Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

He walks upstairs, stands outside Bobby’s room. He closes his eyes, listens at the door, hears nothing.

He walks into the bathroom, takes off his wet clothes. He tosses them over the shower rod, spreads them so they’ll dry. He walks to the sink. He runs the tap, splashes some cold water onto his face. He looks at his reflection.

He sees an old man who’s had too much to drink. An old man who didn’t follow his father. An old man whose sons followed him: one into a different life, one into the bars, one into the flames. He exhales, wipes his face with a towel, takes a last look in the mirror.

He sees an old man, cold and tired and ready for his bed.

Friday is clear, blustery. Gail spends the morning cleaning the house in advance of Sunday’s party and the early afternoon halfheartedly watching the second day of games of the NCAA tournament. The news has spread like wildfire, putting the whole Island in a funereal state. Gail has gotten four calls herself, Michael another half dozen. No more pool. At noon, Michael says he’s feeling squirrelly, gonna go for a walk, which means the Leaf. She wants to ask about Franky, how he behaved yesterday, but she doesn’t. There’s enough bad news for one morning.

No more pool. Bobby would have been devastated. He would have been sitting here miserable, probably commiserating with Franky. Still watching the games of course, but miserable. She gets an idea: she’ll call Franky, invite him over. They can commiserate. And she can tell him about Tina in person. Easier to pass along news like that with a firm hand on the shoulder, a steely gaze in the eyes. Easier to say what needs to be said. To tell him that he can be angry about this, upset about this, but that he can’t be either of those things on Sunday. He has to behave, and if he can’t, he shouldn’t bother coming at all, which, God help her, is what she’s hoping happens.

She picks up the phone, dials his house. Straight to voice mail. She leaves a message, casual and nonchalant, asking him to call back. She’s still holding the phone when she gets another idea. It’s been two days and she can’t quite shake the defeated look on Peter’s face. Defeated by what? She thinks she knows, but she isn’t sure. She glances at the clock. Not even three. Peter is definitely still at work. She calls his house. Lindsay answers on the second ring. Her voice is neutral.

“Hello?”

“Lindsay, it’s Gail. How are you?”

“I’m fine, Gail. How are you?”

“Hanging in there. Is Peter around? I wanted to tell him about the Cody’s pool. It’s a silly thing, but I thought he’d want to know.”

“He isn’t here. He’s probably at work.”

Probably? A little sarcasm.

“Of course, of course. Getting senile. Sorry. I don’t want to bother him at work. Just have him call me when he gets home.”

Gail waits for a response. When it comes, Lindsay’s voice is sharp but unsteady.

“He isn’t here, Gail. Do you understand what I mean?”

Gail knows what Peter did.

“I think I do.”

“Good. Well then, I’ll talk to you soon.”

Gail’s eyes start to water. Two women separated by a phone line. Each on the verge of a nervous breakdown. And still, they can’t connect.

“Lindsay,” she says.

“What?”

She almost breaks down, blurts it all out. About Tina, Wade, needing to tell Franky and Bobby and not having told them, even about Maria and Enzo and how she named Bobby and her mother and father and even about the stupid fucking pool. She almost says all the things she would normally say to Tina.

But she can’t. This isn’t Tina. Too much water has passed between her and Lindsay. They’ve never had that kind of relationship and it’s too late to start now. A desperate feeling seizes her. Sunday can’t be just Tina and Wade and her and Michael and Franky. They need buffers.

“Will I see you and the kids on Sunday?”

Lindsay sighs.

“I’m not sure, Gail.”

“Please, Lindsay. It would mean the world to little Bobby.”

This isn’t fair, what she’s doing to Lindsay, but she can’t help it.

“We’ll try… okay, Gail? No promises.”

“Okay, thank you, Lindsay.”

“Good-bye, Gail.”

They hang up. Gail holds the phone, contemplates calling her oldest son. She dials the number, is about to call when she changes her mind. She puts the phone back in its cradle, wanders to the kitchen table, and sits down.

“Oh, Peter.”

She can see the guilt now, sprinkled throughout their interaction. She would not have guessed it. Peter doesn’t seem the type. Probably isn’t the type, not really. She knows her son. This wasn’t some casual fling, some meaningless rut. There was some heartbreak on his face as well.

“Peter, Peter.”

Certain things suddenly made sense, like Peter’s absence whenever Gail called the past few months. He wasn’t living at home. She couldn’t blame Lindsay for that. She would have done the same thing as a young wife.

And now?

She doesn’t know, she’s not so certain. These things happen, even in the soundest marriages between the best-intentioned people. Even when there’s love. A long-dormant guilt stirs in her stomach.

She was so angry. Seething. She has to remember that. She wanted to kill Michael, something every wife says. I could kill him . And she really could have. She couldn’t stand the sight of him. But memory does a disservice to anger. She can’t re-create the feeling. It wasn’t an explosion of temper, the face going hot and the heart rate jumping. That’s easy enough to summon. Christ, an unruly kid in class or an obnoxious driver leaning on the horn can conjure that feeling.

This was different. Two people sharing a bed and a life, growing distant. The rift feeding on the silence between them. These things happen, people fall into a rut, struggle to get out. Every marriage has its lulls. But then it went to another level. He made a decision, without her input, without consulting her. A decision about their lives, not just his. And he wouldn’t even do her the courtesy of explaining it. It was his fault. Even now she believes that.

Don’t try to understand everything your husband does. Sound advice.

But this was beyond anyone’s comprehension, not just hers.

* * *

She was thrilled when Michael retired. Twenty-five years served, a good pension and benefits secured. She wouldn’t have to worry anymore, wouldn’t wake up in the middle of the night with the flames from a nightmare still dancing in her head. And the timing could not have been better. Enzo was ready to hang up his butcher’s smock, ready to hand a profitable business over to his only son. The place practically ran itself. The same four people had worked at the store forever. Enzo even had a younger butcher who did most of the blood and guts work these days.

The young butcher’s name? Enzo.

Only on Staten Island.

A few weeks after Michael retired, his father came over for Sunday dinner and laid out the proposed transition. He wanted to run the place through December, one last Christmas with his customers. In the new year, Michael would take over. Enzo wouldn’t interfere, wouldn’t stop in every day and look over his shoulder. It would be a clean break; he wouldn’t get involved unless Michael requested. He asked only that Michael keep on his employees.

As for a price, Enzo said, he was an old man who needed little. He’d saved more than he would ever need. But he didn’t believe in handing things over for nothing, so he wanted something, a token amount, enough for him to take a long trip back to Italy, spend a month in the village where he was born, another month in the village where Maria was born. Michael sat and listened, and when Enzo was done talking, he poured three glasses of wine and they toasted the future.