Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

“You’ve scared me, Enzo.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Avello. I’m sorry. I was excited to see my friend. Paul, the peppers are on the house and give Mrs. Avello a package of fresh mozzarella for her husband.”

“Thank you, Enzo.”

He glides past her toward Gail, a silent giggle on his face. He hugs Gail. He smells like the old Enzo. God, the things she misses.

“What’s going on, Gail?”

“Nothing at all. How’s by you?”

“Menzamenz. What can I get you? Usual?”

“I’m a predictable woman, Enzo.”

He laughs, slides back behind the counter. The old woman shuffles away.

“Take a break, Paul. I’ll take care of Mrs. Amendola.”

Over the years, Gail has noticed that she is Gail when he is on one side of the counter, Mrs. Amendola when he is on the other. She’s always liked Enzo, long before he bought the store that Michael didn’t want. She still likes him, even though he turned one store into four, made a small fortune on the other Enzo’s reputation. He’s shrewd and ambitious. Can’t fault him for that.

And respectful. Keeps the picture of Enzo on the wall, has never renovated or updated the original store. Gives her money every year for Bobby’s scholarship.

“How’s Michael?” he asks, his back turned.

“Good. Bummed about the pool.”

“I know. It’s crazy. Customers have been complaining all day. What a shame.”

“How’s Michelle doing? Hear back from colleges yet?”

He turns, eyes wide, proud father.

“Son of a gun, I forgot to tell you. Got into Cornell. Ain’t that a thing. My daughter in the Ivy League. Like Peter.”

“That’s great. Congratulations.”

“Hey, if she turns out halfway like Peter, you know? Hey, we’re happy. She’s happy, right? All that matters.”

“I’ll give you Peter’s number. She should call him. He’ll give her the lay of the land. He loved Cornell.”

“Would you? That would be great.”

He wraps the hero in white paper, puts it in a brown bag, stuffs some napkins inside, hands it over the counter. She reaches for her purse. He waves her away. She hasn’t paid for a sandwich in years.

“Your money’s no good here.”

“How you gonna pay for Cornell if you keep giving away sandwiches?”

He points a finger to the picture above him.

“Hey, you know. I owe. Your father-in-law. May he rest. I owe.”

The chime on the door rings again. Enzo’s eyes drift to the door, to new customers.

“Thanks, Enzo.”

“Take care, Mrs. A. Give my best to Michael.”

* * *

She sits in the car, in the parking lot, and opens the wrapper. She takes half the hero out and takes a bite. She does this sometimes, eats a sandwich in the car. She’s not sure why. Tina teases her, says she has a crush on Enzo, that she’s waiting for Enzo in the parking lot like a teenager.

She’s not one for crushes, not one of these women who pretend to pine for the good-looking cop or fireman (or butcher) in the house down the street. No, she’s not one for crushes. Not anymore.

She pulls a pepper out of the sandwich, eats it.

She hasn’t thought about him in years.

Danny McGinty. He was easy on the eyes, no doubt about that; a tall, dark Irish charmer with salt-and-pepper hair and the sturdy build of an ex-athlete whose vanity wouldn’t let him go entirely to seed. Always a nice smell — cream and wood — hanging from him. Some of the other mothers feigned weakness in the knees when he passed. He made a lot of money and his wife was a high-holy bitch; that was the gossip.

Gail had never paid him much mind, just the odd hello or good-bye or nice game or how were your holidays ? If anything, she found him a little off-putting; he seemed pretty pleased with himself. If she wasn’t so angry at Michael, nothing would have happened, no matter how good-looking or charming Danny was. She was furious, though. Her anger was palpable and Danny must have sensed it. Some men have that sense. They can sense discord or wanderlust or boredom or anger. Danny had that sense. She thought it was something special, a real connection between them.

An empty space beside her, filled in by fate. She thought that Danny had been sent to her, that his appearance at that specific moment in time — when things between her and Michael were so bad — was a sign of some sort.

She couldn’t conceive that it was calculated.

* * *

The same six parents sat together at every game: Paul and Dana Baddio, John and Mary Keegan, Gail, and Danny. Bobby was the starting center (and, as Coach Whelan had promised, the team captain). Vinny Baddio was the starting point guard, Pat Keegan the starting shooting guard. Danny’s son, Kevin, never played. Their sons were the only seniors on the team, except for Terry Kovak, whose father was doing a two-year bit in the federal pen for commercial bribery and whose mother was trying to hold down the fort in his absence.

Gail could have sat alone or with Nancy Duggan, who she knew from church and whose son Matt was the only sophomore on the squad, but she didn’t. Nancy Duggan was tough to take, always going on and on about Matt getting a basketball scholarship, like the kid was gonna end up in the NBA. Matt was a very good player — sophomores rarely made the varsity — but this was Staten Island, not Brooklyn or the Bronx, and Nancy Duggan needed to get a fucking grip. And as for sitting alone, well, she didn’t feel like sitting alone. So she sat with the Baddios and the Keegans and Danny. And she and Danny sat next to each other because neither of their spouses attended the games. Simple as that.

Danny knew the game, knew it well. Had played college ball at Fordham, according to John Keegan. Was some helluva player, back in the day. When Gail watched him striding across the gym or taking the bleachers two at a time with his long legs, she could see it, see the young Danny, lithe and lean, leaping in his short shorts. He came to the games straight from his job, something on Wall Street, the only man in the gym in a suit. His breath was always fresh, smelled like peppermint. He chewed gum incessantly, offered a stick to Gail at the start of each game, but she was too nervous to do anything but bite her fingernails and watch the action, uncertain exactly what she should be watching.

The team wasn’t supposed to be any good. A rebuilding year, if such a thing existed in high school. Last year’s team had been one of the best on the Island, laden with seniors and blessed with some size. This year’s team was green: mostly juniors new to varsity ball, a handful of inexperienced seniors, and the precocious sophomore, Matt Duggan. Worse still, they had almost no size at all. At six four, Bobby was the team’s only legitimate big man, the only player capable of mixing it up with the big boys from the North Shore. He played the whole game, never seemed to leave the court. She knew that he’d improved, but his role on the team was a bit mystifying. He rarely touched the ball on offense, spent most of the game under the baskets, jockeying for position so he could corral the ball and then swiftly give it to a teammate.

Danny assured her that Bobby’s role was important, even vital.

“He’s doing all the little things, setting screens, getting rebounds, diving for loose balls. Plus, he has to guard the other team’s best post player, who usually has a few inches on him. And he’s scoring ten, twelve points a game, without demanding the ball. Putbacks and layups. It’s easy to notice Matt because he’s scoring and Vinny’s got the ball in his hands most of the game, but the reason they’re winning is Bobby.”

And they were winning. Not every game, but more than anyone had expected. They played hard, they didn’t back down. Danny’s instruction helped Gail enjoy the games more.