Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

She also knows that Enzo will grow impatient with driving her to Michael’s house every day, so in the winter months before Peter is born, she forces Enzo to teach her how to drive. They practice on the street in front of Gail’s house, the car drifting into snowbanks. Gail stands and watches from the kitchen, her hands snug around the ball of her stomach. She sees Enzo’s frustrated gesticulations in the passenger seat, Maria’s shoulder shrugs in response. She tries not to laugh. Maria is learning how to drive so she can come help Gail. When she thinks about this, her eyes well up and her chest throbs with gratitude.

When she’s not learning how to drive, Maria teaches Gail how to cook. Sunday gravy, eggplant parmigiana, chicken cacciatore, osso buco, a lentil stew with sausage. Gail picks up a little Italian, surprises Maria a few times with a few words or a phrase. They develop a language, a means of communicating: some Italian, some English, a few hand gestures. In the quiet moments, Maria kisses her own hand, reaches over and touches the bulge of Gail’s stomach.

A host of incremental improvements occur in the run-up to the baby’s arrival: Gail’s cooking, Maria’s driving, the state of the house. Michael and his friend Dave Terrio, who everyone calls Tiny, work on the house on the weekends. They finish the baby’s room with two days to spare.

The tiny, spattered, shrieking pink wonder that Michael lays in Gail’s arms has a shock of black hair.

“He looks like a Peter,” Michael says, and Gail agrees.

* * *

Gail stands at the kitchen window, holding Peter in a swaddle and waiting for Maria. The black car staggers to a stop. Maria gets out and struggles up the front steps, trays of food balanced on her beefy forearms. She kisses Gail, lays the trays on the counter, and takes her grandson. Gail goes for a walk, gets some fresh air, runs some errands. When she gets back to the house, Peter is asleep and Maria is cooking. They sit at the table and eat. A few soft whimpers from the nursery upstairs crescendo into a wail. Maria stands, but Gail waves her back into a chair. She wants Maria to climb the stairs as little as possible. Something in Maria’s gait is off; there’s a flaw in the ambulatory machinery, one that she manages to hide unless she’s climbing stairs. Gail glides into the nursery, eager to see her baby boy. He smiles up at her with marble eyes, the tears already drying on his cheeks.

They become a well-oiled machine, the two of them: a cooking, cleaning, baby-tending machine. They spend every day together, for months on end. At night, Michael teases her.

“How is your new best friend?”

“She’s a lifesaver. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

“What do you talk about all day?”

“We don’t talk.”

“You don’t talk.”

“Not really. A little bit here and there, but it doesn’t matter. It’s nice between us.”

“Good. I’m glad,” he says through a yawn.

“Michael, what’s the matter with your mother? The way she walks, something’s not right. I think it’s her hips. Has she had them checked out?”

“She’s always been like that. She doesn’t talk about it. I think it’s her back. She had an operation once when I was a kid. I don’t really remember why. Just remember my father taking me to visit her in the hospital.”

“How is your dad? Must be nice spending all this time together at the shop.”

“Nice?”

“Yeah, isn’t it?”

“Standing behind a counter all day with a man who can’t speak English, cutting pork chops, grinding meat? No, nice is not the word I would use.”

“Jesus, Michael, he’s your father.”

“Would you want to spend every day with your father? Or, better yet, your mother?”

“No, but your father is nice. Pleasant.”

“So everyone tells me.”

There’s something off between Michael and his father, something missing. They love each other, but it’s almost like Michael is embarrassed by Enzo. Enzo is a simple man, sure, but then so is Michael. Gail doesn’t quite understand their relationship. It is clear that Enzo loves it when Michael works in the shop; it is also clear that Michael hates working in the shop. Gail has no idea why things are this way. In her mind, a job is a job, and selling meat is a lot less dangerous than fighting fires. She wishes Michael would follow his father’s path, but even as a young wife, she knows that trying to change him is futile. He loves being a firefighter.

“Anyway, it helps pay the bills right?” Michael says, eyes closed.

He yawns again and this yawn reminds Gail that she’s exhausted as well.

* * *

The days are long, but the years fly by.

Another saying of Maria’s, roughly translated by Gail. She agrees with the first, is unsure of the second. But sure enough, days turn into weeks and weeks into months and months into a year. They celebrate Peter’s first birthday in the newly cleared-out backyard: Michael and Gail. Enzo and Maria. Tiny and his new girlfriend, Peggy. They sit at a red picnic table that stands in the shadow of the house. A dusty patch of newly seeded dirt leads down to a crumbling wooden fence that divides Michael and Gail’s property from the house behind theirs. The weeds have been pulled, the decrepit shed removed. An adolescent red oak tree stands on the line between their property and the Greeleys’. Michael talks about a space to grow tomatoes, maybe a chain-link fence to replace the wooden one. Gail brings out a platter of roasted lamb shoulder with potatoes, carrots, and onions. The compliments flow in Maria’s direction. She shakes a finger at the rest of the table, points it at Gail. Enzo laughs and slaps Gail’s back. Michael smiles, inebriated and proud. Gail blushes. She wants to hold onto the moment in all its messy splendor.

A birthday cake is retrieved from the fridge. Enzo sings “Happy Birthday” in Italian. His voice is obscenely bad. The whole table laughs when he’s finished. A man wanders around the side of the house, looks a bit unsteady. It’s a bright windy day, everyone squints in the sun. Gail brings a hand above her eyes.

“Mr. Greeley?” Michael says. They invited a few neighbors over for cake. “Where’s your wife?”

“Goodness,” Gail’s father says, his reddened face coming into view, “where’s that grandson of mine?”

* * *

Her father, Sean, sleeps on the couch, his head thick with Enzo’s wine. In the morning, Gail cooks him bacon and eggs. He eats with alacrity. Gail pushes more bacon onto his plate.

“You learned to cook, huh?”

“Among other things.”

“Nice place you have here.”

“Thanks.”

“Tommy turned up.”

“I heard.”

“He was in California, in San Francisco. Brought a girl home with him. She’s up the pole. Your mother is tickled.”

“Is she now?”

He sighs, pushes away from the table. The corners of his mouth are yellow with egg yolk.

“I have an idea, Goodness.”

He reaches into a pocket, pulls out some change. He flips through the coins, finds a quarter. He holds it up to her between his index finger and his thumb. She takes a good look at him. The booze has finally caught up. His eyes are runny and his chin trembles; the skin on his face has a purplish hue, like the veins are trying to escape his slowly drowning skull. She fights off the thought that her child could be infected by his sickness.

“You remember this game, Goodness. Heads, you stay here. You don’t come see your mother or Tommy or his new wife. But if it’s tails, you come back with me today and you let this go. We put it behind us. Okay?”

He pushes his plate aside. His fingers have lost their dexterity. After a few failed attempts, he gets the coin spinning. When he does, Gail swings her hand down on the table, covering the quarter with a resounding slap and startling her father. He looks up at her confused, like she’s a bartender who’s cut him off for no good reason. She doesn’t bother pretending to look. Her eyes blaze down at the withered shadow of her father.