Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

A guy from a neighboring table, wearing a blue hoodie, interjects. “The lawyer wasn’t Serbian. He was a Croat.”

“A Croat?” asks Tiny.

“You mean Croatian?” asks Michael.

“No, not Croatian. Fuck, Vinny, what was the lawyer again?” he asks the guy sitting across from him.

“Albanian,” says Vinny, before returning to his own conversation.

“That’s it, lawyer was Albanian, not Serbian.”

The guy turns back to his table.

“That’s bullshit,” whispers Tommy. “How the fuck would an Albanian even know about college basketball?”

“But what, a Serbian would?” asks Tiny.

“Yeah, sure, Wagner had those four Serbian guys a few years back. The big kid, what was his name?”

“They weren’t Serbs, Tommy. They were Croats,” Michael says. They all laugh.

* * *

The afternoon limps into the evening. The Leaf takes on the contradictory character of an Irish wake: somber but festive. A stream of refugees from Cody’s trickles in, mixing with some Paddy’s Day revelers. The place fills up with a menagerie of blue collar guys: firefighters, cops, construction workers, Local One electricians. After a while, the whole bar is glowing with the camaraderie of half-soused strangers killing time together. The tourney is in full swing, but most of the crowd isn’t even watching the games. Fresh rumors about the pool arrive with every soul who walks in the door.

A couple of mob guys tried to shake Devin down. Four ex-cops threatened to start a war with the mob guys. Someone called him in the middle of the night and threatened to kidnap his daughter. Some asshole actually reported the winnings on his tax return. Devin’s wife ran off with a nineteen-year-old and he’s heartbroken. Devin ran off with a nineteen-year-old and the early entry money. He left some of the money with a nun and she gambled it away.

Tiny and Michael order burgers. They eat them in silence, unwilling to yell to be heard over the dull roar of the bar. They watch the games, have another round of beers. At eight thirty, Tiny asks for the check.

“That’s it for me, Mikey,” Tiny announces. “Want a ride?”

He should go home. But it’s been a long day, a sad day, and he wants to put a shine on it. He’s never known when to call it a night, has always chased a good time, a few more laughs with the fellas.

“I’m gonna stay for a little bit.”

He walks Tiny out the back door to his car. They embrace.

“Florida, huh?”

“Someone told me Laura Gentile moved down there after her second husband died.”

“Never gonna happen.”

Tiny winks at him.

“Ye of little faith.”

When Tiny drives away, Michael walks around to the front of the bar. A crew of guys stands outside smoking. He bums a cigarette from a regular he knows. He hasn’t had a smoke in years, but the day is calling for it. He stands off a little to the side. A few entry sheets drift past; some guys must have brought their sheets back here before abandoning them.

The pool is done. Another thing that made the Island cozy is no more. Michael’s been putting in entries since the mid-eighties, back when the pool was a couple thousand if you won. The boys grew up with the pool. They all loved it, especially Bobby. All over the tristate area, the news will spread: on Wall Street, out to Jersey and Long Island, up to Connecticut. No more pool. It got too big, drew too much attention.

And now it’s gone.

He takes a few drags on the cigarette, drops it on the sidewalk, and steps on it. His head swims from the smoke.

It starts to drizzle, driving the smokers inside. Michael walks back into the bar. The crowd has thinned a bit and separated into pockets: the still raucous, the silently stewed, and the unsteady in between. Michael finds an open spot at the bar, next to Tommy Flanagan and a few other guys he knows. He puts a twenty on the bar and heads for the bathroom.

The bathroom is empty. Michael relieves himself of a day’s worth of beer. He goes to the sink, washes his hands. When he looks up, he sees his father staring back at him from behind the smudged mirror.

If you’d taken the shop, maybe Bobby would still be alive.

Not his father’s voice. His own.

His chest tightens. It feels as though his ribs are closing to protect his insides. His eyes water. He goes to one knee, a half kneel, his hands holding opposite ends of the sink. He’s having trouble breathing. Little whirling dots blur his vision. He feels faint.

The door to the bathroom opens. Michael scurries to his feet. The tap is still running. He leans down, spoons cold water onto his face, the back of his neck and his arms.

“You okay, pal?” the guy asks.

“I’m fine,” he answers. “Dropped a quarter.”

He usually wakes with the thought. Most days, it’s there, on the back of his eyelids, waiting for him somewhere between asleep and awake. It’s better to wake with it, to have the sadness already there, the thought already accepted and just go about his day. But today, the slippery bastard hid all day, attacked when he least expected it.

He washes his hands, walks back out to the bar. He takes a long pull on his beer, waves the bartender over.

“Jameson,” he says. “A double.”

* * *

Enzo pours out two glasses of wine, slides one over to Michael. Gray hair sneaks up out of his shirt and down out of his nose and ears. He smiles.

“ Alla salute .”

Michael takes a sip.

“Listen, Dad. Tomorrow night is Bobby’s last high school basketball game. It would mean a lot to him if you came. Would mean a lot to me.”

“Of course. I’ll be there.”

They sit in silence for a bit.

“Something else, Michael?”

Three months have passed since Enzo walked into the Leaf, gave him a deadline. He has not been a good man these past months. Not a good husband, not a good father, not a good son. He has been living in a fugue, angry for reasons he still doesn’t understand. But he is a humbled soul now. His hands start shaking. The words pour out.

“I was wrong, Dad. I was wrong, I was a jerk and I’m sorry. I had some kinda stupid midlife crisis, but I’m ready now. I have the money. I’m not a firefighter anymore, I have to accept that. I want something to pass along to my boys. I want the shop.”

Enzo rubs a finger over a drop of spilled wine. He considers his son.

“It’s okay, Michael. Is better this way. I sell the shop and then, when I go, you use the money, use it how you want it.”

“No, Pop,” he says, an unexpected urgency taking hold of him. “You don’t understand. I want the shop. I really do. I’ll buy it. We can talk price. I know I made you wait, so I can pay whatever you want, well, maybe not whatever you want, but we can make it work. I’m sure—”

Enzo raises a hand. Michael stops talking. He feels panicky, an only child’s overdue realization of his own selfishness. Enzo gulps down his wine, puts the empty glass on the table. His eyes are sinking moons.

“Is too late, Michael. Too late. Enzo Annunziata bought the shop. We closed last week.”

* * *

It is late when Michael leaves the Leaf. He is drunker than he’s been in a good long while. The rain has given the street a sheen. Wads of wet paper — more entry sheets — line the gutter. He starts to walk home. The streets are empty, most of the houses are dark. The only sound is rain hitting pavement. By the time he gets home, he’s soaked.

Gail is in a deep sleep on the couch. A library book is draped open across her chest. He lifts the book from her chest and saves the page with a mass card, the way she does. He kisses her forehead gently, trying not to wake her. He’s too unsteady to risk guiding her up the stairs.