Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

“Hey, Tina.”

“Hey, you sound tired. You okay?”

“Yes. Went into the city today to see Peter.”

“How is he?”

Not good. Pretty bad actually. Scared me a bit. This is what she wants to say, what she would say normally. But already there’s a gulf.

“He’s fine. I went in to tell him about your new friend, but he already knew.”

It sounds snottier than Gail intended, but she doesn’t care. They could have told her. One of them could have told her and saved her a trip.

“Yeah, I’m sorry, Gail. I thought Peter would have told you, but I think there was a mix-up. I don’t think he even knew until this week. Wade told him on Monday.”

“I see.”

She’s not making this easy for Tina. She wants to, wants to handle this with a little grace, but she’s tired of taking the high road. When does she get to be petulant?

“Anyway,” says Tina, “I was actually calling to see how Franky took the news. I was a little worried he might not react well.”

Gail pushes a breath out through her mouth.

“I haven’t told him yet.”

A long pause.

“Okay, are you going to tell him before the party? Because I think it would be better if he didn’t find out at the party.”

“Jesus, Tina. I will tell him, okay? He will behave himself. I promise he’ll behave.”

A promise about someone else’s behavior. May as well promise happiness or a sunny day or a winning lotto ticket.

“No, Gail. I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just that Franky can be…” She doesn’t finish the thought. “And he and Bobby were so close.”

Gail hopes Tina learns what it is to love a child who is broken. Irreparably. She wants Tina to feel responsible for that, being the mother of a broken thing. And, just as swiftly, she prays to God that Tina never has to feel that, any of that. She has known enough heartbreak. And Gail hates herself for hoping to add to it.

She speaks softly.

“Tina, I understand what you’re saying. I know, believe me, I know. I will tell him. He will be here. And he will not embarrass you or me or any of us. Especially not Bobby Jr.”

Gail pauses.

“Because if he does, I will drag him out into the street and murder him myself.”

Tina laughs; the tension eases a little.

“I’m sorry for bringing it up at all. I just want everything to go well.”

“It will.”

“Okay, I feel better.”

“See you Sunday?”

“Sunday. Thank you, Gail.”

“You’re welcome.”

Michael has been waiting in the living room, jacket on, ready for the Leaf and the St. Patrick’s Day party. When Gail hangs up, he steps into the kitchen, scratching his head.

“Tell Bobby what? Murder who? What the hell is going on?” he asks, with a fair share of impatience. Gail smiles. Michael never wants to know what’s going on until the moment he does, and then he wants to know everything. So she tells him.

“Tina met someone. His name is Wade. A friend of Peter’s. He’s coming here on Sunday for Bobby Jr.’s birthday party. And Tina’s concerned about how Franky will react. I haven’t told him yet.”

Michael doesn’t say anything. The irritation on his face dissipates. He walks back to hug her. Don’t go to the Leaf, she wants to say. Or what she wants is for him not to go to the Leaf, without her having to ask.

Instead, he says, “Come to the Leaf with me?”

“Nah, I’m tired. I think there are some Law and Order reruns with my name on them.”

“Pick you up on the couch in a few hours?”

“It’s a date.”

He kisses her forehead and makes for the door. The door is almost closed, but he ducks his head back in.

“What the hell kind of name is Wade?”

Sometimes Michael knows exactly what to say.

She sits down on the couch and turns on the television. She hopes it isn’t one of the episodes where she’s not sure at the end whether the guy was guilty. She wants an episode where there’s no ambiguity about guilt or punishment. One that ends with a long sentence imposed. With justice served.

Michael Amendola still enjoys his sleep. It does not elude him as it does his friends. He listens to the complaints of his friends with a wry smile and stays silent. He can’t imagine a worse way to respond to a complaint than by confessing to its absence. Better to nod agreeably and fake commiseration.

The old men go on and on about how they’re up three, four times a night to take a leak, how they can’t fall back to sleep, about how they lie in bed and close their eyes and try to think about something pleasant, a blonde on a beach or a warm fire or a brunette on a beach, ha ha, because old men are always reminding someone that they’re still virile, but none of these things work and they end up waiting for the first hostile red digit of the alarm clock to add a line and transform from an outrageous five to a more agreeable six so they can stagger out of bed and begin their days.

Michael does not suffer in this way. He falls asleep with little trouble, especially if he’s had a few drinks. His bladder pulls him out of bed to the bathroom in the wee hours more than he’d like, but he drifts back to sleep without much effort. If he thinks about blondes or brunettes or beaches, it’s because he wants to, not because he has to. He wakes when he’s meant to and if neither the world nor his wife is calling him, he is not shy about rolling over and spending an extra half hour in the warm spot Gail has left on the other side of their bed.

It used to trouble him, his lethargy in this manner. He wasn’t lazy in other ways; the opposite in fact. It seemed like a defect of youth, one that he should shed. He imagined that he’d eventually become like his father, an industrious man who woke with a start in the predawn blue and ran headlong into each day. But it never happened. The years went by and there were wailing babies, the demands of the firehouse, his stint in the service, the occasional call in the middle of the night. Each of these demanded his attention — sleepy-eyed, dutiful — but none of them changed the preference.

It used to trouble him but it doesn’t anymore. He’s an old man, that’s what he tells himself, and old men have earned their foibles.

This morning he woke to the sound of Gail in the shower but has been unable to slide back to sleep. He listened while Gail prepared for the day, hoping he would drift off. When she kissed his forehead, he opened his eyes.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked.

“Can’t sleep.”

“I have absolutely no sympathy. How was the party?”

“Same shenanigans as usual. Happy Saint Paddy’s, by the way.”

“Don’t remind me. Just another Thursday.”

“You gonna go to the city, Goodness, watch the parade?”

“Bunch of drunk donkeys painting the streets green with their vomit? No, thanks. Glad I went to see Peter yesterday.”

“We didn’t even talk about that. How was big shot?”

She paused before answering.

“Same as usual. All wine and roses.”

He sensed something in her hesitation, but let it drift. Gail did many things for him and one of them was act as a filter for bad news. She only told him things if necessary. Like the new boyfriend thing last night with Tina.

“Good for him.”

“You and the boys dropping off your sheets today?”

“Yes.”

“Will you be home for dinner?”

“Not sure. What are you making?”

“Traditional Irish fare: baked ziti.”

“Can we play it by ear? I’ll call you, let you know.”

“Sure, sure. Some slut of a waitress is gonna sweet-talk you into corned beef and cabbage. You and the Irish girls.”