The Patron Saint of Butterflies(18)

“Yeah, I was messing around on my bike the other day,” I say. “You know, acting like a goof. I tripped over one of the pedals.”

Winky starts to respond, but is interrupted by the squeal of tires. A pale green car shoots into view, coming to a halt alongside the lawn. I stare as Nana Pete opens the door of her car and starts marching across the lawn. Something about the way her mouth is set in a straight line is setting off alarm bells in my head.

“Nana Pete?” I call. “Hi!”

She beckons me forward with one hand. “Honey! Come with me! Now!”

Now the bells are ringing really loudly. Usually there is a hug and kiss, a “How have you been, sugar pie? You’ve gotten so tall since I’ve seen you last!” Maybe even a supersize bag of Funyuns hidden behind her back. There is none of that now. My suspicions sharpen even more when I get a glimpse of Benny sitting in the back of the car, staring out the window.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Where’s Agnes?”

Nana Pete is next to me now, almost out of breath. She leans over and hugs me quickly, as if to get it out of the way.

“Please darlin’. I’ve been looking for you for over an hour. Please just come with me. I need to talk to you. Right now.” She puts her hands on her hips and looks over at Winky, noticing him all at once.

“Winky,” she says, extending her hand. “Hello. I don’t know what window my manners flew out of on the way up here, but I do apologize.”

Winky sticks out a dirty, gloved hand.

Nana Pete grabs it and pumps it up and down. “Your garden looks absolutely lovely,” she says, surveying the plants. “The nasturtium especially.”

“Thank you,” he says, looking pleased.

“You don’t mind if I borrow your helper here for a little while, do you?” Nana Pete asks. “I have to talk to her about something.”

Winky shakes his head. “Go ’head, Honey. I’ll be here till late.”

I trot behind Nana Pete down to the car, trying to keep up with her. For an old lady, she can move when she wants to.

“Where’s Agnes?” I ask again, my hand poised on the handle of the door.

“Just get in the car, Honey,” Nana Pete answers. Her voice is terse, almost rude. “And shut the door.”

I slide into the front seat next to her, clutching the armrest as she guns the car down Sanctity Road. Glancing over the backseat, I stare at Benny, hoping to discern any bit of information from him, but he has drawn his knees up under his chin and buried his face into the top of them.

Nana Pete finally screeches to a halt, coming so close to the edge of the frog pond that I gasp and rear back. She shuts the engine off and turns sideways, looking at me with wild eyes. Her mascara has started to run and her overly rouged cheeks are shiny with perspiration. She looks like a first-class lunatic.

For the first time, I am frightened. “What?”

Nana Pete swallows. “What is the Regulation Room? What is it, where is it, and what happens to you inside there?”

I am so shocked at her barrage of questions that for a moment I am speechless. Then I realize I don’t know what to say. Except for a few painful details here and there with Agnes over the years, I have never discussed the Regulation Room. With anyone. Ever.

“How’d you find out about that?” I ask finally, struggling to keep my voice from shaking.

“Agnes.”

“Agnes?” I repeat.

“Well, sort of,” Nana Pete says, glancing over at Benny. She is gripping the top of the seat so hard that the soft leather is indented. “Her parents mentioned something earlier about the two of you having been sent for by Emmanuel and well, I don’t know, something about that particular choice of words got me thinking. Then I saw her limping and I kept pestering her to tell me what was wrong … ” Her voice trails off.

“It was my fault!” Benny wails, lifting his head. “I asked about it on accident.” His face crumples behind his glasses, as if he has just realized the magnitude of his admission. “I didn’t mean to, Honey. I didn’t know … ” He lowers his face again and begins to sob, his little shoulders heaving up and down. Nana Pete reaches out and touches his knee with her fingertips.

“Agnes wouldn’t tell me anything,” she says. “But the way she bolted out of the car when I pressed her about it makes me think there is a lot to tell.” Her hand freezes on Benny’s back. “I just want to know if any of you are being hurt, Honey. Please. Tell me the truth.”

My heart is hammering inside my chest. The tips of my fingers feel tingly. I realize all at once that if I tell Nana Pete the truth about the Regulation Room, a chain of events will probably be set into motion that I will not be able to stop.

“It’s … just … this room,” I say.

“And?”

“And … what?” I bite my lip, unsure why I am stalling.

“And where is it?”

“It’s … um … behind Emmanuel’s room.”

“Behind Emmanuel’s room? Like a hidden door or something?”

I shrug. “It’s not hidden, really. But there’s a door.”

“Okay. And what would I see if I opened this door, Honey? Hmmm?”

My mouth tastes bitter, just thinking of it. “A kneeler,” I say quietly.