Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

She doesn’t recognize the look on Peter’s face. He’s sitting across from her, glumly shaking pepper onto a plate of bacon and eggs like he’s sprinkling dirt on a grave. He tucks his tie between the buttons of his white shirt and stares down at his plate, like it’s a riddle he can’t figure out.

Defeated, she realizes, he looks defeated. He doesn’t have the answers. His confidence is shot. Something has happened to him, something he didn’t expect and hadn’t planned on and he doesn’t know what to do. A dose of gratification ripples through her, leaving guilt in its wake. She wishes she could say something or simply ask him what’s wrong, but she can’t. It’s never been like that between them. He’s always insisted on his independence, on not relying on his parents, not relying on her. Too much track has been laid; neither of them has the capacity for the conversation that should happen. She’ll have to poke around and see what he gives her.

“Why are we eating here? Why aren’t we in the firm’s cafeteria or the Pig ‘n’ Whistle?”

“I like it here,” he says, looking around, as though he’s mildly insulted on behalf of the establishment. “I thought you’d be glad I still ate in diners.”

“I like the cafeteria. I like meeting the people you work with.”

Peter lowers his fork, wipes his mouth with a napkin.

“Mom, you like shooting the shit with Maureen. You hate the people I work with. You’ve never given a fuck about my work, about what I do.”

“That’s not true,” she protests.

“It is unquestionably true. When was the last time you asked me about a case I was working on? When was the last time you asked me anything about work, other than how Maureen was doing?”

“I don’t always understand what you do.”

He doesn’t look up between bites.

“You know exactly what I do. I represent corporations, sometimes individuals, who the government is investigating or who are involved in lawsuits with other corporations. Or, as you would put it: I represent rich people. Other rich people.”

His response is swift, premeditated. She’s forgotten what it’s like to talk to him. You have to parse every word. Every question sets the stage for answers he’s already decided on.

“Jesus, Peter, what’s up your ass?”

He doesn’t answer. In the dark rolling wave of his stubble, she notices a few whitecaps. A waiter meanders over and refills their coffees. When he leaves, she tries to change the tenor of the conversation.

“I just always thought you’d end up being a prosecutor. Maybe an assistant U.S. attorney like your friend Matt from law school, and then maybe the district attorney for Staten Island.”

His eyes lift from the plate. His fork, coated with egg yolk, hovers below his chin.

“The DA for Staten Island?” He laughs.

“Yes, what’s so funny about that? You could still do it, you know.”

“Jesus, Mom.”

He rubs his left eye, smiles at some private joke.

“Well, it would be an interesting campaign.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing, Gail, it means nothing.”

He does this to irritate her. Calls her Gail.

“It wouldn’t be such a terrible life, you know. You could live on Todt Hill, the kids could go to Staten Island Academy. You could join the country club.”

Peter stares at her blankly.

“What?” she asks.

“You’re not serious.”

“Well, what if I am? Would that be so terrible?”

“What about Lindsay? How do you think Lindsay would like living on Staten Island?”

“I’m sure she’d like it fine.”

Not true and Gail knows it. But Gail can’t say what she wants to say, which is maybe the problem is with Lindsay, not with Staten Island . No, she can’t say that. She tries to think of something that would appeal to Lindsay.

“There’s a new Indian restaurant on New Dorp Lane.”

“A new Indian restaurant? Well, that changes everything.”

“There’s a good sushi place on Hylan Boulevard, I hear.”

“Ahh, sushi and Indian. I had it wrong. Staten Island’s a bastion of diversity and open-mindedness.”

His sarcasm flicks a raw nerve. Years ago, Peter said that Staten Island was the servants’ quarters of the city. He didn’t mean anything by it, was trying to make a point. But the phrase stuck with Gail. She thinks of it every time she sees him. Worse still is the truth of it, as reflected in her own mind. Whenever she comes to the city, she feels out of place, an outsider, the shanty Irish servant traipsing clumsily through the dining room, with its fine china and exquisite crystal. He smiles across at her, satisfied by his peremptory dismissal of her idea. She feels the blood rush to her face.

“Don’t give me that shit, Peter. I’ve seen where you live. Not a lot of plumbers or cops. Not a lot of black people either. Don’t give me a lecture on diversity.”

His eyes narrow. He’s been spoiling for a fight, trying to goad her into one since they sat down, and now he has what he wants.

“True enough, Gail, true enough. But at least it’s not a bunch of wannabe gangster gindaloons who wear their ignorance like a badge.”

Real anger in his voice. Something is definitely wrong. Now, she’s worried about him and angry at him all at once.

“I don’t know why you would say that, Peter. I truly don’t. You’re talking about your own people.”

“They’re not my people.”

He takes a sip of coffee and his face contorts with the presence of a novel thought.

“And what do you care anyway? They’re definitely not your people. You should hate them even more.”

“You’re Italian by blood. I’m Italian by borough.”

She watches the anger slide from his face. He dips a piece of toast into egg yolk.

“Italian by borough? That’s pretty good. How long you been holding that one back?”

“A few years. Been waiting for the right moment.”

“Well done.”

He laughs and she smiles. She takes a sip of coffee. She should leave this where it is, let this good mood linger, end on this note. But Peter’s intransigence galls her. His whole life is a rejection of her, of his own family, of how he was raised. She doesn’t understand.

“I don’t know what’s so wrong with wanting my family to be close by. I barely see your kids. You never bring them to visit. You act like there’s something wrong with us.”

“Jesus, Mom. We’re coming over on Sunday. The whole family.”

She starts crying. How many of these lunches have brought tears to her eyes? Too many.

“That’s not what I mean. I don’t understand where things went wrong. We should be closer. Bobby would have wanted it that way.”

“Jesus, Mom, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“And now Tina’s met someone… I don’t know.”

She didn’t want to bring it up this way. She’s laying it on Peter, trying to conjure some sympathy from him. A pained expression crosses his face. He takes his BlackBerry from his pocket and scans it. His fingers dance frenetically for a few moments and then he puts it away. He looks back at her, his lips rearranged in a sheepish frown.

“I heard about Tina.”

“Heard what?”

“That’s she dating someone, dating Wade.”

How does he know his name?

“I think it’s serious, Peter.”

“It is.”

“How do you know?”

“Wade is a friend of mine. You’ve met him.”

“A friend of yours?” she asks, shocked.

“Yes,” he says, eyes averted.

Things are dawning on her. A tiny conspiracy is forming in her head.

“Did you introduce them?”

He tilts his head down and scratches the back of his neck, a tick he’s had since he was a teenager, when he was being evasive.