Small Mercies (21 page)

“Hey, Tina.”

“Hey, you sound tired. You okay?”

“Yes. Went into the city today to see Peter.”

“How is he?”

Not good. Pretty bad actually. Scared me a bit.
This is what she wants to say, what she would say normally. But already there’s a gulf.

“He’s fine. I went in to tell him about your new friend, but he already knew.”

It sounds snottier than Gail intended, but she doesn’t care. They could have told her. One of them could have told her and saved her a trip.

“Yeah, I’m sorry, Gail. I thought Peter would have told you, but I think there was a mix-up. I don’t think he even knew until this week. Wade told him on Monday.”

“I see.”

She’s not making this easy for Tina. She wants to, wants to handle this with a little grace, but she’s tired of taking the high road. When does she get to be petulant?

“Anyway,” says Tina, “I was actually calling to see how Franky took the news. I was a little worried he might not react well.”

Gail pushes a breath out through her mouth.

“I haven’t told him yet.”

A long pause.

“Okay, are you going to tell him before the party? Because I think it would be better if he didn’t find out at the party.”

“Jesus, Tina. I will tell him, okay? He will behave himself. I promise he’ll behave.”

A promise about someone else’s behavior. May as well promise happiness or a sunny day or a winning lotto ticket.

“No, Gail. I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just that Franky can be . . .” She doesn’t finish the thought. “And he and Bobby were so close.”

Gail hopes Tina learns what it is to love a child who is broken. Irreparably. She wants Tina to feel responsible for that, being the mother of a broken thing. And, just as swiftly, she prays to God that Tina never has to feel that, any of that. She has known enough heartbreak. And Gail hates herself for hoping to add to it.

She speaks softly.

“Tina, I understand what you’re saying. I know, believe me, I know. I will tell him. He will be here. And he will not embarrass you or me or any of us. Especially not Bobby Jr.”

Gail pauses.

“Because if he does, I will drag him out into the street and murder him myself.”

Tina laughs; the tension eases a little.

“I’m sorry for bringing it up at all. I just want everything to go well.”

“It will.”

“Okay, I feel better.”

“See you Sunday?”

“Sunday. Thank you, Gail.”

“You’re welcome.”

Michael has been waiting in the living room, jacket on, ready for the Leaf and the St. Patrick’s Day party. When Gail hangs up, he steps into the kitchen, scratching his head.

“Tell Bobby what? Murder who? What the hell is going on?” he asks, with a fair share of impatience. Gail smiles. Michael never wants to know what’s going on until the moment he does, and then he wants to know everything. So she tells him.

“Tina met someone. His name is Wade. A friend of Peter’s. He’s coming here on Sunday for Bobby Jr.’s birthday party. And Tina’s concerned about how Franky will react. I haven’t told him yet.”

Michael doesn’t say anything. The irritation on his face dissipates. He walks back to hug her. Don’t go to the Leaf, she wants to say. Or what she wants is for him not to go to the Leaf, without her having to ask.

Instead, he says, “Come to the Leaf with me?”

“Nah, I’m tired. I think there are some
Law and Order
reruns with my name on them.”

“Pick you up on the couch in a few hours?”

“It’s a date.”

He kisses her forehead and makes for the door. The door is almost closed, but he ducks his head back in.

“What the hell kind of name is Wade?”

Sometimes Michael knows exactly what to say.

She sits down on the couch and turns on the television. She hopes it isn’t one of the episodes where she’s not sure at the end whether the guy was guilty. She wants an episode where there’s no ambiguity about guilt or punishment. One that ends with a long sentence imposed. With justice served.

M
ichael Amendola still enjoys his sleep. It does not elude him as it does his friends. He listens to the complaints of his friends with a wry smile and stays silent. He can’t imagine a worse way to respond to a complaint than by confessing to its absence. Better to nod agreeably and fake commiseration.

The old men go on and on about how they’re up three, four times a night to take a leak, how they can’t fall back to sleep, about how they lie in bed and close their eyes and try to think about something pleasant, a blonde on a beach or a warm fire or a brunette on a beach, ha ha, because old men are always reminding someone that they’re still virile, but none of these things work and they end up waiting for the first hostile red digit of the alarm clock to add a line and transform from an outrageous five to a more agreeable six so they can stagger out of bed and begin their days.

Michael does not suffer in this way. He falls asleep with little trouble, especially if he’s had a few drinks. His bladder pulls him out of bed to the bathroom in the wee hours more than he’d like, but he drifts back to sleep without much effort. If he thinks about blondes or brunettes or beaches, it’s because he wants to, not because he has to. He wakes when he’s meant to and if neither the world nor his wife is calling him, he is not shy about rolling over and spending an extra half hour in the warm spot Gail has left on the other side of their bed.

It used to trouble him, his lethargy in this manner. He wasn’t lazy in other ways; the opposite in fact. It seemed like a defect of youth, one that he should shed. He imagined that he’d eventually become like his father, an industrious man who woke with a start in the predawn blue and ran headlong into each day. But it never happened. The years went by and there were wailing babies, the demands of the firehouse, his stint in the service, the occasional call in the middle of the night. Each of these demanded his attention—sleepy-eyed, dutiful—but none of them changed the preference.

It used to trouble him but it doesn’t anymore. He’s an old man, that’s what he tells himself, and old men have earned their foibles.

This morning he woke to the sound of Gail in the shower but has been unable to slide back to sleep. He listened while Gail prepared for the day, hoping he would drift off. When she kissed his forehead, he opened his eyes.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked.

“Can’t sleep.”

“I have absolutely no sympathy. How was the party?”

“Same shenanigans as usual. Happy Saint Paddy’s, by the way.”

“Don’t remind me. Just another Thursday.”

“You gonna go to the city, Goodness, watch the parade?”

“Bunch of drunk donkeys painting the streets green with their vomit? No, thanks. Glad I went to see Peter yesterday.”

“We didn’t even talk about that. How was big shot?”

She paused before answering.

“Same as usual. All wine and roses.”

He sensed something in her hesitation, but let it drift. Gail did many things for him and one of them was act as a filter for bad news. She only told him things if necessary. Like the new boyfriend thing last night with Tina.

“Good for him.”

“You and the boys dropping off your sheets today?”

“Yes.”

“Will you be home for dinner?”

“Not sure. What are you making?”

“Traditional Irish fare: baked ziti.”

“Can we play it by ear? I’ll call you, let you know.”

“Sure, sure. Some slut of a waitress is gonna sweet-talk you into corned beef and cabbage. You and the Irish girls.”

She smiled and her eyes expanded merrily, taking Michael back a few decades. He reached a warm hand up to her hip, an old man reminding his wife that he can still be stirred in that way and that she can still do the stirring.

“Come back to bed with me, my Irish girl.”

But she didn’t. She rose out of his grasp, said she was running late, and winked at him before leaving the room. From the stairs, she shouted back up at him.

“Maybe later.”

“Tease.”

There will be nothing later. He knows that. He can still be stirred on occasion. She can still be stirred on occasion. But aligning those occasions so they coincide? A tricky business made trickier by his unwillingness to employ pharmacological aid and her unwillingness to be cajoled into something in which she’s mostly lost interest. This used to bother him—the diminishment, near extinction, of their sex life—but it doesn’t anymore.

The fact that it doesn’t bother him is what bothers him now.

He has a mild hangover and his usual remedy, more shut-eye, is unavailable, so he gets out of bed and goes to the bathroom to fetch a handful of Advil. His right shoulder is achy and both his ankles click as he walks. He curses his teenage self, cavalier and invincible, for pinballing around football fields without regard for either of their bodies: that young, pristine one or this old, dilapidated one. He takes a long, satisfying piss and washes his hands. He splashes some water on his face.

He is startled when he looks in the mirror. Most days, he barely notices his reflection. He shaves in the shower, uses the mirror only to make sure he doesn’t look like a buffoon: no shaving cream hanging from an earlobe, no gush of blood from a nick, no patches of hair the razor didn’t find. But some days, he looks up and his father stares back at him. Today, he sees Enzo. A question sits on his lips, unspoken.

“Not today, Dad.”

His father’s face remains impassive, patient.

“Not today, Dad. Please, I just want to enjoy today. Take the sheets in, have a few beers.”

His father waits.

“I wanted a different life. Okay. Simple.”

His father shrugs.

Michael raises his right hand, extends his index finger, watches its doppelgänger extend to meet its maker. He pushes on the mirror once, raises the finger to his reflection again, presenting his evidence.

“This. I was tired of this.”

His father smiles.

* * *

Michael is woken by a finger jabbing his shoulder. He knows this jab well. It is not a rough gesture, not particularly insistent. It is simple, purposeful. It carries a message.

I have let you sleep as long as possible.

He opens his eyes, pivots to a sitting position. He senses the shadow of his father hustling out of the still-dark room, embarrassed that he must rouse his son in this fashion. Michael looks at the window, sees the hint of daylight creeping around the shade. It is not yet six o’clock. He yawns and stands.

His parents are waiting for him in the kitchen, already dressed, breakfast behind them. His father sips coffee while his mother cooks him peppers and eggs. He finds them like this every morning, as though they were living according to some clock he cannot see, cannot fathom. His mother slides a plate in front of him, kisses the top of his head.

“
Grazie,
” he says, then, “thank you.”

His parents look at him, unsure why he keeps saying everything twice, first in Italian, then in English. Michael’s not a big talker, in either language. Neither are his parents. Their English is still choppy, experimental, despite their twenty years in this country. And they know that long conversations in Italian make their son uncomfortable. Silence reigns, and in that silence lives a heavy, expectant love.

It has always been this way. From an early age, Michael could sense the oppressive neediness of his parents’ love. He was their universe, the polestar of their existences, the only outlet for their hopes and dreams. Just the three of them. No cousins, no aunts or uncles. No neighbors dropping over for coffee. Once a year, a distant relative of his father’s, Umberto, would drive down from Buffalo to drop off a dozen jugs of homemade wine, receive a few bundles of Enzo’s dried salami and sausage. He would spend a few nights and even though Umberto wasn’t particularly warm, Michael relished those visits. If nothing else, Umberto distracted his parents for a while, let Michael escape the glare of their incessant affection.

He finishes his breakfast, takes some coffee to go. He kisses his mother good-bye, has to hurry to catch up to his father. Enzo is shockingly impatient in the mornings, as though they were running late, even though they almost always finish their prep work an hour before the first customer of the day arrives. They drive to the store in silence. When they enter, the smell—the slick, acrid scent of blood and bone—always shocks Michael. He thought he would eventually stop noticing it, but he hasn’t. Others love it. They tell his father, make a great show of sniffing the air when they walk in. Michael doesn’t understand why he hates it so; he wonders whether florists ever get sick of the scent of fresh flowers.

They go about their business. Periodically, Enzo peeks over Michael’s shoulder and notices an error.
You are moving too fast, not watching your knife. You are slicing the bacon too thin. You need to find the joints on the chicken thigh before you start hacking into it. Now the bacon is too thick.
Michael nods, mutters curses in English under his breath.

As usual, they finish well before the store opens, but Enzo cannot sit still. He fiddles in the display case, straightens boxes of pasta, sweeps up the floor for the third time. Michael sits and reads the paper, ignoring Enzo’s beseeching looks. If there were something else to do, he would do it. He is not lazy. But fussing about and making work is craziness. So Enzo sweeps while Michael reads and the silence grows tense.

The tension dissipates as soon as the first customer shows up. The day speeds up, the store fills with other voices. A few speak Italian, but it’s mostly English. The conversation is light, expedient. The Verrazano Bridge, only a few months away from being completed, is a frequently discussed topic. Some people say it will be a good thing: it will bring more people to the Island! Others think it will be bad, very bad: it will bring more people to the Island! Most people agree that it’s beautiful. Also, of course, wonderful that it was named after an Italian.

“Michael,” one woman asks, “you just graduated from high school. What do you think?”

He thinks,
If I hear one more person talking about the fucking Verrazano Bridge, I am going to walk to the middle of it and jump off.

“Could be a good thing. I don’t know. Maybe not.”

The woman nods as though he’s said something profound.

“Smart boy,” she says to Enzo, who looks at Michael with intense pride. Michael looks at the clock. It’s not even noon.

He makes some deliveries: Seaside Boulevard, Old Town Road, Garretson Avenue. Enzo won’t let him drive—he knows how but doesn’t have his license yet—so he has to use the store’s busted old bike, even though it’s ninety-two degrees and the air is thick. By the time he gets to the houses, he’s dripping with sweat and he can smell himself through his clothes. He knows the women he delivers to: Mrs. Scotto, Mrs. Villa, old lady Meehan. Mrs. Villa is young, maybe five years older than he, and pretty. She invites him in for a glass of water, tells him to call her Lisa. He stares at her cleavage while she complains about her mother-in-law. He takes his time finishing the water.

On the way back to the store, he stops at Nunzio’s for two slices and a Coke. He eats the slices in a rush and then sits at the counter, sipping the Coke, wishing the minutes away. When he gets back, Enzo looks irritated even though the store is empty. He hands Michael a paper plate with his lunch: sliced salami on a roll. He inhales that, slaps his hands together to remove the crumbs. If this was the job—Lisa Villa’s tits, pizza, salami—he would be happy. If he could somehow get
his
salami between Lisa Villa’s tits, he’d be really happy. He needs a few bawdy thoughts to get him through the day.

The afternoon is quiet, only a handful of customers. At five o’clock, Enzo looks outside to make sure no one else is coming and then turns the sign from OPEN to CLOSED. Michael sweeps up while Enzo counts at the register. He licks his fingers between bills, counts out the change, checks the scraps of paper where he tracks his customers’ accounts on credit. He does some math on another scrap, concentrates while he’s adding. When he’s finished, he looks up at Michael and smiles.

“
Una buona giornata
,” he says. “A good day.”

* * *

His parents are more chatty at dinner, their tongues loosened by a few glasses of Umberto’s wine. His mother asks about their day and Enzo re-creates, in meticulous detail, the not very exciting day they just experienced. Michael lived the day in English and now he has to relive in it in Italian. He inhales long strands of linguine coated with garlic and oil. He downs the glass of wine, asks to be excused. His parents look at him, then at each other, uncertain what to make of their son’s recent restlessness. He retreats to his bedroom even though the sun is still up. He was supposed to hang out with Tiny tonight, but Tiny is spending almost every night with his girlfriend Laura Gentile. Tiny is off to college in the fall and he has sworn to Michael that he is getting into Laura’s pants before he leaves. Michael wishes he had a girlfriend, had some goal to pursue, even something as basic as trying to get laid. He turns on the radio, lies on his bed. The Mets are playing the traitor Giants, Marichal is pitching. There’s no score yet.

He misses baseball, misses football too. Being part of a team, the simple joy of camaraderie. The brothers he never had. That is all done now. There is no school to return to in the fall. No college lies in the distance. He was never a good student, but school was, at least, somewhere to go, something to do. And nothing made him feel the way sports did.

He is eighteen years old and as far as he can tell, all his days going forward will be the same: the waking jab, the silent house, long days at his father’s shop, cutting up meat, coming home smelling of blood. Unless.

Unless what? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t have a plan, but he has blind hope. Maybe something will happen. Maybe a man will wander into the store, like the look of him, offer him a job. Maybe he can take another look at college, take some classes at night. Maybe he can help out coaching football at New Dorp in the fall. Maybe Lisa Villa will ask him to stop staring at her tits and just screw her already. He lets these hopes, vague and unformed and ridiculous, brighten his day’s final thoughts.