Small Mercies

by Joyce, Eddie

  “What? That’s crazy. Tina and Wade?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tina and Wade?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “He just told me. Twenty minutes ago.”

  “Oh, God. What did you say?”

  “Before or after I grabbed him by the throat?”

  Her laughter is genuine, knowing.

  “Oh, Peter. I’m sorry.”

  “Who knows? Maybe it’ll work.”

  “I hope it will. They both deserve happiness.”

  For a few seconds, it feels like it used to, before he ruined it. Then he remembers Chicago.

  “Linds, we need to talk. Alberto is coming back to New York next week.”

  “I’m not ready, Peter. I may never be.”

  “Linds, the kids. What are you telling the kids?”

  “It’s a funny thing, Peter. I thought this would be tougher on them, but they barely notice. They’re used to not having you around. They’re preconditioned. It’s not that they don’t miss you. They’re just used to missing you. I tell them you’re away on business and they don’t bat an eyelash.”

  He feels resentful, wants to make a speech about putting food on the table and a roof, a very nice roof, above their heads, but it won’t help matters. He swallows hard.

  “I miss them, Linds. I miss you.”

  “That’s the worst part, Peter.” Her voice cracks. “I miss you too.”

  “Then maybe I should come home.”

  “No. I’m like the kids. I’m used to missing you. I’ve been doing it for years.”

  She won’t be moved any further tonight. The emotion is gone. No anger, no sadness. All business.

  “Okay, Linds. What are we gonna do about Sunday? Bobby’s party.”

  “We’ll figure it out. Call me later in the week. You can talk to the kids.”

  “Okay, I will.”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  He deems the call a mild success. No yelling, no name calling, no unanswerable questions like “Why?” or “How many times?” or “What was it like?” Gina wasn’t called a slut; he wasn’t called a bastard. The gulf between them had been narrowed, if only by a few inches. Maybe this would be the way. An ocean of distance slowly lessening as time passes and the pain fades. Like the worst settlement negotiations, each side moving glacially toward a position it could live with. Can’t come right out with the number, everyone has to inch there.

  Peter looks out the window. His cab is barely on the bridge. His buzz has become a headache. The bottle of red wine feels hours away. He suddenly understands the appeal of a flask.

  * * *

  Every night was the same. Gina would come to his office and close the door. She would explain that she couldn’t do this anymore, that it was tearing her apart, that David suspected something, that she felt so guilty she could barely function. When she started to cry, Peter would come around his desk to comfort her and soon enough, they were making love on the floor of his office as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  They would lie together afterward and whisper stories to each other about growing up on the Island. He told her about his crazy Irish grandmother in Bay Ridge and how he used to be able to flip over chain-link fences in one motion when he was a kid and how, on the night he got his driver’s license, he took Janice Flynn to Wolfe’s Pond Park and they made out for two hours, but Janice wouldn’t let him get past second base, so on the way home, he got a pain in his groin so intense he had to pull over and get out of the car. Blue balls, he laughed.

  That’s a myth, she giggled.

  That’s what Janice Flynn said.

  She told him about her great-aunt Tessa, who still played her number—193—every day with the last of the Italian boys in Bensonhurst and how her mother sat her down the summer before fifth grade and told her the facts of life and she cried for three days because, even then, without really knowing anything, it seemed like girls got the shit end of the stick. She told him about the Christmas when their street iced over and her whole family—aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins—had to stay over and everyone got drunk and started crying about her mother’s brother Vito, who was the kindest soul who ever lived and was killed in Vietnam two days before he was scheduled to come home. She told him that when she was lying there with Peter, she felt like she used to when her father came into her bedroom when she was a child, whenever there was thunder and lightning, he would race into her room and climb into her bed and hold her and she’d never felt safer in her whole life. Until now.

  That makes me feel more than a little icky, he said.

  You know what I mean.

  And he did. As exhilarating as the sex was, Peter enjoyed the afterglow—lying there blissfully, the only two souls in the world—even more. He hadn’t felt peace like that in a long time. Sometimes, he would catch a glimpse of Bobby’s picture and that bizarre phrase “We owe the dead our sins” would ring in his head. He didn’t think Bobby was condoning his behavior. Not exactly. It didn’t seem like the sort of thing that Bobby would ever do. (Then again, it didn’t seem like the sort of thing that Peter would ever do.) But it seemed like the sort of thing Bobby should have done, if given the opportunity, because really, what difference did it make? Right? Peter tried not to think about it too much.

  We owe the dead our sins.

  Well, okay then. Worked well enough for Peter.

  He kept waiting for something to kick in and make him end the affair: guilt, common sense, a modicum of judgment, basic decency, professional concerns. But for the first time in his life, he felt unfettered by such considerations. Outside of the nightly encounters with Gina, his life went on in the same fashion. He took the train home, he kissed Lindsay, he hugged his kids, he did his work. If anything, he was happier; even Lindsay noticed, commented on it a few times. He spent his days at the office in giddy anticipation of Gina’s arrival. He spent his weekends in a weird, lovesick haze, eager to get back to the office but also somehow appreciative of the comforts of his married, suburban existence.

  His euphoria was shattered only when he remembered that Gina was spending those weekends with David, was fucking David, was going to marry fucking David, and when that happened, he felt a burning jealousy in his chest that nothing could soothe. He couldn’t fucking stand it. Some asshole was going to marry Gina. Spend a life with Gina. His Gina. It wasn’t fair. She couldn’t marry this guy.

  One night, while he watched her slip on her underwear in his darkened office, he told her.

  “Gina, you can’t marry David.”

  “Don’t talk about him. You don’t even know him.”

  “I don’t need to know him. You can’t do it.”

  “Stop saying that,” she yelled.

  “Keep your voice down,” he said. He was still lying on the floor naked.

  She slipped her bra on, clasped it closed below her breasts. Watching her dress was the only time he recognized the sordidness of the whole thing, but sometimes it made him excited all over again, led to another roll on the floor, another twenty minutes of peace. He stood and walked to her. She turned away from him. He hugged her from behind, pressed his wobbly erection into the yielding firmness of her rear.

  “I can’t,” she said.

  He kissed her neck, slipped a hand down to her breast.

  “You can.”

  “Peter, I can’t. I’m meeting David and his parents for dinner. I’m already late.”

  His fingers found her nipple, hard beneath her bra. She moaned and turned to kiss him.

  “Peter . . .”

  He laid her down on the couch, removed her bra. He kissed her breasts slowly, his tongue grazing her nipples. His mouth moved south, to the taut flesh of her stomach. Her moans grew more urgent. He reached the small swell of flesh a
bove her pubis. Her hands were on the back of his head, guiding him to the moist patch on her thong when her cell phone rang.

  She slid from the couch, her knee catching his jaw and knocking him back. She found her phone and answered it.

  “I’m on my way,” she said, her voice still hoarse with desire.

  Peter sat upright, rubbing his jaw and listening to half a conversation.

  “No, I’m not in my office. I’m downstairs, trying to catch a cab.”

  “You’re downstairs? I thought we were meeting at the restaurant.”

  “I meant I was on my way downstairs. I had to stop and drop something off in someone’s office.”

  “No, not his office. Someone else’s office. No, David, do not come up. David.”

  “Okay, I’ll be right down.”

  She’d dressed frantically while talking. She was on the verge of tears.

  “Gina, calm down,” Peter urged.

  “Calm down, calm down? He’s downstairs, waiting for me. He wants to come up. He knows something’s going on between us.”

  “How could he know that?”

  “I don’t know, but he does.”

  “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

  “I have to go.”

  Her face and chest were still flush with excitement. She stopped and took a deep breath. She looked like she was trying to decide something. She turned to the door.

  “Peter, I love you,” she said, for the first time.

  “I love you too,” he responded, without hesitation.

  She opened the door and a crease of light from the hallway fell into the room, illuminating his naked body.

  * * *

  When the car stops in front of Alberto’s building on Columbia Heights, the driver has to shout to alert Peter, who is lost in his own thoughts. He steps out of the car, briefcase in hand, and closes the door behind him. The street is quiet; the only sounds are the wind pushing branches and the low hum of the BQE. He notices a pay phone up the street, fifty feet away, right before an entrance to the Promenade. He’s never noticed it before, hasn’t seen a public phone in ages. They are like the city’s homeless; they seem to have vanished overnight.

  Before he knows why, Peter is at the phone, checking for a dial tone. The phone still works. He fishes in his pockets for change, finds three quarters and a dime. He doesn’t even know what a call costs these days. He dials information.

  “City and state,” a sterilized female voice asks.

  “Staten Island, New York.”

  “What listing?” the voice asks.

  “Vincent Giordano.”

  The voice recites a sum and Peter slides two quarters into the slot. He tucks the receiver between his chin and his shoulder. Someone answers on the second ring.

  “Hello?”

  A female voice. Not Gina.

  “Hello, may I please speak to Gina?”

  He changes his voice, makes it a little higher. The absurdity does not escape him. The stuff of teenagers, only he’s a quarter century past that.

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Brendan.”

  “One moment, Brendan.”

  The moments drip by. Peter’s heart pounds in his chest. Why didn’t he try this sooner? Why is he trying it now? This is pure insanity. He hears the other phone being lifted, hears Gina’s voice on the other end saying hello. He hangs up.

  What the hell is he thinking? His life isn’t fucked enough?

  He stands there for a long time, staring at the phone, clinging to the fantasy that it might ring.

  * * *

  The snow began to fall as Peter walked over to the firm’s Christmas party. The forecasters had been predicting a monster storm all week and the city was eerily vacant in anticipation. The firm had even considered canceling the party, but the old-timers who still lived in palatial penthouses off the park would have none of it. They didn’t live in the sleepy suburbs north of the city. They didn’t have to worry about stalled trains and icy roads. All they had to do was stay sober enough to catch a cab. The Christmas party was a tradition, goddammit, and the flimsy prognostications of a few snake charmers who called themselves meteorologists weren’t going to interfere with a hundred and five years of dressed-up debauchery.

  Peter chuckled. You had to admire the old-timers. They wouldn’t be denied their fucking Christmas party. So the turnout would be light, who cared? More booze for the stalwarts.

  The rapidly falling snow cast the semi-abandoned streets in an ethereal veil, inducing whimsical notions in Peter, lightening his melancholy. He’d been gloomy since his last meeting with Gina, gradually resigning himself to the conclusion of their affair.

  He knew it was bad when she didn’t close the door after walking into his office. She told him, in a hushed whisper, that David had figured it out. She wasn’t sure how, but he knew and he’d threatened to call Peter’s wife unless it stopped immediately. No more late-night office visits. No more working together. Nothing.

  A shiver of fear scrambled up Peter’s spine at the possibility of David’s calling Lindsay. Somehow, he’d managed to keep his family on the periphery of this whole thing, had managed to ignore the possible consequences if the affair was revealed. The thing had been going on for three weeks. How had David figured it out so quickly?

  It didn’t matter. He knew Gina was right. It had to end. He’d noticed a few raised eyebrows around the firm. Gina came to his office every night at the same time and emerged two hours later; they hadn’t exactly been discreet. No matter that the door was locked and they kept the noise to a minimum. People weren’t stupid and there were more than enough of them around at seven every night. It had to stop before people got hurt, before a mess was made. It had to end.

  When Gina told him, her eyes were shot through with red and her pallor was the sickly white of the sleep deprived. She’d been up all night, he guessed, brokering this deal with David. Protecting him. It was a fair deal. All he had to do was take it. All he had to do was never touch her again, never taste her again, never fuck her again.

  Not possible.

  It had to stop, yes, but it couldn’t stop. Not yet. Not like this. Not because of David.

  So he brokered his own deal with Gina. One last night together. A proper night in a hotel room. He’d laid out his plan: the firm Christmas party, a careful fabrication on her part, they would each attend alone, he would arrange for them to be at the same table, they would leave early, escape together. They were owed that much. They deserved that much. One special night and then good-bye forever. She shook her head yes, a dozen little lurches. She didn’t need much convincing. He could tell that she didn’t want things to stop either.

  Peter crossed Forty-second Street tentatively, his wingtips sliding on a thin sheen of fallen snow. A yellow cab passed in front of him, its speed the stately march of a hearse. He reached the other side and started walking diagonally up the stairs of the New York Public Library’s main branch, the site of this year’s party. A half dozen black cars were lined up at the curb, waiting their turn to dispense older partners and their spouses into the waiting hands of an attendant. Peter could picture the scene in reverse in a few hours: more snow, wobblier legs. He did not envy the attendants.

  When he reached the cover of the building’s overhang, Peter ran a hand through his hair to remove some caked frost. His lungs felt renewed by the cold. The snow was a gift, something to ensure a memorable evening with Gina. They wouldn’t bother sleeping tonight. He’d booked a room at The Plaza. He would crack a window, let the cold air seep into the room. He’d make love to Gina under the sheets, let the warmth of their bodies serve as a protest to the elements, to the fates, to everything that was conspiring to keep them apart. He would explore her, find all the places he hadn’t yet. He’d make it so that they couldn’t stop, so that she couldn’t end it. Th
is wasn’t over yet. He stepped into the lobby with satyric vigor.

  He deposited his coat at the check and snagged a flute of champagne from a passing server. They’d turned the vestibule into a temporary cocktail lounge and strung white lights down the marble walls. He nodded hello to a few colleagues and went to look for Gina. He spotted her on the other end of the hall, waiting near one of the makeshift bars, holding a shimmering black purse at her side. She wore a long black dress. Her hair was pulled up in an elegant bun. He could see the astonishing blue of her eyes even at this distance. She looked ravishing. He suddenly understood the expression; he wanted to ravish her, felt a tremor from his groin at the thought. He crossed the distance between them, sidestepping the lion’s share of the bankruptcy group and plowing through the small circle of trusts and estates lawyers the firm still employed. These events were pointless; everyone got drunk with the same five people they talked to every day.

  When he arrived in front of Gina, he clasped his hands together like an old-world maître d’ heralding the return of his favorite customer. She hadn’t noticed him weaving through the crowd or his arrival. Her gaze was fixed down at the floor. He took another step closer.

  “Gina,” he said, almost breathless. “You look . . .”

  She looked up at him, startled, and he could see the moist panic in her eyes.

  “Peter, nice to see you,” she said, in the most anodyne way possible. Her right hand lifted like a crane and she tapped a man on the shoulder, someone who had been procuring drinks.

  “Peter, this is David, my fiancé.”

  An open hand swung aggressively toward Peter’s stomach. He shook it weakly.

  “David Geithorn. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “Peter Amendola, nice to meet you, David.”

  His voice sounded like water dripping from a faucet.

  “C’mon, Peter. Don’t sound sooo disappointed.”

  “David,” Gina whispered.

  He was shorter than Gina. His hair was already receding and a cluster of baby acne had decamped in the middle of his forehead. His glasses magnified his eyes, made it impossible to ignore the rage in them. He wasn’t at all what Peter expected. He’d pictured a tall, blond lacrosse player with washboard abs and rocks in his head. David was a nebbish.