The Patron Saint of Butterflies(14)
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.”