Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

Peter laughed, a grim, caustic chuckle that the wind snatched.

Of course he should be reminded of Staten Island every morning. Of course he should. Let the punishment fit the crime or something like that.

* * *

Dominic burst into Peter’s cramped office five minutes before four, ranting that he had another fire drill that he needed Peter’s help on. One of his big clients had a whistle-blower and they needed to fly out to Wichita, of all fucking places, and start an internal investigation. Worst of all, the client contact was here, now, downstairs in one of the large conference rooms, having a complete meltdown; he needed a little hand-holding, a little stroking, a little everything-will-be-okay, and Dominic needed Peter to be his wingman for this meeting. And then, probably fly out to Wichita tomorrow, Monday the latest, and hit the ground running.

Peter dropped what he was doing, straightened his tie, ran a comb through his hair, and grabbed his suit jacket off the back of his chair. He didn’t complain. He didn’t groan. He was an eighth-year associate, on the precipice of making partner: complaining or groaning weren’t acceptable options. His weekend was already half fucked anyway. So now it would be fully fucked. Lindsay would be pissed, but Lindsay was usually pissed these days. If he had to go to Wichita, she’d be stuck home alone for the weekend, six months pregnant, trying to corral their daughter, Amanda, who was two years old and driving her mother insane.

He followed Dominic out of his office, shouting back at his secretary, Maureen, to call Mike Williston and tell him that something had come up and he’d have to give him his edits on the brief later that night. Dominic strode through the hall with alacrity and Peter had to hustle to catch him at the elevators.

“Which client, Dom? What’s this guy’s name?” Peter asked in the elevator down to the conference room floors.

“Oh, umm, Fred Baxter,” Dominic said, a thin smile on his tanned, avuncular face. He reached over and folded down the collar of Peter’s jacket. Sweat streamed down Peter’s face. He perspired constantly, a combination of stress, little sleep, and no exercise. Dominic put a hand inside his own charcoal gray suit jacket and withdrew an immaculate white handkerchief, the initials DD monogrammed in blue satin in the corner. He handed it to Peter.

“Take a minute, Pete; make yourself presentable. You’ll want to look good for this.”

Peter wiped the sweat off his forehead and the back of his neck. He looked over at his mentor, who was looking down at the floor. Dominic, usually prone to rambling harangues, had said next to nothing on the ride down.

There was no client waiting. This was it. This was it . Finally.

The elevator opened and they walked down the hall toward the large conference room, usually reserved for department-wide lunches. Dominic stopped before the door. He gave Pete the once-over. The realization of what was about to happen had flung open Peter’s sweat glands, even more so than usual; he was dripping. He tried in vain to staunch the flow with Dominic’s handkerchief

“Useless. Utterly useless,” Dominic said with a wink, and then opened the door.

The assembled litigation partners rose to cheer Peter and welcome him to the partnership. A flute of champagne was placed in his hand. Dominic hugged him, kissed his cheek, and whispered in his ear.

“Congrats, Petey. It took me twenty-five years, but I finally got another paesano in here. You got the world by the balls now, kid.”

Peter felt like he was in GoodFellas, like he was becoming a made man, being welcomed into a Mafia family. Dominic released him. The partners had formed a makeshift receiving line; ninety-odd men (and ten women) in five-thousand-dollar suits, their stern, workplace demeanors temporarily discarded, all waiting to shake his hand. Peter worked his way through the line, shaking hands and swigging champagne. After a half hour of backslapping and congratulatory handshakes, Peter looked around the room at his new partners. Bow ties and braces, cufflinks and horn-rimmed glasses. An entire room of consiglieres, if you thought about it. Not to Mafia dons. To captains of industry, to CEOs of Fortune 500 companies, to the people who called the shots in corporate America, who controlled the peaks and valleys of the stock market. The most powerful people in the country came to the partners at this law firm when they needed advice, when they had a crisis.

From a few seats down, Dominic caught his eye, raised his glass. He was a little drunk, the old hardscrabble litigator from the Bronx. On champagne and on his protégé’s success. Peter raised his glass in return, smiled.

No, this wasn’t GoodFellas. This was much, much better.

* * *

He staggered back to his office an hour later, euphoric and exhausted and more than a little tipsy. He shook hands with well-wishers as he went. Word had spread. Maureen was waiting for him and she hugged him, real tears in her eyes.

“Congrats, Peter. I’m so happy for you. You deserve this, you deserve this.”

Maureen had been his secretary for the past three years; she was competent, had a good sense of humor. She was also in her midfifties and reminded Peter of his mother. Dominic had once told him to never have a secretary who was better looking than his wife. Peter heeded the advice, as he did most of Dominic’s counsel. Maureen lived deep in Brooklyn — Marine Park or Mill Basin, he could never remember which — and had lost a nephew, also a firefighter, on 9/11. She felt a kinship with Peter, relished his successes in a way that his own mother couldn’t. By dint of working at this firm for so many years, Maureen understood what his making partner meant; his mother wouldn’t, couldn’t. Not entirely.

The hug drifted toward an uncomfortable length. He tried to ease out of it, but Maureen kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear.

“I’m sure your brother is looking down right now, very proud of you. Very proud.”

Peter smiled and stepped away.

“Thank you, Mo.”

He paused to allow the emotion to dissipate. Phones rang in other offices. Pages belched out of printers. Maureen wiped her eyes, sat down at her station.

“There will be another reception at five thirty, for the whole litigation department.”

“More champagne?” he asked, added a dramatic groan for Maureen’s benefit.

“Even I may stay late, on a Friday no less. I know it’s tough, Petey, all the champagne, everyone wishing you well, but try to make the best of it.”

“That’s the Mo I know and love.” He walked to the door of his office. “I’m gonna make a few calls, tell Lindsay and my family, so try to make sure the peasants don’t come knocking on my door.”

“Yes, sir, Your Highness.”

“Thanks, Mo.”

He closed the door behind him, surveyed his wreck of an office. Piles of paper everywhere. Boxes of documents on the floor. A handful of black stress balls with the Lonigan Brown logo on the floor under his desk. He exhaled, let the weight of this shift, from a burden on his shoulders to a glow in his gut. He had calls to make, but they could wait. He wanted a few minutes to himself, to let his head steady and clear. He was alone and his mind was unoccupied, and when that happened, he usually thought about Bobby. He walked to the credenza and picked up the picture.

In it, Bobby was holding Amanda and his head was tilted down in a cooing gesture. Amanda was born on August 21, 2001. The picture was taken that day or the next. It was the only picture that Peter had of the two of them: his brother, his daughter. The only picture he would ever have. Three weeks later, Bobby was dead. Peter looked at him now, imagined the words on his lips.