Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

“Sort of. I gave him Tina’s number last year. He lost his wife a few years ago and I thought maybe she could help him, you know, with the grief.”

“Jesus, I didn’t know that. I didn’t know he lost his wife.”

Gail feels a softening in her dislike for this man she doesn’t know. A widower, someone who’s experienced loss.

“Does he have any children?” she asks.

“No, Morgan was… Morgan was his wife. She was pregnant when she was killed in a car crash. Four months along.”

“My God.”

“I’m not even sure Tina knows that, Mom.”

“I won’t say anything.”

She can’t even hate this man. Can’t even hate the man who is trying to replace her son, trying to take Tina and Alyssa and Bobby away from her. It’s not fair. She starts to cry again, tries to hide it from Peter, but she can’t. He reaches over and takes her hand.

“Your hands are freezing, Mom.”

“Cold hands, warm heart.”

His face settles in a rueful stare. He looks at her as though he can’t quite remember who she is and then he looks down at their entwined hands.

“Strange,” he says, more to himself than to her, “strange the things that you don’t realize you remember. That stick in your brain somewhere, waiting for something to stir them. ‘Cold hands, warm heart.’ Jesus, the things you forget.”

He’s lost in some tormented contemplation. Gail can’t remember him ever being this distracted, this scatterbrained. Not even when he was a kid. The Peter she knows — the Peter who frustrates her — has floated away; it unnerves her.

“What if Tina moves away, Peter? What if the kids move?”

He shakes his head, as though his thoughts could be exiled by physical action.

“He lives in New York, Mom. His job is in New York.”

“But he’s not gonna move to Staten Island.”

“He might,” Peter says unconvincingly.

Gail pulls her hands back.

“Right, just like you might.”

Peter straightens his seat, pushes his half-eaten plate of food to the side to indicate he’s done. He pulls his tie out from his shirt and runs it between two fingers, one behind and one in front. The gesture makes her realize how much of his world she doesn’t know. He has his own ticks and habits, his own troubles and annoyances, just as she does. The small things in their lives are not the same. And almost everything is a small thing.

“Well, maybe you and Dad should think about moving somewhere else. Retiring somewhere.”

“Sure, Peter.”

“I’m serious.”

“Where would we go?”

“Go wherever you want. Florida, North Carolina, Arizona. Your cost of living would drop in half.”

“What about Franky?”

He sucks his cheeks in and exhales in a low whistle.

“Don’t get me started.”

“You’re too hard on your brother.”

“You’re not hard enough.” His voice is dull, tired; this is ground well trod. “And I’m not too hard on him. I’m the only one who’s ever really helped him.”

“What do you mean?”

“How soon we forget.”

“Forget what?”

His eyes widen and she remembers.

“Oh, that,” she says and it comes out the wrong way. She can hear it, can hear herself brushing it aside. Oh, that. Like he got drunk and pissed in the sink. Oh, that. Like he grabbed someone’s ass at a Christmas party.

“Yeah, that ,” Peter says, and his “ that” gets it right. His “ that” lands with a heavy thud on the table between them.

“He was upset, Peter.”

“No, Mom. He was drunk. Or high. Probably both.”

“It was my fault. I shouldn’t have said what I said. It was a horrible thing to say. A horrible thing for a mother to say.”

She sees herself saying it, the veins in her neck bulging, the words flying out like a taut rope suddenly cut. Franky had been daring her to say it for two years, goading her. But the look on his face when she finally did?

“First of all, he’s a grown man who’s responsible for his own actions. And second, his little hate crime happened well over a month later, Mom. I know you like to take responsibility for Franky’s sins, but this shit is insane.”

“It wasn’t a hate crime, Peter.”

“It was a hate crime. It wasn’t charged as a hate crime because I made sure that Franky got competent counsel. And called in a favor. But let’s not kid ourselves about what happened. He beat the living hell…”

“It wasn’t a hate crime, Peter. The guy wasn’t even an Arab, wasn’t even a Muslim. Franky only thought he was.”

Peter stares at her.

“I don’t know what’s worse. That you think it would have been okay if he was a Muslim or that Franky couldn’t even fuck up the right way. Jesus,” Peter says, his eyes drifting away from her.

“Enough, Peter. It was my fault.”

“Bullshit.”

“Tell me there was no connection. Tell me it was a coincidence.”

He chuckles behind a hand raised to indicate stop .

“You don’t know, Peter. I’ve not been a good mother to him. Even when you were kids, I was always harder on him.”

“Not true. In fact, the opposite is true. You were always easier on him.”

“What about when you guys left Bobby at the beach? And I played that trick on you. That awful, stupid trick.”

“Ah, yes, here we go. The moment-you-ruined-Franky story.”

“You don’t understand, Peter.”

“No, Mom. I do. I was there, remember? I left Bobby behind as well. I waited for you to bring him home, shitting my pants, just like Franky. I was there, literally in the room, when you came in without him.”

“But it wasn’t your idea. It was his and he knew it.”

“The next morning, Bobby had forgotten all about it. I had pretty much forgotten it. And Franky, sure as shit, had forgotten it. The only one who even remembers it is you.”

“I hope you never do anything cruel to your kids, Peter. I truly don’t.”

Peter winces, takes a sip of coffee.

“Believe what you want to. But stop making excuses for someone who’s almost forty.”

“He’s my son, Peter. I can’t abandon him.”

He shakes his head again, dismissive. She slaps her open hand down on the table, rattling the saucers that hold their coffee cups, turning a few heads in their direction.

“This is what I mean, this is what I’m talking about. People used to stick together, families used to stay together, live near one another, help one another. They didn’t scatter to the four winds. They didn’t abandon people because they were difficult.”

His eyebrows arch and his mouth settles in a grin. He starts tapping the tips of his fingers together in rhythm.

“Let me tell you something, Gail. What you just said is absolute, complete bullshit. People stick together, families help one another, rah, rah, rah. Bullshit. What about your parents? Did you stand by them? Did you stay in the old neighborhood?”

Her hands start to tremble. She cinches her face into a steady gaze. Peter pauses for a moment, casually stirring some sugar into his coffee, and then proceeds.

“Or did you abandon them?”

A few harsh white spots dot her vision. The tremble trickles down to her legs. Her head feels too full, too heavy; a nosebleed is imminent. She needs to calm down, let the blood in her body rebalance. She reaches for some napkins and shoves them into her coat pocket.

“Do you have your sheets for the Cody’s pool?” she asks, in a voice as brittle and cold as cracked ice.

“No.”

“Do you want to discuss candidates for the scholarship?”

He laughs, a cackle filled with loathing.

“No.”

She lifts her head, fixes her gaze on him.