Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

“Fucking dandy,” she said, to the empty table. She finished her glass of Chianti in one swallow.

* * *

Weeks passed. The older boys came home for Labor Day, sensed the tension in the house, and quickly departed: Peter back to college, Franky back to the job, college on hold for another six months. Gail went back to work. Bobby went back to school. Michael went back to his routine of sleeping in, disappearing for hours at a time, and spending every night at the Leaf, in the company of hiccuping half friends. He went away for Columbus Day weekend, a golf trip down to Myrtle Beach with a few of the boys from the Leaf.

She spent the weekend pacing the house, rehearsing her remarks, preparing her arguments. She jotted down a few points on a piece of yellow paper, kept it in her pocket for easy reference. A summer of silence followed by a month and a half of bitterness? She’d had enough. He’d had his fun; it was time for things to get back to normal. As the weekend limped along, she replayed the events of the past few months and a sense of dread seeped into her. Their fight had distracted her, masked an absence that was conspicuous in retrospect: Enzo. She hadn’t seen him all summer, wasn’t sure Michael had either. Was there a dispute about the price? Had Enzo decided he wanted to hold on a little longer? She didn’t know what was wrong, but now she was certain it had to do with his father.

She came home from school the Tuesday after Columbus Day and Michael was waiting for her in the kitchen, his golf clubs propped up in front of the refrigerator. His face was red from sun and booze. He sat with his back straight, like he was expecting a confrontation. She sat across from him.

“How was the trip?” she tested.

“Fine. Few laughs.”

“Good. Glad.”

She felt like she was sitting in her kitchen with a total stranger.

“We need to talk,” she said.

“Agreed.”

She reached into her purse and pulled out the folded piece of yellow paper. Her list of points had spilled onto the other side of the paper.

“Before you start, Gail, I need to tell you something.”

She’d convinced herself there wasn’t another woman but was suddenly unsure. He spoke with the tentative air of a husband who’d lapsed.

“What is it?”

He eased the brim of his baseball cap back on his head, scratched the place where his hairline began.

“Danny offered me a couple of nights behind the stick at the Leaf. Tuesdays and Fridays. Every other Sunday afternoon.”

“Okay,” she said, relieved but confused.

“I’m gonna take them.”

She stared at him and he averted his eyes. Whatever it was, he hadn’t told her yet. Or maybe she hadn’t heard it. Tuesdays and Fridays?

“Bobby’s basketball games are gonna be on Tuesdays and Fridays,” she said.

“Really?” he asked, as though he hadn’t attended every one of them last year. “I forgot.” He took his hat off and scratched the top of his head. “Well, I can ask Tommy to switch me from Tuesdays, but I’d hate to give up Fridays. Busiest night of the week.”

“If anyone would know, it’d be you,” she said, unable to resist the shot. She was irritated — Bobby would be upset, though he wouldn’t admit it — but it was better than another woman. She looked down at her list. From the miasma of scribbled, angry words, Enzo’s name flashed up at her. She looked back at Michael.

“Wait, are you gonna keep these shifts when you take over the shop?”

She didn’t understand until the words were out of her mouth. He looked down at the table, ran his right hand in circles over its surface. He wouldn’t return her gaze.

“Michael, what are you telling me?”

“I think you know exactly what I’m telling you.”

He looked at her, mind made up, no discussion necessary.

“I don’t understand this. I don’t understand this. Why?”

He shrugged his shoulders, as though she were asking why he preferred vanilla ice cream to chocolate.

“I don’t want to be a butcher. Don’t want to smell like blood all the time.”

“You want to be a bartender, instead? Spend your time with drunks and winos? Smell like the inside of an ashtray all the time?”

Her tone was manic. He shrugged again.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Gail.”

“Michael, this is insane. This makes no sense.”

He stood, yawned.

“Your father will be heartbroken.”

“Well, sons don’t always do what their fathers want them to. Such is life.”

The line sounded prepared, like he’d been waiting weeks to drop it. She wanted to slap him. Slap his face until his cheeks bled.

“You’re not talking about Bobby? Tell me this is not about Bobby not playing football?”

He looked at her. His face was the picture of calm.

“No, Gail, no. It’s about me not wanting to be a butcher. That’s it.”

He yawned again, stretched his arms.

“I’m bushed. I’m gonna take a nap.”

She looked down at the floor, filled with a sudden, seething hate for him.

“You are such a fucking asshole. Such a fucking asshole.”

He walked away without responding. She heard his feet on the stairs. She noticed his golf bag. She stood and kicked it as hard as she could, sent it skittering across the linoleum. Not satisfied, she lifted it up and turned it over and the clubs dropped out, one after another, producing loud clangs as they fell to the floor. When the noise died, the word divorce was in her head, in a way it never had been before.

* * *

Gail laughs at the memory. Her eyes drift to the spot on the floor where she spilled all his golf clubs.

We knew nothing, she thinks. We were young and dumb and we knew nothing.

She’s hungry. She had a buttered roll for breakfast and nothing for lunch. And daydreaming about food hasn’t helped. She puts on a jacket and walks out to the car. She knows exactly what she wants: chicken cutlet hero with the fresh muzzarell and red peppers, oil and vinegar. She usually shops at the Enzo’s in Eltingville — it’s closer, has a better selection because it’s bigger — but when she needs a sandwich, she goes to the original.

The chimes above the door startle to life when Gail walks in. The display counter — antipasti, trays of prepared dishes, a selection of cuts of meats — is on the right. Opposite the display counter are shelves that hold boxes of pasta, jars of tomatoes, loaves of fresh bread. The smell is heavenly. She looks at the wall above the counter and spots the black-and-white picture of Enzo — Maria’s Enzo — standing outside the shop when it first opened. If you look closely at the picture, you can see a glimpse of Maria in the shop window, staring out at the photographer. Gail knows. On a handful of occasions, she has asked Enzo — the new Enzo — to take the picture down so she can inspect it more closely. The only other customer is an old lady who is pointing out the precise stuffed peppers she wants to an impatient teenager behind the counter. He picks up a pepper with tongs and turns it so the woman can inspect it through the glass. The lady peers at it for a few seconds before nodding her head yes. He lets the oil drip off the pepper and places it in a plastic container, joining a single companion.

The new Enzo strides out from the butcher’s station in the back, an easy grin on his granite face. His head is a failed experiment in human geometry: the crooked nose, the forehead with three sides, the lantern jaw that juts out farther on one side of his face. He wears his hair in a tidy flattop that only accentuates the misshapenness of his other features. His eyes are little black stones pasted on a quarry wall.

“Gail,” he booms, before coming around the counter, his arms open. He’s startled the old lady, who turns to him in shock. The teenager slips two peppers into the container while the old lady is distracted. Enzo stops and puts his hand gently on her shoulder.