Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

Kansas loses in the second round? There go eleven thousand entries, more than a hundred thousand dollars. Syracuse goes down, a buzzer beater in overtime? A quarter of the pool is finished. Done. See you next year. People come from all over — Jersey, Brooklyn, the city, even Connecticut — to put in their entries. Last year, the pot was over a million. In cash.

She teases Michael, but she loves the pool. A special lottery for the Island. The teachers at school put in a few sheets. So do the guys behind the counter at Enzo’s. Franky and Bobby used to sit, at this very table, for hours, eliminating certain teams, elevating others. They’d pool their money with a few friends, put in a few sheets of picks. They’d revise their picks over and over. If only they’d approached their schoolwork with that intensity, like their older brother did.

After Peter went away to college, he called home with his entries every March. By the time he was a senior, his friends wanted in. Two of them even drove down with him for that first crazy weekend. They drove straight to Cody’s and put in their entries. They watched the games all weekend in the basement. Franky and Bobby down there with them. Nonstop basketball. Explosions of noise every few hours. Michael sat in the kitchen with her, said he was going down to see what happened. He didn’t emerge for a few hours. When he did, he was glowing with the easy energy of male camaraderie, like after a good night at the Leaf.

Only this was better. This was his blood, these were his boys.

Gail cooked and sent the food down with Michael. She kept it simple: food to fill stomachs, food to soak up beer. Chicken parm, sausage and peppers, small armies of penne, pork roasted in sauerkraut. She had to make a few hasty trips to Enzo’s for replenishments, for bread and cold cuts. The amount they consumed.

A lull in the action, between the afternoon games and the night games. They filed out of the basement, stretching and boasting, ready for more of the same but in a different location. Peter and his friends over the legal age, Franky close enough for the Leaf. But not Bobby, the straggler again, left behind with his mother. A senior in high school but still the young pup.

Gail was angry with the other boys, angry with Michael. Couldn’t they just stay in the basement? She’d get the beer herself. They could drink it by the caseload downstairs. Keep Bobby involved, part of the crew. But Bobby could have cared less. Never bothered.

Mom, would you care if Tina came over and watched the games with us?

With us ?

Of course not.

* * *

Gail glances at the clock on the microwave. Half past nine. Tina’s late.

“What do you want to do for dinner tonight?” Michael asks.

“I was thinking I’d make your mother’s lentil stew, the one with the sausage. One last belly warmer before the weather turns.”

He sips his coffee.

“You sure you want to cook?”

Gail folds the paper, takes off her glasses.

“Why? You have another idea?”

“Thought maybe we could drive into the city, down to Chinatown, go to that downstairs place we used to take the boys to, the one with the great dumplings.”

“Michael Amendola. Will wonders never cease. What about the toll on the bridge?”

“Keep teasing me. Very nice. I try to expand my horizons and you tease.”

“Drive to Manhattan, eat dumplings. Next thing, you’ll be saying we should get sushi.”

“Why not? I’m turning over a new leaf, Goodness. Sushi. Falafel. Pedicures and yoga. Understanding and compassion. Out with the old, in with the new. They can put mosques on the moon and I won’t make a peep.”

“Interesting. Doesn’t sound like this new leaf will have any room for the old Leaf.”

“Let’s not go crazy. It’s a process, turning leaves. Can’t get rid of the old one until you make sure the new one works. Best to start with something simple. Like dumplings.”

They laugh together. It’s nice when they can cheer each other into the day.

“Actually, sounds like a great idea. Change of pace.”

He shakes his head, rolls his shoulders.

“Doesn’t even have to be Chinatown. Little Italy’s down there too. Either or.”

“Whatever. Something different.”

He stands.

“Good.”

A familiar car slows on the street in front of the house and turns into their driveway. The car rolls to a stop and the passenger door opens. Alyssa shuffles out. She is twelve, on the cusp of so many things. She lurches toward the house clutching her phone, eyes riveted to the tiny screen. Bobby Jr. skips out of the rear door, his black hair flopping as he darts in front of his sister. He waves excitedly to them through the window.

Tina brings up the rear, carrying a tray of coffee and looking frazzled. She nods at them through the window, a grim smile on her face.

“She’s lost weight,” Michael says.

Michael’s observation, upsetting for a reason Gail can’t pinpoint, lingers for a moment until the front door flies open with Bobby Jr.’s weight and he explodes into the house, the jacket already sliding off his arms. He wriggles his arms free and the jacket drops to the floor in the doorway between the porch and the living room. He leans back, croons.

“The trickster is here.”

He breaks into a giggle, lets Michael tousle his hair before sliding into Gail’s arms.

“Missed you, Bob-a-loo.”

“Missed you too, Grandma.”

He smells like Cheerios and milk. He has his mother’s dark hair, but everything else is his father. The blue eyes, the goofy grin, the constant good humor. His smooth cheek feels young against her cragged counterpart. He’ll be nine in a few days. She’s been looking forward to his birthday party for weeks. Next Sunday, just the family. A barbecue in the backyard, like the good old days. She releases him and he skips back to Michael for a high five.

Alyssa follows her brother in, her perpetual pout a slap in the face after Bobby’s infectious jubilation. Other than a splash of acne on her forehead, puberty has not yet touched her. Her body is painfully geometric, a collection of straight lines, hunched shoulders, and stringy brown hair. Gail hopes she’s a late bloomer.

Tina comes in last. Usually she restores equilibrium; her pleasant but weary demeanor striking the middle ground between the moods of her children. Not today. No, today her heart is clearly with Alyssa and this troubles Gail. Tina’s unhappiness will have substance, will have something real behind it.

She looks at Gail with a pained expression, like a parent about to explain some unpleasant reality to a child. And then Gail knows, the answer presents itself, like a twig snapping after a few moments of pressure.

It’s the only thing that makes sense.

* * *

Tina doesn’t bother with a preamble. She doesn’t try to explain. She doesn’t mention Bobby. As soon as they’re alone — the kids safely planted in front of the television in the living room, Michael out running errands — she says it, confirming what Gail already knows.

“I met someone.”

Gail looks over at her daughter-in-law. Tina’s hands are trembling and she steadies them by pressing them down, fingers splayed apart, on the tabletop. Gail reaches over and squeezes Tina’s shoulder.

“Good for you, Tina, I’m happy for you.”

Not a total lie, but it sounds false to Gail even as she says it. She is happy. But she’s sad too. No sense denying it. She was afraid this would happen even as she hoped it might. She thinks there should be a better word for this feeling. Bittersweet doesn’t capture it. This is different. This is happiness and sadness entwined, flowing through you at the same time. Gail is sure there is an Italian word for this feeling, some word that Maria, her own mother-in-law, would have known. Some little word that sounds exactly the way she feels.