Small Mercies

by Joyce, Eddie

  C’mon, Franky, relax, he tells his reflection. Relax.

  He puts some more lotion on his hand, closes his eyes.

  He’s on the couch with Amy Landini. She’s in the black and pink bikini. An erection starts tenting his trunks. She takes her bikini top off and kneels on the floor in front of him. She slides his huge, throbbing cock between her enormous tits.

  “Franky, it’s so big. I never knew.”

  He has a proper hard-on now. Feels like he’s stroking solid oak.

  “I can barely get my mouth around it. Ohh, Franky.” She’s overcome with lust.

  “I need to fuck you, Franky.”

  She slides down her soaked bikini bottom and straddles him. Her tits are in his face and she starts to ride him, moaning, a little in pain.

  “Franky, Franky.”

  Franky brings his other hand up to a slender, suddenly smallish breast.

  “Franky.”

  Her voice sounds tender now. They’re not rutting anymore, they’re making love. She holds his face with her tiny fingers. She leans down and kisses him. He can’t see her face, can only feel her soft brown hair on his chest. She’s a sprite on top of him, the littlest thing.

  “Tina,” Franky whispers.

  He ejaculates and a muted sensation ripples through him, more release than euphoria. The wave loosens his muscles, easing the tension in his neck and shoulders but leaving a hollow feeling—scooped out and shameful—in its wake. He can’t bear to look at himself in the mirror. He runs the faucet and cleans the sperm off the sink basin. He turns on the shower and steps in, even though the water hasn’t warmed yet. The shock of the cold water is punitive, pleasing in its way. He dips his head under the stream, lets it bombard the back of his neck.

  He didn’t even feel like drinking yesterday. A few pops to ease the spike in his head and then a nap, maybe watch the night games at home and catch up on some rest. But then he ran into Denny and Tommy and one thing led to another and the day slid away from him.

  He needs to calm it down. He’s been on a toot, which is fine; he planned it anyway. Has always taken the first two days of the tournament off, the way Bobby and he used to. But then he got ahead of himself, started on Wednesday night with a few of the boys from work, guys he doesn’t even really like, but fuck it, he’ll drink a coupla beers with any thirsty soul. Got a little more banged up than he anticipated and then strolled into St. Paddy’s Day still jaunty and tasting whiskey in the back of his throat, rolled right into it and then no fucking pool and who wouldn’t need a few stiff ones to get over that and there we go. A good time, he needed it, no doubt about that, but he needs to calm it down a little and he will. He’ll be fine.

  The problem is he’s still drinking like he’s on the bump, but he’s not on the bump, hasn’t been for six months. He’s drinking and nothing else, so he’s drinking too fast and without the adrenaline boost to boot.

  He steps out of the shower, grabs a towel. That’s exactly what he needs right now: a little bump, something to put a shine on the day, chase away these stupid fucking blues. He’s got nothing in the apartment. Probably for the best. One good bump begets another.

  He needs a day or two off from the sauce to clear his head, which is fine because he needs to go to the mall today anyway to get something for little Bobby’s birthday. The thought of taking the bus depresses him and he can’t fathom spending thirty bucks on a cab, not when he’s seven hundred in the hole. There’s only one person he can cajole into driving him to the mall.

  He picks up his cell and dials Kieran’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “Fuckwad.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Fuckwad.”

  “Franky?”

  “Who do you think, fuckwad?”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “Okay, cocksnot.”

  “You’re an asshole, Franky.”

  “Whatever you say, fuckwad.”

  “I’m hanging up, Franky.”

  “Whatever you gotta do, fuckwad.”

  The line goes dead. Franky chuckles to himself. Tormenting Kieran Kielty is one of the few things he still takes pleasure in. Kieran is an old friend of Bobby’s, one of his charity cases. A sad sack, a lost soul. He graduated in the same class as Peter, but was still keeping the book at high school basketball games when Bobby was a senior. One time, he showed up for an Amendola family Super Bowl party with a half-empty box of white powdered doughnuts as his contribution; everyone pretended not to notice the white powder caked in the corners of his mouth and sprinkled down the front of his shirt. He was fat and disheveled and kind of a whiny pain in the ass, but Bobby always included him; he even made him part of his wedding party. After Bobby was killed, Franky took it upon himself to look in on Kieran, treat him the way Bobby would have.

  Well, maybe not exactly the way Bobby would have.

  Still, he made it a point to hang out with Kieran every few months, go to a movie or take him to dinner, even invite him over when the whole family got together for Sunday dinners.

  But in the past few years, the fat fuck had somehow managed to convince a girl to marry him, get promoted at his job, even buy a house. Now when they hung out together, it seemed like Kieran was doing Franky a favor instead of the other way around. So every once in a while, Franky had to put him in his place, restore the natural order of things. He’d wait a few minutes, then call Kieran again, semi-apologize, and bribe the fat bastard by offering to buy him lunch. Worked every time.

  The phone rings and Franky answers reflexively.

  “Fuckwad! Back so soon?”

  “Francis?”

  Only his mom calls him Francis.

  “Hey, Mom, what’s up?” he says, sheepish.

  “Who were you expecting?”

  “Joking around with Kieran Kielty.”

  “How is Kieran?”

  His mother has a soft spot for Kieran, but she would have asked after whomever he mentioned, no matter who it was. He and Bobby used to joke about it.

  And how is Adolf doing? Still have that silly mustache?

  “He’s fine.”

  “And Megan?”

  How the fuck should he know how Kieran Kielty’s wife was?

  “Fine, I think,” he says, unable to hide his irritation. “What’s up with you?”

  “Out doing the shopping for tomorrow.”

  “What’s on the menu?”

  “Well, your father was gonna grill, but it looks like rain so it may be pasta and gravy. Some antipasto.”

  “Get those breadsticks that you wrap the salami around.”

  “I will.”

  “You heard about the pool?”

  “Sad.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  A few beats pass. Franky can hear the sound of people ordering from a butcher’s counter in the background.

  “Everything all right, Franky?”

  “Right as rain. Was wondering, what should I get little Bobby?”

  “Oh, Franky, whatever you get, I’m sure he’ll love.”

  “I know, but what’s he into these days?”

  “He’s starting baseball in a few weeks. Tina says he’s into dinosaurs again, but . . .”

  Her voice trails off. A few more silent beats. It’s his turn to ask.

  “Mom, everything all right?”

  “Listen, Franky, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Tina’s bringing someone tomorrow.”

  His face feels hot, all of a sudden.

  “Like a boyfriend?”

  “Not ‘like’ a boyfriend. A boyfriend.”

  He stands up and walks into the kitchen, opens the fridge. One fucking Heineken? It’ll have to do.

  “You met this guy yet,
Ma?”

  “No, not yet.”

  The first swig of beer tastes like broken glass, but the second is manageable. The third is almost pleasant.

  “It’s a little fucked up that he’s coming, no?”

  “I’m not sure how I feel about it.”

  “I think it’s fucked up.”

  “Well, we need to respect her wishes. It’s her son’s birthday and she thinks it’s important that her friend is there.”

  “What’s this asshole’s name?”

  “Franky, he’s not an asshole.” She waits a beat. “His name is Wade.”

  “Wade?” he says, as sarcastically as possible. “Let me guess, he’s not a firefighter?”

  “No. He’s not.”

  “Not a cop, either.”

  “No.”

  “And with a name like Wade, he sure as shit isn’t from the rock.”

  “No,” she says, the wind kicked out of her sails.

  “Of course not.”

  The fucking Heineken is empty and he’s got nothing else, not even a drip of Jameson. Or even Powers. He’d do a shot of paint thinner if he had it. He wants to punch the wall, punch it until his knuckles bleed and his bones crack. This is bullshit.

  “He’s a friend of your brother’s.”

  “Bullshit. I know all of Bobby’s friends. He doesn’t have any . . .”

  He realizes she’s talking about Peter.

  “He’s a lawyer?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”

  A friend of Peter’s. Great. Another stuck-up asshole. Tomorrow was gonna be tough enough with Peter and his judgment and disapproval.

  “Franky, I need you to do me a favor.”

  “What?” He nearly shouts at her.

  Her voice lowers to a whisper.

  “I need you to show up sober and I need you not to cause a scene.”

  His temples are pounding. He tries to coax another swig from the empty bottle.

  “Was it really necessary to ask me that?” he say, knowing it probably was. Her disappointment is the one thing he cannot tolerate and they both know it.

  “I’m sorry, Franky.”

  “Yeah,” he says, searching for something to say. “Yeah, me too. I’m fucking sorry too.”

  He flings the phone onto the couch.

  Fine. He’ll be sober tomorrow. He’ll be a fucking saint.

  But today is a different story.

  * * *

  By the time Kieran picks him up at Kelly’s to drive him to the mall, Franky is four beers in and the day has been draped in a soft gray blanket. He has decided not to give a fuck about Wade or Tina or Peter or his mother; he’ll make a day of it and fuck the rest. It’s all bullshit anyway. When Kieran’s busted blue Camry pulls in front of the bar, things are already looking up; he put four hundred on North Carolina minus three and they’re up seven at the half. He does a quick shot for good measure before walking out into the harsh daylight of early afternoon.

  “Christ, Kielty,” he says as he gets into the passenger seat. “Is it possible that you’re even fatter than the last time I saw you?”

  Kieran looks out the side window, away from Franky. He takes his Coke-bottle glasses off with one hand and pinches his nose with the other. He has gotten fatter; he’s wedged between the seat and the steering wheel and the lower folds of his stomach are peeking out from below his powder blue golf shirt. His face is a sheen of greasy acne and his brown hair is pocked with yellowish-white spots.

  “I’m not taking you unless you’re nice to me,” Kieran says, still facing the street. When he hears Kieran’s voice, Franky realizes that he’s close to tears.

  “Kieran, Christ. I’m only busting balls. That’s what friends do.”

  Kieran puts his glasses back on and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. A thin film of snot attaches to the meaty bulge where his thumb and index finger meet.

  “Megan says that you’re not a real friend to me. That you use me when you need me. Like today.”

  Franky doesn’t need this, doesn’t have the patience to reason with this whimpering half-wit. If he only had a fucking car. He swallows hard, puts a hand on Kieran’s shoulder. He hopes no one inside Kelly’s is watching through the window.

  “Kieran. I’m sorry I was rude.”

  He tries to sound sincere. Kieran’s eyes—huge and hopeful behind his glasses—shift toward him.

  “It’s all right. Megan doesn’t think I stand up for myself.”

  The unabashed meekness of Kieran’s voice makes Franky want to smack him. He reminds himself that Bobby loved Kieran, would have wanted him looked after.

  “Megan doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about. We’ve been friends for years. Remember when we went down to Atlantic City for the weekend? Or the night we ended up at FlashDancers and I paid that Russian chick to give you like, what? Twenty lap dances? Megan doesn’t know about that, right?”

  Kieran’s face goes a shade whiter than usual.

  “You’re not gonna tell her?” he asks. It takes Franky a beat to recognize that his concern is serious.

  “Jesus Christ, Kielty. Of course not. That’s my whole fucking point.” This was beyond useless; it was like talking to an infant. “Megan doesn’t understand everything about how guys hang out. Like how guys bust each other’s balls.”

  “I don’t bust your balls, Franky.”

  “But you could, kemosabe. You could. And that would be fine.”

  He watches as the logic circulates through Kielty’s enormous cranium, eventually turning his gray lips up into kind of a half smile. Franky smiles back.

  “Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Kielty puts the keys in the ignition. He looks over at Franky again, his hand paused in mid-twist.

  “You’ll take me to Applebee’s for lunch?”

  Jesus H. Christ, Franky thinks, that’s exactly what you need. Another meal.

  But he nods agreeably.

  “Applebee’s. Chili’s. McDonald’s. Burger King. Whatever the fuck you want.”

  Kielty’s smile expands. He turns the key and the car struggles to life. The fog of good cheer has been lifted during this conversation, a combination of Kielty’s incessant simpering and the sunlight glaring off the hood. And the mall is a twenty-minute ride. Franky needs a restorative shot. Maybe two.

  “Hold on, Kieran. We’ve been talking so long I need to piss.”

  He gets out of the car and walks back into Kelly’s. He puts a crinkled ten on the bar and orders a Jameson. He checks the score in the Carolina game.

  Tied with twelve minutes left. What the fuck happened?

  The daytime bartender, some bald grump with no personality, pours the golden liquid into an impossibly small vessel. Franky downs it with a quick shift of the head, the whiskey tingling his lips and tongue.

  He walks to the bathroom as the beer and the booze slosh around his otherwise empty stomach. He needs to eat something. He’s getting ahead of himself. He’s right back where he was last night before the curtain fell: no pain, not a care in the world. He takes a long piss, one hand pressed against the wall.

  He walks back to the bar, claps excitedly as a Carolina player nails a three. He needs another shot. One more will do the trick, keep the day rolling in the right direction. He watches the bartender pour the whiskey, watches as a meniscus forms at the lip of the glass.

  “One more,” he says as he lifts the shot glass. “One more then out the door.”

  * * *

  By the time they reach the mall, Franky is furious. He spent the entire car ride listening to Kielty lament the end of the Cody’s pool in the most simplistic, repetitive fashion imaginable. His buzz has started to drift and his stomach is in full protest after being ignored all morning. But it’s not any of that.


  It’s his mother and her fucking favor. Show up sober and not cause a scene? Seriously, was that really necessary? Bobby’s his nephew, his godson. Did she really think he would ruin the kid’s fucking birthday? Wasn’t he here now, at the goddamn mall of all fucking places suffering through the company of Kieran fucking Kielty, all so he could get the kid a proper present?

  The whole thing could drive a saint to drink. And he was no saint. He knew that much about himself.

  He hates the mall, hasn’t been in years. Everywhere he looks, he sees the reasons why: chain-wearing guidos with spiked-up hair, over-tanned mothers in bright, skintight jumpsuits, a group of cocky black teenagers wearing red Yankee hats, the labels still attached, the brims as straight as diving boards. There are more Russians than the last time he was here, but that was no surprise; they were moving onto the Island in droves, always looking for beachfront property, no matter how shitty the beach. Thank God it was a Saturday. At least there wouldn’t be any fucking Hasids.

  He spots a Foot Locker a few storefronts down and heads for it. Kielty is a few paces behind him, trying to avoid cataclysmic collisions with other obese mall goers.

  Then Franky sees something and, for a second, he thinks he’s hallucinating. He shakes his head, but there they are: a cluster of women in hijabs, that tongue-clacking filth ricocheting between them. He stops walking as they approach. They float right through him, one momentarily disengaging from her two companions, stepping outside him and then returning to her friends after she passes him. He watches them glide away, only their feet visible beneath the long draping sheets.

  Kielty catches up with him, follows his gaze.

  “What’s up, Franky?”

  “Fucking Arabs?” he says, loudly.

  “I guess.”

  “There are fucking Arabs at the Staten Island Mall now?”

  A few passing teenage kids looked at him uncertainly, like maybe he’s making a joke or they’re being filmed. Kielty shrugs his shoulders, sending his entire upper torso jiggling.

  “I guess.”

  Franky looks around, sees mostly regular people milling around, flitting into stores, carrying shopping bags, sipping from oversize Styrofoam cups. But in the cell phone store across from him, he notices an Arab with a mustache comparing cell phone chargers. He’s wearing an old-fashioned New York Giants jacket, the once shiny blue now faded and dusty. A small, dark-skinned boy holds his hand.