The Patron Saint of Butterflies
Read The Patron Saint of Butterflies Online
Authors: Cecilia Galante
THE PATRON SAINT OF
Butterflies
CECILIA GALANTE
Contents
This book is dedicated to Ruth VanLokeren and to Fannye Jo Plummer.
In a room where people unanimously maintain a conspiracy of silence, one word of truth sounds like a pistol shot.
—Czeslaw Milosz
1
saint:
\’sant,
before a name
(’)sānt
or
sənt\
noun
1:
one officially recognized especially through canonization as preeminent for holiness
2a:
one of the spirits of the departed in heaven …
3a:
one of God’s chosen and usually Christian people b
capitalized
: a member of any of various Christian bodies;
specifically
: LATTER-DAY SAINT
4:
one eminent for piety or virtue …
Zebra Longwing:
The Zebra Longwing is one of the most beautiful butterflies in North America. Usually black in color, its long, slender wings are highlighted with vivid yellow stripes. Small white spots freckle the edges like a dusting of snow. Although these butterflies roost in colonies at night, they disperse at first light to look for food. Zebra Longwings thrive naturally in the southern part of the United States, as well as most of tropical America.
“Please tell me what to do,” I whisper, staring at the crucifix on the wall. “Is there any other way to get out of here right now without telling a lie? Could you just give me a sign to let me know? Maybe blink your eyes or nod your head or something?” Clasping my hands under my chin, I bow my head, close my eyes, and wait. Around me, the other twenty-seven kids in the room continue chanting the afternoon prayers, their lips moving methodically over the Latin words. The air in the room is warm and stale. My knees are grinding into the thin carpet and I can detect the faint smell of sweat under my blue robe. Some days, afternoon prayers can feel like they go on forever. I count to ten and raise my head again. The Christ figure on the cross remains frozen in his agonizing position: hands and feet nailed to the wood, ribs exposed, eyes raised heavenward. My shoulders sag. No sign this time.
Well, that’s it, then. There’s simply no other way. It’s just that the thought of having to tell a lie makes me mad. Furious, even. I’ve done so well this whole week, and now I’m going to blow it because of Honey. This is
her
fault. If she hadn’t taken off after Emmanuel called us into the Regulation Room this morning, I wouldn’t even be in this situation. Why does she have to go and do things like that? It’s not like it was the end of the world or anything. Peter and I had been called in there with her, and then Emmanuel told the two of us to go back down to the East House. Honey had
been ordered to stay behind for some reason, but I’m sure it wasn’t a big deal. At least, I don’t think it was. I just can’t get rid of the feeling that something might not be right this time. Four hours have passed and there’s been no sign of her. She’s run off before after Regulation Room visits, but never for more than an hour. Lie or no lie, I’ve got to find her.
Behind me, a throat clears. I turn my head slightly and lock eyes with Peter. He has pushed his light brown hair, which usually hangs in his eyes, off his face. He’s part of the reason we got into trouble this morning, and I know he feels guilty for Honey’s prolonged absence. “Are you going to go find her?” he whispers. His teeth, large and crooked, look too big for his small mouth. What Honey sees in him is beyond me. Peter knows as well as I do that if anyone finds Honey outside today, she’ll get in even bigger trouble than she did this morning. It is Ascension Week here at Mount Blessing, and no one is allowed outside except to walk to and from the Great House for meals.
Mount Blessing is the religious commune just outside of Fairfield, Connecticut, where I was born. I live here with my parents and my little brother, Benny, along with about two hundred and sixty other people, including Honey. Mount Blessing was founded by our leader, Emmanuel, who wanted to create a community of holy people, separate and apart from the sinfulness of the rest of the world. There is no one in the world quite like Emmanuel. My dad told me once that the reason so many people keep coming to live here is because Emmanuel can make broken people whole again. And it’s true. There have been people who have come here messed up on drugs, feeling lost or even suicidal. After
spending a week or so with Emmanuel, they become completely new people, striving to live good, religious lives. He heals them from the inside out. And sometimes from the outside in. After Emmanuel laid his hands on little Frankie Peters, who has been stuttering since first grade, he began to talk just as well as the rest of us. And just last year, Grace Willoby’s facial tics vanished completely after Emmanuel prayed over her. Dad tells us all the time how lucky we are to be living with such a saintly man, and I know he’s right.
Now I glance at the clock on the wall. One thirty. Taking a deep breath, I look back at Peter and nod my head. His whole face relaxes as he closes his eyes and resumes chanting. But I cannot even look at the crucifix when I turn back around. Bowing my head, I make the sign of the cross over my chest and try to control the quavering in my whispered voice.
“I know telling a lie is a sin, but I have to go find Honey and I just can’t think of any other way to get out of here right now. I will make it up to you with an extra penance tonight. I promise. Please forgive me.” I squeeze my hands so tight that my knuckles turn white. “Please.” Reaching under my robe, I pull out
The Saints’ Way
from inside the waistband of my jeans.
The Saints’ Way
is a book about how to live our lives, using the life stories of saints as examples. All the adults at Mount Blessing have the book, but Emmanuel gives each child a personal copy on his or her twelfth birthday. I got mine two years ago, and I’ll never forget it.
I was both nervous and excited that morning: excited to be turning twelve and nervous about going in to see Emmanuel, who would present me with the book. It is
always a huge honor to have a private meeting with Emmanuel, but it also made me a little shaky. Standing in front of him is an intimidating experience, what I imagine looking directly at God would feel like. Anyway, Mom ironed my best dress and helped me pin my hair up into a neat bun, and Dad was waiting for me on the front porch when I came out. The sun had just risen and the air was still cold and purple.
“You ready?” Dad said, inserting his hands into the sleeves of his big blue robe. Everyone at Mount Blessing wears blue robes—all the time.
I nodded and straightened out the folds in my own robe. “I think so.”
“You look nice,” Dad said, holding out his hand. “Especially your hair.” I wanted to tell him that being twelve meant that he didn’t have to hold my hand as we walked toward the Great House, but I didn’t. It’s not every day that Dad compliments me, and I didn’t want to ruin the moment. We stood outside Emmanuel’s room and Dad rang the buzzer that would let him know we were there. In a few seconds, the red light above the door began to blink. My mouth was as dry as sand as we walked inside.
Emmanuel’s room is enormous, even bigger than the whole first floor of the house I live in with Mom and Dad and Benny. At any given time, there are usually between ten and twenty people in there, but this morning it was empty—except for him. He was sitting in his huge chair, a beautiful, hand-carved piece of furniture that had been made especially for him, eating grapefruit sections out of a glass cup. He didn’t have his blue robe on for some reason, and without
it, he looked different, almost human. Dad and I fell to our knees, bowed our heads, and waited.
Emmanuel cleared his throat. “Come in,” he said.
Dad and I stood back up and tiptoed over the plush white carpeting, past the baby grand piano and the wall of wooden wine racks, which held numerous slender bottles of wine. Next to the wine racks was an oil painting portrait of the Blessed Virgin, which Emmanuel had painted himself. Her face was a cloudy gray color and her eyes, which were wide and black, stared back at me as I made my way across the room.
“I hear it is someone’s birthday,” Emmanuel said, placing his empty glass on a table next to his chair. It made a light clinking sound against the wood.
I nodded mutely and stared at his pressed white shirt and casual gray slacks. I still couldn’t get over how different he looked without that robe on. He even had
slippers
on! Dad nudged me with his elbow and I gulped.
“Yes, Emmanuel,” I said quickly. “Thank you.”
Emmanuel wiped his gray beard with a cloth napkin and then raised his eyebrows. “You know what happens on your twelfth birthday, don’t you, Agnes?”
I nodded again, swallowing hard over a lump in my throat. I couldn’t believe the moment was actually here, that it was finally happening. When Mom and Dad had been presented with their books, it had been such an exciting day for them. They told me how they had spent hours that evening leafing slowly through the pages and then sliding the slender volumes onto their new home on the bookshelf. Each night they would pull their books back out and read another page.
I watched as Emmanuel leaned over and took a small book
off the little table. A gold ring on his finger glinted under the light. “Come here,” he said to me. I stepped forward on shaky legs and stared at the book in his hands. “You are an adult now,” Emmanuel said. There was a pause, and I realized he was waiting for me to make eye contact with him. I raised my head and studied the sharp planes of his narrow face, his bushy eyebrows, and his watery gray eyes. Even his beard, which rested—neatly trimmed—against the top of his collarbone, looked virtuous. He smiled at me. “You are an adult now,” he said again. “Capable of leading the life of a saint.” He held out the book. I took it from him with trembling hands. It was heavier than it looked, with a black cover and the title,
The Saints’ Way,
inscribed in gold lettering. “Study this book,” Emmanuel continued. “Learn all you can from the greatest living examples ever to walk the earth.” I nodded, pressing the book against my chest. “And then live your life accordingly, as a saint would.”
“I will,” I whispered.
Emmanuel nodded and smiled again at me. “I have great faith in you, Agnes. Your name means
lamb
, which symbolizes purity and innocence. You are capable of doing remarkable things. Do not ever forget that.”
My eyes filled with tears; it was such an emotional thing to hear Emmanuel say he had faith in me, that I could do something remarkable. Imagine!
Me!
“I won’t forget,” I said, feeling my voice get stronger. “I promise.”
