Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

And when it is, Gail will ask her about the man she met. It’s only fair. She will ask her and listen to Tina’s answers and she will be happy for her.

She walks up the front stairs and rings the doorbell. One of Tina’s neighbors, a man, picks up his paper and waves it at her in hello. The front door opens and a woman answers, wearing a long white T-shirt that extends below her waist. Gail flinches, uncertain.

“Mrs. Amendola?”

Gail hears small feet scampering toward the door. Bobby Jr. leans into view.

“Grandma!”

“Bob-a-loo.”

She leans down and hugs him. Milk and Cheerios. They should sell it as cologne.

“Tina’s not here.”

Gail’s eyes move up to the woman she now recognizes: Stephanie DeVosso. Friend of Tina’s. Stephanie’s legs are a deep, settled brown. In March. She stretches her arms in a long yawn and her T-shirt lifts, revealing skimpy black panties. Gail can see the mound of Stephanie’s pubis in relief against the silk fabric of her panties. She bites down an urge to take Bobby to the car and drive away.

“That’s okay. I was just passing by. I thought I’d take a shot.”

“I’ll tell her you stopped by.”

“Not necessary, Stephanie. I’ll call her later.”

She kisses Bobby, who races back inside.

“Later, Grandma-ma-ma.”

Stephanie looks after him. When he’s out of sight, she puts a hand to the side of her mouth and whispers.

“She spent the night with Wade.”

Now he has a name.

“Of course. I forgot. Sorry to bother you, Stephanie.”

Gail turns and walks down the stairs. She remembers a rumor she heard somewhere, something Michael brought home from the Leaf. She turns, calls back to Stephanie.

“Meant to ask you, Stephanie. How’s your friend Jenny doing? Jenny Valenti?”

Stephanie’s teeth shift behind closed lips.

“She’s fine.”

“Good. I saw her mother a few weeks ago at Enzo’s. Said she’s really struggling with the whole mastectomy. Must be tough, for a woman that age. You know, with a young husband.”

Gail’s eyes narrow. She holds them on the younger woman until the woman looks away.

“Must be,” Stephanie says, eyes down.

“Yes, well, we all have our crosses to bear. Have a good day.”

Gail doesn’t look back as she walks to the car. She drives to a nearby strip mall and parks the car. She looks at herself in the rearview mirror. Her eyes are drained and red.

“Silliness,” she says to her miserable-looking reflection. “Pure silliness.”

Her cell phone rings. Tina’s number. Stephanie must have called her. She hesitates, unsure whether to answer. She clears her throat, tests her voice. No point putting this off.

“Hello?”

“Gail? It’s me.”

“Hey, Tina. How are you?”

“Is everything okay? Stephanie said you came by, needed to talk.”

That colossal bitch.

“No, it was nothing. I was driving around and thought I’d stop by. I should have called first.”

“No, Gail, I’m sorry. I should have… I wasn’t sure how to… Christ, I’m sorry.”

“Tina, it’s okay. It’s my fault. I’m sorry.”

“I would have asked you to watch the kids, but I didn’t think, I mean, I wasn’t sure…”

Tina’s voice trails off. Gail wonders where she is right now. Manhattan? Connecticut? New Jersey? She knows nothing about this man, Wade. She didn’t even know his name until a few minutes ago. For all she knows, Tina could be lying in bed with him as they’re talking.

“I’m really sorry, Gail.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, Tina. Stephanie shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“Well, the bitch just couldn’t resist ruining both of our mornings.”

They both laugh.

“I needed that, Tina. Thank you. Let me let you get back to your—” Man? Other man? New man? Lover? — “day.”

“Wait, I was going to ask you something later, but I may as well do it now.”

“Sure, anything.”

She hears Tina exhale, can visualize her trying to formulate the question.

“Would you mind if Wade came to the party on Sunday? For Bobby Jr.’s party?”

Gail almost asks who Wade is and then she remembers.

“That’s next weekend,” she says, without meaning to sound irritated.

“I know. I know. I just thought that it might be a nice way for Wade to meet everyone.”

“Sure, Tina. Of course. He’s more than welcome.”

Tina asks if she is sure.

“I am,” Gail says, though she is not. Her voice lacks punch, it’s like water in a puddle. She feels disconnected from the world, from this conversation. If this man is coming to her house in a week’s time, she has things to do. People to tell. She has to tell Bobby, of course, but the other boys as well. Michael, Peter, Franky. These will not be easy conversations. Tina is asking too much. A week to tell four men news it will take them a decade to accept? Too much, too soon.

“Are you still there, Gail?”

“Yes, Tina, sorry, I got distracted.”

She’ll start with Peter, start with the most sensible one. Maybe he can tell her how to tell the others. Maybe he can help her figure out a way to tell Franky.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure there wasn’t something you wanted to tell me?”

“It was nothing,” Gail says, thinking nulla.

“Okay, I’m sure we’ll chat during the week. Have a good one.”

“You too, Tina.”

She closes the phone. A week from now, a stranger will step into her house. Before that can happen, she has to tell the boys, all of them. No small task.

Gail opens the car door and steps out. The cool air is bracing, revives her a bit. She looks around the shabby little mall. It was brand new ten years ago and now it’s dilapidated: a dingy deli surviving on Lotto tickets, a walk-in slice joint with Mexicans behind the counter, one abandoned storefront, and a narrow little diner that looks to be a week away from going under.

She peers in the window of the diner. Two old Italian women — glasses perched above bony noses, scarves wrapped around shrunken heads — chat at the front table over coffee and Danishes. One of them turns to Gail, gives a friendly nod. Gail waves back, thinking of Maria. She should have told Tina about everything, just rambled on about all the things she never told her. It wouldn’t have been perfect over the phone, but that doesn’t matter. She should have told her.

A voice rises in her head. The voice has a smoker’s rasp and speaks perfect English. And between each sentence is a pause long enough to spoon a mouthful of soup.

What were you going to tell her anyway, Gail?

That he was conceived in response to death and born in its shadow? That you named him after a man — a boy — who died young? That you gave him a cursed name, a condemned name? One that was doomed to be etched in remembrance. Bobby Amendola. A firefighter’s name, if ever there was one.

You could have named him George or Fred or Paul or Kevin. You could have given him a butcher’s name, Enzo, or a drunk’s name, Sean.

You could have given him any of these names and he would still be alive.

One final pause.

Or you could have listened to me, those many years ago, when I told you that, one way or another, your children will rip the heart from your chest.

On Monday morning, Peter Amendola is woken by the sounding of the Staten Island ferry’s horn as it eases away from the southern tip of Manhattan and slips into New York Harbor. The sound — a brief, low rumble — has woken him most of the mornings he’s stayed at Alberto’s apartment, even before he knew what it was. He groans and shifts to a sitting position on the couch, rubbing his eyes. He lifts his BlackBerry from the glass coffee table in front of the couch and checks the time: a little past six. He walks to the window to watch the ferry’s progress. He knows its path well, knows the feints and turns of its twenty-five-minute voyage. He spends half his time in this apartment watching as one ferry leaves and another arrives, passing each other. A crowd of them at rush hour.