Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

“Give me one.”

“Really?”

“If not tonight, when?”

She plucks a cigarette from the pack, lets Steph light it for her. She sucks the smoke deep into her lungs and exhales with relish. It’s her first cigarette in three years.

“So what’s gonna happen with you and Tommy?”

Stephanie sits back down on the toilet.

“Nothing. Just having a little fun. How’s the cigarette?”

“Bliss.”

Bobby used to hate that she smoked. He used to nag her about it, even though she was only a social smoker, barely a pack a week.

It’s the worst thing you can do, he’d say, it’s poison.

Is that so? What about beer, Bobby? Or shots of Jameson?

It’s different. They don’t destroy your lungs, they don’t give you cancer.

So she stopped smoking in front of him. She only smoked around certain friends, Steph or Amy Rizzo or Maggie Terrio or when she visited her sister in Jersey. She’d smoke a single cigarette when she got home from work. Walk into the backyard with a Marlboro Light and a glass of wine, let the day’s bullshit float away in tiny puffs of smoke. Whenever they were out for drinks, she’d sneak away from him, find a compatriot to tuck outside with, even before the asshole of a mayor banned smoking in bars. Bobby hated it, especially when her partner in crime was a guy, even his own brother Franky. The only thing that ever made him jealous.

He’d pull her aside half an hour later, when their friends were up at the bar.

What the fuck were you two talking about? A little drunk, the slurring coming on, the belligerence along for the ride.

What?

Outside. I saw you laughing outside with Stevey.

Fucking Christ, Bobby. Relax.

Tipsy herself, glad to see Bobby the jealous one. For once.

You’d love it, T. I’m sure you’d love it if I snuck outside with Amy and you saw us falling over laughing. Yeah, you’d fucking love it if I was outside with Amy. Or Steph.

She’s pretty sure Bobby said that: Or Steph. He must have said that at some point. They fought about it more than once. He knew what buttons to push, even if he only pushed them when he was drunk.

When she got pregnant, she quit. Easy, no fuss. She didn’t have cravings, even after Alyssa was born. Not really. Here or there. After a few drinks, sure. Sometimes when she was driving. But for the most part, it was easy enough. Cold turkey.

One night, right before she got pregnant with Bobby Jr., they were all out at the Leaf: Bobby; Franky; Bobby’s father, Michael; Amy and Timmy; maybe even Steph; a few other guys. A big crew. A few tables pushed together in the side room. They were celebrating something, she can’t remember what. Gail was watching Alyssa. Michael was drunk and jovial, telling stories about the boys growing up. Everyone feeling pretty good, backslaps and smiles. Franky smoking like a chimney, right next to Bobby.

“Jesus Christ, Franky.”

“What?”

“You’re blowing the smoke right in my face.”

“Okay, sensitive. You’re in a fucking bar. Deal with it.”

“You want to give yourself cancer, fine. But spare me.”

The whole table snickered, little grunts of disapproval at Bobby’s sanctimony. He got up in a huff, strode to the bathroom. Franky waited until he was out of sight, handed everyone a cigarette, and gave instructions. The table went quiet, waiting for Bobby to come back to launch the prank. He sat down, still pissed but sheepish about it.

“Hey, Bobby, my bad. I shouldn’t blow the smoke in your face. Seriously, my bad.”

Franky reached a fist over, looking for a bump from his brother, an official sign that all was forgiven. Bobby smiled, that goofy grin he could never contain, and gave his brother a pound. A beat passed. Then Franky and everyone else at the table, including Tina, brought cigarettes up to their lips in unison. Franky lit his and passed the lighter to Tina. Bobby stood up, grabbed his jacket, and stormed out the door as the whole table laughed.

Tina followed him outside.

“Bobby!”

He was halfway down the block. She had to jog to catch him. She wasn’t wearing a jacket. It was cold; her breath shot out in plumes. She stood in front of him.

“Bobby, it was a joke.”

Over Bobby’s shoulder, she could see that Franky had stepped out of the bar, was slowly walking toward them.

“Go back inside with your friends. I’m going to get Alyssa and then I’m going home.”

He stepped around her. The street was empty, all the stores shuttered. She stepped in front of him again. She was still clutching the cigarette and the lighter.

“Bobby, are you fucking kidding me? Don’t do this. Don’t ruin the night. It was just a joke. I’m your wife. I love you.”

He leaned down, his expansive blue eyes came to rest right in front of hers.

“You’re a bitch.”

He stepped around her again and this time, she let him go. He walked off in the direction of his parents’ house and didn’t look back. She turned around and saw Franky retreat into the Leaf. She smoked the cigarette Franky gave her alone, outside the bar, rubbing her arms to keep them warm. When it started to rain, she went back inside the Leaf.

Five months later, Bobby was dead.

She thought about that night often in the years after Bobby was killed. After the kids were in bed, she’d smoke half a pack a night in the kitchen alone, cursing him.

I’m a bitch, Bobby? Cigarettes are bad for you? Fuck you, Bobby. I’m still here. I’m still here and you’re fucking dead, Bobby. Running into burning buildings is bad for you, Bobby. Cigarettes are fucking dandy.

She’d wake in the middle of the night, lungs raw, and beg his forgiveness. Smoke a cigarette in bed and ask him to forgive her for that too. Every night for almost two years. The cigarettes in the kitchen, the curses in her head. Tougher to quit the second go-round. Tougher because she needed to quit this time, needed to quit for the kids. It took a few tries. She used the gum.

* * *

Someone knocks on the bathroom door. Tina sneaks a last drag and then stubs her cigarette out in the sink. She turns the faucet on and splashes some water on the smeared ash. Stephanie stands and lifts the toilet cover; Tina drops the butt into the commode. Stephanie lowers the lid, sits back down on top of it.

“Who is it?”

“Alyssa.”

“One second, sweetie,” says Stephanie.

Stephanie wipes her face one more time, stands up. Tina takes a swig of Scope and spits into the sink. A languid haze of blue nicotine smoke lingers, despite the vent. Tina opens the door. Alyssa stands on the other side, a sour look on her face. She looks at Stephanie, whose eyes are still swollen from crying.

“Jesus, everyone is crying today.”

“Alyssa, enough. What do you want?”

“Were you guys smoking in here?”

Stephanie raises her hand.

“Guilty as charged.”

Alyssa eyes her mother.

“I let Aunt Stephanie smoke one cigarette, Alyssa. She won’t smoke any more tonight. Right, Steph?”

“Right. My bad. Won’t do it again.”

Alyssa rolls her eyes, a practiced gesture of exaggeration.

“We’re hungry. Can you order the pizza?”

“Sure. What do you want, Steph?”

“Whatever is fine with me.”

Tina reaches for her wallet, takes out some money, and hands it to Alyssa. “There you go.”

Alyssa hesitates. “Aren’t you going to order it?”

“Alyssa, the number for Vertuccio’s is on the fridge downstairs. Dial it. Tell them what you and Bobby want. Give them our address. When they come, pay and give the delivery guy a tip. This is not rocket science.”

“Okay, okay, don’t have a shit fit.”

“How many times do I have to tell you about the language?”