The Patron Saint of Butterflies by Cecilia Galante Read Free Book Online Page B

over the garden, landing in the field behind it. “And I’ll tell you what, one of these days, I’m going to do something about it.”
    Winky turns around and squints up at me. Even with hisswollen tongue hanging out of his mouth, I can tell the left side of his face is cocked up into a grin. “Oh yeah? You and what army?”
    I shrug. “Maybe I don’t need an army. Maybe I’ll figure out something on my own.”
    Winky shoves his scissors back into his rear pocket and looks around carefully. “What’re you talking about exceptions for, anyway? You know I got a TV under my bed.” He acknowledges this with a hoarseness in his voice, as if the guilt is eating him alive.
    “Oh, who cares?” I say impatiently. “The thing barely even works , Winky. And the only thing you watch is baseball, for crying out loud.” I pause. “Unlike me.” I mutter this last statement, but Winky jerks his head up and eyes me suspiciously.
    “You watching those bad shows again when I’m not around?”
    I kick at the ground as the blood rushes to my cheeks. “They’re not bad , Winky. I told you that. They’re just … ”
    He struggles to his feet and cuts me off roughly with a wave of his hand. “I told you, Honey!” His face gets red; spit flies out of his mouth. “I told you be fore !”
    I raise my hands against my chest. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I won’t do it ever again, okay? I promise.”
    “You said that last time,” Winky says accusingly. His nostrils flare under his wild eyes. “You lied.”
    I hang my head. “I’m sorry. I really am. I won’t do it again.” I watch shamefacedly as he drops down again to his knees and begins yanking at a patch of weeds. Minutes tick by in an awkward silence. The only sound is the forceful ripping of rootsfrom the ground. After a while I get down on my knees opposite Winky and start weeding my side of the garden, pretending with every pull that I am wrenching Veronica’s head out from between her shoulders.
    It feels good.

AGNES
    As Benny and I wind our way down the path that leads to the Great House, I catch a glimpse of Nana Pete’s green Cadillac parked in the driveway. The Queen Mary.
    I stop momentarily, regarding the physical proof of her presence with an inflating sense of happiness. “Wow, it really is her.”
    “I told you!” Benny says, jumping up and down. “I told you!” He yanks on my hand, nearly dragging me down the rest of the hill. “Hurry up, Ags! She’s waiting!” We break into a dead run, but as we approach the Great Door, I reach out and pull Benny back.
    “I know. I know ,” he says irritably, shrugging me off.
    Weighing close to a hundred pounds, the Great Door is a thing of beauty. Carved from the trunk of a maple tree fifteen years ago by two of the Believers, it is meant to slow whoever approaches with its intricate carvings of suns, moons, and stars. Etched along the top of the top, like an enormous banner, are the words “ Glori Patri ,” which is Latin for “Glory to the Father.” Benny and I drop to one knee beneath the watchful phrase, crossing ourselves in a somber genuflection. Then it takes both of us, straining under our full weight, to push open the door. When I lean against it, the scent of old sap fills my nostrils. It creaks and moans and then seals shut with a gasp behind us.
    The inside of the Great House is one gigantic, long room.It is filled with blue-robed Believers sitting at the long wooden table doing any number of things. Because this is Ascension Week, most of the men who work in town are here instead, getting ready for the feast day. Mr. Murphy, Iris’s father, is in the corner a few feet away, polishing the life-sized crucifix on the wall. His cloth lingers reverently over the exposed rib cage and the blood-mottled skin. Over in the corner, Beatrice, who is one of the head kitchen women, is giving instructions to other women who are peeling potatoes and onions and chopping celery. Lynn Waters, who paints