The Patron Saint of Butterflies(73)

I fold my hands in my lap. “Actually, they had to undo everything Emmanuel did,” I hear myself saying slowly. “I talked to the surgeon. He said Emmanuel butchered Benny’s hand. And that there was no miracle. None at all.”

The silence in the car is so loud that I am aware of the whoosh of tires coming from a car twenty feet behind us. Then Dad smiles, one of his bright, quick smiles that makes me cringe inside. Fear flickers in his eyes.

“Of course he said that. He’s not a Believer, Agnes! Non-Believers can’t see miracles, even when they’re staring at them in the face. You know that.”

I look down. Close my eyes. Wait for the voices battling inside my head to stop:

But I asked him! I asked Dr. Pannetta. Twice! Right to his face! And he’s gone to medical school. He knows. He must know! He fixed Benny up right.

Did he? Or was he already healed? There are many temptations out in the real world, which, if I embrace them, will cause my faith to weaken and then disintegrate. Was Dr. Pannetta a temptation, trying to turn me away from all I believe in?

What do you believe in?

I don’t know.

Yes, you do.

No. I don’t.

“Agnes?” It’s Dad. I raise my face to look at him. His face is shiny, practically glowing with my anticipated response.

“Why did you call your sister Naomi?” I ask.

Dad’s fake smile fades against the dark interior of the car. Next to me, Mom freezes.

“Naomi?” Claudia says. “Now, that’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. You’re talking about Lillian, right?”

Frightened, I try to hold Dad’s gaze. But his eyes are cutting through me. “I don’t know,” I croak out. “I think so.”

“Yeah,” Claudia says, unaware that Dad’s breathing has become rapid and shallow. “I remember her.” She glances over at Dad. “How’s she doing, anyway? She still play the violin?”

Dad turns toward Claudia. “You mind your own business, Claudia,” he says in a terrible voice. He points a finger at me. “And you are not to utter another word until I permit it.” There is a pause. “Do you understand me, Agnes?” Something in me folds in on itself, like a pair of wings closing. I nod, silent and obedient. It’s what Saint Agnes would do.

Dad sits forward anxiously as flashing red and blue lights slice through the darkness at the top of the hill in front of the Great House.

“It’s the police,” he whispers. “Why in God’s name are they here?”

“What do you think it is, Isaac?” Mom asks. “Do you think it has anything to do with us?”


Dad looks at her sharply. “Of course not. How could … ,” his voice trails off. “Unless Naomi … ” His face pales. “Oh my God.” By now Claudia has parked the car behind the Great House, along with all the other cars. Dad pushes open the door and disappears around the front of the house.

“Well,” Mom says, putting her arms around me. “We’re home.” She gives me a tight smile. “Let’s go.”

My knees feel like Jell-O standing in front of the Great Door again. Benny makes a whimpering sound and buries his face in the side of Mom’s leg.

“He’s scared,” I say, stepping forward. “It reminds him of … ” But Mom only picks him up silently and walks through the door.

Although all two hundred and sixty Believers are present in the large room, it feels like a tomb inside. Dressed in their blue robes, some of them are kneeling in front of the crucifix on the wall, silently mouthing desperate prayers. Christine is among them, but she is just staring at a point on the wall next to the crucifix. She is not praying. Her face is pasty, her lips trembling. Dad is already in one of the far corners, whispering with Amanda Woodward’s father. Everyone else is sitting at one of the long tables, staring ahead, not saying a word. Mr. Murphy lifts his head as we walk back into the room, but gives no expression of recognition. Iris is sitting next to him, swinging her feet under the bench. Mom pulls a clean blue robe over Benny’s head and then hands me one. I slide into it carefully and tie the cord.

“What’s going on, Samuel?” she whispers.

Mr. Murphy looks scared and tired. “Some kind of police investigation,” he says.

Mom’s face darkens. “Why? Who made allegations?”

Mr. Murphy shrugs. “No one knows. The police drove up here out of nowhere, just about an hour ago.”

Mom takes a deep breath and then closes her eyes. “We must pray.” Taking my hand, she begins to chant in Latin. Mr. Murphy joins her. I stay silent, staring first at Benny and then at Iris, who are looking at each other across the table.

“Are you okay?” Iris mouths.

Benny nods.

“Does your hand hurt?”

He shakes his head from side to side.

“I’m glad you’re back.”

Benny smiles sadly at her.

I look at my brother, really look at him, for maybe the first time. What is he trying to say? What does he need to tell me? Why won’t he talk?

Dad comes over then and sits down with his back to me. He stares grimly at my mother. “No one seems to know anything just yet,” he says in a low voice. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”