The Patron Saint of Butterflies(16)

“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 staying 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.”