Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

“Sean,” the bartender yells. “Sean. Wake the fuck up. Sean.”

Sean does not respond.

“Sorry, buddy. Can you hold him there for a sec? I’ll call someone to fetch him. He lives two blocks away.”

The guy reaches under the bar for a telephone. Michael glances over his shoulder. Sheila is laying into Tiny. The friend is looking down, sheepishly. Tiny catches Michael’s eye, gives him a beseeching look.

“I’ll walk him home.”

The bartender looks at him like’s he’s half cocked.

“You sure, pal?”

Screw Tiny.

“Positive.”

“Two blocks down and make a right. Halfway up the block. Three-sixteen Eighty-ninth Street. Press the button for Maguire.”

Michael gets him outside. Fresh air partially revives the stumblebum. His eyes open, taking in his new companion.

“You’re not Goodness,” he slurs.

“Let’s go home, buddy.”

They make their way along bustling Third Avenue, bypassing small crowds of revelers. When they reach Eighty-ninth Street, Sean starts laughing, pushes Michael away, sits down on a stoop. After a few seconds, Sean stops laughing, looks around bewildered, like he’s just landed on the moon. Michael considers leaving him there — the guy’s nearly home and Michael’s pretty confident it’s not his first rodeo — but decides against it. He cajoles Sean back onto his shoulder and they continue down the block. When they get to number 316, Michael looks at the names on the panel, sees Maguire 1C. At least he won’t have to get Sean up any stairs. He presses the button, ready to explain, but the buzzer sounds. He carries Sean, now nearly comatose, into the dimly lit lobby. They cross a black-and-white-tiled floor to the apartment door. Michael knocks three times. He slaps Sean’s cheek a few times, trying to rouse him.

The girl who answers the door has the bluest eyes he’s ever seen. So intensely blue that it’s hard for Michael to answer her stare.

“Jesus Christ,” she says, more tired than surprised.

“Goodness,” Sean roars, awakening. “Goodness, I’m home.”

He stumbles up the single step into the apartment and hugs the girl.

“Okay, Dad, here we go,” she says, helping her father into the apartment. The door is nearly closed when she sticks her head back, eyes blazing.

“Wait right there,” she says. The door slams shut.

Michael stares at the closed door, unsure what to do. He’s more than done his duty, no reason in the world to wait around. But he waits anyway. A minute passes. Two. Five. He’s pretty sure he’s been forgotten. As he turns to walk away, the door opens. The girl steps into the hallway, closes the door behind her.

“What’s the big idea?” she says, angry.

“What do you mean?”

“Aren’t you a little young to be one of my father’s asshole drinking buddies?”

“Hey, take it easy. Your father — Sean, is that his name? Your father fell off a bar stool into me. I walked him home.”

“Are you some kind of pervert?”

“Jesus Christ. Are you out of your head? The man was legless, in no condition to get home by himself. I walked him home. Tried to do a good deed. That’s it. That’s all. Good night, Goodness.”

He turns. She reaches out, grabs his arm.

“Hold on. I’m sorry. It’s just, you know, this isn’t the first time he’s come home like this.”

“You don’t say.”

“Hey, he’s not a bad guy, my father. He just shouldn’t drink.”

He steps back, exhales, rolls his neck around. She’s a few years younger than Michael. A little plain-looking. But those eyes.

“Hey, I’m sorry too. What do I know? I’ve been there before, had a few too many. We all have, right?”

“Well, thank you. For walking him home. He’s fallen a few times, hurt himself.”

“You’re welcome.”

They stand, uncertainly, nothing left to say.

“I’m Michael, by the way.”

“Gail.”

“I was really hoping your name was Goodness.”

She fights down a smile. He feels a flutter in his chest. He’d do anything to make this girl smile, make this girl happy.

“Buy you a beer?”

“Sure.”

* * *

She picks a quiet bar, middle-of-the-street joint on Fifth Avenue. A handful of solitary customers nurse drinks, pick absently at nuts and pretzels. The jukebox plays older music: The Moonglows, The Platters, Frank Sinatra, Perry Como. Michael and Gail sit in the front, around the curve of the bar. Gail is halfway through her first beer when she talks.

“I love this bar.”

“Yeah. Why’s that?”

“Only bar in Bay Ridge my father hasn’t ruined for me.”

“Oh.”

Michael finishes his beer, orders another. The bartender refills his mug, walks down to the other end of the bar. Gail looks over at him, assessing.

“You know this is never gonna work out.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because if we get married and have kids and live happily ever after, we’ll never be able to tell our kids how we met. Daddy walked Mommy’s drunk of a dad home because he could barely see. C’mon.”

“Why do they even have to know, our kids? I don’t know how my parents met.”

“Really? I know how my parents met.”

“How?”

“My mother walked my father home because he was drunk.”

Michael smiles, takes a sip of beer.

“What if I promise not to tell anyone?”

“Cross your heart, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“If things work out between us and we get married and have kids and live happily ever after, I promise not to tell anyone, including our seventeen children — I want a big family, by the way — how we met. Sound good?”

She shrugs, finishes her mug of beer.

“Still might not work out.”

“Why’s that?”

“I haven’t decided whether I like you yet.”

* * *

The Leaf has the hushed stillness of an establishment slowly recovering from an epic night. The bar is darker than usual for a weekday, with just the artificial light from the televisions flickering off the bottles behind the bar. A few bands of dust-specked sunlight stream into the smallish dining area adjacent to the bar; the tables are empty but ready, the plates and cutlery arranged and waiting for lunch customers who are unlikely to come. The whole place is festooned with green and white St. Patrick’s Day decorations that are looking a little sheepish, a little sad, now that their purpose has been served. Today is officially St. Patrick’s Day, but the Leaf’s party was the night before and the Island parade was a week ago Sunday and well, the day itself seems like a bit of an afterthought. Besides, it’s the first day of the NCAA tournament and the Cody’s pool takes precedence.

Michael pauses after he walks in, captures a dry, barking cough between his wind-chilled hands. His eyes drift to the massive 9/11 memorial poster behind the bar, with the icon of the towers in the foreground and the list of names blurred in the background. Somewhere on that poster is Bobby’s name. He looks away.

Two customers sit halfway down the bar turned toward each other, an empty stool between them. He knows them both: Jack Walsh, a retired NYPD detective, who has been drifting from functional heavy drinker to full-blown alcoholic in the year since his wife died, and Tiny Dave Terrio, still his best friend after all these years. A cup of steaming coffee rests on the bar in front of Tiny; Jack is holding a rocks glass filled with whiskey and ice.

“Michael,” says Tiny.

“Tiny, Jack.”

A handshake for Jack, a hug and a kiss for Tiny.

“Tell me something, fellas, why is it that ginnies have no problem kissing other men but won’t go down on their wives?”