Small Mercies (37 page)

It was a long drought, she tells herself.

Just before Wade reaches her, she glances left and right, makes sure there are no nosy neighbors out on the street so she can kiss him properly. Not a soul. He stops on the step below where she stands so their heads align. He kisses her, slides a hand to her waist.

“I missed you,” she whispers, after a long kiss that ends too soon.

“Missed you too.”

He hands her a bouquet of flowers.

“They’re beautiful.” She eyes the other bouquet. “Who are those for?”

“Mrs. Amendola.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why?” he says, inspecting the flowers to see if there’s something wrong with them.

“She’ll think you’re trying to kiss her ass.”

“I guess I am, after a fashion. Don’t people like it when you kiss their ass?”

“Not Gail.”

He looks confused for a beat, but then the smile returns. He hands her the other bouquet.

“Your good luck,” he says. He pulls an envelope out of the inside pocket of his blazer. “I got Bobby Yankees tickets, but maybe I should give them to him now?”

“Good idea. And that?” she says, pointing out the little gift bag.

“Just a little something. A little treat. From Henri Bendel.”

“For Gail?”

“No, for Alyssa. I figured Bobby would be getting all the gifts today so she might feel left out.”

She smiles, relieved. She opens the front door, gestures him in.

“Is that okay?” he asks, as he walks past.

“Yes, of course,” she says, before adding. “Her ass you can kiss.”

She closes the door behind him.

* * *

The rain picks up in the early afternoon, wiping away any lingering chance of a barbecue. Gail will cook, is grateful for the distraction. Baked ziti and meatballs. Some appetizers. No one will go hungry in her home.

She chops some tomatoes and fresh mozzarella, sprinkles some pepper and salt on the plate. She slides slices of eggplant into egg, then bread crumbs. She fries them in a pan with oil. She wraps pieces of salami around breadsticks, like Franky asked. She cuts aged provolone into bite-size squares. She puts stuffed peppers on a plate.

Alone in the kitchen, she feels thoughts pressing up against her skull, demanding attention. All week, she has tried not to think about this. Told herself that she had to tell the boys first, tell Bobby, and then she could deal with her own feelings. Now everyone has been told. Bobby has been told.

So what does she think?

It is too soon. There. It needed to be said.

Not true, but she can’t help it. That’s how it feels. An insufficient amount of time has passed. This was not just anyone. This was her son. This was Bobby. The kindest soul you ever met. He chose Tina, chose her when he was seventeen and never looked back. And now she’s choosing someone else. Not fair.

She can’t lose Tina, Alyssa, Bobby Jr. To someone named Wade. Not fair.

Ingiusto,
she hears Maria say, from a different life.

She smiles, rolls the veal and pork between her hands into a ball.

Ingiusto
indeed.

Around one, she pours herself a glass of Chianti. Earlier than she’d like to start drinking, but the day calls for it. Michael comes into the kitchen and helps himself to a glass. She swears the man has radar, can tell immediately if someone in a twenty-mile radius is about to imbibe.

“Can’t say I’m looking forward to this.”

“Do you want to talk?”

He raises his glass, smiles, and walks over to her.

“What is there to say?”

They clink glasses, each takes a sip.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

* * *

While Peter is waiting in front of Alberto’s apartment for Lindsay and the kids to pick him up, his cell phone rings. He checks the caller ID: Dom. A call he’s been dreading for weeks. There’s no one he wanted to talk to more, but he could never muster the courage to call. He answers anyway.

“Hello, Dom.”

“Petey boy, how we holding up?”

“Well, I’m not sure what you know, but—”

“I know enough to know that you’ve probably had a shitty winter.”

He’d been holding onto a ridiculous hope that maybe Dominic hadn’t found out. He does nothing but disappoint people these days. This is the man who paved the way for him, who supported him for partner, showed him how to play the game.

“I don’t know what to say, Dom. I’m so sorry.”

“Stop it. You don’t have to apologize to me. We’re friends. Can you see the light at the end of the tunnel?”

“I don’t know, Dom. I can’t see my way out of this one.”

“How so?”

In the background, Peter can hear the sounds of grandchildren misbehaving, mothers chastising. A family gathering, not unlike the one he’s about to attend.

“Well, things still haven’t, well, I won’t bother you with family stuff, but—”

“Lindsay still hasn’t forgiven you. Shocking. Okay, what else?”

Peter smiles despite himself. He misses Dom’s peremptory summations of a problem. He remembers a time in Dom’s office—he was still a young lawyer, second-, maybe third-year—when Dom explained why he let clients ramble but not associates.
They’re paying me to listen. I’m paying you to talk. When you’re on the other side of the desk, you can go on and on for as long as you like. Until then, get to the fucking point.
God, he thought he was miserable then—the long hours, the competition among associates, the stress about every little misstep—but he misses it now.

“Well, the firm asked me to be seconded to Devion. I’m not sure exactly what’s going on. Whether they want me to leave or maybe—”

“You know exactly what’s going on. The firm is trying to extricate itself from this mess as cheaply and quietly as possible. They could fire you, ask you to leave, whatever; that might be cheap but not quiet. They could pay this girl, make her sign a confidentiality agreement. That would be quiet but not cheap. They’re looking for a way out.”

His head really was on the chopping block, Peter realizes, and Dom saved him, proposed this idea. Talked his old client, Devion, into the arrangement. He notices the family car a block away on Montague, waiting at a red light.

“You’re still looking out for me, Dom. I don’t know what to say.”

“What I did always tell you, Petey. Look out for your own.”

Peter laughs.

“That’s kinda what got me into this mess, Dom.”

“Well, Petey, as my dearly departed brother would have put it: the fucking you get is never worth the fucking you get.”

“Wish you woulda told me that six months ago.”

“That lesson you have to learn on your own, Petey. One day, after I’ve had too many martinis, I’ll tell you about my first secretary, Dawn Rezaluk. Nice Polish girl from Greenpoint. My wife still won’t eat pierogi.”

Peter laughs again. He wishes he were in Dom’s office, late on a Friday afternoon. The week on its death knell. A bottle procured, a quick drink before the train home, the weekend, the family. The light turns green, the car moves slowly toward him.

“I just wish I could find a way to fix things with my family.”

“Jesus, Petey, I can only give you the cards. I can’t play them for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Isn’t Lindsay from Wisconsin, over the border from Illinois? Her parents still live there, right?”

“Yeah, so?”

Of course. Devion is in Chicago. Lindsay’s parents are an hour’s drive north.

“You think Lindsay would maybe like to be closer to her parents?”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t solve everything, Petey, but it’s the only play you have.”

Peter detects the tiniest flicker of hope struggling to keep in his chest. Maybe he can make this right.

“The only problem, Dom, is that I’ll have to live in Chicago too.”

“Penance, my boy, penance.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“Stay in touch, Petey.”

The car eases in front of him as he hangs up the phone. He can see the faces of his children inside. They look uncertain, happy to see him but nervous. He smiles at them, then turns his gaze to Lindsay. Her face is partially obscured by the reflected sheen of his own image. He can see only her chin and her lips, quivering.

* * *

Peter’s family arrives first. Lindsay is gaunt, stricken, unable to completely hide her anger. Gail wants to take her aside, give her a hug, tell her this will pass, but it’s not her place. Probably not a good idea to weigh in at all. Besides, they’ve always hated each other, the tiniest bit. No sense trying to bond over the trials and tribulations of middle-aged womanhood, especially when Gail’s son is the cause of the sudden unsteadiness.

The kids look a little wobbly. The prim serenity they’ve known all their lives has disappeared in the last few months. They’re not used to raised voices and slammed doors. Life has thrown them its first curveball. Peter slouches in behind the kids, carrying presents, sins etched on his face. He looks around the house dazed, like an astronaut returning to a planet he doesn’t recognize.

They’ll get through this. Lindsay can barely feign civility, but she’s here. If she wasn’t here, Gail would worry. But she is. Peter has some groveling in his future, some stormy nights and queasy mornings. But they’ll get through it. Lindsay’s a good mother. No questioning that. She’ll do what’s best for the kids. And that means Peter.

Gail retreats to the kitchen. Let Michael thaw the room. She can’t do all the heavy lifting. She loses herself in the cooking. She turns on a burner below a pot of salted water. She takes the ziti out of the pantry. She wipes a thin film of sweat from her forehead, takes another sip of Chianti. She is at the stove, stirring sauce, when she feels a hug around her midsection.

“Hello, Bob-a-loo.”

She kisses his cheek and leads him back to the living room. They are making their way in: Tina and Wade, with Alyssa lumbering behind. One big happy family. She can tell by the way they walk in, by the frisson between Wade and Tina, that it is more than serious. It’s a done deal. Tina will marry Wade, a tall, thin, rich man who’s good with her dead son’s kids.

Wade looks delicate, a piece of fine china. He’s wearing a blazer and an expensive watch. He is polite and respectful, calls her Mrs. Amendola. She is polite in return. She remembers what Peter told her, that he lost his wife. She’ll like this man soon enough, she can tell.

But not today.

The adults settle in the living room, the kids escape down to the basement. The television is on but muted; college basketball players race up and down the court. Gail stays on the periphery of the conversation, popping in from the kitchen every few minutes with some more antipasti. She refills wineglasses, picks up used paper plates. She looks at the clock, wonders where Franky is. She has no idea what to expect. He could show up sober. He could show up legless. He could not show up. None of these would surprise her. She gets a panicky throb in her chest and her eyes drift to Michael, who lowers his hand, motioning for her to stay calm.

* * *

Michael locks the door in the bathroom and lets the tap run. He takes out his cell phone and dials Franky’s number. It rings four times, then goes to voice mail. His voice is calm, firm.

“Franky, this is Dad. If you’re drunk, do not show up. Please.”

He closes the phone. He never imagined he’d be making calls like that. Telling his grown son not to come to his house if he’s intoxicated. He thought fatherhood would be like his job: you put in twenty, twenty-five years and then you retire. Enjoy the benefits. But it doesn’t end. Not until you’re in the ground.

He doesn’t want today to be ruined. He’s happy for Tina. This guy, Wade, isn’t half bad. Maybe not exactly his kind of guy, but he’s nice. Smart too. She deserves to be happy. She’s had her share of unhappiness and then some. They all have.

He puts his hands under the tap, splashes some water onto his face and the back of his neck. He looks in the mirror, sees his father staring back at him. He closes his eyes and, for a moment, he can see it: a butcher’s smock, his sons behind the counter, locking up the shop, coming home smelling of blood. A smaller life maybe, not as exciting. Less mayhem, less fire, less death.

He opens his eyes, sees an old man, thinking about what might have been.

* * *

At five, Gail puts the food out on the kitchen table: ziti and meatballs, a salad, a loaf of bread, an extra bowl of sauce. She calls the kids up from the basement, invites everyone into the kitchen to eat. Everyone files in, makes a plate, and disperses back to the living room. They sit and eat with their plates on their laps. Gail watches Wade struggle to eat in this fashion. He can’t quite get the hang of it, doesn’t look entirely comfortable. He notices her gaze, gives her a shrug and a smile. He plucks a large piece of meatball with his fork and tucks it into his mouth.

The front door opens. Every head in the room turns. Gail sucks in a breath. Franky walks in, holding a plastic bag, the right half of his face covered with gauze. His eyes skip around the room, to the nowhere spaces between faces. He’s sweating bullets. He mumbles something about tripping while jogging, scraping his face on the sidewalk. He is introduced to Wade and manages a handshake, head down. Gail exhales.

He’s sober. His face is mangled and he’s clearly hung over, but he’s sober. Small mercies.

She doesn’t ask any questions, doesn’t want to know. No sense getting into it. They’ve been cruel enough to each other over the years. He makes himself a plate, settles in the kitchen near her, away from Wade. She takes a tall can of Budweiser from the fridge, offers it to him. He doesn’t bother pretending he doesn’t need it.

She stands in the doorway, watching and listening. Wade dotes on Tina, keeps a hand on her back, fetches her whatever she needs. He is charming, even funny. Franky stays in the kitchen, drinking cans of Budweiser at an incautious pace. He can’t stand Wade, the person or the idea. This makes Gail happy. Someone should feel that way, even if it can’t be her.

The demise of the Cody’s pool is discussed at some length. Several theories are proffered; Gail hears something about a nun with a gambling problem. Even Lindsay laughs at that. Wade says there are a few guys from his office who’d been putting in picks for twenty years. Michael blames the mayor. Peter says it had to be the IRS. Eventually, Franky can’t resist; he sulks back into the living room to add his thoughts, something about a Croatian lawyer who got divorced.