Seven Up - By Janet Evanovich Page 0,25

a special on television about aliens," Grandma said. "And they didn't have hymens. They didn't have any parts down there at all."

"Do horses have hymens?" Mary Alice wanted to know.

"Not man horses," Grandma said.

"It's really nice that you're going to get married," Valerie said. And then Valerie burst into tears. Not sniffling, dainty tears, either. Valerie was doing big, loud, wet sobbing, gulping in air and bellowing out misery. The two little ladies started crying, too, doing open-mouthed wailing like only a kid can pull off. And then my mother was crying, sniffling into her napkin. And Bob was howling. Aaarooooh. Aaarooooooh!

"I'm never going to get married again," Valerie said between sobs. "Never, never, never. Marriage is the work of the devil. Men are the Antichrist. I'm going to become a lesbian."

"How do you do that?" Grandma asked. "I always wanted to know. Do you have to wear a fake penis? I saw a TV show once and the women were wearing these things that were made out of black leather and were shaped like a great big—"

"Kill me," my mother shouted. "Just kill me. I want to die."

My sister and Bob went back to the bawling and howling. Mary Alice whinnied at the top of her lungs. And Angie covered her ears so she couldn't hear. "La, la, la, la," Angie sang.

My father cleaned his plate and looked around. Where was his coffee? Where was his cake?

"You're going to owe me big time for this one," Morelli whispered in my ear. "This is a doggy-sex night."

"I'm getting a headache," Grandma said. "I can't take this racket. Somebody do something. Put the television on. Get the liquor out. Do something!"

I heaved myself out of my chair and went into the kitchen and got the cake. As soon as it hit the table the crying stopped. If we pay attention to anything in this family . . . it's dessert.

MORELLI AND BOB and I rode home in silence, no one knowing what to say. Morelli pulled into my lot, cut the engine, and turned to me.

"August?" he asked, his voice higher than usual, not able to keep out the incredulous. "You want to get married in August?"

"It just popped out of my mouth! It was all that dying stuff from my mother."

"Your family makes any family look like the Brady Bunch."

"Are you kidding me? Your grandmother is crazy. She gives people the eye."

"It's an Italian thing."

"It's a crazy thing."

A car swerved into the lot, jerked to a stop, the door opened, and Mooner rolled out onto the pavement. Joe and I hit the pavement at the same time. When we got to Mooner he'd dragged himself up to a sitting position. He was holding his head, and blood trickled from between his fingers.

"Hey dude," Mooner said, "I think I've been shot. I was watching television and I heard a sound on the front porch, so I turned around and looked and there was this scary face looking in the window at me. It was this scary old lady with real scary eyes. It was, like, dark, but I could see her through the black glass. And next thing she had a gun in her hand and she shot me. And she broke Dougie's window and everything. There should be a law against that sort of thing, dude."

The Mooner lived two blocks from St. Frances Hospital, but he drove past the hospital and came to me for help. Why me? I asked. And then I realized I sounded like my mother and gave myself a mental smack in the head.

We loaded Mooner back into his car. Joe drove the Mooner to the hospital, and I followed in Joe's truck. Two hours later all the medical and police formalities were behind us, and Mooner had a big Band-Aid on his forehead. The bullet had grazed him just above his eyebrow and ricocheted off into Dougie's living room wall.

We stood in Dougie's living room and studied the hole in his front window.

"I should have been wearing the Super Suit," Mooner said. "That would have confounded them, dude."

Joe and I looked at each other. Confounded. Yes, indeed.

"Do you think it's safe for him to stay in his house?" I asked Joe.

"Hard to say what's safe for the Mooner," Joe said.

"Amen," Mooner said. "Safety floats on butterfly wings."

"I don't know what the hell that means," Joe said.

"It means safety is elusive, dude."

Joe pulled me aside. "Maybe we should check him into rehab."

"I heard that, dude. That's