Pagan Babies Page 6

  “What he does,” Debbie said, “Randy looks you right in the eye and lies, and you want to believe him. We met at a wedding reception at Oakland Hills I find out later he wasn’t invited to. Read about it in the paper. We’re dancing, drinking champagne, he asks me if I like to sail. I told him I’d only been out a few times, on Lake St. Clair. We’re dancing, Randy whispers in my ear, ‘I’m getting ready to sail around the world and I want you to come with me.’ You have to understand, this guy is movie star good-looking, early forties, he’s tan, buff, gold ring in his ear; he has hair like Michael Landon, a home in Palm Beach he tells me he’s putting on the market, asking price eight mil. I was ready to go to Hudson’s and buy a little sailor suit. He draws a map on a napkin how we’d sail from Palm Beach to the Gulf of Mexico, through the Panama Canal to Tahiti, Tonga, New Caledonia—”

  “Only,” Fran said, mopping up salad dressing with a roll, “the guy didn’t have a boat.”

  “A yachting cap,” Debbie said, “and a picture of a boat he tells me is in drydock in Florida, getting it ready for the trip. This was his excuse to start borrowing money. First a couple of thousand, then five, then ten—for navigational equipment, radar, all boat stuff, because his money was tied up in investments he didn’t want to move just yet.”

  Terry said, “What’s he do for a living?”

  “Preys on stupid women,” Debbie said. “I still can’t believe I fell for it. He tells me he’s retired from Merrill Lynch, one of their top traders, and I believed him. Did I check? No, not till it was too late. But you know what did me in, besides the hair and the tan? Greed. He said if I had a savings account that wasn’t doing much and would like to put it to work . . . He shows me his phony portfolio, stock worth millions, and like a dummy I said, ‘Well, I’ve got fifty grand not doing too much.’ I signed it over and that’s the last I saw of my money.”

  “But you saw Randy again,” Terry said, “on Collins Avenue?”

  “You’ve got a good memory,” Debbie said. “Yeah, a couple of months later. In the set, the opening, I say I was in Florida visiting my mom, and that part’s true. She’s in a nursing home in West Palm with Alzheimer’s. She thinks she’s Ann Miller. She said it was hard to dance in her bedroom slippers, so I gave her an old pair of tap shoes I had.”

  “She any good?”

  “Not bad for not having taken lessons.”

  “It was on Royal Poinciana Way you ran him down,” Fran said, finished with his salad, wiping the plate clean with half of a roll he stuffed in his mouth.

  “If you want to get technical about it,” Debbie said, “but Collins Avenue works better in the set.”

  Fran was pushing up from the table. He said to his brother, “You know I’m going to Florida in the morning, early. We better leave soon as I get back.”

  Debbie watched him heading toward the men’s. “He was in Florida last week.”

  “The girls are out of school,” Terry said, “so Mary Pat stays down with the little cuties and Fran’s joining them for a long weekend. But I think he wants to go home ’cause he’s still hungry. Mary Pat loaded the freezer with her casseroles, and they’re not bad. Mary Pat’s a professional homemaker.”

  “I’ve never met her,” Debbie said. “I’ve never been invited to the house.”

  “Fran’s afraid Mary Pat would see you as a threat.”

  “He told you that?”

  “I’m guessing, knowing Francis. I think he would like to believe you’re a threat.”

  “He’s never made a move that way.”

  “Doesn’t want to risk being turned down.”

  “You’re saying he has a crush on me?”

  “I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t.”

  Looking right at her, like he was saying he’d feel that way if he were Fran. It startled her. She said, “Oh, really?” and it sounded dumb.

  His gaze still on her, he said, “I was wondering, when you hit Randy, were you still married to him?”

  “We never were. In the bit I call him my husband and I’ve got the divorced women in the audience with me. I say I hit my ex-boyfriend it doesn’t have the same, you know, emotional effect.”

  “But you lived with him?”

  “He lived with me, in Somerset. Where I am now, back again. Fran got me the apartment.” She said, “Does that sound like I’m being kept?”

  “If it was anyone but Francis,” Terry said. “Did you really put Randy in a body cast?”

  He kept going back to Randy.

  “No, but I banged him up pretty good.”

  “Have you seen him since?”

  “You mean, did he visit me in prison?”

  “That’s right, you’ve been out of circulation. What I was thinking,” Terry said, “the next time you see him, get him to hit you and sue him for sixty-seven thousand. I thought working with Fran, the personal-injury expert, you might know how to arrange that kind of accident.”

  The priest sneaking up on her with a straight face. Playing with her.

  “Fran and I,” Debbie said, “have never staged a car wreck, ever. Or hired people who do it.” She paused for a beat. “And I’ve never smuggled cigarettes.”

  It brought his smile. It told her they could kid around, not take each other too seriously. She said, “We’re not in a confessional, Father, so I’m not telling you any of my sins, business-related or otherwise.”

  “You still go?”

  “Not in years.”

  “Well, if you ever feel the need—I never give more than ten Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys.”

  She said, “Really?” She said, “Do you hear the same kind of sins in Rwanda you do here?”

  “A typical one over there, ‘Bless me, Fatha, for I have sin. I stole a goat by Nyundo and my wife cook it en brochette.’ Here, you don’t get as many goat thieves.”

  “Did you ever try it?”

  “Goat? We had it all the time.”

  “What about adultery?”

  “I was never tempted.”

  Having fun behind his innocent expression.

  “I meant, did you hear it much in Confession?”

  “Now and then. But I think there was a lot more fooling around than I was told about.”

  “What’s the penance for fooling around?”

  “The usual, ten and ten.”

  “What about murder?”

  “I only had one person confess to it.”

  “What did you give him?”

  “That one, I laid it on.”

  She paused to see if he’d tell her what that meant. When he didn’t, she said, “Have you ever called a man ‘my son’?”

  “That’s only in movies.”

  “That’s what I thought.” She said, “Well, now that you’re home”—and saw Fran coming back from the men’s—“what’ll you do, take it easy for a while?”

  “I have to see about raising some money.”

  “For your mission?”

  Fran reached the table saying, “You ready?” and Terry didn’t get a chance to answer.

  He said, “I am if you are, my son.”

  Fran said, “What’s this ‘my son’ shit?”

  * * *

  In the parking lot Terry took her hand and told her again how much he liked the set and enjoyed talking to her; all that. Then, as Fran stepped toward his Lexus and pressed the key remote to unlock the door, Terry said to her, “I’d like to see you again.”

  Sounding like a guy after a phone number.

  It gave her a funny feeling, a priest saying it. She turned to Fran and said, “Why don’t I drive your brother?” Saying it before she had time to think about it and change her mind.

  “He’s staying at my house,” Fran said, sounding surprised because he’d told her that.

  “I know where you live,” Debbie said. “I want to hear more about Africa.”

  9

  * * *

  IN THE CAR HE TOLD Debbie he almost wasn’t invited to stay at Fran’s, Mary Pat worried h
e might leave an African disease around the house like cholera or a tapeworm on the toilet seat. But now, since Mary Pat and the girls were in Florida and Fran was flying down, it was okay.

  “Did you have any African diseases?”

  “We boiled the water and always slept under mosquito netting,” Terry said, catching a glimpse of Chantelle’s slim body. “So I’m pretty sure I’m clean. I did worry about worms, but never spotted any.”

  When they got in and Debbie started the car—a Honda Fran had leased for her—the radio came on, Sheryl Crow and the sun coming up over Santa Monica Boulevard. Lowering the volume she asked if he listened to music in Africa. Terry told her Congo-Zaire rock until Fran sent some CDs. Joe Cocker, Steely Dan, Ziggy Marley and the Melody Makers. She asked if the natives liked reggae and he said he never thought of Rwandans as natives, since they wore clothes. He told her his housekeeper, Chantelle, wore cool skirts she wrapped around her hips, a lot of colors in the design, and told how Chantelle had lost part of her left arm during the genocide. Debbie asked how she cleaned the house and cooked with one hand. Terry said she managed. Debbie asked if he’d brought any mementos home with him and he said only one, a machete.

  He knew it wasn’t Africa she wanted to talk about but maybe would get to it by way of Africa—driving up Woodward Avenue now toward Bloomfield Hills, a five-mile strip where, Terry said, serious Motor City cruising used to happen, only it was called Woodwarding. Debbie said it was before her time. Terry said they’d always lived on the east side, so he hadn’t got over this way too often. He said he and Fran both went to Bishop Gallagher and, before that, Our Lady Queen of Peace. Both keeping the chitchat going until Debbie said:

  “Where they had the Mass for your mother.”

  “You went to the funeral?”

  “And to your house after, where you grew up. I met your sister—”

  “Did she talk?”

  “She never stopped. She called you harum-scarum, whatever that means, but you loved to have her read to you. One of your favorites was The Lives of the Saints, especially stories about martyrs.”

  “Saint Agatha,” Terry said, “had her breasts cut off and then was thrown on a pile of hot coals.”

  “Bummer,” Debbie said.

  And he knew what she was thinking.

  “Do a martyr bit. The Christian chick trying to talk her way out of being thrown to the lions.”

  Debbie picked it up. “ ‘Hey, some of my best friends are pagans. Love their idols.’ Did you see The Life of Brian?”

  “Monty Python, yeah—‘Blessed are the cheesemakers.’ What was it they sang at the end, when they were crucified?”

  “Yeah, it was perfect, but I can’t remember.”

  They passed lights shining down on rows and rows of sparkling used cars.

  “I understand you were an altar boy.”

  “Six o’clock Mass every morning.”

  “Your sister thinks that’s why you became a priest.”

  “Except that by the eighth grade I was staring at Kathy Bednark’s rear end.”

  It seemed to stop Debbie for a moment.

  “But later on you did enter a seminary.”

  “In California,” Terry said.

  “But you weren’t ordained till you got to Africa?”

  “The way it worked out.”

  “You took your vows there?”

  Getting to poverty, chastity, and obedience now.

  “They’re part of becoming a priest,” Terry said, wondering where she was going with it.

  “I would imagine,” Debbie said, “living in an African village, you’d have no trouble keeping your vows.”

  He had to ask, “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, living in a third-world country on a poverty level? On your own, no one you had to answer to . . .”

  That took care of two of the vows. Terry said, “Yeah?” and waited to see how she’d handle chastity.

  When she ducked it, saying, “And now you’ll try to raise money for the mission?” he was surprised.

  “It’s why I’m here. The priest whose place I took, Fr. Toreki—?”

  “Your uncle. Fran told me about him.”

  “He’d come home and visit parishes around Detroit, and make a pitch at the Sunday Masses. I don’t think I can do that. I’m not any good as a preacher. Anytime I gave a sermon there’d be a guy there doing a translation, and it always sounded better in Kinyarwanda. I have a lot of pictures of kids, most of them orphans, that’ll hit you right in the heart, but I don’t know what to do with them. I remember in grade school there’d be a jar in the classroom and a sign that said for the pagan babies, and we’d put change in it left from our lunch money.”

  “What would that bring, ten bucks a week?”

  “If that.”

  “About what you made smuggling cigarettes?”

  She did it. Got to what she wanted to talk about by way of Africa. Sneaked up on him.

  “I can tell you,” Terry said, “the money we made on cigarettes wasn’t cigarette money. We’d drive a U-Haul to Kentucky, six, seven hours, and come back with ten thousand cartons at a time. Make three bucks a carton, thirty grand a trip, a day’s work. Fran told you about it, uh?”

  “He said you were an innocent victim.”

  “That’s right, and he explained it to the prosecutor. All I did was drive.”

  “Not knowing you were committing tax fraud.”

  “That’s all it was. You ever cheat on your income tax, list phony expenses? That’s fraud, too.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Debbie said, “I’ve never cheated on my income tax.”

  “And I’ve never run over anyone with a Buick.”

  “Riviera.”

  Terry smiled. “You see us as a couple of cons, don’t you, talking in the yard? Only I’ve never done time.”

  They stopped for the light at 13 Mile Road and he saw her turn to look at him, maybe for the first time.

  She said, “You don’t count Africa?”

  “I went there of my own free will.”

  “With an indictment hanging over you. And, according to Fran, a guilty conscience, worried your mother’d find out what her little altar boy was doing.”

  “He told you that?”

  “He said you took off and the Pajonny brothers went down, and that’s all I know.”

  “It was the other way around. They were picked up before I left.”

  “You make those plans pretty fast?”

  “I’d been thinking about going over there for some time, help out my uncle Tibor. He was a saint.”

  “Whatever you say, Father.”

  He could feel her confidence, little Debbie sitting there in the dark looking straight ahead at the traffic lights, knowing exactly where she was going, Terry paying close attention.

  So when she said, “I met a friend of yours at the funeral.”

  He knew right away who she meant and said, “Does he have bad teeth and stands real close when he’s talking?”

  “His breath could use some help, too,” Debbie said. “How’d you know?”

  “You’ve been working up to this,” Terry said, “and now you’re there. You met Johnny Pajonny.”

  She looked over at him, this time with a smile.

  “He’s a beauty.”

  “You want to use him in your routine.”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  The light changed and they were moving again, Debbie keeping to the right-hand lane, taking her time. She said, “He thought you’d be at the funeral.”

  “Was Dickie there?”

  “He’s still in. Johnny says he fucks up and spends most of his time in the Hole.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “He mentioned you owe them each ten thousand.”

  “Just happened to mention it?”

  “It seemed to be on his mind.”

  “He thinks I stiffed him?”

  “He seemed a little bummed, yeah. Most
ly he wanted to know if you still had the money.”

  “That was five years ago. Why was he asking you?”

  “He seemed to think I was your girlfriend.”

  “Come on—doesn’t he know I’m a priest?”

  “Your old girlfriend.”

  As she said it, watching the road, Debbie turned into a lane that ran along a strip of storefronts and angle-parked close to a party store.

  She said, “I have to get some cigarettes,” and opened her door.

  “Wait a minute. What old girlfriend?”

  “The one you were living with in L.A.,” Debbie said, “when your mom thought you were in the seminary. I’ll be right back.”

  10

  * * *

  HE COULD SEE HER INSIDE the store talking to the young Arab-looking guy behind the counter, the guy laughing at something she said, Debbie winning a fan while she bought a pack of cigarettes. The guy would tell his friends about this cool blond chick who came in and was funny, man. The guy not knowing how cool she really was—the way she could zing you when you weren’t looking; set you up first, see if you’d admit things she already knew, things Fran would’ve told her, Fran and now Johnny Pajonny, who loved to talk and act like an insider, thinking Debbie was the girl in L.A. and Debbie no doubt letting him think it.

  He should never’ve told Johnny in the U-Haul coming back from Kentucky about the girl in L.A.

  Debbie had moved away from the counter, down an aisle toward the back of the store, out of view. Now she was at the counter again, the Arab-looking guy ringing up the sale with a big grin, Debbie standing in her raincoat talking, opening a pack of cigarettes, the guy stopping to give her a light, then handing her the Bic, or whatever it was. Terry couldn’t see what she’d bought, but it looked like more than cigarettes the guy was putting in the paper bag.

  The whole time in the car had been an interrogation: Debbie showing a keen interest in his life, more than just curiosity. But now where would she go with it? He’d have to bring her along to find out.

  So when she came out and got in the car Terry said, “I can understand why Johnny asked about the money.”

  “I can, too,” Debbie said, “thirty thousand in cash.”