Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

“Lindsay still hasn’t forgiven you. Shocking. Okay, what else?”

Peter smiles despite himself. He misses Dom’s peremptory summations of a problem. He remembers a time in Dom’s office — he was still a young lawyer, second-, maybe third-year — when Dom explained why he let clients ramble but not associates. They’re paying me to listen. I’m paying you to talk. When you’re on the other side of the desk, you can go on and on for as long as you like. Until then, get to the fucking point. God, he thought he was miserable then — the long hours, the competition among associates, the stress about every little misstep — but he misses it now.

“Well, the firm asked me to be seconded to Devion. I’m not sure exactly what’s going on. Whether they want me to leave or maybe—”

“You know exactly what’s going on. The firm is trying to extricate itself from this mess as cheaply and quietly as possible. They could fire you, ask you to leave, whatever; that might be cheap but not quiet. They could pay this girl, make her sign a confidentiality agreement. That would be quiet but not cheap. They’re looking for a way out.”

His head really was on the chopping block, Peter realizes, and Dom saved him, proposed this idea. Talked his old client, Devion, into the arrangement. He notices the family car a block away on Montague, waiting at a red light.

“You’re still looking out for me, Dom. I don’t know what to say.”

“What I did always tell you, Petey. Look out for your own.”

Peter laughs.

“That’s kinda what got me into this mess, Dom.”

“Well, Petey, as my dearly departed brother would have put it: the fucking you get is never worth the fucking you get.”

“Wish you woulda told me that six months ago.”

“That lesson you have to learn on your own, Petey. One day, after I’ve had too many martinis, I’ll tell you about my first secretary, Dawn Rezaluk. Nice Polish girl from Greenpoint. My wife still won’t eat pierogi.”

Peter laughs again. He wishes he were in Dom’s office, late on a Friday afternoon. The week on its death knell. A bottle procured, a quick drink before the train home, the weekend, the family. The light turns green, the car moves slowly toward him.

“I just wish I could find a way to fix things with my family.”

“Jesus, Petey, I can only give you the cards. I can’t play them for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Isn’t Lindsay from Wisconsin, over the border from Illinois? Her parents still live there, right?”

“Yeah, so?”

Of course. Devion is in Chicago. Lindsay’s parents are an hour’s drive north.

“You think Lindsay would maybe like to be closer to her parents?”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t solve everything, Petey, but it’s the only play you have.”

Peter detects the tiniest flicker of hope struggling to keep in his chest. Maybe he can make this right.

“The only problem, Dom, is that I’ll have to live in Chicago too.”

“Penance, my boy, penance.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“Stay in touch, Petey.”

The car eases in front of him as he hangs up the phone. He can see the faces of his children inside. They look uncertain, happy to see him but nervous. He smiles at them, then turns his gaze to Lindsay. Her face is partially obscured by the reflected sheen of his own image. He can see only her chin and her lips, quivering.

* * *

Peter’s family arrives first. Lindsay is gaunt, stricken, unable to completely hide her anger. Gail wants to take her aside, give her a hug, tell her this will pass, but it’s not her place. Probably not a good idea to weigh in at all. Besides, they’ve always hated each other, the tiniest bit. No sense trying to bond over the trials and tribulations of middle-aged womanhood, especially when Gail’s son is the cause of the sudden unsteadiness.

The kids look a little wobbly. The prim serenity they’ve known all their lives has disappeared in the last few months. They’re not used to raised voices and slammed doors. Life has thrown them its first curveball. Peter slouches in behind the kids, carrying presents, sins etched on his face. He looks around the house dazed, like an astronaut returning to a planet he doesn’t recognize.

They’ll get through this. Lindsay can barely feign civility, but she’s here. If she wasn’t here, Gail would worry. But she is. Peter has some groveling in his future, some stormy nights and queasy mornings. But they’ll get through it. Lindsay’s a good mother. No questioning that. She’ll do what’s best for the kids. And that means Peter.

Gail retreats to the kitchen. Let Michael thaw the room. She can’t do all the heavy lifting. She loses herself in the cooking. She turns on a burner below a pot of salted water. She takes the ziti out of the pantry. She wipes a thin film of sweat from her forehead, takes another sip of Chianti. She is at the stove, stirring sauce, when she feels a hug around her midsection.

“Hello, Bob-a-loo.”

She kisses his cheek and leads him back to the living room. They are making their way in: Tina and Wade, with Alyssa lumbering behind. One big happy family. She can tell by the way they walk in, by the frisson between Wade and Tina, that it is more than serious. It’s a done deal. Tina will marry Wade, a tall, thin, rich man who’s good with her dead son’s kids.

Wade looks delicate, a piece of fine china. He’s wearing a blazer and an expensive watch. He is polite and respectful, calls her Mrs. Amendola. She is polite in return. She remembers what Peter told her, that he lost his wife. She’ll like this man soon enough, she can tell.

But not today.

The adults settle in the living room, the kids escape down to the basement. The television is on but muted; college basketball players race up and down the court. Gail stays on the periphery of the conversation, popping in from the kitchen every few minutes with some more antipasti. She refills wineglasses, picks up used paper plates. She looks at the clock, wonders where Franky is. She has no idea what to expect. He could show up sober. He could show up legless. He could not show up. None of these would surprise her. She gets a panicky throb in her chest and her eyes drift to Michael, who lowers his hand, motioning for her to stay calm.

* * *

Michael locks the door in the bathroom and lets the tap run. He takes out his cell phone and dials Franky’s number. It rings four times, then goes to voice mail. His voice is calm, firm.

“Franky, this is Dad. If you’re drunk, do not show up. Please.”

He closes the phone. He never imagined he’d be making calls like that. Telling his grown son not to come to his house if he’s intoxicated. He thought fatherhood would be like his job: you put in twenty, twenty-five years and then you retire. Enjoy the benefits. But it doesn’t end. Not until you’re in the ground.

He doesn’t want today to be ruined. He’s happy for Tina. This guy, Wade, isn’t half bad. Maybe not exactly his kind of guy, but he’s nice. Smart too. She deserves to be happy. She’s had her share of unhappiness and then some. They all have.

He puts his hands under the tap, splashes some water onto his face and the back of his neck. He looks in the mirror, sees his father staring back at him. He closes his eyes and, for a moment, he can see it: a butcher’s smock, his sons behind the counter, locking up the shop, coming home smelling of blood. A smaller life maybe, not as exciting. Less mayhem, less fire, less death.

He opens his eyes, sees an old man, thinking about what might have been.

* * *

At five, Gail puts the food out on the kitchen table: ziti and meatballs, a salad, a loaf of bread, an extra bowl of sauce. She calls the kids up from the basement, invites everyone into the kitchen to eat. Everyone files in, makes a plate, and disperses back to the living room. They sit and eat with their plates on their laps. Gail watches Wade struggle to eat in this fashion. He can’t quite get the hang of it, doesn’t look entirely comfortable. He notices her gaze, gives her a shrug and a smile. He plucks a large piece of meatball with his fork and tucks it into his mouth.