The Patron Saint of Butterflies(27)

Mr. Little inserts his arms, one at a time, into the billowing sleeves of his robe and fixes his gaze at a spot in the middle of my forehead. He has a buzz cut and it makes his head look pointed on top. “Agnes and my mother took Benedict down to the Field House. Benedict got ill during dinner and had to go to bed.”

“Oh. Okay. Thanks.”

“You’re not to go down there,” Mr. Little says. “I mean it.”

A sour taste fills my mouth. “I’m not going to do anything. I just want to check on Benny. And say good night to Agnes.”

Mr. Little doesn’t blink. “Benny doesn’t need checking. And Agnes will be fine for one night without a good-night from you.” His eyes squint at the corners, exposing a fan of wrinkles. “Actually, maybe it will do her some good. Whenever you’re around, Agnes gives in to all sorts of temptation and sin. She becomes like jelly around you. She thinks nothing of disobeying orders, which is exactly why she ended up in the Regulation Room this morning … ”

Other Believers within hearing distance are looking over at us. I stare at the floor and bite my lower lip.

“… and why I found her at the frog pond this afternoon,” Mr. Little continues, “instead of at the house, as I ordered. As far as I’m concerned, the less time you spend with my daughter—especially during this holy time—the better.” His eyes move from my forehead directly to the center of my eyes. It feels as though he is shooting lasers into my pupils. “For all of us.”

The weight of his words feels like a stone on my chest. I’ve known for years that the man didn’t like me, but this, this feels like hate. Suddenly a hand drops on my shoulder.

“Come on, Honey,” Winky says. “Let’s go.”

I follow him somberly down the hill, past the lilac bushes and along the length of Sanctity Road until we get to the Milk House. A little farther down, through the pine trees, I can make out the edge of the Field House, where Agnes is.

“I’m going down there,” I say, striding past Winky toward the Field House. “He’s not my father. He can’t tell me what to do.”

But Winky grabs my arm. “Don’t.” His eye is twitching terribly. “He’ll ask her t’night if you came, and you know she won’t lie. And then she’ll have t’pay for it.”

I stop and then whirl around, furious. “God, Winky, do you have to have all the answers tonight?”

His eye slows down a little as he lowers his voice. “C’mon. It’s already ten. The game’s prob’ly half over by now.”

“Who’re they playing tonight?” I ask grudgingly.

“Cleveland. And they’re good this year.”

I arrange myself at the foot of his bed as Winky pulls out the TV and adjusts the wire antenna on top. In thirty seconds, there is a fuzzy picture of the Cleveland pitcher throwing a ball to the catcher. A Yankee strides up to the plate. Winky pulls nervously on his bottom lip. “C’mon, buddy,” he mutters. “Let’s get a move on.”

I pull out my butterfly journal from Winky’s bookshelf and page slowly through the sketches and information I’ve collected over the years. So far I’ve recorded seeing one hundred and forty Spangled Fritillaries (the most common butterfly in these parts), sixty-four Clouded Sulphurs, ninety-two Northern Cloudywings, sixteen whirlabouts (they prefer ocean air, which we’re not close to), twenty-nine Spicebush Swallowtails, two hundred ten American Coppers, nineteen Spring Azures, and twenty-seven Silvery Blues. I’ve got a rough sketch of each species, including the caterpillar stages. Tonight I mark down the Yellow Fritillary I saw in the field today with Agnes and then the two White Admirals Winky pointed out to me on the way back from the farm.

Next I pull out The Encyclopedia of Butterflies. I always open it to the same page and stare at the same butterfly, which Winky pointed out to me a few years ago. It’s called a Zebra Longwing and it is so beautiful, with its white-and-black-striped wings and long, teardrop shape. Winky says he’s seen only one in all the years he’s had his garden, and that when he did, it was one of the best days of his life.

I’d like to have one of those days.

My eyes feel heavy as I close the book and look up at the TV screen. Cleveland is up by two. “I’m going to bed,” I say. “I’m tired.”

“Okay,” Winky says. “Night.”

I climb the steps to my loft, pull the heavy drape across the front, and put on my pajamas. With George in one hand, I crawl into bed and count to ten, but it doesn’t do any good. My little heart night-light burned out years ago and I haven’t wanted to ask Christine for a new bulb. She doesn’t need to know that I’m still afraid of the dark.

“Wink?” I call out after a few minutes.

“Yup,” he says, getting up and clicking on the tiny lamp atop his dresser. The light makes a soft halo on the ceiling. “Sorry. I forgot.”





AGNES

It’s almost ten thirty by the time Mom and Dad get back from the Great House. Benny has been asleep for hours, but I am still awake, trying to find a bearable position atop the layer of rocks under my sheet. Lying on my back again is impossible, but I discover that if I lay perfectly still on my belly, it is not quite so bad. I prick my ears as Dad and Nana Pete start arguing in the next room.