by Joyce, Eddie
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—”
“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 playe
rs 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.
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.
Epilogue
BOBBY
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.