The Patron Saint of Butterflies(23)
Since Emmanuel rarely eats with the general population of Mount Blessing, when he does (usually during a holy week), it’s a huge deal. It’s also a sign of great disrespect to be late. Stragglers who show up after the six o’clock bell are locked out of the Great House for the rest of the meal. It happened to Dad once a few years back, right around this time. It wasn’t his fault—the car he was driving home broke down on the side of the road and he had to wait for someone to pick him up—but Emmanuel didn’t want to hear it. Poor Dad had to go back down to the Field House and wait for us to finish eating. I told Benny to shove extra bread in his pockets for him, but Dad didn’t want it.
“No, Agnes,” he said, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t have done that. Emmanuel is right. I deserve to go hungry tonight.”
“But it wasn’t your fault!” I protested. “The car—”
“Nothing happens by accident,” Dad said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Everything is God’s will. And tonight he was testing me. The truth is, I should have tried harder to find another way home so that I wouldn’t miss Emmanuel’s presence at a meal. But I didn’t. I gave up and just waited for someone to come get me.”
“But … ”
“No buts,” Dad said firmly. “God helps those who help themselves.”
I was so confused that I almost felt angry. Rule or no rule, Dad’s explanation just didn’t make any sense. None. But it had to, I told myself later, retying my waist rope in bed. After all, it was Dad talking. Next to Emmanuel, he was the holiest person I knew.
Tonight there is a low murmuring throughout the Great House, like the inside of a beehive. The room is a sea of blue robes moving in every direction. Mothers are hustling their children into their required seats, while others place baskets of bread on the table. There are green plastic bowls at every place setting, along with a small plate and cup. I follow Mom and Dad and Nana Pete over to our usual table and sit down. Benny settles in next to me and begins to fiddle uneasily with his glasses. I glance around the room, looking for Honey. Usually she is at the table opposite ours, sitting with Winky. I catch sight of Christine, Claudia Yen, and her brother, Andrew, but I don’t see Honey anywhere. Where is she? I look up at the clock nervously: 5:57. She has three minutes before the Great Door will close and then lock.
Suddenly a hush descends and, like an enormous wave cresting, the room surges to its feet. Mom and Dad close their eyes and bow their heads, solemn looks on their already solemn faces. Benny hops up next to me, squeezes his eyes shut, and begins tapping the front of his legs with his palms. I look nervously out of the corner of my eye at Nana Pete. She is not standing.
“My children!” the familiar throaty voice calls out. “Good evening! Bless you all on the first sundown of the holiest week of the year.”
Dad opens his eyes briefly, frowns, and then pokes Nana Pete in the arm. “Get up,” he hisses. But Nana Pete just stares straight ahead.
I turn back around quickly, moving sideways and then forward until I can see Emmanuel through the throng of people. Fear flashes through me for a split second as I get a glimpse of the top of his head. His thick silver hair is meticulously groomed, brushed to one side in a deep swoop. When he talks, his yellow teeth glitter behind his beard, and his eyes seem to settle on every single person in the room. But it is his voice that finally causes me to drop my eyes, a deep baritone so full of assurance and authority that sometimes my knees feel as though they will buckle out from under me.
“Tonight as we begin our evening meal, let us remember who it was that gave up his own body and his own blood for us so that we might live forever.”
“Amen,” the room says collectively.
“And let us always be mindful of the fact that we are sinners of the worst kind, unlovable in every way, if not for the love and mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ.”
“Amen, alleluia!” the room chants, a little more enthusiastically than before. I bow my head.
“And like Jesus Christ, I love each and every one of you,” Emmanuel continues, lowering his arms slowly. “You are all my children, and as your father, I am not only aware of, but understand, your most repulsive weaknesses. Despite that, I love you even more, just the way you are.”
I pretend not to hear the low grunting sound behind me over the awed murmuring of the crowd.
“Thank you, Emmanuel!” someone cries.
“Oh, Emmanuel!” says another. “Bless you! God bless you!”
Emmanuel looks over and smiles at Veronica, who is standing next to him. She reaches out and takes his hand. Cords of green veins stand out against her forehead and her pink lips look like a bow on a Christmas present. Even with her robe on, I can see the sharp angles of her collarbone sticking out, and when she lifts her hands to smooth her hair back, one of her heavy gold rings, a gift from Emmanuel, glitters on her fingers. She is so beautiful. I turn back around slowly and put my napkin in my lap, trying not to think about the word she wrote on Honey’s back.
Across the table, Dad is whispering angrily in Nana Pete’s ear. But she doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to whatever it is he is saying. Soon the women who work in the kitchen are moving in and among the rows, spooning ladlefuls of thick yellow broth into our bowls. My heart sinks as I realize that it is one of my favorites, a hearty corn chowder, dense with potatoes, celery, and fresh corn. Slowly, I close my hands over my bowl as the woman lowers her ladle over my shoulder.