The Patron Saint of Butterflies(28)

“But you said I could see them until I leave again,” Nana Pete says. “You said it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“And when I explained the sacredness of this week to you, you said you would take them down to the house and do something quiet,” Dad retorts. “Half an hour later, I find you stuck in the mud with a frog in your hand.”

Nana Pete clears her throat. “Well, we certainly won’t do that again. I promise.”

“I’m sorry, Mother, but the children need to be in their groups tomorrow,” Dad insists. “They are making all the banners for the march, as well as new robes this year. There is a lot of work still to be done and it’s not fair that they get to be excused.”

“Leonard—”

“Isaac,” Dad interrupts. “It’s Isaac, Mother, okay?”

Nana Pete takes a deep breath. “Isaac. Please. I’m only staying a few days. Please just let me take them for the day tomorrow. I won’t ask for any more time after that. Please.”

I can hear Dad hesitate. I squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath, praying silently to Saint Jude, who is the patron saint of lost causes.

“The afternoon only,” Dad says finally. “They must attend all prayer services and work on their banners and robes in the morning. After lunch you can take them.” He pauses. “Back here, to the house. Only the house, Mother. Nowhere else.”

“Okay.” Nana Pete sounds disappointed, but I smile in the dark.

“Oh,” I hear Dad say. “Veronica approached me after prayers this evening. She said that Emmanuel would like you to join them for breakfast tomorrow, after morning prayers. Ruth and I have been invited, too.”

“Why?” Nana Pete sounds perplexed.

“What do you mean, why? Because he knows you just drove nine hundred miles and he wants to share a meal with you. He’s a gentleman.” Nana Pete coughs lightly. No one says anything for a moment. “All right?” I hear Dad say finally. “Mother?”

“Okay,” Nana Pete says. But her voice sounds faint. “All right, then. Fine. I’ll be ready.”

The next morning, Nana Pete is in the kitchen, dressed in a clean pink shirt and freshly ironed blue pants. Her hair has been brushed, braided, and pinned back up around her head, and she has put on a coat of pink lipstick.

“What are you doing up?” Benny asks sleepily.

Nana Pete grabs him and plants a kiss on his cheek. “Good morning to you, too, darlin’.” She looks over at me. “I’m going up to morning prayers with y’all and then on to breakfast with Emmanuel.” I glance over at Dad, barely able to contain my happiness. He nods and grimaces.

During morning prayers, Honey nudges me and then nods her head in Benny’s direction. I watch as he puts his hand under his robe and pushes something down in his pants pocket. There is a muffled croak as he jams his hand down again, harder this time. Honey giggles. “The frog,” she mouths. “From yesterday. He still has it.”

I can feel the blood run out of my face. Pressing my lips together, I sneak a look behind me, wondering if any of the Believers kneeling on all sides of us have noticed Benny’s squirming. Claudia is a little ways off to the right, but she and all the other adults have their eyes shut tightly, lost in prayer. I transfer my gaze again to the cross on the wall and try to do the same.

“Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra … “

“I get y’all after lunch,” Nana Pete says, putting her arms around the three of us after prayers have ended. “And I have some really fun stuff planned for us to do.” Dad gives her a sidelong glance. “At the house, of course.” She kisses us each on the forehead. “I’ll see you after lunch.”

“Come on, Mother.” Dad looks jittery and pale as Mom takes his hand. “We don’t want to keep him waiting.”

“Where’re they going?” Honey asks as we watch them walk away.

“Emmanuel invited Nana Pete into his room for breakfast. Mom and Dad got to go, too.”

Honey’s face pales a little. “He did? And she’s going?”

I glance at her sharply. “Yes, she’s going. Why wouldn’t she? Emmanuel’s just trying to be nice after her long trip. He’s a gentleman.”

At the other end of the room, Christine is herding all the kids around the first table, where we will eat breakfast. I pull on Honey’s arm, but she doesn’t take her eyes off Nana Pete, who has just disappeared around the corner. “Come on, Honey. It’s time to eat.”


Breakfast, like every other meal this week, is lean. Still, the slice of toast set before me and the tiny glass of apple juice look as good as any five-course meal. I am so hungry I feel like I could eat my arm. The yellow scent of butter wafts inside my nostrils, making my head spin. Honey, who always eats as if she is starving, inhales her toast and then looks over at me. “You gonna eat that?”

I shake my head miserably and slide it over in her direction.

“Man,” she says, snatching it before I can blink, “I wonder what they’re talking about in there.”

“Who?”

“Nana Pete and Emmanuel.” A vein at the corner of her eye pulses as she talks. “God,” she says. “I can’t stand it.”