Small Mercies: A Novel

by Eddie Joyce

  “Dad, I can’t afford it.”

  “You borrow from us.”

  “We can’t pay you back soon.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You pay back when you can.”

  Enzo looks at the house. He still has an immigrant’s eye for deals. Michael almost tells him about Gail right then, but superstition holds him back; it’s very early. He looks at his father and wonders: How did you land here, Enzo, of all places? Not Brooklyn or the Bronx. Not Little Italy or Bensonhurst or Pleasant Avenue. Here. It is one of many questions he will never ask his father.

  Enzo smiles. They hug.

  “Is good. Is good. Bellissimo.”

  They walk over to Tiny, who’s smiling as well. They all shake hands. On the way back to Brooklyn, Michael thanks his father, reminds him that repayment will be a long time coming.

  “Is okay. You work at shop.”

  Michael nods, the slightest stain spreading across his happiness. Enzo has never understood Michael’s fascination with being a firefighter. But he has never said what he thinks: Why risk your life for strangers? He will wait for Michael, will hold on to the shop. He still thinks he can cajole his son back into the fold. Michael knows better. He will work at the shop, he will do what needs to be done. And then he will walk away because that is not the life he wants. He sees the smile on Enzo’s face and smiles in return. He knows what his father is thinking, knows his father is wrong.

  Enzo drops Michael outside the Tankard, a restaurant where Gail waits tables a few nights a week. He walks in, says hello to the regulars he recognizes. He is brimming with the confidence of a man whose future is certain. He orders a beer, places a ten on the bar. Gail walks over, still shaken by the unexpected news, still not herself.

  “You’re a happy camper.”

  “I am.”

  He takes a sip of beer. He may be only a man, but he is a good one, a good husband. He is a solver of problems, a finder of solutions.

  “We’re buying a house.”

  She turns her chin up and to the right. Her eyes narrow. She makes this little face whenever she’s not sure whether he’s serious. He clinks his bottle against the brass rail she’s leaning on. The happiness is flowing out of him. She can tell he’s serious.

  “On Staten Island,” he adds.

  “What?” she says, which is what she says when she doesn’t know what to say.

  “I found us a house.” His confidence is starting to slip.

  “What? What?” Louder this time, a few patrons turn their heads.

  “A house,” he says, embarrassed now and growing a bit angry. “On Staten Island.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

  * * *

  “Peggy and I are thinking about packing it in,” Tiny tells him, as they pull onto the West Shore Expressway. “Selling the house, moving to Florida.”

  “You shitting me?” Michael asks.

  “Thinking about it.”

  Until the last few years, life has been a little kinder to Tiny. Football got him to college, which got him a job in a bank, first on Staten Island and then in Manhattan. He married Peggy Dunn and they had two kids, both girls. Tiny wasn’t rich, not exactly, but money wasn’t ever a real concern. The family vacations were a bit nicer. His daughters, Maggie and Maria, went to the best colleges they got in to, regardless of price. All the while and in spite of the differing financial circumstances, he and Michael had remained friends. No easy thing, Michael has come to realize, having seen too many friendships ruined by money, or the lack of it, by one party or the other.

  But a few years back, Tiny put the bulk of his savings under his son-in-law Albert’s control. When the market crashed, Albert panicked, did something stupid, did something else stupid to try to cover up his first stupidity, developed a substance abuse problem, and maybe banged one of his employees. Long story short: there was an indictment and a divorce and Maria is presently living with Tiny and Peggy, sleeping eighteen hours a day. Albert is wearing an ankle bracelet and awaiting sentencing and Tiny is worth a lot less than he used to be. His house is probably his largest asset; real estate prices on the Island are up a thousand percent, easy, over the past thirty-five years. Michael figures he could get half a mil for their shack. Maybe more.

  But Gail will never leave.

  He had to drag her to this Island and now, he’d have to drag her off. He would leave if she would let him. This is not the place he grew up, not even the place his kids grew up. He and Gail live in the shadow of tragedy, in the overcrowded, overdeveloped ruins of a once spacious paradise, surrounded by morons who act like they’re constantly auditioning for a reality television program that prizes stupidity, classlessness, and thuggish bravado. He would have left years ago if not for Gail.

  He raised the idea a few years back, brought it up casually, on a quiet Sunday afternoon, just the two of them sitting at the kitchen table. Like the idea had just occurred to him. He’d heard about a retirement community in North Carolina. Not one of the old-fogy Florida types they parodied on Seinfeld, but an active, vibrant community. A place that catered to Northeast retirees. With what they’d get for their house, they could afford a huge house right off a golf course and still pocket a hundred grand, easy. He knew two guys—ex-FDNY, from Queens—who’d moved down there and were loving it. The weather was great, the people were nice. Even the pizza was tolerable. Gail stopped licking envelopes and stared at him, trying to see if he was serious.

  “What about the bagels?”

  “We can have them FedExed.”

  “What about the Leaf?”

  “I’m sure there are other Leafs.”

  She laughed and he grinned. He was thinking it was going well, maybe she was even considering it, and then the questions turned serious.

  “What about Franky?”

  What about Franky? he wanted to say. Franky was a grown man, beyond their control. If he was going to get his act together, he was going to get his act together. Not them. But he’d lost this argument enough times. He tried a different approach.

  “He can come with us. They need nitwits in North Carolina.”

  “Michael, be serious.”

  “I am being serious. He can come with us. There are jobs down there. Would probably do him good to be out of the city.”

  The truth was that Franky would find trouble no matter where he was. But if he was going to be Michael’s headache one way or the other, better he be his headache in a place where Michael could roll out of bed onto a golf course.

  Gail stretched her arms and looked out the window, like she was contemplating the idea of leaving. Michael put the brochure on the table and was about to slide it across the table when he felt Gail’s eyes on him. He looked across at her.

  “What about Bobby?”

  She hadn’t been considering anything. She’d merely been waiting to drop the hammer. He stammered out a few half words, more noise than language. Finally, he cleared his throat and looked across at her, and said, as calmly and softly as possible:

  “He’s dead.”

  She looked at him, incredulous, for a few seconds and then her hand smacked down on the table.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Thanks for reminding me, Michael. I’d nearly fucking forgotten.”

  She stood and walked away. A few days later, he threw the brochure in a garbage cylinder outside a deli he never frequented, like a teenager trying to dispose of a pregnancy test.

  * * *

  The car slows in a thicket of traffic after they merge onto the Staten Island Expressway.

  “You okay, Mikey?” Tiny asks.

  “Yeah, fine. I’m a little distracted. Tina met someone.”

  “Nice guy?”

  “Don’t know. Haven’t met him yet.”

  “Oh.”

  “His name is Wade. He’s coming to the house on Sunday.”<
br />
  “Wade?”

  “Wade.”

  Tiny’s face furrows in uncertainty, like he can’t figure what that means, but he’s pretty sure it’s not good.

  “I saw her a few weeks ago. She came over to try to get Maria out of the house. She looked great,” he says, a hint of salaciousness creeping into his voice.

  “You’re a dirty old man.”

  “I can’t notice? I can’t look?”

  “That’s my daughter in-law, you sick son of a bitch.”

  Tiny laughs.

  “She’s not my daughter in-law. Hey, Mikey, you stop noticing, you die. Nothing wrong with looking.”

  Only Tiny does more than look, or, at least, he used to. Michael saw him with another woman once, years ago, back when he and Tiny were both young men. He was in the city, at some retirement booze-up, bouncing around from place to place. He and a few FDNY guys were walking along Second Avenue, between places, and Michael spotted Tiny inside a restaurant, sitting and smiling. By himself, Michael thought. He was wearing a jacket and tie, looked like hot shit. He told the other guys he’d catch up. He never saw Tiny in the city; it gave him a little thrill to see his friend in a different element. Michael walked into the restaurant with vague ideas about playing a joke or making a scene, but the hushed closeness of the place made him realize he was halfway drunk. He mumbled something to the maître d’ and took a few steps toward Tiny’s table.

  Then he saw her: young, pretty, definitely not Peggy. It could have been a business meeting, but Michael knew it wasn’t. Tiny was pouring wine with his left hand and his right hand was on the woman’s bare back. His face was flush and he was in full Casanova mode. Michael stopped and turned around. He walked out of the restaurant and hustled after the other guys. He thought that maybe Tiny had spotted him but wasn’t sure. Tiny never brought it up, in any event, and Michael never told anyone, not even Gail. Thinking about it later, Michael concluded that this was not an isolated event; Tiny looked too comfortable, the whole scene almost seemed rehearsed.

  Michael looks over at Tiny as he guides the car onto the ramp for Clove Road. He’s never felt envy toward Tiny, never begrudged him his successes. They’ve known each other for more than fifty years. With a few exceptions—Michael in the army, Tiny away at school—they’ve probably seen each other almost every week during that time. He’s as close to a brother as Michael has ever had.

  And there was only one person whose judgment Michael trusted more.

  * * *

  He finds Gus on the back porch, smoking a cigar he isn’t supposed to be smoking. Gus is staring across the bay at the base of Manhattan, where the tips of the Twin Towers are shrouded in fog. A few weeks ago, some Arabs detonated a bomb in the North Tower, killing six people. But it could have been a lot worse.

  “I guess they thought they were gonna bring them down.”

  Gus jumps, startled by Michael’s voice.

  “You scared me. Thought you were Nancy.”

  He looks back across at the towers.

  “Guess so. I don’t know, Mikey, this world, I don’t understand it anymore.”

  “That why you’re so intent on leaving it?”

  Michael points to the cigar. Gus is much thinner than he used to be, thinner even than the last time Michael saw him.

  “I’m eighty years old, you dumb ginny bastard. Let me enjoy myself. Make yourself useful, anyway, and fetch me a blanket.”

  Michael goes inside, grabs an afghan, lays it on his mentor’s lap. He sits down next to him, takes in the view, always breathtaking. Two ferries pass in the harbor.

  “I was on my way to drop off some entries at Cody’s, figured I’d drop by and see if you croaked yet.”

  Gus laughs. After a few seconds, his laughter stumbles into a coughing fit.

  “Don’t make me laugh, you bastard.” He stubs the cigar out in an ashtray on the table between them. “How’s it looking?”

  “They’re saying two hundred grand, maybe more.”

  He reaches under his blanket, pulls out an envelope, hands it to Michael.

  “Just one sheet. With my luck, I’ll finally win this year but be too dead to collect.”

  Michael laughs. Gus reaches over and grabs his arm.

  “Mikey, if anything ever happened and I did win, you’d make sure that Nancy, you know—”

  “Marone, Gussy. Of course. You’re not gonna die,” he says, patting his mentor’s hand. “And you’re definitely not gonna win.”

  “You little prick.”

  “Learned from the best.”

  Gus leans over.

  “Listen, Mikey, there’s a bottle of scotch in the kitchen, in the pantry, behind the cereal boxes. Go get it, bring back two glasses. I hear we have something to celebrate.”

  Michael retrieves the bottle, trying to ignore the decrepit state of the house. Dirty dishes are piled on the counters. Cabinet doors dangle off their hinges. There’s a hole near the sink and not a small one. The house was always a wreck, but now it’s dangerous. Feels like it might fall down at any moment. When he gets outside, he pours them each a finger of whiskey. Gus shakes his glass in irritation.

  “Don’t be such a miser.”

  Michael pours him another finger. They clink glasses.

  “Congrats, Mikey.”

  “Twenty-five years.”

  “You did the most important thing, kid. Came home at the end of every shift. That’s the trick.”

  “Went fast.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  They take sips, look out over the city. The whiskey tingles Michael’s tongue, sends warm emissaries to his extremities.

  “City’s changed, mostly for the better,” Michael says. He looks over, sees Gus pulling the blanket up over his chest. He can still remember the night he met the legendary Gus Feeney. Now, the legend needs a blanket to stay warm, has to sneak cigars when his old lady is out.

  “Everywhere but here. That goddamn bridge.”

  The population on the Island has risen steadily since the bridge was finished. There’s construction everywhere; it’s like some of the builders have personal vendettas against trees. The Island is starting to lose its small-town feel.

  “You were right, Gussy.”

  Gus takes a long pull on his glass, closes his eyes.

  “So, Mikey, what are you gonna do now?”

  “Play some golf, relax, enjoy myself.”

  “Seriously, what are you gonna do?”

  “I am serious.”

  “You’re a young man, Mikey. You need to find something else to do. Otherwise, this”— Gus raises his glass—“is what you’ll do.”

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  “You want me to make some calls, set you up someplace in the city, a cushy consulting gig, advising companies how to respond to fires, something like that?”

  “I’m done commuting to the city.”

  Gus takes a long pull, motions for Michael to refill his glass.

  “Your father still have that shop?”

  Michael can see his father holding an apron, triumphant at last. A quarter century, an entire career; these mean nothing. The shop is still waiting for him.

  “I’m sure I could get a few shifts at the Leaf if I wanted.”

  “You’re gonna bartend?”

  “Maybe, I don’t know, Gus. I’ll figure it out.”

  “The shop, would he give it to you? Or sell it on the cheap?”

  “Of course. He’s been waiting thirty years to give me that fucking shop. I’m not gonna be a butcher, Gus. That ship has sailed.”

  Gus reaches over and pokes him in the shoulder. Hard. Michael turns. There’s something close to anger in Gus’s eyes.

  “Hey, jackass, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  * * *

&n
bsp; Tiny waits in the car while Michael goes to fetch Franky. He lives on the second floor of an old Victorian in Westerleigh, above an elderly widower whose lack of hearing and genial nature are the only things that have prevented his eviction. Michael goes up the back staircase, knocks on the door. Franky answers, holding a beer in one hand and a few entry sheets in the other.

  “Daddy-o,” he says, giving Michael a hug. He smells sour, overripe. Not from the beer this morning, but from too much generally. He’s half pickled; he doesn’t look well.

  “A little early, no?” Michael asks.

  “It’s almost three. And, what, you didn’t have a few pops at the Leaf already?”

  “Fair enough. You ready?”

  “Give me two minutes. C’mon in. The games are in full swing. You want one?”

  “No, I’m all set.”

  They walk into the living room, which is less of a wreck than the last time Michael was here, nine months ago, looking for drugs. Franky has his sheets lined up in rows on a coffee table; envelopes of money lay scattered about. The television is on, the volume is low. Butler, an 8 seed, is playing Old Dominion, a 9 seed. Ten minutes left in the second half. A nail-biter. Michael reaches into his jacket, pulls out his sheet.

  “So, Franky, I’m only putting in one entry sheet this year.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m doing it the way we used to do it. I pick a team, Peter picks a team, you pick a team. I asked Tina to pick for Bobby. I’ll call your Mom later and ask her to pick the winner.”

  “Nice. Old school.”

  “So it’s down to you.”

  “What region?”

  “Southeast.”

  “Okay, let’s see. Who did everyone else pick?”

  “Not gonna tell you.”

  “I like it. Nice.”

  He picks up a sheet, starts perusing the teams, talking to himself out loud.

  “You and Petey definitely went chalk. Always have. I have no clue what Tina did, but Maria Terrio went to Notre Dame, so she probably picked them, in which case we’re all screwed anyway. But you gotta have faith, right? Okay. Pitt? No. Florida? Maybe. BYU? No fucking chance. Wisco? Maybe.”