The Patron Saint of Butterflies by Cecilia Galante
This book is dedicated to Ruth VanLokeren and to Fannye Jo Plummer.
In a room where people unanimously maintain a conspiracy of silence, one word of truth sounds like a pistol shot.
—Czeslaw Milosz
1saint: \’sant, before a name (’)sānt or s?nt\
noun
1: one officially recognized especially through canonization as preeminent for holiness
2a: one of the spirits of the departed in heaven …
3a: one of God’s chosen and usually Christian people b capitalized: a member of any of various Christian bodies; specifically: LATTER-DAY SAINT
4: one eminent for piety or virtue …
Zebra Longwing:
The Zebra Longwing is one of the most beautiful butterflies in North America. Usually black in color, its long, slender wings are highlighted with vivid yellow stripes. Small white spots freckle the edges like a dusting of snow. Although these butterflies roost in colonies at night, they disperse at first light to look for food. Zebra Longwings thrive naturally in the southern part of the United States, as well as most of tropical America.
PART I
AGNES
“Please tell me what to do,” I whisper, staring at the crucifix on the wall. “Is there any other way to get out of here right now without telling a lie? Could you just give me a sign to let me know? Maybe blink your eyes or nod your head or something?” Clasping my hands under my chin, I bow my head, close my eyes, and wait. Around me, the other twenty-seven kids in the room continue chanting the afternoon prayers, their lips moving methodically over the Latin words. The air in the room is warm and stale. My knees are grinding into the thin carpet and I can detect the faint smell of sweat under my blue robe. Some days, afternoon prayers can feel like they go on forever. I count to ten and raise my head again. The Christ figure on the cross remains frozen in his agonizing position: hands and feet nailed to the wood, ribs exposed, eyes raised heavenward. My shoulders sag. No sign this time.
Well, that’s it, then. There’s simply no other way. It’s just that the thought of having to tell a lie makes me mad. Furious, even. I’ve done so well this whole week, and now I’m going to blow it because of Honey. This is her fault. If she hadn’t taken off after Emmanuel called us into the Regulation Room this morning, I wouldn’t even be in this situation. Why does she have to go and do things like that? It’s not like it was the end of the world or anything. Peter and I had been called in there with her, and then Emmanuel told the two of us to go back down to the East House. Honey had been ordered to stay behind for some reason, but I’m sure it wasn’t a big deal. At least, I don’t think it was. I just can’t get rid of the feeling that something might not be right this time. Four hours have passed and there’s been no sign of her. She’s run off before after Regulation Room visits, but never for more than an hour. Lie or no lie, I’ve got to find her.
Behind me, a throat clears. I turn my head slightly and lock eyes with Peter. He has pushed his light brown hair, which usually hangs in his eyes, off his face. He’s part of the reason we got into trouble this morning, and I know he feels guilty for Honey’s prolonged absence. “Are you going to go find her?” he whispers. His teeth, large and crooked, look too big for his small mouth. What Honey sees in him is beyond me. Peter knows as well as I do that if anyone finds Honey outside today, she’ll get in even bigger trouble than she did this morning. It is Ascension Week here at Mount Blessing, and no one is allowed outside except to walk to and from the Great House for meals.
Mount Blessing is the religious commune just outside of Fairfield, Connecticut, where I was born. I live here with my parents and my little brother, Benny, along with about two hundred and sixty other people, including Honey. Mount Blessing was founded by our leader, Emmanuel, who wanted to create a community of holy people, separate and apart from the sinfulness of the rest of the world. There is no one in the world quite like Emmanuel. My dad told me once that the reason so many people keep coming to live here is because Emmanuel can make broken people whole again. And it’s true. There have been people who have come here messed up on drugs, feeling lost or even suicidal. After spending a week or so with Emmanuel, they become completely new people, striving to live good, religious lives. He heals them from the inside out. And sometimes from the outside in. After Emmanuel laid his hands on little Frankie Peters, who has been stuttering since first grade, he began to talk just as well as the rest of us. And just last year, Grace Willoby’s facial tics vanished completely after Emmanuel prayed over her. Dad tells us all the time how lucky we are to be living with such a saintly man, and I know he’s right.
Now I glance at the clock on the wall. One thirty. Taking a deep breath, I look back at Peter and nod my head. His whole face relaxes as he closes his eyes and resumes chanting. But I cannot even look at the crucifix when I turn back around. Bowing my head, I make the sign of the cross over my chest and try to control the quavering in my whispered voice.
“I know telling a lie is a sin, but I have to go find Honey and I just can’t think of any other way to get out of here right now. I will make it up to you with an extra penance tonight. I promise. Please forgive me.” I squeeze my hands so tight that my knuckles turn white. “Please.” Reaching under my robe, I pull out The Saints’ Way from inside the waistband of my jeans. The Saints’ Way is a book about how to live our lives, using the life stories of saints as examples. All the adults at Mount Blessing have the book, but Emmanuel gives each child a personal copy on his or her twelfth birthday. I got mine two years ago, and I’ll never forget it.