The Patron Saint of Butterflies(55)

She turns her head to look at me and for just a second I can see that clear, liquid light behind her eyes.

“Let’s run,” I whisper. “Come on, Ags. Just once. It’ll feel great.”

I switch Nana Pete’s beams to high. The bright lights slice through the rain like razors. It’s the only light we have to illuminate the length of the parking lot, but it’ll have to do. We line up at the far end of the lot, just past the hotel front door. Agnes is tipped forward, the way she used to in the old bicycle ring, her fingertips spread flat against the pavement, her rear end high in the air. She has taken off Nana Pete’s cardigan, and her new shorty pajamas are so wet they are practically transparent. I imitate her racer’s stance and then look over through my dripping strands of hair.

“Just one,” Agnes says, staring nervously ahead. “That’s it.”

“Ready … ,” I say, dragging the word out slowly. Her fingertips tense beneath her. “Set … ” Her butt lifts up an inch more. “Go!”

She doesn’t notice when I stop halfway across the lot. The rain is coming down so hard that I can barely see.

“Go,” I whisper, watching her run through the downpour, her elbows pumping alongside her hips, hair streaming behind her in thin ropes. “Go, Agnes.”





AGNES

The first thing I feel the next morning is the muscles in my calves aching. Although we ran just a single length of the parking lot, my legs had stretched and strained themselves, as if waking from hibernation. In the shower afterward, I massaged them gently, to avoid charley horse cramps. Now I lean up on my tiptoes to ease the tightness behind them and then relax again. I was shocked at how good it felt to run again—even better than I remember. There is something about moving that fast in the rain—it makes my heart beat faster, my legs stretch longer, my breath quicken in my lungs. I can’t think of a single thing to compare it to.

“Agnes!” Nana Pete calls. “Are you ready?” Sliding my arms back into my robe, I pin my hair back quickly into a knot and look in the mirror. I feel a little shaky inside, but at least I still look like a Believer.

Lillian wants to get back on the road right away, but Nana Pete says she’s not doing anything without her coffee first. We head across the street to a place called Perkins and slide into a green booth. Everything’s going along fine until Lillian orders pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream.

“I’m gonna have the same thing,” Honey says.

Then Benny points to the picture of the strawberries and pancakes and nods his head up and down.

I give him a little elbow in the ribs. “Strawberries,” I say, shaking my head. “You can’t.”

“Is Benny allergic to strawberries?” Lillian asks. I press my lips together and study the blue rim of Nana Pete’s coffee cup.

“No,” Honey says finally. “He’s not. But Believers aren’t allowed to eat red food at Mount Blessing.” I can feel Lillian and Nana Pete exchange a look.

“Oh,” Lillian says. “Right. I forgot about that one.” She pauses and then looks over at me. “But we’re not at Mount Blessing anymore, Agnes. I’m pretty sure you and Benny can eat whatev—”

“No, we can’t eat whatever we want. Just because we’re not on the grounds of Mount Blessing, does not mean we have thrown away everything that makes us Believers!” I glare at Honey.

Honey’s face darkens. “Don’t start with your snippy little—”

“All right,” Nana Pete interjects. “I know both of you have a lot on your minds. And I also understand that emotions are running high, and sometimes words will be said.” She flicks her eyes between Honey and me as she talks. “But we have to support one another as much as we can right now, not tear one another apart.” She takes a sip of coffee and pats her upper lip with her handkerchief. “You know, when Leonard and Lillian were little and they used to fight, I wouldn’t let them leave the room until they had apologized to each other.”

“‘A divided house always falls,’” Lillian says, smiling at her mother.

Nana Pete nods. “Which means, girls, that we’ve got to stay on the same team if we want to make it. Okay?”

“But we’re not on the same team,” I say, pushing my plate away. “Remember? Benny and I are still Believers. You and Honey aren’t.”

Honey looks at me, confused.

Nana Pete puts her palm over the top of my hand. “You’re still my granddaughter, Agnes Little, and Benny is my grandson. That puts us on the same team.” Her eyes shimmer as she talks. “Okay?”

Just then our waitress reappears, her pad poised in her hand.

“You look so nice!” she says, staring at my blue robe. “Did you sing in the choir at church this morning, honey?”

I gasp, horrified, and stare at Nana Pete. “What day is today?”

“It’s … Sunday, I think,” Nana Pete answers. “Yes, it’s Sunday. Why?”

I clap my hand against my forehead. “We have to go to Sunday services!”

Nana Pete looks up at the waitress and smiles. “We’ll need just a minute,” she says sweetly.

“Sure thing,” the woman says. “You holler when you’re ready.”