The Patron Saint of Butterflies(13)

“Wow, this garden is really coming along!” I put my hands on my hips and survey the neat rows of butterfly bushes we planted last night. “It’s gonna be huge this year!” This is the time of year when Winky’s butterfly garden, which he dug and planted all by himself ten years ago, begins to turn into a carpet of color. The pepper and butterfly bushes will bloom in just a few weeks, small pink, purple, and white flowers that will perfume the air with a wonderful lemony smell. By the end of May, most of the purple phlox, French marigolds, nasturtium, and verbena plants will have opened, and in June the rows of purple coneflowers, scarlet sage, and wild zinnias will take center stage.

Of course, the best part of the garden—and the reason Winky planted it in the first place—is the butterflies it attracts. Winky is obsessed with butterflies. He says that the healthiest environments are the ones that attract lots of butterflies. (Don’t think it’s any accident that Winky had to actually build a butterfly garden himself to get butterflies to come to Mount Blessing, but that’s beside the point.) At the height of summer, there will be hundreds, maybe even thousands, of winged visitors to his garden, each one hovering inside its favorite flower. Winky has planted specific flowers for specific butterflies and they love him for it. At times the air seems to hum with the beating of paper-thin wings.

“I don’t know,” Winky says, twisting his head to look up at the sky. “Farmers’ Almanac says it’s supposed to be a dry summer. It might not do so good this year.”

“Well, I’ll pray for rain.”

Winky snorts. “You? Pray?”

I kick at a loose clod of earth. “Hey, did you hear anything about Emmanuel buying a new car? A Mercedes?”

Winky nods. “I heard Beatrice talking about it. It’s for Veronica. Her birthday, I think.”

I shake my head. “It’s just unbelievable. It really is.”

“What, the car?”

“Yeah, the car. And the TV and the stereo and the baby grand piano and all the rest of it. I mean, how stupid is everyone, just nodding and smiling whenever he brings some other ten-thousand-dollar toy into the place?”

“I think the Mercedes cost a little more than that,” Winky says.

“Well, whatever.” I reach down and scoop a handful of the dark earth into my palm. It is cool and dry against my skin. “Seriously, Wink, are we the only two people who think it’s just slightly ludicrous that Emmanuel gets to be the exception to every single one of his rules? I mean, the man is a complete hypocrite! All the way through!” I lob a small stone into the distance. It arcs cleanly over the garden, landing in the field behind it. “And I’ll tell you what, one of these days, I’m going to do something about it.”

Winky turns around and squints up at me. Even with his swollen tongue hanging out of his mouth, I can tell the left side of his face is cocked up into a grin. “Oh yeah? You and what army?”

I shrug. “Maybe I don’t need an army. Maybe I’ll figure out something on my own.”

Winky shoves his scissors back into his rear pocket and looks around carefully. “What’re you talking about exceptions for, anyway? You know I got a TV under my bed.” He acknowledges this with a hoarseness in his voice, as if the guilt is eating him alive.

“Oh, who cares?” I say impatiently. “The thing barely even works, Winky. And the only thing you watch is baseball, for crying out loud.” I pause. “Unlike me.” I mutter this last statement, but Winky jerks his head up and eyes me suspiciously.

“You watching those bad shows again when I’m not around?”

I kick at the ground as the blood rushes to my cheeks. “They’re not bad, Winky. I told you that. They’re just … ”

He struggles to his feet and cuts me off roughly with a wave of his hand. “I told you, Honey!” His face gets red; spit flies out of his mouth. “I told you be fore!”

I raise my hands against my chest. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I won’t do it ever again, okay? I promise.”

“You said that last time,” Winky says accusingly. His nostrils flare under his wild eyes. “You lied.”

I hang my head. “I’m sorry. I really am. I won’t do it again.” I watch shamefacedly as he drops down again to his knees and begins yanking at a patch of weeds. Minutes tick by in an awkward silence. The only sound is the forceful ripping of roots from the ground. After a while I get down on my knees opposite Winky and start weeding my side of the garden, pretending with every pull that I am wrenching Veronica’s head out from between her shoulders.

It feels good.





AGNES

As Benny and I wind our way down the path that leads to the Great House, I catch a glimpse of Nana Pete’s green Cadillac parked in the driveway. The Queen Mary.

I stop momentarily, regarding the physical proof of her presence with an inflating sense of happiness. “Wow, it really is her.”


“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.