Small Mercies: A Novel

by Eddie Joyce

  He knows his mother; Gail Amendola is a woman very familiar with the effects of alcohol on the men in her life. He’s had enough to drink that she’ll notice, even over the phone. He can’t talk to her now, in his condition, though when he’s in this condition is the one time when he can nearly articulate his loneliness, the one time when he feels reckless enough to reveal the scar on his soul, to let her know what a mess he is.

  He closes the phone, turns back to walk inside.

  What could she say anyway? What could she possibly say that she hasn’t already said?

  * * *

  In his absence, Kielty has asked for the check. His wife needs the car and they need to run some errands, he explains to Franky sheepishly, expecting a tongue-lashing. Franky yawns, feels the fatigue of three days closing in on him. This is one of those times, when all the signals are aligned together, indicating that the sensible thing to do would be to simply go home and go to sleep.

  He’s exhausted. His ride is ready to go. He’s had enough but not too much. The melancholy is coming on. It’s still early. He could even nap, maybe go out later if the mood struck. Even his thirsty side can’t argue with that logic.

  “Okay,” he says, in a rare surrender to common sense. “Okay, Special K, let’s go home.”

  He checks the damage, throws down a few twenties. When he stands, his legs feel heavy, soaked through with some coagulant. He follows Kielty to the door. He’s about to walk out when he feels a tap on his shoulder.

  He turns to find their waitress holding the plastic bag from Foot Locker.

  “You forgot something,” she says with a busted smile.

  “Thanks,” says Franky, taking the bag back into his hands.

  “You guys leaving already?”

  “Yeah, Kielty here has to get home to the wife.”

  “What about you? You need to get home to the wife?”

  He looks down at her. She’s short, barely comes up to his chest.

  “Not me. I’m footloose and fancy-free.”

  “I get off in a couple hours. I was thinking maybe you’d buy me a drink.”

  “A couple hours?”

  “You could wait at the bar.”

  Franky glances over, spots the bartender pouring a gold-colored draft into a mug. It looks glorious under the yellow light. He looks back at the waitress. He still can’t decide whether she’s cute, but he would definitely fuck her.

  “I’m Denise,” she says, flicking a strand of dirty-blond curls behind her ear.

  A coltish breath fills his lungs. He can feel the day pulling him back: the prospect of some pussy, the allure of another half dozen drafts, the nirvana of not giving a fuck. What’s waiting for him at home anyway? A piss-soaked bed.

  “Franky, I need to go,” Kielty pleads.

  “Vaya con Dios, Special K. I’m gonna stay for a while. Thanks for the ride.”

  He gives Kielty a hearty slap on the back. Denise spins away, still smiling. Franky walks back to the bar, his whole being reinvigorated by a powerful second wind.

  * * *

  The afternoon takes on a sheen. Beers slide down Franky’s throat, each one easing the passage of its followers. Minutes compress, then slip away en masse. A few expand, he counts one silently while inspecting a coaster with a fascination usually reserved for rare archaeological artifacts.

  The bartender, Harold, is a surly prick, which would be fine if this were some old-school joint, but it’s not. It’s a fucking Applebee’s so Harold should be happy beyond measure. But then again, hey, it’s an Applebee’s, so Franky feels for the guy. He’s not so bad after all. He buys Franky a round. Long time coming, but still. Harold’s all right by Franky.

  Denise flits by from time to time, checking in on him. He’s starting to slur, just a little, but he’s fine. He sticks to beer, his buzz settles into a steady, floating euphoria. He bums a few more cigarettes from Denise, smokes them outside. He calls the bookie service. His balance is under two hundred. He lays seven hundred—doesn’t think about the amount, just says it—on UCLA minus three and a half. Isn’t even sure who they’re playing. He walks back in, realizes the daylight is dying.

  He navigates his way back to the bar. The place emptied out in the late afternoon but is filling back up for the dinner rush. He tries to make small talk with some guy at the bar, but the guy is a fucking loser. The ends of his fingers start to go numb. He thinks that maybe the people around him are staring at him, but he isn’t sure. He pushes his empty mug across the bar at Harold. The beer is getting him nowhere fast.

  “A wee one, Harold,” he says when Harold puts his refilled mug down. “Mr. John Jameson.”

  Harold pours him a stiff one in a rocks glass, a double gulper. The whiskey clutches his chest and lands hard in his stomach. He swallows twice, tastes vomit climbing up the back of his throat. The urge to puke passes, stifled by will alone. He swallows again, feels better. He takes a sip of beer and when he turns, Denise plops on the stool next to him, her shift finally finished.

  She doesn’t want to drink where she works, so Franky leaves a ten on the bar for Harold and they leave. It’s dark outside, a nearly full moon is slung low in the sky. Franky follows Denise to her car, a little unsteady in the dimmed light. When he gets in the passenger seat, Franky realizes he’s well beyond buzzed. He’s drunk, dancing near the cliff of a blackout. His thoughts are fuzzy and flickering and he cannot hold them. He doesn’t want to speak, can’t speak. His tongue is thick with drink. Denise looks over at him, incipient disappointment creasing the corners of her mouth.

  What did she expect? She saw how he was drinking.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he replies with a roll of his neck.

  “Little buzzed?”

  “A little.”

  His voice doesn’t sound right, it sounds like its coming from the back of his head, not his mouth. He cracks the window.

  “Just need some fresh air.”

  She smiles and he can see, even in his state, hope trying to fight off doubt. She’s lonely, he can tell. Who else would invest a Saturday night in his drunken ass? Now he feels bad about what hasn’t even happened yet, about ruining this unlucky soul’s night. He makes a silent vow to make Denise—lovely, kind Denise—happy in some small way.

  “I’m fine,” he says again. “Let’s hit it. The night is young.”

  She starts the car.

  “Where to?”

  “You pick.”

  He can rally, he’s roused himself from a stupor before. He needs to catch his breath. Maybe they’re going someplace far. The drive will do him good. The car smells nice. Denise’s bed probably smells nice too. Soft pillows. He winks at Denise and his eyelid fights to stay lowered. He chuckles.

  “What is that anyway?”

  “What?”

  “The bag.”

  Franky looks down at the plastic bag in his lap, unsure what it holds. He opens it and sees the Knicks jersey.

  “A gift for my nephew. My godson. It’s his birthday.”

  She purrs in response and this irritates him.

  “How old is he?”

  “Nine. He’s gonna be nine.”

  Suddenly, the car feels too small and he knows there will be no rally. He’s had too much, the damage is done. He’s stumbling closer to the edge, sending pebbles into the darkness. He shouldn’t have done that shot. Inkiness seeps into his head, obscuring things, hiding patches of time. The needle skips.

  * * *

  They’re at a bar, sitting at a table. He doesn’t recognize the place, doesn’t remember getting here. Is he crying? He is. And Denise is staring across at him, pitying and horrified. He lurches to his feet, nearly stumbles. The room spins, a kaleidoscope of faces, contorted and twisted.

  He is in the bathroom staring at the floor, trying to steady the world. The
latticework between the floor tiles is lifting off the ground, tiny ghost lines vibrating in the air. Someone is staring at him. He is on the floor, struggling to rise. The man reaches down to help him.

  “I’m fine,” he hears himself say.

  The sink and mirror. Water on the face. A hand on his back. A demonic smile in the mirror. His own.

  * * *

  In the backseat of a car. Where is Denise? Gone.

  “Bitch.”

  “What?”

  Franky follows the sound of the voice to the front seat. Someone is driving this car. A fat man wearing a Yankees hat. Listening to The Doors. Waiting at a red light.

  “Take me to Kelly’s.”

  “I think your night is done, buddy.”

  “Fuck you, fatso.”

  The car screeches to a halt. The driver moves well for a fat man. Some hand wrestling at the door. A kick or two. Laughing and heavy breathing. A blow to the head. Out. Onto the ground. Flesh of the face meeting gravel. Stinging pain, felt through the haze. The fat man throws a plastic bag at him. The car tears off.

  Up. To his feet.

  “FUCK YOU, FAT MAN.”

  A black boy on a bike, arms resting on handlebars.

  “Yo, fat man fucked you up.”

  He lurches but the boy glides off, effortlessly, laughing. He leans down for the bag, starts walking.

  * * *

  Walking, walking. Trees and darkness, a park. Face feels torn below the eye. Crying again. He has been wronged. So terribly wronged. He doesn’t remember the details, knows only that he has been wronged. An injustice committed. Someone will pay. Someone has to pay. Who?

  More walking. He watches his feet move below him. Left, right. Left, right.

  The fog is starting to lift. Everything is being recorded, albeit on grainy film by a negligent observer. He sees a street sign, knows where he is now.

  Forest Avenue. Kelly’s isn’t far.

  * * *

  He sits at a bar. The world has returned to him and he to it. He is beyond drunkenness, has reached a state of numbness so complete it resembles sobriety. He lifts his mug to his bloodied lips and the beer slides in.

  “Another one, Franky?” asks Pat. A friendly face in a storm. No judgment here.

  He nods, lifts a towel filled with ice to his torn cheek.

  He feels a fingernail jab his right triceps.

  “I knew your brotha.”

  “What?” he says, shifting the towel below his eye so he can see who’s talking to him. A woman with spiky blond hair in a butch cut, built like a softball player. Something alluring in the face, despite a stud in the nose. Not lacking for confidence. She was pretty once.

  “Your brotha, Bobby.” She jabs his triceps again, which bears a tattoo. ROBERT E. AMENDOLA. RIP. 9/11/01. NEVER FORGET.

  He shifts in his stool to face her. Her eyes float up to meet his. She’s almost as drunk as he is. A kindred spirit.

  “You knew Bobby?”

  “Yup.” She takes a sip of her vodka drink. She leans in. “I gave him a blow job in the back room of the Leaf.”

  Franky snorts.

  “Was that back when you liked boys?”

  She punches his shoulder.

  “Be nice, asshole.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Chrissy Nolan.”

  “Patty Nolan’s little sister?”

  “That’s right, muthafucker.”

  She gives him a sloppy high five.

  “Well, Patty Nolan’s sister, you’re a fucking liar. My brother never . . .”

  Before he can finish, she leans over and sticks her tongue in his mouth. The movement knocks the ice out of the towel and the pieces fall to the floor. He kisses her back, roughly. He can taste his own blood in his mouth, but she doesn’t seem to care. They make out, unabashed, for what seems like hours. The rest of the bar is watching them, but he doesn’t care. He needs this, needs someone to take care of him, to tend to his wounds.

  She licks the lobe of his ear, whispers into it.

  “Let’s go to my place.”

  “Let’s go,” he says.

  * * *

  Another car ride. Teeth and tongues. Giggling and groping. A stranger’s room. Soft light. An urgency, clothes removed. The exhilaration of unfamiliar flesh. Something sad and sordid drifting below the scene. The fleeting revelation of penetration, staggered thrusting. Over and done with.

  Sleep, that dogged hit man, finally catches his quarry, puts his man down.

  * * *

  He’s climbing behind Peter. Bobby is behind them, anxious. A narrow tunnel. He can see light from above filtering around Peter’s body. Bobby’s fingers touch his calf in the darkness. This has already happened. Not like this but almost.

  “Where are you guys? This isn’t funny. I’m scared.”

  Bobby’s finger taps his calf. Franky laughs, puts a finger to his lips. Crouching and hiding, shorts and scabby knees.

  “We can’t leave him, Franky. Mom’ll be pissed.”

  “Pussy.”

  “Where are you guys?”

  Tap on the calf. Lifting the leg, leaving him in the dark.

  “C’mon, guys.”

  On the bikes, Peter looking over his shoulder.

  “We should go back.”

  “Pussy.”

  An impulse, nothing more. Some devilish whim, succumbed to.

  “Where’s Bobby?”

  Eyes down.

  “Where’s your brother?”

  The sun not set, not yet, but going. He shrugs.

  “Peter, where’s your brother?”

  She knows who to ask.

  “We left him.”

  “WHAT? You did WHAT?”

  Her face crimson with rage. Clutching the keys, out the door. A slow turn of the head.

  “What if she doesn’t find him?”

  “Don’t be such a pussy.”

  Waiting, waiting. The sun below the horizon, the light dying. Waiting. The phone rings, startling the conspirators. Peter answers.

  “Hello?”

  “She’s not home right now.”

  “Good-bye.”

  Tears on his face. Waiting. The street is a dark rug, tiny strands of light weaving through it. Waiting. Nothing. Darker still. Nothing. The light is gone. Still no Bobby. No car lights flashing in the street.

  He kneels, an impromptu confessional, might buy him a reprieve.

  Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I left my brother Bobby at the beach.

  “Shut up, Franky. You’re drunk,” Peter says, softly, with a smile. He’s older, wearing a sweater, ready to carve the roast.

  “I know what you’re all thinking.” His voice, older, but the boy waits. “I know what you’re all thinking.”

  The words preordained, rehearsed, already spoken. The déjà vu of all dreams.

  “I mean it, Franky, leave. Now.”

  A car on the street turning into the driveway. Waiting.

  “Franky, stop it, please,” Tina says from the other room. “Please.”

  The sound of a car door slamming. One door.

  “It’s what you’ve all been thinking for years, since the day it happened.”

  The doorknob turning. He’s scared now, more frightened than he’s ever been. The door opens. His mother. Alone.

  “Where’s Bobby?”

  “I couldn’t find him.”

  “It should have been me, that’s what you’re all thinking. Say it.”

  Don’t say it.

  “Out, Franky. Get out of my house.”

  “You wish it was me. Not Bobby. Say it.”

  Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.

  “Where’s Bobby?”

  “I couldn’t find him.”


  “Say it, Tina, you can say it. You should say it.”

  His mother walks in, kneels down, holds his cheeks with her hands.

  “Say it, Mom. I know you want to. You wish it was me. You wish it had been me, instead of Bobby. Say it.”

  Don’t say it.

  His teeth crack in his mouth, drift into the air. Her voice is steady, an arrow in flight.

  “You’re right.”

  * * *

  Franky opens his eyes. He’s on the edge of a small bed, pushed there by Chrissy Nolan’s awkward bulk and selfish sleeping habits. His bloody cheek is stuck to the bedsheet; he pulls it away delicately but it still stings. He slides out of bed, in search of the bathroom. He stumbles in pain. He looks down, spots an ugly raspberry on his thigh; he must have landed on that as well.

  He inspects his face in the mirror. His left cheek is shredded, oozing yellow and puckered red. With his pinky, he pries a small black pebble out of it. His left eye is swollen nearly shut. How the hell is he gonna explain this? Fuck it, worry about it later.

  He takes a piss. His prick is tender. She was enthusiastic, he remembers that much. Maybe he should stay, try to sleep a little more, go another round with Chrissy in a few hours.

  Something she said last night is gnawing at him, about giving Bobby a blow job. No fucking way Bobby would have fooled around with that skank. No fucking way. He was only ever with Tina. If anyone would know whether Bobby got a BJ in the back room of the Leaf, it would be Franky. He has half a mind to stick around to make sure the bitch isn’t spreading false rumors.

  No, he should go. Get out while the getting’s good. He has little Bobby’s birthday party later.

  The present! Where the fuck is the present?

  He sneaks back into the bedroom. Nothing. He goes to the kitchen, naked and cold. On the counter next to the fridge sits the plastic bag holding Bobby’s present. Small mercies.

  He moves quietly back to the bedroom. Chrissy hasn’t moved an inch, is still snoring like a bear. He grabs his clothes from the floor. He dresses hastily, clumsily, in the kitchen; grabs the bag, shoves his feet into his sneakers, and leaves.

  He walks out into gray silence. He looks around, unsure where he is. All he knows for sure is that he’s still on the Island; they didn’t cross water last night. At the end of the street, a stoplight switches needlessly from green to yellow to red. He follows the sidewalk up to the intersection, rain finding its way to him through the barren branches of trees. When he reaches the corner, he can sense the sun slowly rising behind the clouds.