"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."

IN THE CAR HE TOLD Debbie he almost wasn't invited to stay at Fran's, Mary Pat worried he 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 Clan, 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 Africariving 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 gn'an?"

"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. Any time 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 iar in the classroom and a sign that said FOR 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.