think of anything funny when hundreds of thousands of people are being killed. Terry was right there during the entire period of the genocide."
Debbie said, "I can't even imagine that." She couldn't remember hearing much about it, either, the genocide.
"On the altar saying his first Mass," Fran said, "when they broke into the church. A scene that'll stay with him the rest of his life."
Terry's expression didn't change. She thought of it now as kind of a saintly look, the dark hair and beard part of the image, the hood of the parka hanging like a monk's cowl. She hoped he might add something, so she'd know what Fran was talking about.
But now Terry was telling her again, "You were really funny. You must've felt good about it."
"Most of it," Debbie said.
"Where'd you get the pet bat?"
"Out of the air. I wanted to describe Randy as evil in a funny way, if you know what I mean, this good-looking but sinister guy with a bat flying around the house. It didn't get much of a laugh."
"It worked for me," Terry said, "but then I'm used to bats. They'd come out every night and eat a few tons of bugs. I liked the skin on the bathroom floor, too, Randy the snake molting."
"That's right," Fran said, "you were gonna see if you could make that work."
"It either didn't," Debbie said, "or only a few people got it. Or if you're gonna do weird humor you have to establish it right away, not slip it in somewhere."
"The only thing I didn't get," Terry said, "was the worst thing in the joint being the TV show. But then I never saw it. What's the name of the show? Urkel?"
"He's the character," Debbie said. "The show's called Family Matters. Urkel's a nerdy black kid with the most annoying voice I've ever heard, and the ladies in the dorm'd cry laughing at him. But you're right, it doesn't work. I'm getting rid of Urkel."
"Maybe do more with Randy."
"I could; but I get mad thinking about him and then it's not funny. I didn't hurt him enough."
"You mean there is a Randy and you hit him with a car?"
"A Ford Escort. But you say you happened to run into your ex-husband, beat, with a Ford Escort, it doesn't make it. And I didn't just happen to run into him."
"She ambushed him," Fran said, eating his salad now, "laid in wait."
"You have to understand," Debbie said, "the guy wiped me out, totaled my Beamer, got rid of my dog, stole cash I'd hidden away . . . He's the only guy I know comes out of the bathroom he doesn't have a magazine or the newspaper under his arm. He'd be in there forever. Finally it dawned on me, he's snooping around, looking in the medicine cabinet, the drawers . . . I'd hide extra cash in there, 'cause if I had it in my bag I'd spend it. I'd put it in a roll of toilet paper in the bathroom closet, in that hollow center, or in a box of tampons. The sneak found twelve hundred bucks and then lied about it. 'No, it wasn't me.' Or I'd forgot where I hid it. Another time I come home, my dog's gone. 'Where's Camille?' Randy goes, 'Oh, she must've run away.' This is a Lhasa Apso that had the dog world by the ass, had anything she wanted, toys, gourmet pet chow--and she ran away? I know what he did, he took Camille for a ride and threw her out of the fucking car, a helpless little dog." Debbie took a sip of vodka and looked up to see Terry's quiet gaze on her. She said, "I get upset, I don't normally use that kind of language."
"You don't," Fran said, "since when?"
She watched Terry grin, like he thought his brother was being funny, then surprised her with, "How much did he take you for altogether?"
"He hit her at the perfect time," Fran said. "I'd just paid Deb her commission on a big case we settled."
"The total," Debbie said, "counting what he borrowed, comes to sixty-seven thousand. Plus the car and the cash, all in less than three months."
"And Camille," Terry said, "she's worth something."
Looking at her with his innocent eyes. Was he putting her on? Now he said, "The guy must've charmed you out of your socks," not
Debbie said, "I can't even imagine that." She couldn't remember hearing much about it, either, the genocide.
"On the altar saying his first Mass," Fran said, "when they broke into the church. A scene that'll stay with him the rest of his life."
Terry's expression didn't change. She thought of it now as kind of a saintly look, the dark hair and beard part of the image, the hood of the parka hanging like a monk's cowl. She hoped he might add something, so she'd know what Fran was talking about.
But now Terry was telling her again, "You were really funny. You must've felt good about it."
"Most of it," Debbie said.
"Where'd you get the pet bat?"
"Out of the air. I wanted to describe Randy as evil in a funny way, if you know what I mean, this good-looking but sinister guy with a bat flying around the house. It didn't get much of a laugh."
"It worked for me," Terry said, "but then I'm used to bats. They'd come out every night and eat a few tons of bugs. I liked the skin on the bathroom floor, too, Randy the snake molting."
"That's right," Fran said, "you were gonna see if you could make that work."
"It either didn't," Debbie said, "or only a few people got it. Or if you're gonna do weird humor you have to establish it right away, not slip it in somewhere."
"The only thing I didn't get," Terry said, "was the worst thing in the joint being the TV show. But then I never saw it. What's the name of the show? Urkel?"
"He's the character," Debbie said. "The show's called Family Matters. Urkel's a nerdy black kid with the most annoying voice I've ever heard, and the ladies in the dorm'd cry laughing at him. But you're right, it doesn't work. I'm getting rid of Urkel."
"Maybe do more with Randy."
"I could; but I get mad thinking about him and then it's not funny. I didn't hurt him enough."
"You mean there is a Randy and you hit him with a car?"
"A Ford Escort. But you say you happened to run into your ex-husband, beat, with a Ford Escort, it doesn't make it. And I didn't just happen to run into him."
"She ambushed him," Fran said, eating his salad now, "laid in wait."
"You have to understand," Debbie said, "the guy wiped me out, totaled my Beamer, got rid of my dog, stole cash I'd hidden away . . . He's the only guy I know comes out of the bathroom he doesn't have a magazine or the newspaper under his arm. He'd be in there forever. Finally it dawned on me, he's snooping around, looking in the medicine cabinet, the drawers . . . I'd hide extra cash in there, 'cause if I had it in my bag I'd spend it. I'd put it in a roll of toilet paper in the bathroom closet, in that hollow center, or in a box of tampons. The sneak found twelve hundred bucks and then lied about it. 'No, it wasn't me.' Or I'd forgot where I hid it. Another time I come home, my dog's gone. 'Where's Camille?' Randy goes, 'Oh, she must've run away.' This is a Lhasa Apso that had the dog world by the ass, had anything she wanted, toys, gourmet pet chow--and she ran away? I know what he did, he took Camille for a ride and threw her out of the fucking car, a helpless little dog." Debbie took a sip of vodka and looked up to see Terry's quiet gaze on her. She said, "I get upset, I don't normally use that kind of language."
"You don't," Fran said, "since when?"
She watched Terry grin, like he thought his brother was being funny, then surprised her with, "How much did he take you for altogether?"
"He hit her at the perfect time," Fran said. "I'd just paid Deb her commission on a big case we settled."
"The total," Debbie said, "counting what he borrowed, comes to sixty-seven thousand. Plus the car and the cash, all in less than three months."
"And Camille," Terry said, "she's worth something."
Looking at her with his innocent eyes. Was he putting her on? Now he said, "The guy must've charmed you out of your socks," not
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