Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

“I have to go.”

Her face and chest were still flush with excitement. She stopped and took a deep breath. She looked like she was trying to decide something. She turned to the door.

“Peter, I love you,” she said, for the first time.

“I love you too,” he responded, without hesitation.

She opened the door and a crease of light from the hallway fell into the room, illuminating his naked body.

* * *

When the car stops in front of Alberto’s building on Columbia Heights, the driver has to shout to alert Peter, who is lost in his own thoughts. He steps out of the car, briefcase in hand, and closes the door behind him. The street is quiet; the only sounds are the wind pushing branches and the low hum of the BQE. He notices a pay phone up the street, fifty feet away, right before an entrance to the Promenade. He’s never noticed it before, hasn’t seen a public phone in ages. They are like the city’s homeless; they seem to have vanished overnight.

Before he knows why, Peter is at the phone, checking for a dial tone. The phone still works. He fishes in his pockets for change, finds three quarters and a dime. He doesn’t even know what a call costs these days. He dials information.

“City and state,” a sterilized female voice asks.

“Staten Island, New York.”

“What listing?” the voice asks.

“Vincent Giordano.”

The voice recites a sum and Peter slides two quarters into the slot. He tucks the receiver between his chin and his shoulder. Someone answers on the second ring.

“Hello?”

A female voice. Not Gina.

“Hello, may I please speak to Gina?”

He changes his voice, makes it a little higher. The absurdity does not escape him. The stuff of teenagers, only he’s a quarter century past that.

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Brendan.”

“One moment, Brendan.”

The moments drip by. Peter’s heart pounds in his chest. Why didn’t he try this sooner? Why is he trying it now? This is pure insanity. He hears the other phone being lifted, hears Gina’s voice on the other end saying hello. He hangs up.

What the hell is he thinking? His life isn’t fucked enough?

He stands there for a long time, staring at the phone, clinging to the fantasy that it might ring.

* * *

The snow began to fall as Peter walked over to the firm’s Christmas party. The forecasters had been predicting a monster storm all week and the city was eerily vacant in anticipation. The firm had even considered canceling the party, but the old-timers who still lived in palatial penthouses off the park would have none of it. They didn’t live in the sleepy suburbs north of the city. They didn’t have to worry about stalled trains and icy roads. All they had to do was stay sober enough to catch a cab. The Christmas party was a tradition, goddammit, and the flimsy prognostications of a few snake charmers who called themselves meteorologists weren’t going to interfere with a hundred and five years of dressed-up debauchery.

Peter chuckled. You had to admire the old-timers. They wouldn’t be denied their fucking Christmas party. So the turnout would be light, who cared? More booze for the stalwarts.

The rapidly falling snow cast the semi-abandoned streets in an ethereal veil, inducing whimsical notions in Peter, lightening his melancholy. He’d been gloomy since his last meeting with Gina, gradually resigning himself to the conclusion of their affair.

He knew it was bad when she didn’t close the door after walking into his office. She told him, in a hushed whisper, that David had figured it out. She wasn’t sure how, but he knew and he’d threatened to call Peter’s wife unless it stopped immediately. No more late-night office visits. No more working together. Nothing.

A shiver of fear scrambled up Peter’s spine at the possibility of David’s calling Lindsay. Somehow, he’d managed to keep his family on the periphery of this whole thing, had managed to ignore the possible consequences if the affair was revealed. The thing had been going on for three weeks. How had David figured it out so quickly?

It didn’t matter. He knew Gina was right. It had to end. He’d noticed a few raised eyebrows around the firm. Gina came to his office every night at the same time and emerged two hours later; they hadn’t exactly been discreet. No matter that the door was locked and they kept the noise to a minimum. People weren’t stupid and there were more than enough of them around at seven every night. It had to stop before people got hurt, before a mess was made. It had to end.

When Gina told him, her eyes were shot through with red and her pallor was the sickly white of the sleep deprived. She’d been up all night, he guessed, brokering this deal with David. Protecting him. It was a fair deal. All he had to do was take it. All he had to do was never touch her again, never taste her again, never fuck her again.

Not possible.

It had to stop, yes, but it couldn’t stop. Not yet. Not like this. Not because of David.

So he brokered his own deal with Gina. One last night together. A proper night in a hotel room. He’d laid out his plan: the firm Christmas party, a careful fabrication on her part, they would each attend alone, he would arrange for them to be at the same table, they would leave early, escape together. They were owed that much. They deserved that much. One special night and then good-bye forever. She shook her head yes, a dozen little lurches. She didn’t need much convincing. He could tell that she didn’t want things to stop either.

Peter crossed Forty-second Street tentatively, his wingtips sliding on a thin sheen of fallen snow. A yellow cab passed in front of him, its speed the stately march of a hearse. He reached the other side and started walking diagonally up the stairs of the New York Public Library’s main branch, the site of this year’s party. A half dozen black cars were lined up at the curb, waiting their turn to dispense older partners and their spouses into the waiting hands of an attendant. Peter could picture the scene in reverse in a few hours: more snow, wobblier legs. He did not envy the attendants.

When he reached the cover of the building’s overhang, Peter ran a hand through his hair to remove some caked frost. His lungs felt renewed by the cold. The snow was a gift, something to ensure a memorable evening with Gina. They wouldn’t bother sleeping tonight. He’d booked a room at The Plaza. He would crack a window, let the cold air seep into the room. He’d make love to Gina under the sheets, let the warmth of their bodies serve as a protest to the elements, to the fates, to everything that was conspiring to keep them apart. He would explore her, find all the places he hadn’t yet. He’d make it so that they couldn’t stop, so that she couldn’t end it. This wasn’t over yet. He stepped into the lobby with satyric vigor.

He deposited his coat at the check and snagged a flute of champagne from a passing server. They’d turned the vestibule into a temporary cocktail lounge and strung white lights down the marble walls. He nodded hello to a few colleagues and went to look for Gina. He spotted her on the other end of the hall, waiting near one of the makeshift bars, holding a shimmering black purse at her side. She wore a long black dress. Her hair was pulled up in an elegant bun. He could see the astonishing blue of her eyes even at this distance. She looked ravishing. He suddenly understood the expression; he wanted to ravish her, felt a tremor from his groin at the thought. He crossed the distance between them, sidestepping the lion’s share of the bankruptcy group and plowing through the small circle of trusts and estates lawyers the firm still employed. These events were pointless; everyone got drunk with the same five people they talked to every day.