“It was wonderful,” Nana Pete says. “Especially the story about the little girl.” He nods, pleased with the compliment.
“I saw you shouting out,” the woman in pink says to Honey. There is a twinkle in her eye. “You looked like you were having fun.”
Honey grins and bows her head. “I was,” she says softly.
“That’s what shouting out is for, you know,” the woman says.
“Oh?” Nana Pete asks.
“Yes,” the woman says, nodding up and down. “The Lord knows we have things inside we can’t keep quiet about, no matter how hard we try. That’s why we come to church, to tell him about them. And if we need to shout them out, so be it. Sometimes, the longer the silence, the louder the shout.” She grins, her gold tooth flashing. “Jesus understands.”
HONEY
After Lillian drops her rental car off at a place near the church, the five of us get back inside the Queen Mary—Agnes, Benny, and me in the back, Nana Pete and Lillian in the front—and hit the road again. Lillian is driving. It’s almost noon.
“We’ve got some ground to cover,” Nana Pete says, opening her bottle of pills and throwing one in her mouth. “I don’t know how fast you can drive, darlin’, but it would be nice to get to Savannah before nightfall.”
“It’s only five hours,” Lillian says. “I think we can do it.”
Agnes slumps over on her side of the car and sighs deeply. Ever since she got up this morning, she’s been acting all weird again. Maybe I’m crazy, but I thought we’d had a little bit of a breakthrough back there in Raleigh, talking about the barrette and running in the rain. But I guess not. Old habits must die harder than I realize. I gaze out the window as the North Carolina highway blurs by.
Nana Pete and Lillian talk softly up front. I wish they would turn around and talk to me. But hours pass and there is no indication of any shared conversation. I pull out my butterfly notebook and start sketching a White Skipper from memory. It ends up looking terrible, like a distorted balloon instead of a butterfly. I close the book, lean my head back against the seat, and pretend to sleep.
“He hasn’t said a word since the operation,” Nana Pete is saying. Her voice is hushed and she is talking out of the side of her mouth. “Not one single word.”
“He’s in shock,” Lillian says. “It happens to children sometimes. I think it’s just because they have no words to describe certain things. It’s too much.”
“Do you think he’ll snap out of it?”
Lillian nods. “I’m sure he will. We just have to give him some time.” I glance over at Benny. He has his first two fingers of his good hand stuck in his mouth and he is sleeping soundly. For the first time, I realize just how young he is. I wonder how helpless he must have felt when Emmanuel lifted him off the table and carried him into his room. Like a lamb being taken to slaughter. I put my hand on his knee and keep it there until he stirs again.
After a while, Lillian pulls through a fast-food place called Captain D’s and orders two buckets of fried fish, some weird little bally type things called hush puppies, and french fries with vinegar. I eat everything quickly, even licking the inside of the paper wrapper the fish comes in. It’s delicious. Lillian, Benny, and Nana Pete eat their fish, too, but Agnes doesn’t touch a thing. She’s probably started another fasting period. Let her. I don’t even care anymore.
“You wanna play Guess Who?” Lillian asks after everyone has finished eating. She’s looking at me in the mirror.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“It’s a guessing game. I think of a famous person and you get to ask twenty questions until you think you’ve figured out who it is.”
“I don’t really know any famous people,” I say.
“You could do saints,” Agnes mumbles.
I roll my eyes. “Forget it.”
“No, I think that’s a great idea!” Nana Pete says, turning around. “Don’t you, Lillian?”
Lillian slides a look over at her mother and nods. “I don’t know how far I’ll get, since I don’t know much about them, but I’m sure I’ll learn a great deal.”
“You start, Mouse,” Nana Pete says.
“No, I don’t want to play,” she says, shrinking back against the seat.
I turn, glaring at Agnes. “Spare me. You want to play so badly you can taste it. Now, just play. I’ll even sit this one out.”
So Agnes starts. Nana Pete and then Lillian ask questions until it’s disclosed that Agnes’s saint of choice is a girl who died when she was only twelve …
“Saint Agnes,” I blurt out.
“Hey!” Agnes yells. “You’re not even playing!”
“You’re so predictable, Agnes,” I say meanly. “Think of another one.”
“Why did she die so young?” Nana Pete asks.
“Oh God,” I say. “Here we go.”