Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

She’d never understood the purpose of a grave. She’s seen bodies lowered into the ground, been to more funerals than seemed fair. Still, a cemetery seemed impersonal, even cynical. The rows of headstones, the afterlife reduced to an efficient use of space.

What she would give for a grave.

She doesn’t feel the way some of the other families did, about Ground Zero, sacred ground and such. She feels no bond with Bobby there, no desire to visit where her son was murdered.

But she understands. We all should get whatever we need.

Someone once told her that the greatest pain in life was having to bury a child. She nodded in agreement, oblivious.

Try not having a child to bury. Try having to share your child’s death with the rest of the world. Try having the world debate the meaning of your child’s death. Try having people speak and write about your child’s death vaguely, in some shapeless way, as though he were not flesh of your flesh and blood of your blood. Not a man. Not a father or husband. Not a son.

Let it go, Gail. What needed to be done is done.

She opens the car door, sits on the seat, legs still outside. She takes off her sneakers and smacks them together a few times. Wet sand falls off in clumps. She turns the ignition, checks the time. She’ll have to hurry if she wants to make the early mass.

* * *

Tina watches from the front steps as Wade parks the car. When he gets out, she feels a pang of frustration; he’s overdressed, wearing a green and brown houndstooth blazer, a crisp blue shirt, and dress slacks. He’s dressed for a Broadway show when they’re going to a kid’s birthday party on Staten Island. Jeans and a sweater would have been more than enough. She has some clothes in the house, could give him something more casual to wear, but then, she realizes, he’d be wearing Bobby’s clothes to his mother’s house. Probably not the best idea.

She blows a wayward strand of hair out of her face. Nothing about this is going to be easy. There will still be hurdles, stumbles, failings. Love does not protect you; it exposes you. The last ten years are a testament to that sentiment.

Wade reaches back into the car, takes out two bouquets of flowers and a small gift bag. He waves. She waves back. He walks casually toward the house, an easy smile on his face. Her frustration drifts away, is replaced by a raw longing. She’d like to rip those stupid clothes off his back and screw him senseless. She invited him over early to get the kids reacclimated before the party, but now she wishes there was no party to attend, no kids in the house. She hasn’t seen him all week, not since last Sunday, and she’s been stuck in a dewy, lovesick haze, daydreaming about sex, the dirtiest thoughts insinuating themselves at the worst possible moments. Embarrassing to be distracted in this way, at this age.

It was a long drought, she tells herself.

Just before Wade reaches her, she glances left and right, makes sure there are no nosy neighbors out on the street so she can kiss him properly. Not a soul. He stops on the step below where she stands so their heads align. He kisses her, slides a hand to her waist.

“I missed you,” she whispers, after a long kiss that ends too soon.

“Missed you too.”

He hands her a bouquet of flowers.

“They’re beautiful.” She eyes the other bouquet. “Who are those for?”

“Mrs. Amendola.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why?” he says, inspecting the flowers to see if there’s something wrong with them.

“She’ll think you’re trying to kiss her ass.”

“I guess I am, after a fashion. Don’t people like it when you kiss their ass?”

“Not Gail.”

He looks confused for a beat, but then the smile returns. He hands her the other bouquet.

“Your good luck,” he says. He pulls an envelope out of the inside pocket of his blazer. “I got Bobby Yankees tickets, but maybe I should give them to him now?”

“Good idea. And that?” she says, pointing out the little gift bag.

“Just a little something. A little treat. From Henri Bendel.”

“For Gail?”

“No, for Alyssa. I figured Bobby would be getting all the gifts today so she might feel left out.”

She smiles, relieved. She opens the front door, gestures him in.

“Is that okay?” he asks, as he walks past.

“Yes, of course,” she says, before adding. “Her ass you can kiss.”

She closes the door behind him.

* * *

The rain picks up in the early afternoon, wiping away any lingering chance of a barbecue. Gail will cook, is grateful for the distraction. Baked ziti and meatballs. Some appetizers. No one will go hungry in her home.

She chops some tomatoes and fresh mozzarella, sprinkles some pepper and salt on the plate. She slides slices of eggplant into egg, then bread crumbs. She fries them in a pan with oil. She wraps pieces of salami around breadsticks, like Franky asked. She cuts aged provolone into bite-size squares. She puts stuffed peppers on a plate.

Alone in the kitchen, she feels thoughts pressing up against her skull, demanding attention. All week, she has tried not to think about this. Told herself that she had to tell the boys first, tell Bobby, and then she could deal with her own feelings. Now everyone has been told. Bobby has been told.

So what does she think?

It is too soon. There. It needed to be said.

Not true, but she can’t help it. That’s how it feels. An insufficient amount of time has passed. This was not just anyone. This was her son. This was Bobby. The kindest soul you ever met. He chose Tina, chose her when he was seventeen and never looked back. And now she’s choosing someone else. Not fair.

She can’t lose Tina, Alyssa, Bobby Jr. To someone named Wade. Not fair.

Ingiusto, she hears Maria say, from a different life.

She smiles, rolls the veal and pork between her hands into a ball.

Ingiusto indeed.

Around one, she pours herself a glass of Chianti. Earlier than she’d like to start drinking, but the day calls for it. Michael comes into the kitchen and helps himself to a glass. She swears the man has radar, can tell immediately if someone in a twenty-mile radius is about to imbibe.

“Can’t say I’m looking forward to this.”

“Do you want to talk?”

He raises his glass, smiles, and walks over to her.

“What is there to say?”

They clink glasses, each takes a sip.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

* * *

While Peter is waiting in front of Alberto’s apartment for Lindsay and the kids to pick him up, his cell phone rings. He checks the caller ID: Dom. A call he’s been dreading for weeks. There’s no one he wanted to talk to more, but he could never muster the courage to call. He answers anyway.

“Hello, Dom.”

“Petey boy, how we holding up?”

“Well, I’m not sure what you know, but—”

“I know enough to know that you’ve probably had a shitty winter.”

He’d been holding onto a ridiculous hope that maybe Dominic hadn’t found out. He does nothing but disappoint people these days. This is the man who paved the way for him, who supported him for partner, showed him how to play the game.

“I don’t know what to say, Dom. I’m so sorry.”

“Stop it. You don’t have to apologize to me. We’re friends. Can you see the light at the end of the tunnel?”

“I don’t know, Dom. I can’t see my way out of this one.”

“How so?”

In the background, Peter can hear the sounds of grandchildren misbehaving, mothers chastising. A family gathering, not unlike the one he’s about to attend.

“Well, things still haven’t, well, I won’t bother you with family stuff, but—”