The Patron Saint of Butterflies(25)

“Hey,” he says, peeling off his dirty gloves. “Mr. Schwab says he’s got a big ol’ pile of compost for me at the farm. You want to come help me bring it back?”

“Absolutely!” I answer. “Let’s go!” Pushing all thoughts of the kinds of trouble we could both get into out of my head, I pull the smaller wheelbarrow out of Winky’s garden shed. Emmanuel can stretch me out on a rack tonight and torture me, for all I care. As soon as Nana Pete gives the word, we are going to hightail it out of here and nothing is going to change that.

Winky takes one of the back roads down to Mr. Schwab’s farm, just in case anyone is out looking for us. He walks quickly, even with his wheelbarrow in front of him, and I have to struggle to keep up. Winky is better acquainted with the woods and outlying boundaries outside of Mount Blessing than I am, since he’s always on the hunt for new and interesting plants he can bring back to the garden. Actually, that’s how he first met Mr. Schwab, a corn farmer who lives two miles down the road. Winky says Mr. Schwab was a little leery of him at first—not because he was slow, but because he was wearing a heavy blue robe with a silk cord around his waist in the middle of August. Still, they became fast friends after Winky told Mr. Schwab what it was he was looking for. Mr. Schwab’s wife, Libby, apparently has a flower garden of her own and knows all about wild plants and shrubs.

Mr. Schwab is one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. He’s middle-aged, like Agnes’s father, but he looks younger. He has black hair and a nice, plain sort of face. It’s always tanned because he is outside so much and his teeth are very white. One time he even took me for a ride on Dorothy, his tractor. I got to stand in the little space right behind his seat with my hands on his shoulders and look out over what seemed like miles and miles of hills. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. His wife, Libby, is great too. She invited me into the farmhouse one afternoon while Mr. Schwab and Winky were digging up a milkweed plant, and sat at the kitchen table with me while I ate a piece of her red-raspberry pie. I forked bite after bite into my mouth, swallowing my twinge of guilt about eating red food, and nodded politely as she told me all about her favorite flowers. When I was finished, I asked for another piece.

By the time we reach the edge of the Schwabs’ farm, I have a stitch in my side and am panting for breath. The stripes along my back and legs feel as if they were on fire. I am just about to stop and sink to the ground when I see Mr. Schwab. He is sitting on Dorothy, waving to us from the other side of the empty cornfield. Behind him, the sky is a pale charcoal color, tinged orange at the bottom like a slice of cantaloupe.

“Winky! Honey! Over here!” The sight of him gives me renewed vigor and I scramble again to my feet. “I was hoping you’d come tonight,” Mr. Schwab says, looking down at me from the tractor seat. My head barely skims the middle of Dorothy’s enormous rear wheel. Mr. Schwab is wearing his usual red baseball cap, faded pink from the sun, blue overalls, and a white shirt. The soles of his work boots are caked heavily with dried mud. I wonder if Veronica would make him take them off before he came into Emmanuel’s room—not that he ever would.

“Oh yeah?” I ask “Why?”

Mr. Schwab’s eyes twinkle. “I thought you might like to take Dorothy for a spin.”

I gasp. “You mean drive her?”

Mr. Schwab laughs and then nods. “I only have a few rows left in the back of the field over there before I call it a night. It’s just tilling, nothing too fast or exciting. Think you’re up for it?”

“Yes!” I burst out. “Absolutely!”

Mr. Schwab laughs again. Then he looks at Winky, almost apologetically. “You okay going over to the house by yourself, Winky? Libby’s there waiting for you.”

Winky nods and waves. “You be careful, Honey.”

I’ve been atop Dorothy before, but only in the tiny space behind the driver’s seat. Now, sitting in the driver’s seat with Mr. Schwab behind me, I feel like a king. Mr. Schwab takes a long time explaining the four pedals on the floor to me. There is something called a clutch on the left, two brake pedals on the right, and the throttle all the way over on the other side. By the time he lets me insert the key into the ignition and start the engine, the sky is a pale purple. My hands are trembling with excitement.

“Just take her real easy,” Mr. Schwab says as the engine roars to life. “Dorothy responds best to a nice, gentle touch.”

My face burns as the tractor lurches and chokes to a stop under my tentative direction, but Mr. Schwab keeps talking to me in a low, steady voice, and a few minutes later Dorothy is rolling smoothly over the soft dirt.

“Yeah!” I scream. “Look at me! I’m driving a tractor!”

Mr. Schwab throws his head back and laughs. “I’m glad you like it. You’re good, too, Honey. A natural. There’s still a bit more work to do, though. Can you turn her to the left now?” I follow his instructions as he leads me to the far end of the field. An hour passes like a heartbeat as I lower the sod till in the back and let Dorothy drag it up and down the neat rows. The smell of warm dirt fills the air as the sky around us gets darker and darker. I can’t remember ever feeling so happy.

And then Mr. Schwab goes and blows it.

“Boy, if your folks could see you now!” he shouts as I make the final, narrow turn down the field. He looks over at me and raises his eyebrows. “Right?” Mr. Schwab doesn’t know anything about my parental situation—or more accurately, my lack of it—and so I know his comment is completely innocent, but something inside of me deflates anyway. I nod quickly and then look away. We drive in silence for a few more minutes until the last row is finished and then I turn around.