Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

“Watch his footwork, Gail. See how he helped, came over to pick up Matt’s man, altered that shot?”

“See how he spun off that guy to get that rebound?”

She started to appreciate the finer points of her son’s play. He was unselfish, dedicated to the team, and indefatigable. His relentlessness frustrated his opponents, drove them to commit silly fouls. He was tough too. Not afraid to mix it up. He was such an easygoing kid off the court, it surprised Gail that he had a mean streak. He stood up for his teammates, without hesitation. One night, a burly black kid on Port Richmond knocked Vinny to the ground with an elbow to the head. A dirty play, the whole gym gasped. And there was Bobby, right in the kid’s face, not backing down, even though he was a good forty pounds lighter. Some shoving back and forth before the refs broke it up. She reached over, instinctively, to grab Michael’s knee, say something like “That’s your son,” but it was Danny’s knee that she found. He looked at her.

“You okay?”

She pulled her hand away.

“Yes, I’m sorry. His father would’ve been proud.”

Danny nodded.

“Gotta stand up for your teammates.”

He looked down between his knees.

“Where is Michael anyway?”

She exhaled. She lifted her pinky to her mouth and gnawed gently on the tip.

“Good question.”

She knew the answer. He was at the Leaf. Every Tuesday and every Friday. Behind the stick, not watching his son play basketball. Not watching the final high school season that any of their boys would ever play. Not sitting next to her. Whenever she thought about it, she got so angry that her stomach clenched. He’d ruined so much already. Bobby’s games were the one bright spot in an otherwise dismal time. She wouldn’t let him ruin this.

She’d been wrong about Danny. He was nice. Lovely, actually. A little cocky, maybe, but hey, a guy with his looks and his money could have been far worse. Besides, he had his sadnesses, she could tell. A sullen son. A wife who didn’t come to any games. What kind of mother didn’t come to her own son’s games?

She knew that answer too. A selfish jerk. Someone so caught up in his own bullshit that he didn’t notice that his son loved this game. Loved it fiercely. Never mind that he was pretty darn good at it too.

You could say what you wanted about Danny, but he was at every game and his son never played, not unless it was an absolute blowout. It had to be hard for him that his son wasn’t very good at a game he’d excelled at. A game that he loved as much as Bobby did, she could tell, by the gleam in his eye when he explained a 1-3-1 zone or a pick and roll.

He told her as much, told her that basketball had been good to him. Got him a scholarship to Fordham, kept him out of Vietnam. Through basketball, he met a guy who worked on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. The guy took a shine to him, offered him a job. He had his own company now, had made more money than he ever could have imagined. He didn’t say it in a bragging way, said it like he’d been the right combination of lucky and good.

He told her other things too. That he was raised in Far Rockaway, the youngest of six children, the boy his father kept trying for, God knows why, because Danny spent his childhood trying to avoid his father’s drunken rages. That he gave up drinking himself when he was in his early thirties. That he liked it a little too much, didn’t want to become his father. He didn’t elucidate, didn’t need to, not with Gail.

“A good-looking Irishman who doesn’t drink and has lots of money? Where do I sign up?”

Out on the floor, a whistle blew, louder than usual. Gail half expected the ref to point up in the stands at her.

Flirting, Amendola #40, flirting with a married man.

Her cheeks turned red. She’d crossed a line. She resolved not to do it again, no matter what.

* * *

The holidays. A pause in the season. The older boys came home. She and Michael temporarily broke their silence, acted civil in front of the boys, fooled no one. The whole family decorated the tree joylessly, quickly, eager to be away from one another. Gail couldn’t even listen to Christmas songs; they seemed to be written for people living different lives entirely.

Michael gave no explanation for Enzo’s absence at Christmas; the boys barely noticed. Gail tried to go see him, but the shop was closed, the house empty. He didn’t answer the phone. She asked Michael, a little concerned.

“He’s in Italy,” he said, his voice cold and sharp.

She usually loved the holidays: a week off from school, the whole family back together. But that year was dreadful. The boys, Bobby included, spent as little time in the house as possible, and who could blame them? She was miserable and Michael was gruff. The whole house reeked of unhappiness. After the first few days, they dropped the illusion of normalcy and went back to silent glares.

She missed Bobby’s games, missed basketball, missed Danny too. She knew that was a bad sign, a dangerous one, but she was too angry to care. She spent New Year’s Eve alone, on the couch, making her way through two bottles of Chianti and watching the ball drop in Times Square. She woke up the next morning, still on the couch, a single resolution in her fuzzy head:

Flirt with Danny as much as humanly possible.

* * *

The first game back and Danny was late. Worse still, Nancy Duggan slid into Danny’s normal spot at Gail’s side, spent the first quarter chewing Gail’s ear off about how Coach Whelan was misusing her son, playing him at small forward when it was clear that he should be the point guard. Never mind that the Baddios — whose son was the point guard — were sitting right in front of her, well within earshot. Never mind that the team’s record was 8 and 3, a fair bit better than anyone had expected. Never mind that Matt Duggan had struggled through the first half of the season, looking overwhelmed and skittish most of the time.

Gail listened halfheartedly, her eyes drifting to the gym’s entrance. Where was he? She’d waited two weeks for this night and he wasn’t going to show up? The enormity of her disappointment was unnerving.

Out on the court, the ref blew the whistle and pointed at Bobby. He gaped at the ref incredulously, the picture of innocence. In the past year, his gangly limbs had thickened with muscle, but his face was still comically boyish. His second foul. He’d have to sit out the rest of the first half. She watched him trot to the bench, a frustrated look on his face. He sat down, his back to her; a sickle of bright red acne ran out from under his maroon jersey and curved onto his neck. She brought her right hand to her mouth, started to run her front teeth over her fingernails.

Without Bobby, they were having trouble keeping Wagner off the boards. A Wagner player grabbed an offensive rebound, took a low, steadying dribble, and rose for a putback off the glass. Another whistle. And one. Bobby flapped a towel in exasperation on the bench. She looked up at the scoreboard. Tie game, 22–22. Four minutes left in the first half.

This was supposed to be an easy win, but the whole team was out of sorts. Pat Keegan couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn and Vinny was turning the ball over at an alarming rate. The Wagner player made his foul shot: 23–22. Gail bit down on the knuckle of her thumb.

A few seconds later, Vinny threw another ill-advised pass; this one sailed out of bounds. Nancy Duggan exhaled in frustration, a little too forcefully. Gail noticed Dana Baddio’s ears turn scarlet in front of her.

“Jesus, they need to take Vinny out of the game, let Matty run the point for the rest of the half,” Nancy said, ostensibly to Gail, but loud enough for the crowd. Gail glanced at the Baddios nervously.