Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

The front door opens. Every head in the room turns. Gail sucks in a breath. Franky walks in, holding a plastic bag, the right half of his face covered with gauze. His eyes skip around the room, to the nowhere spaces between faces. He’s sweating bullets. He mumbles something about tripping while jogging, scraping his face on the sidewalk. He is introduced to Wade and manages a handshake, head down. Gail exhales.

He’s sober. His face is mangled and he’s clearly hung over, but he’s sober. Small mercies.

She doesn’t ask any questions, doesn’t want to know. No sense getting into it. They’ve been cruel enough to each other over the years. He makes himself a plate, settles in the kitchen near her, away from Wade. She takes a tall can of Budweiser from the fridge, offers it to him. He doesn’t bother pretending he doesn’t need it.

She stands in the doorway, watching and listening. Wade dotes on Tina, keeps a hand on her back, fetches her whatever she needs. He is charming, even funny. Franky stays in the kitchen, drinking cans of Budweiser at an incautious pace. He can’t stand Wade, the person or the idea. This makes Gail happy. Someone should feel that way, even if it can’t be her.

The demise of the Cody’s pool is discussed at some length. Several theories are proffered; Gail hears something about a nun with a gambling problem. Even Lindsay laughs at that. Wade says there are a few guys from his office who’d been putting in picks for twenty years. Michael blames the mayor. Peter says it had to be the IRS. Eventually, Franky can’t resist; he sulks back into the living room to add his thoughts, something about a Croatian lawyer who got divorced.

When he does, Tina comes into the kitchen to see Gail. She is trying to restrain herself, but she’s a little giddy. A few glasses of wine have loosened her up.

“So what do you think?”

She is in love, Gail can tell, because how else could she ask such a stupid question. He’s a fraction of the man my son was; you’re a fool for thinking he will make you happy.

“He seems very nice, Tina.”

“Right?”

“Lovely.”

She can’t resist.

“Does well for himself too, I hear.”

“I guess, I don’t really know.”

Tina frowns and Gail feels guilty. She reaches over and grips Tina’s hand.

“I’m happy for you, Tina.”

“Thank you.”

They hug. Gail can tell this is a good-bye of sorts. Tina has come for her tacit approval, nothing more.

“Thanks for everything, Gail.”

Not Mom. Just Gail.

“You’re welcome, Tina.”

* * *

They turn off the lights when it’s time for cake. Gail lights the candles and carries the cake into the living room. Unprompted, Michael sings “Happy Birthday” at the top of his lungs, the same way his father used to, purposefully off-key. Everyone laughs. Gail looks at him. He’s a little tipsy, smiling. He’s happy. She places the cake on a tray in front of Bobby Jr.

“Make a wish,” someone shouts. Bobby Jr. closes his eyes, pinches his face into a determined scowl. The candles flicker; the only thing visible in the entire room is Bobby’s face. He furrows his brow, concentrates harder. Gail can almost hear wishes being made silently, around the room. A moment passes, then he opens his eyes wide and blows out the candles. Everyone cheers.

While they eat cake, Bobby opens his presents: toys, clothes, video games. After everyone has given him their gifts, Franky sheepishly hands him a plastic bag.

“Sorry, Bob-o, didn’t get a chance to wrap it.”

Bobby pulls the jersey out of the bag, looks at the name on the back.

“Ewing?” he asks, quizzically.

“Patrick Ewing. He was your father’s favorite player,” Tina offers, a tear sliding down her cheek. Wade puts a hand on her back. Bobby pulls the jersey on over his shirt.

“Awesome. Thanks, Uncle Franky.”

“You bet, Bob-o.”

Franky leans down and hugs Bobby, making sure the unsullied side of his face is the half that touches Bobby’s cheek. Gail’s and Tina’s eyes meet, briefly, then retreat, two mothers watching their sons.

* * *

When Peter’s family gets ready to leave, Franky slips upstairs. He walks down the hallway, but the walls seem too close together; he keeps drifting into one side or the other. He can’t tell whether he’s buzzed or punchy or plain exhausted. He takes a sip from his can and pushes open the door to Bobby’s room. He feels at peace here, closer to Bobby than anywhere else but not painful somehow. He doesn’t have to imagine Bobby or try to remember him in this room; he’s simply present.

Franky leaves the can on the dresser and steps toward the bed. He takes his wallet and his cell phone out. He has a new message. It can wait until tomorrow. He slides under the covers, savors the cool feeling of enclosure. He nods to the poster of Patrick Ewing.

“Good night, Patrick.”

He showed them today, showed them all. They doubted him and he made them eat their doubts. He showed that asshole Wade too. What kind of a fancy fuck wears a blazer to a birthday party? Asshole.

His face hurts so he switches positions, lays the other cheek against the pillow. If he did it today, he can get right. He can be a better son, a better uncle. A better person, for Christ’s sake. He just needs someone to believe in him. Bobby believed in him and the world took him away. It’s not his fault. But he’ll get right. He’ll make things right.

In the flicker of seconds before slumber, Franky’s word is true. In this moment, these things will happen. His eyelids close in peace, his mind intent on redemption. Tomorrow is a long way off; it remains unborn, perfect.

* * *

It is late when they leave. Peter’s family has already left, right after cake. Franky is staying over, sleeping upstairs, probably already in Bobby’s bed. Tina hugs Michael and Gail. She walks out to the car, Alyssa’s head resting on her shoulder. Wade says good-bye, says thanks, and carries Bobby Jr. down the steps in his arms. Another man, a stranger, is carrying her dead son’s sleeping child down her front steps. The steps Maria hobbled up, the steps her sons ran down as kids, the steps Michael stood on the day that changed everything.

Gail’s throat catches and makes a soft noise. Michael asks her if something is wrong.

“It’s nothing,” she says. She hears Maria’s voice in her head: nulla.

He puts his hand on her shoulder.

“C’mon, let’s go inside.”

“Go on, I’ll be right in.”

She watches Wade lay little Bobby down on the backseat, then get in on the driver’s side. Tina waves a last good-bye through the windshield. Gail raises a hand in response. The car backs out of the driveway and into the street. They drive off slowly.

The rain has stopped. The branches of nearby trees sway, then ease into stillness. The street glows in the gentle hum of front door lights. Somewhere on the block, a car door is closed. Footsteps echo off pavement. The noise drifts down, disappears. The street is empty, the night hushed.

Gail lingers on the top step, hoping something will break the silence.

You’ve been waiting for this night, this moment, for months. Years. The Staten Island version of March Madness. Top eight teams on the Island. You beat Moore in the quarter finals, upset Peter’s in the semis. Tonight is the final. You’re playing Curtis, best team on the Island. They kicked your ass earlier in the year and you’d love some payback. But win or lose, this is it: the last high school basketball game of your life.

The opening buzzer sounds and is swallowed by the hum of the crowd. Your head spins and you can barely hear, never mind understand, what Coach Whelan is shouting at you and your teammates. His voice is hoarse and his face is red. Behind his glasses, his eyes are rigid with conviction.