The Patron Saint of Butterflies(43)

But she only turns her head, affixing her gaze to another blurry patch of green outside, and reaches up around her throat for her consecration beads.

Nana Pete makes her way through a sandwich quickly, while I start on my second Big Mac. We share an enormous red paper sleeve of french fries and a gigantic Coke, and by the time I sip the last of it, I’m about ready to pass out.

“You must have a tapeworm in there, Honey,” Nana Pete laughs. She says that on every visit, surprised all over again that I eat so much. “Boy, you can eat a lot.”

“Actually, I don’t feel so good,” I say, unbuttoning the top of my jeans.

Nana Pete laughs. “That’s the thing about McDonald’s. The joy of it is so fleeting and then you have to pay the price.”

“Just like sin,” says Agnes from the back.

I start to turn around and then think better of it. She’s going to be like this for a while.

We’re just going to have to wait it out.





AGNES

I try hard to make Benny as comfortable as possible, arranging the blankets around him tightly and putting his head on my lap, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He just sleeps. The nervous feeling in my stomach isn’t letting up. I still can’t believe I allowed Nana Pete and Honey to talk me into this madness. And all because of the Regulation Room. What did Nana Pete call it? Child abuse! How absurd is that? She doesn’t understand. Well, of course she wouldn’t. She’s not a Believer. She doesn’t get how much we all need that kind of discipline, or the type of people we would turn into without it. We’d be … well, heathens.

The sun is low in the sky, which means morning prayers have probably just ended. I am too frightened to look out the window at everything. It’s too big, too scary. Instead, I pull on my consecration beads around my neck, close my eyes, and start chanting. The next thing I know, Honey’s talking about something called a Big Mac. I will my stomach pangs to go away, offering up each growl and twist in my groin for the horrible way I treated Benny, as the two of them slobber away at their food up front. It is no easy task, as the faint odor of the Big Macs lingers long afterward inside the car. It smells delicious and nauseating at the same time. When I’m sure Honey and Nana Pete aren’t looking, I tighten my waist belt one more time in an attempt to constrict my hunger, but the only thing it seems to be doing is making it harder to breathe.

Then, just as we pass a sign for Gettysburg, Honey asks Nana Pete if she can turn on the radio.

“Sure you can.” Nana Pete leans forward to click on the silver dial. “You just fiddle with those knobs down there until you find something you like.”

I know Honey can feel my eyes boring into the back of her neck as she starts pushing the buttons, but she just purses her lips and keeps pushing. Finally she stops as a woman’s voice comes over the radio. It is the strangest voice I have ever heard, simple and unadorned, but the words she is singing, about God being a slob like the rest of us, are shocking.

“Turn it off!” I scream. “Turn it off, Honey, before we go to hell!”

Honey jumps forward in the seat, clearly startled, but blocks the silver buttons with her hand, as if I have already reached over the seat and am trying to turn it off. “No!” she says. “I want to listen to it!”

I lean over and stuff two of my fingers into Benny’s ears. He doesn’t move. “This is exactly why we’re not allowed to listen to music!” I scream. “It’s blasphemy! Turn it off! Now!”

Nana Pete is watching me carefully in the mirror. She leans over and touches Honey’s wrist. “Turn it off,” she says softly. “Just for now, darlin’.”

Honey gives me a dark look and punches the off button hard with her index finger. “Happy now?” I don’t answer. She turns to look at me. “Blasphemy? You seriously think God’s going to send us to hell if we listen to music?”

“That lady was saying God was a slob!” I shake my head side to side, as if trying to empty the words out. “It’s as bad as breaking the third commandment!”

“Which one is that again?” Nana Pete asks.

“Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain,” Honey recites scornfully.

“It’s true!” I yell. “God could never be a slob! He’s perfect!”


“What’s interesting to me,” Nana Pete says, “is that your idea of perfect seems so off-kilter.”

I blink twice. “No, it’s not.”

“But it is,” Nana Pete says gently. “If God was perfect in every way, as you say he is, then that must mean that he is all loving and forgiving, right?” I nod carefully. “So how could he send people to hell for listening to music?” she asks. “Wouldn’t that go against everything that love and forgiveness are all about?”

I open my mouth and then shut it. “He’s not gonna send the people who listen to good music to hell,” I finally reply.

“And what’s good music?” Nana Pete asks. I don’t answer. “Tell me, Mouse.”

“Stuff that, you know, gives glory to him. Like the music Emmanuel plays on the piano.”

Honey groans and bangs her head off the seat. “Agnes. If the only music people were allowed to listen to in this world is that boring, horrible stuff he plays, people would go nuts!”