Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

Her face widens in a broad smile.

“Sure. Sounds great.”

She looks down at the paper.

“You know I don’t have any earthly clue who’s good. There’s not as much basketball watched in this house as there once was.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Which region?”

“You have the Southwest.”

Her finger moves down the list, pausing occasionally.

“What’s this?” she asks, pointing to a line that has two teams instead of one.

“That was a play-in game. VCU won, so you can ignore the other team.”

“Good. I’ll take VCU.”

“But they’re an eleven seed, Tina.”

“Hey, you asked for my pick. That’s my pick.”

He pulls the sheet back across the table, scribbles in her pick.

“Can I ask why?”

“Those are my mother’s initials. Valentina Cara Ummarino. VCU.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

He has what he came for, but he wants to sit with Tina, have a chat, let her know he’s happy for her. Glad to see a smile on her face.

“You hungry, T.?”

“Always.”

“I’ll make you some peppers and eggs.”

“No, Michael, I can cook you some eggs.”

She stands, moves to the fridge.

“Tina, sit down. I want to cook. Please.”

She returns to her seat, assumes a pose of complete relaxation.

“Can’t argue with that.”

* * *

He slices bell peppers while Tina sits at the table. He doesn’t cook that much anymore. He misses it, the satisfaction of providing for others in the most basic way possible. He used to cook all the time at the firehouse, making communal meals for hungry brothers. He pours some olive oil into a pan, takes the eggs from the fridge.

“Hey,” he offers, eyes still on the pan. “Gail told me about your new friend. I think that’s great.”

“Yeah?”

She sounds surprised. He looks over at her, winks.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Thank you, Michael.”

“Well, you’re welcome.”

He pushes the sliced peppers and onions into the pan. They crackle in the oil, start to fry.

“What about Gail? How do you think she’s taking it?”

“She’s happy for you too, but you know, you get older, you don’t like change as much. You want things to stay the same. But, in her heart of hearts, I know she’s happy. I think she’s worried about how Franky’s gonna take it.”

“That makes two of us.”

“The two of you worry too much. He’ll be fine.”

It occurs to him that this is something he can do, something he can take off Gail’s plate. He’s gonna see Franky later. He can tell him, face-to-face. Let him know that no nonsense will be tolerated.

He adds the eggs to the pan, watches them scramble into shape. He sprinkles on some salt and pepper. He uses a spatula to slide the peppers and eggs onto rolls, walks over to the table with two plates, hands Tina one. They eat in silence for a bit.

“Delicious,” she says, between bites. He’s almost finished with his sandwich.

“I miss cooking. I used to do it all the time at the firehouse.”

“Can I ask you something, Michael?”

“Of course.”

“Why did you become a firefighter?”

The question catches him off guard. He hasn’t been asked it in a long time.

“Well, it’s hard to say exactly.”

“I don’t mean to pry. I just mean, how did it happen?”

“No, I understand. It’s a fair question.” He pauses, takes a sip of coffee. “Gus Feeney.”

Tina laughs. “Is that a person?”

“Yes.”

“Who was he?”

“He was a real character, a Staten Island legend. A big, boisterous guy. He had seven sons, all of them became firefighters. All except Jerry. He was killed in Vietnam. Anyway, Gus had all these sayings. The Feeneys have fought fires on every block in the five boroughs or There will be a Feeney fighting fires until this city burns, and because of us, it never will . He had three brothers himself, all FDNY. The department is lousy with Feeneys. I’m sure Bobby worked with a Feeney at some point.”

He tosses the last scrap of his sandwich into his mouth.

“Tell me more,” Tina says.

“They had this great old house at the top of Forest Avenue, overlooking Silver Lake. The house was on the verge of falling down, but no one seemed to care. The house was always full, someone was always laughing. You could see Manhattan from the back porch. Gus would sit out there in the summer, like a king surveying his kingdom. Beer in one hand, his feet perched on the half-rotted railing. He used to drink his beer out of a Polly-O cheese container, you know, the yellow ones?”

“That’s hilarious.”

“For whatever reason, Gus took a shine to me and he made being a firefighter seem like the most noble thing imaginable. Underneath the jokes, there was a sense of purpose. He took the job seriously, even if he didn’t take himself too seriously. He didn’t even consider it a job. It was a calling, something sacred. Hell, you know how firefighters are. The good ones, anyway. I was twenty years old, fresh out of the army, and had no idea what the hell to do with the rest of my life. Gus seemed to have things pretty sussed out.”

Tina nods, satisfied.

“Thanks, Michael.”

He glances at his watch. He needs to get to the Leaf.

“Sure. Any other questions?”

“Actually, yeah. One more.”

“ Marone. ”

“Something I always wanted to know.”

He exhales in mock frustration. “Go ahead.”

“How did you meet Gail?”

“Gail never told you?”

“No. And Bobby didn’t know.”

He stands.

“Sorry, can’t tell you.”

“C’mon.”

He walks to the door. She follows behind, whining. “Why can’t you tell me?”

He turns back, gives her a good-bye peck on the cheek.

“I made a promise.”

* * *

This was typical Tiny. He meets a girl — God knows where he met all these girls, but he did — and asks her out. She’s from Bay Ridge, suggests a bar in the neighborhood. The girl, Sheila, wants to bring along a friend. Tiny says fine. Enter Michael. They drive over the Verrazano together, Tiny scheming, Michael hoping the friend isn’t a complete horror show. Simple enough.

Except when they show up at the bar, it turns out that the friend is an absolute fox, makes poor Sheila look like a consolation prize. Most guys would shrug their shoulders, play the cards they’d been dealt. Not Tiny. He gets one look at the friend and decides to make a play for her. Screw gallantry, screw Sheila, screw Michael, screw the best-laid plans of mice and men. He starts flirting with the friend, who responds in kind, leaving Michael to deal with a rightfully pissed-off Sheila. He’s tried a few different times to engage her, but she keeps ignoring him, glaring at her friend and Tiny. He waves a hand in front of her face.

“Hey, I’m going to get a beer. You want something?”

“A Tom Collins,” she says, eyes still fixated on the treasonous couple.

Michael wanders down the bar, looking for an open space. He needs this like he needs a hole in the head. It’s been a rough week. His father was finally getting over the firefighter thing — it had only taken a year! — and then Michael tells his parents he’s thinking of moving out. Now, his mother isn’t talking to him. They would never fully understand. He can see the questions piling up on their faces, not getting asked. Why would anyone risk their life for strangers? Doesn’t this life make you happy? Why do you need to move out? When are you going to meet a nice Italian girl?

Michael waves at the bartender. He’s about to shout his order when the guy sitting on the bar stool next to him tries to stand up and starts to fall backward. Michael reaches over, steadies him. The guy is in his early fifties, weighs next to nothing. He mutters something incomprehensible, slumps onto Michael’s shoulder. He is completely ossified.