Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

He needs to calm it down. He’s been on a toot, which is fine; he planned it anyway. Has always taken the first two days of the tournament off, the way Bobby and he used to. But then he got ahead of himself, started on Wednesday night with a few of the boys from work, guys he doesn’t even really like, but fuck it, he’ll drink a coupla beers with any thirsty soul. Got a little more banged up than he anticipated and then strolled into St. Paddy’s Day still jaunty and tasting whiskey in the back of his throat, rolled right into it and then no fucking pool and who wouldn’t need a few stiff ones to get over that and there we go. A good time, he needed it, no doubt about that, but he needs to calm it down a little and he will. He’ll be fine.

The problem is he’s still drinking like he’s on the bump, but he’s not on the bump, hasn’t been for six months. He’s drinking and nothing else, so he’s drinking too fast and without the adrenaline boost to boot.

He steps out of the shower, grabs a towel. That’s exactly what he needs right now: a little bump, something to put a shine on the day, chase away these stupid fucking blues. He’s got nothing in the apartment. Probably for the best. One good bump begets another.

He needs a day or two off from the sauce to clear his head, which is fine because he needs to go to the mall today anyway to get something for little Bobby’s birthday. The thought of taking the bus depresses him and he can’t fathom spending thirty bucks on a cab, not when he’s seven hundred in the hole. There’s only one person he can cajole into driving him to the mall.

He picks up his cell and dials Kieran’s number.

“Hello?”

“Fuckwad.”

“Who is this?”

“Fuckwad.”

“Franky?”

“Who do you think, fuckwad?”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Okay, cocksnot.”

“You’re an asshole, Franky.”

“Whatever you say, fuckwad.”

“I’m hanging up, Franky.”

“Whatever you gotta do, fuckwad.”

The line goes dead. Franky chuckles to himself. Tormenting Kieran Kielty is one of the few things he still takes pleasure in. Kieran is an old friend of Bobby’s, one of his charity cases. A sad sack, a lost soul. He graduated in the same class as Peter, but was still keeping the book at high school basketball games when Bobby was a senior. One time, he showed up for an Amendola family Super Bowl party with a half-empty box of white powdered doughnuts as his contribution; everyone pretended not to notice the white powder caked in the corners of his mouth and sprinkled down the front of his shirt. He was fat and disheveled and kind of a whiny pain in the ass, but Bobby always included him; he even made him part of his wedding party. After Bobby was killed, Franky took it upon himself to look in on Kieran, treat him the way Bobby would have.

Well, maybe not exactly the way Bobby would have.

Still, he made it a point to hang out with Kieran every few months, go to a movie or take him to dinner, even invite him over when the whole family got together for Sunday dinners.

But in the past few years, the fat fuck had somehow managed to convince a girl to marry him, get promoted at his job, even buy a house. Now when they hung out together, it seemed like Kieran was doing Franky a favor instead of the other way around. So every once in a while, Franky had to put him in his place, restore the natural order of things. He’d wait a few minutes, then call Kieran again, semi-apologize, and bribe the fat bastard by offering to buy him lunch. Worked every time.

The phone rings and Franky answers reflexively.

“Fuckwad! Back so soon?”

“Francis?”

Only his mom calls him Francis.

“Hey, Mom, what’s up?” he says, sheepish.

“Who were you expecting?”

“Joking around with Kieran Kielty.”

“How is Kieran?”

His mother has a soft spot for Kieran, but she would have asked after whomever he mentioned, no matter who it was. He and Bobby used to joke about it.

And how is Adolf doing? Still have that silly mustache?

“He’s fine.”

“And Megan?”

How the fuck should he know how Kieran Kielty’s wife was?

“Fine, I think,” he says, unable to hide his irritation. “What’s up with you?”

“Out doing the shopping for tomorrow.”

“What’s on the menu?”

“Well, your father was gonna grill, but it looks like rain so it may be pasta and gravy. Some antipasto.”

“Get those breadsticks that you wrap the salami around.”

“I will.”

“You heard about the pool?”

“Sad.”

“Tell me about it.”

A few beats pass. Franky can hear the sound of people ordering from a butcher’s counter in the background.

“Everything all right, Franky?”

“Right as rain. Was wondering, what should I get little Bobby?”

“Oh, Franky, whatever you get, I’m sure he’ll love.”

“I know, but what’s he into these days?”

“He’s starting baseball in a few weeks. Tina says he’s into dinosaurs again, but…”

Her voice trails off. A few more silent beats. It’s his turn to ask.

“Mom, everything all right?”

“Listen, Franky, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“What’s up?”

“Tina’s bringing someone tomorrow.”

His face feels hot, all of a sudden.

“Like a boyfriend?”

“Not ‘like’ a boyfriend. A boyfriend.”

He stands up and walks into the kitchen, opens the fridge. One fucking Heineken? It’ll have to do.

“You met this guy yet, Ma?”

“No, not yet.”

The first swig of beer tastes like broken glass, but the second is manageable. The third is almost pleasant.

“It’s a little fucked up that he’s coming, no?”

“I’m not sure how I feel about it.”

“I think it’s fucked up.”

“Well, we need to respect her wishes. It’s her son’s birthday and she thinks it’s important that her friend is there.”

“What’s this asshole’s name?”

“Franky, he’s not an asshole.” She waits a beat. “His name is Wade.”

“Wade?” he says, as sarcastically as possible. “Let me guess, he’s not a firefighter?”

“No. He’s not.”

“Not a cop, either.”

“No.”

“And with a name like Wade, he sure as shit isn’t from the rock.”

“No,” she says, the wind kicked out of her sails.

“Of course not.”

The fucking Heineken is empty and he’s got nothing else, not even a drip of Jameson. Or even Powers. He’d do a shot of paint thinner if he had it. He wants to punch the wall, punch it until his knuckles bleed and his bones crack. This is bullshit.

“He’s a friend of your brother’s.”

“Bullshit. I know all of Bobby’s friends. He doesn’t have any…”

He realizes she’s talking about Peter.

“He’s a lawyer?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”

A friend of Peter’s. Great. Another stuck-up asshole. Tomorrow was gonna be tough enough with Peter and his judgment and disapproval.

“Franky, I need you to do me a favor.”

“What?” He nearly shouts at her.

Her voice lowers to a whisper.

“I need you to show up sober and I need you not to cause a scene.”

His temples are pounding. He tries to coax another swig from the empty bottle.

“Was it really necessary to ask me that?” he say, knowing it probably was. Her disappointment is the one thing he cannot tolerate and they both know it.

“I’m sorry, Franky.”

“Yeah,” he says, searching for something to say. “Yeah, me too. I’m fucking sorry too.”

He flings the phone onto the couch.

Fine. He’ll be sober tomorrow. He’ll be a fucking saint.