The Patron Saint of Butterflies(64)

Benny buries his face in Agnes’s shoulder.

And when she turns to stroke his head, I run like hell.





AGNES

The front door slams like a gunshot. In the silence, Benny and I stare at each other for what feels like an interminable amount of time. For the first time since everything happened, I’m glad my little brother has fallen mute. I know that sounds terrible, but I don’t want to hear what he is thinking or what it means when his eyes race across my face, pleading silently with me. I hold his shaky gaze instead, willing him to see my own thoughts running like a train behind my eyes.

I know I’ve done the right thing. I know it. I know it. I know it. I know it. Let her go. Who cares if I never see her again?

My muscles strain under my skin, trembling with deprivation.

If I go after her, she’ll think I’m making excuses. And if I give her even one opportunity to start talking again, she’ll never stop. She’ll start with all her crazy arguments and wheedling and I might not be able to stand up to her again.

Why did it take me so long to finally stand up to her in the first place? After all this time, the only thing it took to get her to back down was having a backbone. She’s just a bully, when all is said and done. Punching me in the face like that. Like a crazy person. And always talking, talking, talking, talking. Blah, blah, blah. Why do you think this, Agnes? How can you think that? Don’t you know there’s no such thing as hell? Don’t you know God is just some kind of slob, sitting on a bus? Yeah, right. Whatever, Honey.

…

She’s gone. My father’s coming to take me back and she’s not going with me. She’s gone. I might never see her again.

I bite my fists and then bring my legs up and cross them tightly under me, anything to quell the impulse to scream her name, anything to prevent my body from doing the opposite of what my mind is telling me.

Is this what it feels like not to give into temptation? Could Saint Thomas Aquinas have felt anything like this when he opened the door and saw the woman standing there? Is it possible that Saint Agnes struggled at all with denying her belief in Christ to avoid the sword on her neck?

No, it wasn’t. Saint Thomas picked up the iron poker, hot from the fire, and Saint Agnes shook her head, even to her executioner, when he offered her one last chance to reject Christ.

After a while, Benny buries himself under a mountain of blankets on the other side of the bed, a good distance from Nana Pete and, no matter how much I plead with him, refuses to come out. He’s humming a strange little tune I don’t recognize and at first it kind of scares me. But then I leave him and walk over toward the window. He’ll be okay. At least I know where he is. And that he’s still alive. Every time I look over at Nana Pete, the only thing I can see is her nose protruding like a little tent from under the blue sheet. It scares me. She’s dead. Dead.

My Nana.

My Nana Pete.

Why am I not crying?

I stare out at Lillian’s wide, drooping tree, half expecting Dad to appear, although I know it will still be hours. I look at the clock on Lillian’s dresser: 5:30 a.m. I want to get out of here. Now.

My hands are cold, and when I place my palm against my chest, I can barely feel my heart beating. How strange that Nana Pete is the dead one in the room, when right now, I cannot even tell if I am breathing.

Out of nowhere, Mr. Pibbs wanders into the room. He rubs himself along the insides of my legs and mews softly. He’s probably hungry. Or maybe he misses Lillian. “Shoo,” I whisper. “Beat it.” He pushes the top of his head insistently against my calf. I stick my foot out and poke him away. He stares at me for a minute and then ambles out of the room again.

An hour passes like water leaking through a pinhole.

Drip.

Drop.

Drip.

Drop.

A soft crinkling sound from behind snaps me out of my stupor. Benny is sitting up on the edge of the bed, looking at something.

“Benny,” I say softly. “What’re you doing?” He holds a photograph out in my direction. His face is blank as a sheet. I take the photograph out of his hands and stare at it for a minute. It’s of Dad and Lillian, taken years ago. Even with her flowing red hair and enormous belly, Lillian is unmistakable. Her left hand is resting lightly on the swell of her stomach and the other hand is around Dad’s waist. She is smiling dutifully for the camera, but her eyes are turned down and her eyebrows are furrowed. Dad isn’t smiling at all. His posture is erect and rigid, both arms firmly at his sides. I turn the picture over, looking for a date. There, in Dad’s handwriting, are the words: “Isaac and Naomi, Mount Blessing.”


Naomi? Who’s Naomi? The only Naomi I’ve ever heard of is Honey’s mother. This is Lillian. I’m sure of it. I turn the picture back over and study the face. Except for the long hair and the pregnant belly, the woman’s features are definitely Lillian’s. Why would the picture say …

Naomi?

“Where’d you get this?” I ask.

Benny points to the pile of pictures scattered around him.

I sit down slowly on the edge of the bed and pick up each one, studying them carefully. There is one of Honey and me sitting in our nursery crib, wearing diapers and nothing else. No more than two years old, we are huddled together over a book like two old women sharing a secret. I snatch another one, studying it closely. It’s one Nana Pete took just last summer. We are standing in the bicycle ring in our summer shorts and T-shirts, smiling for the camera. I remember that day vividly. It was a month after I received The Saints’ Way. Honey and I had argued just a few minutes earlier; she was angry with me because I would not race with her down the length of the field. My explanation for not wanting to run anymore wasn’t good enough, she’d said; in fact, it was downright crazy. She had conceded bitterly, but in the picture her arm is flung around my neck, her cheek pressed against mine as if nothing had happened.