Small Mercies (2 page)

“What can I say, Mother? There’s no accounting for taste.”

He smiled. He wasn’t drunk, wasn’t even tipsy. He was glowing with the unlikelihood of his conquest. He was past the age where Gail could give him a talk about precautions, about being careful. And God help her, she could think of worse things than Franky knocking up a sweet, smart girl like Kerry Cole.

“You should call her, Francis,” she said, trying not to sound too insistent.

“I’m starving,” he responded.

She fried up some bacon and scrambled some eggs, sat there with him while he ate it. The smirk on his face creased into a smile.

“Fine girl. My ass.”

He had to spit the eggs out into a napkin because he was laughing so hard. She said it to him for the next few weeks, their own private joke. He could be so easy sometimes. He had his moments.

He never called, despite Gail’s nudges. Gail didn’t see Kerry Cole again until her wedding was announced in the
Advance
some years later. By that point, Gail had endured a host of mornings with Franky: mornings where he needed to be helped out of a cab, mornings where she found him passed out on the front lawn, mornings when he didn’t come home at all, and, of course, the morning when he called and told them in a slurred ramble that he’d been arrested.

There were even a few other mornings where he got dropped off by a girl. None of the girls was Kerry Cole, but he didn’t lack for companionship. He still had a certain appeal, still had his looks. Sitting on a bar stool—a drunken, ruined memorial to his dead brother—Franky probably did well with a certain brand of barfly.

Some women love reclamation projects.

* * *

On the counter, the coffeemaker ceases its pleasant babble. She makes a pot for Michael; she prefers the Starbucks that Tina brings with the bagels. Michael complains.

“It’s too expensive, it tastes burnt.”

Gail doesn’t care. She likes the taste. She’d rather have one good cup of coffee than four crappy ones. Michael is a big tipper, would give his last dollar to a friend, but he’s cheap in ways that perplex Gail.

Not cheap. Frugal. Saves his money on coffee so he can leave five-dollar tips for surly bartenders. Doesn’t make sense to Gail, but that’s all right. Not everything about your husband should make sense. Took her years to realize that. If she were teaching a class to prospective brides, that would be her first piece of advice.

Don’t expect everything he does to make sense.

Michael is out of bed. The weight of the house has shifted with him. She knows what he’s doing now, as sure as if she were in the room with him. A stiff walk to the bathroom, followed by a hasty flip of the seat and a long, contented piss. Regimes have fallen during Michael’s Saturday morning pisses. She can tell how many beers he had the night before by the length of his piss: ten seconds for each bottle.

Gail hears the shower start. Short piss. Michael must have been a good boy last night.

The reshuffling of the house’s order—another body in the mix, another consciousness released from slumber—always startles her. It’s like a second waking, equally abrupt but more demanding. The day has been on tracks, sliding toward its start, and now it has arrived. Soon the house, enormous in its emptiness, will shrink with the day to accommodate Michael, Tina, the kids. Gail always misses the stillness as it recedes.

The morning has caught up with her. Time to get down to business. She grabs a pad of paper and a pen. She thinks for a moment, tries to conjure the date.

March 12th.

The ides of March are nearly upon us. She stopped teaching last year, but this would usually be the week her eighth-grade honors class started
Julius Caesar
. She tried to time it right, have them read the ides of March line on the ides of March. The little things matter when you’re teaching. You’ll do anything to keep them interested, keep them reading. Over the years, a few parents complained that Shakespeare was too advanced for eighth graders, even smart ones. But Gail always thought it was perfect for middle schoolers. It dealt with friendship, betrayal, conspiracies, honor: all the same things they were starting to struggle with in their own lives. Besides, kids needed to be pushed, not coddled.

Busy time of year. St. Patrick’s Day. The start of the NCAA tournament. The Cody’s pool. Bobby’s favorite week of the year. Her blue-eyed boy with the Italian last name and the map of Ireland on his face, wearing his fisherman’s cable-knit sweater, the one Gail bought for him in Galway, to every goddamn St. Patrick’s Day parade in the tristate area: Manhattan, Hoboken, Bay Ridge, and, of course, Forest Avenue. The sweater slowly accumulating brownish stains from spilled Guinness. Watching basketball for days on end. He used to say it was like they took everything good and crammed it into one week, except for Thanksgiving and the night before Thanksgiving.

What about Christmas? she would ask.

Overrated, he’d pronounce. Other than your food, Mom. Overrated.

Wait till you have kids, she’d think. Wait until you watch them fly down the stairs on Christmas morning.

She writes “to do” next to the date and makes a few short dashes on the left side of the page, the assignments to be added.

-Cleaning supplies.

-Cold cuts.

-Call Peter about Wednesday.

-Bobby Jr.’s birthday party.

* * *

A single dash lies companionless at the bottom of the list. There was something else. She was thinking of it while she loaded the dryer. Her memory’s not what it used to be, but she knows when she’s forgotten something. She taps the pen at the empty space as though the item might write itself if prompted.

Ah well, if it’s important, she’ll remember it soon enough. The dash will not be lonely for long.

The lists aren’t as long as they used to be. She remembers a time when she couldn’t make lists at all, when the next thing to do just presented itself, usually before the previous thing had been done. One of the boys with a bloody nose and hungry to boot, one of the boys waiting to be taken to practice. The phone ringing, someone needing to be picked up at the movies. An ice pack fetched, ziti reheated in the microwave. In the car, dropping one son off at the gym, picking another up at the movie theater, the third in the back, a hostage to the situation, holding the ice pack to the bridge of his nose in one hand and a Tupperware container of leftover pasta in the other. The moviegoer gets into the car, two of his compatriots are halfway in before he asks.

“Can Jimmy and Steve come over?”

Of course they can. Their friends were always welcome, the house always open. Gail fed a small army of boys, weekend after weekend, year after year.

It would have been Bobby with the bloody nose. Bobby having to tag along with her as she ferried the older boys all over the Island. Gail adjusting the rearview to look at him, just the two of them in the car.

“You okay, captain?”

That or something like it.

A smile in response, a wad of tissue sticking out of one nostril. No bother, Mom, his smile would have said. Right as rain. The patience of a saint, everything an adventure. When he was a boy, when he was a man.

Gail sets aside the incomplete list and picks up the paper. Somewhere on the block, a car alarm rings out in protest as a sleepy-eyed neighbor fumbles for the right button on his key chain. When the alarm is silenced, Michael’s footsteps are on the stairs. He walks into the kitchen, yawning and happy.

“Good morning, beautiful.”

“Good morning yourself.”

Michael looks good for a man “on the back half of the back nine,” as he describes himself. His face is still pleasant, always on the verge of a smile, even though life hasn’t spared him from sadness. He opens a cabinet, takes out a red FDNY mug. He pours himself a cup of coffee and drizzles in a splash of milk. He kisses Gail’s cheek and sits next to her, his gaze out the window.

“So, what’s the world got in store for us today?”

“Same as always.” She licks her finger, turns a page. “How was the Leaf?”

“Same as always.”

He smiles.

“Who won the game?” When she fell asleep on the couch, Duke was losing to Virginia Tech by six points at the half.

“Duke pulled away in the second half. Too big.”

“Shoot. So when do they do the draw?”

“You mean the selection show? Tomorrow night.”

“You and the boys putting in a few entries this year?”

He frowns in mock exasperation.

“Why do you ask questions that you already know the answer to?”

“For the same reason you keep entering a pool you’ll never win. I enjoy it.”

He smiles again.

“Touché.”

The Cody’s pool is an institution, a March Madness tradition. Its genius is its simplicity. Pick the four Final Four teams. Pick the champion. Pick the total points of the final game. Ten dollars an entry. Seems easy, but if you lose one Final Four team, you’re out.

Kansas loses in the second round? There go eleven thousand entries, more than a hundred thousand dollars. Syracuse goes down, a buzzer beater in overtime? A quarter of the pool is finished. Done. See you next year. People come from all over—Jersey, Brooklyn, the city, even Connecticut—to put in their entries. Last year, the pot was over a million. In cash.

She teases Michael, but she loves the pool. A special lottery for the Island. The teachers at school put in a few sheets. So do the guys behind the counter at Enzo’s. Franky and Bobby used to sit, at this very table, for hours, eliminating certain teams, elevating others. They’d pool their money with a few friends, put in a few sheets of picks. They’d revise their picks over and over. If only they’d approached their schoolwork with that intensity, like their older brother did.

After Peter went away to college, he called home with his entries every March. By the time he was a senior, his friends wanted in. Two of them even drove down with him for that first crazy weekend. They drove straight to Cody’s and put in their entries. They watched the games all weekend in the basement. Franky and Bobby down there with them. Nonstop basketball. Explosions of noise every few hours. Michael sat in the kitchen with her, said he was going down to see what happened. He didn’t emerge for a few hours. When he did, he was glowing with the easy energy of male camaraderie, like after a good night at the Leaf.

Only this was better. This was his blood, these were his boys.

Gail cooked and sent the food down with Michael. She kept it simple: food to fill stomachs, food to soak up beer. Chicken parm, sausage and peppers, small armies of penne, pork roasted in sauerkraut. She had to make a few hasty trips to Enzo’s for replenishments, for bread and cold cuts. The amount they consumed.

A lull in the action, between the afternoon games and the night games. They filed out of the basement, stretching and boasting, ready for more of the same but in a different location. Peter and his friends over the legal age, Franky close enough for the Leaf. But not Bobby, the straggler again, left behind with his mother. A senior in high school but still the young pup.

Gail was angry with the other boys, angry with Michael. Couldn’t they just stay in the basement? She’d get the beer herself. They could drink it by the caseload downstairs. Keep Bobby involved, part of the crew. But Bobby could have cared less. Never bothered.

Mom, would you care if Tina came over and watched the games with us?

With
us
?

Of course not.

* * *

Gail glances at the clock on the microwave. Half past nine. Tina’s late.

“What do you want to do for dinner tonight?” Michael asks.

“I was thinking I’d make your mother’s lentil stew, the one with the sausage. One last belly warmer before the weather turns.”

He sips his coffee.

“You sure you want to cook?”

Gail folds the paper, takes off her glasses.

“Why? You have another idea?”

“Thought maybe we could drive into the city, down to Chinatown, go to that downstairs place we used to take the boys to, the one with the great dumplings.”

“Michael Amendola. Will wonders never cease. What about the toll on the bridge?”

“Keep teasing me. Very nice. I try to expand my horizons and you tease.”

“Drive to Manhattan, eat dumplings. Next thing, you’ll be saying we should get sushi.”

“Why not? I’m turning over a new leaf, Goodness. Sushi. Falafel. Pedicures and yoga. Understanding and compassion. Out with the old, in with the new. They can put mosques on the moon and I won’t make a peep.”

“Interesting. Doesn’t sound like this new leaf will have any room for the old Leaf.”

“Let’s not go crazy. It’s a process, turning leaves. Can’t get rid of the old one until you make sure the new one works. Best to start with something simple. Like dumplings.”

They laugh together. It’s nice when they can cheer each other into the day.

“Actually, sounds like a great idea. Change of pace.”

He shakes his head, rolls his shoulders.

“Doesn’t even have to be Chinatown. Little Italy’s down there too. Either or.”

“Whatever. Something different.”

He stands.

“Good.”

A familiar car slows on the street in front of the house and turns into their driveway. The car rolls to a stop and the passenger door opens. Alyssa shuffles out. She is twelve, on the cusp of so many things. She lurches toward the house clutching her phone, eyes riveted to the tiny screen. Bobby Jr. skips out of the rear door, his black hair flopping as he darts in front of his sister. He waves excitedly to them through the window.

Tina brings up the rear, carrying a tray of coffee and looking frazzled. She nods at them through the window, a grim smile on her face.

“She’s lost weight,” Michael says.

Michael’s observation, upsetting for a reason Gail can’t pinpoint, lingers for a moment until the front door flies open with Bobby Jr.’s weight and he explodes into the house, the jacket already sliding off his arms. He wriggles his arms free and the jacket drops to the floor in the doorway between the porch and the living room. He leans back, croons.