Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

“On Staten Island,” he adds.

“What?” she says, which is what she says when she doesn’t know what to say.

“I found us a house.” His confidence is starting to slip.

“What? What?” Louder this time, a few patrons turn their heads.

“A house,” he says, embarrassed now and growing a bit angry. “On Staten Island.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

* * *

“Peggy and I are thinking about packing it in,” Tiny tells him, as they pull onto the West Shore Expressway. “Selling the house, moving to Florida.”

“You shitting me?” Michael asks.

“Thinking about it.”

Until the last few years, life has been a little kinder to Tiny. Football got him to college, which got him a job in a bank, first on Staten Island and then in Manhattan. He married Peggy Dunn and they had two kids, both girls. Tiny wasn’t rich, not exactly, but money wasn’t ever a real concern. The family vacations were a bit nicer. His daughters, Maggie and Maria, went to the best colleges they got in to, regardless of price. All the while and in spite of the differing financial circumstances, he and Michael had remained friends. No easy thing, Michael has come to realize, having seen too many friendships ruined by money, or the lack of it, by one party or the other.

But a few years back, Tiny put the bulk of his savings under his son-in-law Albert’s control. When the market crashed, Albert panicked, did something stupid, did something else stupid to try to cover up his first stupidity, developed a substance abuse problem, and maybe banged one of his employees. Long story short: there was an indictment and a divorce and Maria is presently living with Tiny and Peggy, sleeping eighteen hours a day. Albert is wearing an ankle bracelet and awaiting sentencing and Tiny is worth a lot less than he used to be. His house is probably his largest asset; real estate prices on the Island are up a thousand percent, easy, over the past thirty-five years. Michael figures he could get half a mil for their shack. Maybe more.

But Gail will never leave.

He had to drag her to this Island and now, he’d have to drag her off. He would leave if she would let him. This is not the place he grew up, not even the place his kids grew up. He and Gail live in the shadow of tragedy, in the overcrowded, overdeveloped ruins of a once spacious paradise, surrounded by morons who act like they’re constantly auditioning for a reality television program that prizes stupidity, classlessness, and thuggish bravado. He would have left years ago if not for Gail.

He raised the idea a few years back, brought it up casually, on a quiet Sunday afternoon, just the two of them sitting at the kitchen table. Like the idea had just occurred to him. He’d heard about a retirement community in North Carolina. Not one of the old-fogy Florida types they parodied on Seinfeld, but an active, vibrant community. A place that catered to Northeast retirees. With what they’d get for their house, they could afford a huge house right off a golf course and still pocket a hundred grand, easy. He knew two guys — ex-FDNY, from Queens — who’d moved down there and were loving it. The weather was great, the people were nice. Even the pizza was tolerable. Gail stopped licking envelopes and stared at him, trying to see if he was serious.

“What about the bagels?”

“We can have them FedExed.”

“What about the Leaf?”

“I’m sure there are other Leafs.”

She laughed and he grinned. He was thinking it was going well, maybe she was even considering it, and then the questions turned serious.

“What about Franky?”

What about Franky? he wanted to say. Franky was a grown man, beyond their control. If he was going to get his act together, he was going to get his act together. Not them. But he’d lost this argument enough times. He tried a different approach.

“He can come with us. They need nitwits in North Carolina.”

“Michael, be serious.”

“I am being serious. He can come with us. There are jobs down there. Would probably do him good to be out of the city.”

The truth was that Franky would find trouble no matter where he was. But if he was going to be Michael’s headache one way or the other, better he be his headache in a place where Michael could roll out of bed onto a golf course.

Gail stretched her arms and looked out the window, like she was contemplating the idea of leaving. Michael put the brochure on the table and was about to slide it across the table when he felt Gail’s eyes on him. He looked across at her.

“What about Bobby?”

She hadn’t been considering anything. She’d merely been waiting to drop the hammer. He stammered out a few half words, more noise than language. Finally, he cleared his throat and looked across at her, and said, as calmly and softly as possible:

“He’s dead.”

She looked at him, incredulous, for a few seconds and then her hand smacked down on the table.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Thanks for reminding me, Michael. I’d nearly fucking forgotten.”

She stood and walked away. A few days later, he threw the brochure in a garbage cylinder outside a deli he never frequented, like a teenager trying to dispose of a pregnancy test.

* * *

The car slows in a thicket of traffic after they merge onto the Staten Island Expressway.

“You okay, Mikey?” Tiny asks.

“Yeah, fine. I’m a little distracted. Tina met someone.”

“Nice guy?”

“Don’t know. Haven’t met him yet.”

“Oh.”

“His name is Wade. He’s coming to the house on Sunday.”

“Wade?”

“Wade.”

Tiny’s face furrows in uncertainty, like he can’t figure what that means, but he’s pretty sure it’s not good.

“I saw her a few weeks ago. She came over to try to get Maria out of the house. She looked great,” he says, a hint of salaciousness creeping into his voice.

“You’re a dirty old man.”

“I can’t notice? I can’t look?”

“That’s my daughter in-law, you sick son of a bitch.”

Tiny laughs.

“She’s not my daughter in-law. Hey, Mikey, you stop noticing, you die. Nothing wrong with looking.”

Only Tiny does more than look, or, at least, he used to. Michael saw him with another woman once, years ago, back when he and Tiny were both young men. He was in the city, at some retirement booze-up, bouncing around from place to place. He and a few FDNY guys were walking along Second Avenue, between places, and Michael spotted Tiny inside a restaurant, sitting and smiling. By himself, Michael thought. He was wearing a jacket and tie, looked like hot shit. He told the other guys he’d catch up. He never saw Tiny in the city; it gave him a little thrill to see his friend in a different element. Michael walked into the restaurant with vague ideas about playing a joke or making a scene, but the hushed closeness of the place made him realize he was halfway drunk. He mumbled something to the maître d’ and took a few steps toward Tiny’s table.

Then he saw her: young, pretty, definitely not Peggy. It could have been a business meeting, but Michael knew it wasn’t. Tiny was pouring wine with his left hand and his right hand was on the woman’s bare back. His face was flush and he was in full Casanova mode. Michael stopped and turned around. He walked out of the restaurant and hustled after the other guys. He thought that maybe Tiny had spotted him but wasn’t sure. Tiny never brought it up, in any event, and Michael never told anyone, not even Gail. Thinking about it later, Michael concluded that this was not an isolated event; Tiny looked too comfortable, the whole scene almost seemed rehearsed.

Michael looks over at Tiny as he guides the car onto the ramp for Clove Road. He’s never felt envy toward Tiny, never begrudged him his successes. They’ve known each other for more than fifty years. With a few exceptions — Michael in the army, Tiny away at school — they’ve probably seen each other almost every week during that time. He’s as close to a brother as Michael has ever had.