Small Mercies: A Novel

by Eddie Joyce

  “No, Alberto. You’ve been more than generous, really. I don’t even know how to thank you, actually. No one else has been remotely as kind.”

  Kind didn’t begin to describe it. When everyone else at the firm was treating him like a leper, Alberto offered up his pied-à-terre for Peter to use while he was in South America. Alberto was in his fifties, a silver fox, thin and placid. Had a reputation as a skirt-chaser. Peter guessed that he had some experience with domestic agitation and felt bad for Peter after what happened at the Christmas party.

  “Ah, well. This too shall pass. Isn’t that what we always tell our clients?”

  “Yes, well, thank you. I owe you a very nice dinner at the least when you’re in town.”

  “No problem, my friend. How did you like it, by the way, the apartment?”

  “It’s fantastic. The views are unbelievable. Got a chance to reacquaint myself with the comings and goings of the Staten Island ferry.”

  “Isn’t that where you’re from, Staten Island?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  A long pause, like Alberto’s reading an e-mail or someone’s come into his office, but Peter can tell it’s another question that won’t ask itself.

  “And isn’t that also . . . well . . .”

  Another pause.

  “Well, this is delicate, but wasn’t the girl from there as well?”

  Peter’s cheeks redden reflexively.

  “Yes,” he says softly.

  “Ahhhh,” Alberto says, like he’s finally removed a splinter that had been stuck in his foot for months. “Well.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I suppose that explains a lot,” Alberto says.

  Peter can do nothing but agree.

  “I suppose it does.”

  * * *

  She walked into his office at quarter to five, in a manner that only a first-year associate in her infancy at the firm could think was appropriate, and started talking about her future at the firm as though he didn’t have five phone calls to return and a train to catch. Peter nodded absently as she dithered, trying not to let his eyes wander too frequently to the clock on his computer. He’d promised Lindsay he would make it home at a reasonable hour so the whole family could sit down for a meal together for the first time in weeks and here he was, stuck listening to this girl whose name he’d already forgotten blather on about God knows what. Another first-year who talked too much. A Friday afternoon impediment, one of the many things that were conspiring to prevent him from catching the 5:47 train home and incurring Lindsay’s wrath as a result.

  He’d met half a dozen first-year associates already that week. They were all the same: earnest, fresh faced, eager to please, completely incapable of doing competent work. They were a necessary evil, one that not only had to be tolerated but humored as well. A year from now, the plucky high spirits would be kicked out of this girl, a casualty of two thousand plus billable hours, most of them spent in mind-numbing document reviews on cases whose greater purpose she would never learn.

  But on a crisp September Friday at the end of her first week at the firm?

  A bundle of naive optimism, certain that this conversation was the most important thing in either of their lives. She’d been rambling for minutes, Peter half paying attention, when he heard it. She said it like a native, not saying the first syllable so much as expelling it from her mouth. Eschewing the second syllable entirely and sliding the n over to the second word, which slithered out like an afterthought.

  STAT Nisland.

  Not Sta-ten Island, like the Dutch must have said it four hundred years ago, like you probably should say it. STAT Nisland. Like a challenge. STAT Nisland. Like a threat.

  Peter smiled, the mention of his home borough shaking him from his stupor.

  “You’re from the rock?” he asked, suddenly half interested.

  Her obsequious smile pinched for a moment and then relaxed, leaving a genuine grin in its place. She shook her head with humored disbelief.

  “You don’t remember me,” she said.

  Peter looked at her with perplexed intent. She was pretty—jet black hair, a soft, round face; large, expressive eyes—and looked somewhat familiar, but only in a vague, ethnic sense. A polished version of every good-looking Italian girl he’d grown up with.

  “I’m sorry,” he managed.

  “Regina Giordano. I won the first annual Robert Amendola Memorial Scholarship. You spoke at the ceremony.”

  Peter shook his head. His mother had come up with the idea the spring after Bobby was killed, had recruited Peter to help her. A fifteen-hundred-dollar scholarship—a stipend really, just some spare cash to pay for books—in Bobby’s name given to a Staten Island kid, the son or daughter of a firefighter, who showed academic promise. She organized a small luncheon to hand out the check. The Advance ran a small piece about the honoree, about Bobby as well. It made his mother happy, and for that alone, Peter was willing to pay for the whole thing. Every year thereafter, she asked him to come to the ceremony, but work always got in the way. He’d only been able to attend the first luncheon.

  He remembered it now. A buffet at the Staaten catering hall: chicken francaise and pitchers of Coke. He made some remarks, talked about Bobby. They gave the scholarship to a girl, a senior in high school, a nerdy, endearing teenager with frizzy hair in a Catholic school skirt. He looked across at Regina, who was nodding, one eyebrow raised. It wasn’t possible.

  He looked down at his fingers, did some quick math. Spring of 2002. Four years of college, three years of law school. It was possible. More than possible. There was even an extra year somewhere.

  Time flies whether you’re having fun or not.

  “Jesus, Regina. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it’s possible. And I didn’t recognize you. Look at you. We gave that scholarship to a little girl, not a first-year lawyer.”

  She laughed and leaned forward. Her silk blouse was unfastened a button lower than what the firm would deem professionally appropriate. Peter got a glimpse of cleavage, noticed a lacy red bra. He forced his eyes north.

  “It’s okay, Mr. Amendola. I’m sure you’re extremely busy. Our mothers actually kept in touch. My mom would give yours updates on how I was doing, what grades I was getting, where I was applying to law school. I actually visited your parents a few times when I was home for spring break in college.”

  “I’m sure my mother loved that. Absolutely loved it. And please, call me Peter.”

  “Okay, Peter. Well, your family is lovely. And I still remember what you said at the luncheon.”

  “Dear God, what did I say?”

  “Well, you talked about Bobby, what a great guy he was. Great father. And then you gave me some advice. You said, ‘Keep your feet on the ground, but reach for the stars.’”

  Had he really uttered such an inane platitude? Possibly. At his mother’s behest, he’d spoken at a number of different schools on the Island over the years. In his limited experience speaking to Staten Island students and their parents, he’d decided that straightforward praise of hard work as the best avenue to a vague but definitely monetarily associated success worked best. As in: if you work your ass off, you’ll make a boatload of money. Which was funny, if you thought about it, because the cops and firefighters and teachers you were talking to were living proof of different propositions. Like: take a good city job, retire after twenty, and live on your pension. Or maybe: work hard and you’ll make a living, not enough to live anywhere but Staten Island, but a living. That’s why the descriptions of success had to be vague. Most Staten Island parents had no idea what to tell their kids to aspire to.

  “God, I can’t believe I said that,” he said, running his hand through his hair.

  She let her chin and lower lip droop, leaving her mouth agape in an expression of mock hurt. A salacious thought popped into Peter’s mind, unbidden
. He exiled it immediately.

  “I wrote it down when I got home, it became my little mantra. I even taped it above my desk in college.”

  Peter groaned.

  “You’re joking. Really?”

  “Yes, yes. I can’t believe you’re disavowing it. This is like Scalia saying that the drafters’ original intent doesn’t matter after all.”

  Clever girl. A little law-school nerdy, but still.

  “It’s just that of all the things to say to an impressionable young student with her whole life in front of her.”

  “Why? What should you have said?”

  “Don’t go to law school.”

  She laughed again, heartier this time, almost a snort. Her earlier skittishness had dissipated. She leaned back in her chair, comfortable. Her skin was a smooth mocha, her eyes a surprising blue: a touch of light against a dusky background.

  “Well, I’m glad you didn’t. Because if you did, we wouldn’t be sitting here now.”

  She raised her left hand to remove a strand of hair that had stuck in the corner of her mouth. He noticed a large engagement ring, felt an inexplicable pang of jealousy.

  “So, who’s the lucky guy?”

  She looked confused. He pointed at her ring.

  “Oh, this. I keep forgetting. It happened last week. Right before I started. His name’s David. We went to law school together. He’s at Hofstadt Klein.”

  Keep forgetting? She didn’t seem overly enthused. Hofstadt Klein was a third-rate firm at best. Of course he’d proposed last week. Couldn’t let this girl walk in here without a visible sign of attachment. The older male associates would have been all over her. Probably still would be.

  “Set a date yet?”

  “No, I don’t want anything big.”

  “The Italian girl from Staten Island doesn’t want a big wedding?”

  “I’m not your typical guidette.”

  “No, I guess not. Is David a Staten Island boy as well?”

  “No, no, no. He’s from Connecticut.”

  Peter groaned again, this time for dramatic effect.

  “C’mon, Regina. The guys from Connecticut already get all the breaks; you can’t let them take the nice girls from Staten Island too.”

  “I’m not that nice,” she said and winked at him.

  He laughed. This was the first conversation he’d enjoyed with a first-year in years. She was charming. He felt a small measure of pride in the fact that another kid from SI had made it here, to this firm, and that he’d played a role in helping her, albeit a tiny one.

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  He smiled at her earnestly for a few awkward seconds. Her gaze drifted around his office until his phone rang.

  “Well, I’m sure you’re busy, Mr. Amendola . . .”

  “Please call me Peter.”

  “Okay. Well, Peter, I know you’re busy, but I just wanted to drop in and introduce myself and thank you for the scholarship. And I know it’s silly because we don’t really know each other, but I’ve always looked at you as a role model for me, someone whose career I could study and learn from, being that we’re from the same place. And I would really love it if we could work together on a case someday. So, thank you again and I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”

  “Not a problem, Regina. And if anyone owes an apology, it’s me. My mind is mush these days.”

  Maureen’s voice buzzed in.

  “Peter, it’s Lindsay.”

  “One minute, Mo.” He turned to Regina. “I have to take this, I’m afraid. The wife.”

  She stood and they shook hands. He watched her walk to the door, his eyes drifting down to her ass, its firmness snugly showcased by her pinstriped pants. She had curves, a pleasant change from the spindly, near anorexic look presently in vogue with almost all the young female associates. He called after her.

  “Regina, one last question.”

  She turned at the door.

  “Shoot.”

  “Denino’s or Joe and Pat’s?”

  She shook her head.

  “Lee’s? Nunzio’s?”

  “Nucci’s.”

  “Nucci’s? Never heard of it.”

  “You’ve lost touch with your roots.”

  He waved her away, smiling. He was about to press the button to accept the waiting call when she called back to him.

  “I have a question for you, Pete.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Where’s your wife from?”

  Peter chuckled.

  “I plead the Fifth.”

  She pursed her lips in a mock pout.

  “Wisconsin.”

  “C’mon, Pete. The girls from Wisconsin already get all the breaks. You can’t let them take the nice guys from Staten Island too.”

  “Too late.”

  She laughed and waved good-bye. He pressed the button and lifted the receiver to his ear.

  “Hey, babe, you’ll never guess who started working here. Do you remember that luncheon that we went to for Bobby’s . . .”

  “So,” Lindsay interrupted, clearly irritated, “I guess you’re not making the five forty-seven?”

  Peter glanced at the clock. It was 5:44.

  “No, Linds. I guess not. Sorry. Time got away from me.”

  “It always does.”

  She hung up.

  Peter put the receiver down. He felt a warm tingle in his stomach, realized his cheeks were still pressed in a smile. He felt a charge he hadn’t felt in years, the electricity of new attraction.

  Flirting, he realized, we were flirting.

  And then he heard a voice from a different part of him, the practical, married part of him. Careful, it said, careful.

  * * *

  After Peter hangs up with Alberto, the day grows wheels. Clients return from their weekends and want updates: the latest draft of a brief, the status on a document review, the next steps in an internal investigation. When Maureen cracks the door open to say good night, Peter realizes he hasn’t eaten anything all day and that the sky outside his window is almost dark. He prefers days like this, when there’s so much going on that he has no time to get lost in his own thoughts. His stomach turns over, reminding him it is empty. He needs some fuel, half a sandwich and some chips.

  He walks out of his office, intent on the cafeteria, and nearly knocks over Phil Langley, the reigning fair-haired child of the litigation department. Phil is trim and tidy, has chiseled features that belie his untrustworthiness. He’s got upward charm. Treats associates and staff like shit. Kisses the ass of everyone he thinks is important. Peter’s never made that cut, even though he made partner two years before Phil. He has a reputation for bad-mouthing his peers, Peter included, to the higher-ups in the department. Peter has little doubt that Phil has exploited Peter’s present predicament in every way possible.

  “Peter, just the man I was coming to see.”

  He extends his hand and Peter reluctantly shakes it.

  “How are you? How you holding up?”

  The falsity of his concern is so apparent that Peter has to suppress an urge to slap him.

  “I’m great, Phil. Thanks. On my way down to the cafeteria, so excuse me.”

  Phil puts a hand on Peter’s arm.

  “One second, Pete. Kevin’s waiting for you in his office. Truman’s there too.”

  “You mind taking your hand off of me, Phil?” he says, louder than he wanted.

  A pair of associates—one male, one female—who were chatting by the communal printer fall quiet and retreat to their offices.

  Phil releases his grip, leans in.

  “Relax, Peter. I’m your friend here. Don’t lose your temper.”

  “Phil, it’s probably best that I eat something before this meeting. I haven’t eat
en all day and I get grouchy when I haven’t eaten.”

  He also needs a few minutes to figure out how to handle this. Kevin is Kevin McCoury, the head of litigation. Truman is Truman Peabody, the head of the firm. This can’t be good. His executioners await.

  “Okay, Peter. We’ll be waiting for you in Kevin’s office.”

  “Thanks.”

  Peter watches Phil walk off and turn the corner toward Kevin’s office. His heart is pounding. He wishes he could walk into Dominic’s office, close the door, and bend his ear. Like he used to. Dominic would know what to do, would know what cards to play.

  But Dominic is gone, almost a year into a retirement that he appears to be enjoying, contrary to the expectations of nearly all who know him. Golfing three days a week. Spent a month in Rome. Another two weeks in Montana, fly-fishing, of all the fucking things, with his son and son-in-law. Enjoying his grandkids. Peter hasn’t seen him since last summer. They haven’t spoken in months.

  He walks into Dom’s old office anyway. The air is still, a little fusty. An abandoned cardboard box sits forlornly on the floor, a crooked Redweld jutting above its lip. Otherwise, the office is barren. All of Dom’s personal effects have been removed. Spend fifty years at a place and a year after you leave, there’s no trace of you. Peter was supposed to slide over here months ago—into the coveted corner spot, into Dom’s spot—but that’s been put on hold, like everything else.

  How many times did he step in here for Dom’s advice over the years? A hundred? A thousand? On how to handle an impossible client? Whether to make a certain motion? Which arguments to highlight, which to abandon? How to deal with an aggressive SEC lawyer? Dom had seen it all, knew the chessboard and all its pieces. He knew which situations called for honey and which for vinegar. He had shepherded Peter through the tensest moments of his professional career.

  And how often did he end up imparting personal advice? About marriage. About raising kids with money without spoiling them. About the firm and the often poisonous personal politics that plagued it. Peter can hear Dom’s voice, the gravelly, reassuring susurrations of a man who’d spent his life counseling others.