Small Mercies: A Novel

by Eddie Joyce

  One night, a little before Labor Day, she came home from Diana’s and Michael was outside on the back patio, grilling a sausage wheel and some peppers for dinner. He turned and smiled when she stepped outside.

  “Hey, here you are,” she said.

  “Hey, here I am.” He rotated a green bell pepper with tongs. “Long legs is home too. We can all have dinner together.”

  “Great, I’ll open some wine,” she said, before stepping back inside, her mood a bit lighter. “Been a while.”

  It was nothing. A late summer barbecue, sitting at the kitchen table while the light outside refused to die. Sausage and pepper sandwiches on fresh bread. Bobby had taken a shower, smelled like soap for once instead of sweat. Michael was his old self again, laughing and smiling, touching her bare leg under the table whenever Bobby said something goofy. The closed intimacy of family sharing a simple meal.

  She’d worried for no reason. Michael had been in a funk, that was all. Gail sat there, floating from the wine and the return to normalcy. This is what she’d imagined the whole summer would be like. She took a sip of wine, looked absently out the window as a car braked in the street to let a neighborhood kid retrieve a Wiffle ball. By the time she turned back to the table, it had already started to fall apart.

  “Coach Whelan,” Bobby was saying, “says that I’m gonna be the starting center this year. Probably team captain.”

  The words came out in a panicky rush. His eyes searched for Gail’s, looking for support. She watched Michael, whose face betrayed nothing. But she knew it was bad.

  “But if I play football, I have to sit out the first five games, including the Thanksgiving eve game, and I can’t be captain.”

  Bobby looked at his father, awaiting a reaction. Gail swallowed.

  “So, no football,” said Michael. “That’s what you’re saying.”

  Bobby’s eyes shifted to meet hers.

  “Well, I guess, umm, I can’t be captain if . . .”

  “Even though you made a commitment, even though your teammates are relying on you. That doesn’t matter to you.”

  Bobby reached for a glass of water, took a long sip.

  “I don’t look at it that way, Dad. I’m the backup tight end. I barely play. I’m gonna start on the basketball team this year.”

  Michael wasn’t listening, was staring at the window.

  “You’d rather run around in your underwear playing a nigger’s game.”

  “Michael!”

  He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up.

  “Michael, sit down, please,” she said. She glanced over at Bobby, who was fighting back tears and choking down anger at the same time.

  “Why? He’s already made up his mind,” he said, waving a dismissive hand in Bobby’s direction. He walked out of the kitchen, out of the house. She turned back to Bobby, who was crying openly, on the verge of sobbing.

  “Bobby, he didn’t mean that. He’s upset that you’re not playing football, that’s all. You should have told him earlier.”

  “When?” Bobby asked, his head tilted sarcastically, a tick picked up from his father. He stood, embarrassed that he couldn’t stop crying.

  “Bobby, sit down. Let’s finish eating.”

  She reached a hand across the table, but he stormed off and a minute later, she heard the familiar boom of the Wu-Tang Clan coming from his room.

  “Fucking dandy,” she said, to the empty table. She finished her glass of Chianti in one swallow.

  * * *

  Weeks passed. The older boys came home for Labor Day, sensed the tension in the house, and quickly departed: Peter back to college, Franky back to the job, college on hold for another six months. Gail went back to work. Bobby went back to school. Michael went back to his routine of sleeping in, disappearing for hours at a time, and spending every night at the Leaf, in the company of hiccuping half friends. He went away for Columbus Day weekend, a golf trip down to Myrtle Beach with a few of the boys from the Leaf.

  She spent the weekend pacing the house, rehearsing her remarks, preparing her arguments. She jotted down a few points on a piece of yellow paper, kept it in her pocket for easy reference. A summer of silence followed by a month and a half of bitterness? She’d had enough. He’d had his fun; it was time for things to get back to normal. As the weekend limped along, she replayed the events of the past few months and a sense of dread seeped into her. Their fight had distracted her, masked an absence that was conspicuous in retrospect: Enzo. She hadn’t seen him all summer, wasn’t sure Michael had either. Was there a dispute about the price? Had Enzo decided he wanted to hold on a little longer? She didn’t know what was wrong, but now she was certain it had to do with his father.

  She came home from school the Tuesday after Columbus Day and Michael was waiting for her in the kitchen, his golf clubs propped up in front of the refrigerator. His face was red from sun and booze. He sat with his back straight, like he was expecting a confrontation. She sat across from him.

  “How was the trip?” she tested.

  “Fine. Few laughs.”

  “Good. Glad.”

  She felt like she was sitting in her kitchen with a total stranger.

  “We need to talk,” she said.

  “Agreed.”

  She reached into her purse and pulled out the folded piece of yellow paper. Her list of points had spilled onto the other side of the paper.

  “Before you start, Gail, I need to tell you something.”

  She’d convinced herself there wasn’t another woman but was suddenly unsure. He spoke with the tentative air of a husband who’d lapsed.

  “What is it?”

  He eased the brim of his baseball cap back on his head, scratched the place where his hairline began.

  “Danny offered me a couple of nights behind the stick at the Leaf. Tuesdays and Fridays. Every other Sunday afternoon.”

  “Okay,” she said, relieved but confused.

  “I’m gonna take them.”

  She stared at him and he averted his eyes. Whatever it was, he hadn’t told her yet. Or maybe she hadn’t heard it. Tuesdays and Fridays?

  “Bobby’s basketball games are gonna be on Tuesdays and Fridays,” she said.

  “Really?” he asked, as though he hadn’t attended every one of them last year. “I forgot.” He took his hat off and scratched the top of his head. “Well, I can ask Tommy to switch me from Tuesdays, but I’d hate to give up Fridays. Busiest night of the week.”

  “If anyone would know, it’d be you,” she said, unable to resist the shot. She was irritated—Bobby would be upset, though he wouldn’t admit it—but it was better than another woman. She looked down at her list. From the miasma of scribbled, angry words, Enzo’s name flashed up at her. She looked back at Michael.

  “Wait, are you gonna keep these shifts when you take over the shop?”

  She didn’t understand until the words were out of her mouth. He looked down at the table, ran his right hand in circles over its surface. He wouldn’t return her gaze.

  “Michael, what are you telling me?”

  “I think you know exactly what I’m telling you.”

  He looked at her, mind made up, no discussion necessary.

  “I don’t understand this. I don’t understand this. Why?”

  He shrugged his shoulders, as though she were asking why he preferred vanilla ice cream to chocolate.

  “I don’t want to be a butcher. Don’t want to smell like blood all the time.”

  “You want to be a bartender, instead? Spend your time with drunks and winos? Smell like the inside of an ashtray all the time?”

  Her tone was manic. He shrugged again.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Gail.”

  “Michael, this is insane. This makes no sense.”

  He stood, yawned.
<
br />   “Your father will be heartbroken.”

  “Well, sons don’t always do what their fathers want them to. Such is life.”

  The line sounded prepared, like he’d been waiting weeks to drop it. She wanted to slap him. Slap his face until his cheeks bled.

  “You’re not talking about Bobby? Tell me this is not about Bobby not playing football?”

  He looked at her. His face was the picture of calm.

  “No, Gail, no. It’s about me not wanting to be a butcher. That’s it.”

  He yawned again, stretched his arms.

  “I’m bushed. I’m gonna take a nap.”

  She looked down at the floor, filled with a sudden, seething hate for him.

  “You are such a fucking asshole. Such a fucking asshole.”

  He walked away without responding. She heard his feet on the stairs. She noticed his golf bag. She stood and kicked it as hard as she could, sent it skittering across the linoleum. Not satisfied, she lifted it up and turned it over and the clubs dropped out, one after another, producing loud clangs as they fell to the floor. When the noise died, the word divorce was in her head, in a way it never had been before.

  * * *

  Gail laughs at the memory. Her eyes drift to the spot on the floor where she spilled all his golf clubs.

  We knew nothing, she thinks. We were young and dumb and we knew nothing.

  She’s hungry. She had a buttered roll for breakfast and nothing for lunch. And daydreaming about food hasn’t helped. She puts on a jacket and walks out to the car. She knows exactly what she wants: chicken cutlet hero with the fresh muzzarell and red peppers, oil and vinegar. She usually shops at the Enzo’s in Eltingville—it’s closer, has a better selection because it’s bigger—but when she needs a sandwich, she goes to the original.

  The chimes above the door startle to life when Gail walks in. The display counter—antipasti, trays of prepared dishes, a selection of cuts of meats—is on the right. Opposite the display counter are shelves that hold boxes of pasta, jars of tomatoes, loaves of fresh bread. The smell is heavenly. She looks at the wall above the counter and spots the black-and-white picture of Enzo—Maria’s Enzo—standing outside the shop when it first opened. If you look closely at the picture, you can see a glimpse of Maria in the shop window, staring out at the photographer. Gail knows. On a handful of occasions, she has asked Enzo—the new Enzo—to take the picture down so she can inspect it more closely. The only other customer is an old lady who is pointing out the precise stuffed peppers she wants to an impatient teenager behind the counter. He picks up a pepper with tongs and turns it so the woman can inspect it through the glass. The lady peers at it for a few seconds before nodding her head yes. He lets the oil drip off the pepper and places it in a plastic container, joining a single companion.

  The new Enzo strides out from the butcher’s station in the back, an easy grin on his granite face. His head is a failed experiment in human geometry: the crooked nose, the forehead with three sides, the lantern jaw that juts out farther on one side of his face. He wears his hair in a tidy flattop that only accentuates the misshapenness of his other features. His eyes are little black stones pasted on a quarry wall.

  “Gail,” he booms, before coming around the counter, his arms open. He’s startled the old lady, who turns to him in shock. The teenager slips two peppers into the container while the old lady is distracted. Enzo stops and puts his hand gently on her shoulder.

  “You’ve scared me, Enzo.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Avello. I’m sorry. I was excited to see my friend. Paul, the peppers are on the house and give Mrs. Avello a package of fresh mozzarella for her husband.”

  “Thank you, Enzo.”

  He glides past her toward Gail, a silent giggle on his face. He hugs Gail. He smells like the old Enzo. God, the things she misses.

  “What’s going on, Gail?”

  “Nothing at all. How’s by you?”

  “Menzamenz. What can I get you? Usual?”

  “I’m a predictable woman, Enzo.”

  He laughs, slides back behind the counter. The old woman shuffles away.

  “Take a break, Paul. I’ll take care of Mrs. Amendola.”

  Over the years, Gail has noticed that she is Gail when he is on one side of the counter, Mrs. Amendola when he is on the other. She’s always liked Enzo, long before he bought the store that Michael didn’t want. She still likes him, even though he turned one store into four, made a small fortune on the other Enzo’s reputation. He’s shrewd and ambitious. Can’t fault him for that.

  And respectful. Keeps the picture of Enzo on the wall, has never renovated or updated the original store. Gives her money every year for Bobby’s scholarship.

  “How’s Michael?” he asks, his back turned.

  “Good. Bummed about the pool.”

  “I know. It’s crazy. Customers have been complaining all day. What a shame.”

  “How’s Michelle doing? Hear back from colleges yet?”

  He turns, eyes wide, proud father.

  “Son of a gun, I forgot to tell you. Got into Cornell. Ain’t that a thing. My daughter in the Ivy League. Like Peter.”

  “That’s great. Congratulations.”

  “Hey, if she turns out halfway like Peter, you know? Hey, we’re happy. She’s happy, right? All that matters.”

  “I’ll give you Peter’s number. She should call him. He’ll give her the lay of the land. He loved Cornell.”

  “Would you? That would be great.”

  He wraps the hero in white paper, puts it in a brown bag, stuffs some napkins inside, hands it over the counter. She reaches for her purse. He waves her away. She hasn’t paid for a sandwich in years.

  “Your money’s no good here.”

  “How you gonna pay for Cornell if you keep giving away sandwiches?”

  He points a finger to the picture above him.

  “Hey, you know. I owe. Your father-in-law. May he rest. I owe.”

  The chime on the door rings again. Enzo’s eyes drift to the door, to new customers.

  “Thanks, Enzo.”

  “Take care, Mrs. A. Give my best to Michael.”

  * * *

  She sits in the car, in the parking lot, and opens the wrapper. She takes half the hero out and takes a bite. She does this sometimes, eats a sandwich in the car. She’s not sure why. Tina teases her, says she has a crush on Enzo, that she’s waiting for Enzo in the parking lot like a teenager.

  She’s not one for crushes, not one of these women who pretend to pine for the good-looking cop or fireman (or butcher) in the house down the street. No, she’s not one for crushes. Not anymore.

  She pulls a pepper out of the sandwich, eats it.

  She hasn’t thought about him in years.

  Danny McGinty. He was easy on the eyes, no doubt about that; a tall, dark Irish charmer with salt-and-pepper hair and the sturdy build of an ex-athlete whose vanity wouldn’t let him go entirely to seed. Always a nice smell—cream and wood—hanging from him. Some of the other mothers feigned weakness in the knees when he passed. He made a lot of money and his wife was a high-holy bitch; that was the gossip.

  Gail had never paid him much mind, just the odd hello or good-bye or nice game or how were your holidays? If anything, she found him a little off-putting; he seemed pretty pleased with himself. If she wasn’t so angry at Michael, nothing would have happened, no matter how good-looking or charming Danny was. She was furious, though. Her anger was palpable and Danny must have sensed it. Some men have that sense. They can sense discord or wanderlust or boredom or anger. Danny had that sense. She thought it was something special, a real connection between them.

  An empty space beside her, filled in by fate. She thought that Danny had been sent to her, that his appearance at that specific moment in time—when things between her and Michael were
so bad—was a sign of some sort.

  She couldn’t conceive that it was calculated.

  * * *

  The same six parents sat together at every game: Paul and Dana Baddio, John and Mary Keegan, Gail, and Danny. Bobby was the starting center (and, as Coach Whelan had promised, the team captain). Vinny Baddio was the starting point guard, Pat Keegan the starting shooting guard. Danny’s son, Kevin, never played. Their sons were the only seniors on the team, except for Terry Kovak, whose father was doing a two-year bit in the federal pen for commercial bribery and whose mother was trying to hold down the fort in his absence.

  Gail could have sat alone or with Nancy Duggan, who she knew from church and whose son Matt was the only sophomore on the squad, but she didn’t. Nancy Duggan was tough to take, always going on and on about Matt getting a basketball scholarship, like the kid was gonna end up in the NBA. Matt was a very good player—sophomores rarely made the varsity—but this was Staten Island, not Brooklyn or the Bronx, and Nancy Duggan needed to get a fucking grip. And as for sitting alone, well, she didn’t feel like sitting alone. So she sat with the Baddios and the Keegans and Danny. And she and Danny sat next to each other because neither of their spouses attended the games. Simple as that.

  Danny knew the game, knew it well. Had played college ball at Fordham, according to John Keegan. Was some helluva player, back in the day. When Gail watched him striding across the gym or taking the bleachers two at a time with his long legs, she could see it, see the young Danny, lithe and lean, leaping in his short shorts. He came to the games straight from his job, something on Wall Street, the only man in the gym in a suit. His breath was always fresh, smelled like peppermint. He chewed gum incessantly, offered a stick to Gail at the start of each game, but she was too nervous to do anything but bite her fingernails and watch the action, uncertain exactly what she should be watching.

  The team wasn’t supposed to be any good. A rebuilding year, if such a thing existed in high school. Last year’s team had been one of the best on the Island, laden with seniors and blessed with some size. This year’s team was green: mostly juniors new to varsity ball, a handful of inexperienced seniors, and the precocious sophomore, Matt Duggan. Worse still, they had almost no size at all. At six four, Bobby was the team’s only legitimate big man, the only player capable of mixing it up with the big boys from the North Shore. He played the whole game, never seemed to leave the court. She knew that he’d improved, but his role on the team was a bit mystifying. He rarely touched the ball on offense, spent most of the game under the baskets, jockeying for position so he could corral the ball and then swiftly give it to a teammate.