car engine.
“What exactly,” she asks, staring at me, “is the Regulation Room?” She says the last two words very slowly, as if something bitter has just filled her mouth. My nose starts to wiggle. “Agnes? Talk to me.” Nana Pete never calls me Agnes unless something is seriously wrong. I swallow hard and shake my head.
“It’s nothing. Really. It’s nothing.” The sting of tears pinches the back of my throat.
My grandmother reaches out and grabs my hand. “Agnes. Darlin’. Look at me. Please. Don’t tell me it’s nothing. I know that’s not true.”
But I just shake my head harder. My nose is going into overdrive thinking about having to tell another lie today, a frantic little knob of a thing that is moving so hard that I am afraid it’s going to take flight off my face. I grab the door handle and yank it open.
“Mouse!” Nana Pete pleads.
Slamming the door behind me, I break into a run, ignoring the white-hot burning of my legs, and disappear into the house. It is not until I get into my room that I realize she has not followed me. I listen to the Queen Mary’s engine as it revs furiously, like a rabid animal growling, and then fades into the distance.
The Patron Saint of Butterflies Page 5