The Patron Saint of Butterflies(58)

HONEY

After Lillian drops her rental car off at a place near the church, the five of us get back inside the Queen Mary—Agnes, Benny, and me in the back, Nana Pete and Lillian in the front—and hit the road again. Lillian is driving. It’s almost noon.

“We’ve got some ground to cover,” Nana Pete says, opening her bottle of pills and throwing one in her mouth. “I don’t know how fast you can drive, darlin’, but it would be nice to get to Savannah before nightfall.”

“It’s only five hours,” Lillian says. “I think we can do it.”

Agnes slumps over on her side of the car and sighs deeply. Ever since she got up this morning, she’s been acting all weird again. Maybe I’m crazy, but I thought we’d had a little bit of a breakthrough back there in Raleigh, talking about the barrette and running in the rain. But I guess not. Old habits must die harder than I realize. I gaze out the window as the North Carolina highway blurs by.

Nana Pete and Lillian talk softly up front. I wish they would turn around and talk to me. But hours pass and there is no indication of any shared conversation. I pull out my butterfly notebook and start sketching a White Skipper from memory. It ends up looking terrible, like a distorted balloon instead of a butterfly. I close the book, lean my head back against the seat, and pretend to sleep.

“He hasn’t said a word since the operation,” Nana Pete is saying. Her voice is hushed and she is talking out of the side of her mouth. “Not one single word.”

“He’s in shock,” Lillian says. “It happens to children sometimes. I think it’s just because they have no words to describe certain things. It’s too much.”

“Do you think he’ll snap out of it?”

Lillian nods. “I’m sure he will. We just have to give him some time.” I glance over at Benny. He has his first two fingers of his good hand stuck in his mouth and he is sleeping soundly. For the first time, I realize just how young he is. I wonder how helpless he must have felt when Emmanuel lifted him off the table and carried him into his room. Like a lamb being taken to slaughter. I put my hand on his knee and keep it there until he stirs again.

After a while, Lillian pulls through a fast-food place called Captain D’s and orders two buckets of fried fish, some weird little bally type things called hush puppies, and french fries with vinegar. I eat everything quickly, even licking the inside of the paper wrapper the fish comes in. It’s delicious. Lillian, Benny, and Nana Pete eat their fish, too, but Agnes doesn’t touch a thing. She’s probably started another fasting period. Let her. I don’t even care anymore.

“You wanna play Guess Who?” Lillian asks after everyone has finished eating. She’s looking at me in the mirror.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“It’s a guessing game. I think of a famous person and you get to ask twenty questions until you think you’ve figured out who it is.”

“I don’t really know any famous people,” I say.

“You could do saints,” Agnes mumbles.

I roll my eyes. “Forget it.”

“No, I think that’s a great idea!” Nana Pete says, turning around. “Don’t you, Lillian?”

Lillian slides a look over at her mother and nods. “I don’t know how far I’ll get, since I don’t know much about them, but I’m sure I’ll learn a great deal.”

“You start, Mouse,” Nana Pete says.

“No, I don’t want to play,” she says, shrinking back against the seat.

I turn, glaring at Agnes. “Spare me. You want to play so badly you can taste it. Now, just play. I’ll even sit this one out.”

So Agnes starts. Nana Pete and then Lillian ask questions until it’s disclosed that Agnes’s saint of choice is a girl who died when she was only twelve …

“Saint Agnes,” I blurt out.

“Hey!” Agnes yells. “You’re not even playing!”

“You’re so predictable, Agnes,” I say meanly. “Think of another one.”

“Why did she die so young?” Nana Pete asks.

“Oh God,” I say. “Here we go.”

Of course Agnes tells her the whole story of her namesake, Saint Agnes, a story she has told me over and over again since she got The Saints’ Way. I close my eyes and brace myself.

“Well, okay,” she starts softly, but as she gets into it, her voice picks up. “Saint Agnes was a very beautiful girl. And a nobleman from Rome wanted to marry her—they married really young back then—but she said no, because she wanted to be a nun and devote her life to God.”

“Like someone else we know,” I murmur.

“Honey.” Nana Pete glares at me. “Stop.”

“Okay, okay,” I answer. “Not another word.”

“Go ahead, Agnes,” Nana Pete says.

“So the man was really upset that Agnes wouldn’t marry him and to get back at her, he accused her publicly of being a Christian, which was against the law in those days. She was arrested and brought before a judge and the judge tried to get her to deny it. He even went easy on her because she was so young. But she wouldn’t budge. Then they threatened to torture her by peeling off her skin and burning her alive, but she still wouldn’t deny Christ. Finally she was ordered to be executed. When she was brought up to the block, the executioner got really nervous, because she was so young and beautiful. He even begged her to reconsider, but she wouldn’t.” Agnes sighs and leans back in the seat. “And so she died a martyr for Christ.”