Read Online Pagan Babies by Elmore Leonard - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elmore Leonard
Ads: Link
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
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
Similar Books
