The Patron Saint of Butterflies(69)

“It’s okay, Benny. Shh. It’s okay.” I try not to flinch under Dad’s stare three inches away from me. “It’s okay, Benny. Just relax.” I rock him until I can feel the rigid muscles in his shoulders begin to ease, the familiar drop of his chin against my chest. The humming begins again, but it’s his regular hum now, not the frantic desperate sounds from before. Dad watches the two of us for a few minutes without saying a word. Then he brings his hands to his face and draws them down the length of it.

“I wasn’t going to hurt him, Agnes.” He pauses, waiting for me to respond, but I don’t dare look up. The sound of Benny’s humming hovers between us like a tiny, wounded bird.

“Isaac?” Mom’s voice comes floating out the front door. “Isaac, where are you? The coroner wants to speak with you!” Dad looks in the direction of Mom’s voice and then turns to me. He puts his hand on my knee. I stare at the tiny black hairs sprouting from his knuckles, the curve of his thin gold wedding band on his fourth finger.

“Isaac!”

Dad takes his hand off my knee and stands up slowly. “I’m here, Ruth! I’ll be right there.” He looks down at the two of us. “You coming?” I shake my head.

“Okay.” He crouches down in front of me so his face is level with mine. Something in his knee makes a popping sound. He studies me for a moment. “Okay.” He stands back up, still looking down at me, and opens his mouth to say something else. But the words don’t come. He shakes his head, turns on his heel, and walks quickly inside the house, back to Nana Pete and Mom and the coroner who will tell him how his mother died last night.





HONEY

I don’t know why I’m surprised by Mr. Little’s rude treatment of Lillian. I guess considering the circumstances, I thought he would be a little gentler with her, maybe a bit nicer. But he brushes past her the second he arrives and barely gives her a second glance for the next few hours it takes to call the police and the coroner and get everything in line to take Agnes and Benny back to Mount Blessing. Lillian tries a few times to get him talking, but the bastard won’t budge. You’d never guess that at one time Lillian used to follow this guy around, worshipping the ground he walked on.

The coroner informs us that Nana Pete died of a massive heart attack.

“She was taking Lisinopril,” he says, shaking the white plastic bottle in front of Mr. Little. “This is strong stuff. It’s usually prescribed for people with high blood pressure or congestive heart failure. Did she have a prior attack?”

Dad gives him a blank stare and then barely, just barely, flicks his eyes over at Lillian.

“I don’t know,” Lillian says, getting up slowly from the couch. Her voice is thick with grief. “We’d only just started talking again. I didn’t even know she was on medication.”

The coroner hands Lillian the bottle of pills and then nods his head. “Well, I guess it doesn’t really matter now.” There are a few awkward moments of silence as everyone watches the coroner gather his things. He puts his hat back on, grabs his large black bag, and then tilts his head toward Mr. and Mrs. Little, who are standing side by side across the room. “Y’all just come from choir practice?” he asks.

Mr. Little clears his throat and straightens the front of his robe. “No,” he says in an icy voice. “We did not.”

The coroner looks stumped for a moment and then shrugs. He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and gives it to Mr. Little. “Well, I’m truly sorry for your loss,” he says, tipping his hat. “That there is the name and phone number of the best funeral director in Chatham County. He’ll take care of things for y’all from now on.”

Mr. Little nods, but after the coroner leaves, he hands the slip of paper to Lillian. “You’ll need this.”

Lillian stares at the paper. “Yeah,” she says after a minute. “I’ll take care of it.”

“If that’s everything, then,” Mr. Little says, “we have a flight to catch.” He takes his coat off the back of Lillian’s rocking chair, brushing invisible lint off the sleeve.

“You m-mean … ,” Lillian stammers. “You’re going back now? You’re not going to stay? For the funeral or anything?” She searches his face. “It’s Ma, Lenny.”

“My name is Isaac,” Mr. Little says brusquely. “And I have said my good-byes to Mother. I don’t need any further sort of pagan burial ritual to put a close to things.” He holds out his arms, one for Agnes and one for Benny. Agnes slides her hand into his, avoiding my eyes. “We’re going.” He stares at me for a minute. “I’m presuming you will refuse if I order you to come with me?”

I nod silently.

Mr. Little raises his eyebrows and then shakes his head. “Fine. You take care of yourself, then. You too, Naomi.”


Agnes flinches when he says the name and pulls back a little on her father’s hand. “Why … why did you just call her Naomi?” she asks. Instead of answering, Mr. Little turns around sharply and walks out of the house, dragging her and Benny with him. Mrs. Little follows, carrying the backpacks, her eyes fixed on the back of Agnes’s head. Lillian and I stand in the doorway, watching as they climb into a compact gold car and shut the doors.