Small Mercies

by Joyce, Eddie

  Danny assured her that Bobby’s role was important, even vital.

  “He’s doing all the little things, setting screens, getting rebounds, diving for loose balls. Plus, he has to guard the other team’s best post player, who usually has a few inches on him. And he’s scoring ten, twelve points a game, without demanding the ball. Putbacks and layups. It’s easy to notice Matt because he’s scoring and Vinny’s got the ball in his hands most of the game, but the reason they’re winning is Bobby.”

  And they were winning. Not every game, but more than anyone had expected. They played hard, they didn’t back down. Danny’s instruction helped Gail enjoy the games more.

  “Watch his footwork, Gail. See how he helped, came over to pick up Matt’s man, altered that shot?”

  “See how he spun off that guy to get that rebound?”

  She started to appreciate the finer points of her son’s play. He was unselfish, dedicated to the team, and indefatigable. His relentlessness frustrated his opponents, drove them to commit silly fouls. He was tough too. Not afraid to mix it up. He was such an easygoing kid off the court, it surprised Gail that he had a mean streak. He stood up for his teammates, without hesitation. One night, a burly black kid on Port Richmond knocked Vinny to the ground with an elbow to the head. A dirty play, the whole gym gasped. And there was Bobby, right in the kid’s face, not backing down, even though he was a good forty pounds lighter. Some shoving back and forth before the refs broke it up. She reached over, instinctively, to grab Michael’s knee, say something like “That’s your son,” but it was Danny’s knee that she found. He looked at her.

  “You okay?”

  She pulled her hand away.

  “Yes, I’m sorry. His father would’ve been proud.”

  Danny nodded.

  “Gotta stand up for your teammates.”

  He looked down between his knees.

  “Where is Michael anyway?”

  She exhaled. She lifted her pinky to her mouth and gnawed gently on the tip.

  “Good question.”

  She knew the answer. He was at the Leaf. Every Tuesday and every Friday. Behind the stick, not watching his son play basketball. Not watching the final high school season that any of their boys would ever play. Not sitting next to her. Whenever she thought about it, she got so angry that her stomach clenched. He’d ruined so much already. Bobby’s games were the one bright spot in an otherwise dismal time. She wouldn’t let him ruin this.

  She’d been wrong about Danny. He was nice. Lovely, actually. A little cocky, maybe, but hey, a guy with his looks and his money could have been far worse. Besides, he had his sadnesses, she could tell. A sullen son. A wife who didn’t come to any games. What kind of mother didn’t come to her own son’s games?

  She knew that answer too. A selfish jerk. Someone so caught up in his own bullshit that he didn’t notice that his son loved this game. Loved it fiercely. Never mind that he was pretty darn good at it too.

  You could say what you wanted about Danny, but he was at every game and his son never played, not unless it was an absolute blowout. It had to be hard for him that his son wasn’t very good at a game he’d excelled at. A game that he loved as much as Bobby did, she could tell, by the gleam in his eye when he explained a 1-3-1 zone or a pick and roll.

  He told her as much, told her that basketball had been good to him. Got him a scholarship to Fordham, kept him out of Vietnam. Through basketball, he met a guy who worked on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. The guy took a shine to him, offered him a job. He had his own company now, had made more money than he ever could have imagined. He didn’t say it in a bragging way, said it like he’d been the right combination of lucky and good.

  He told her other things too. That he was raised in Far Rockaway, the youngest of six children, the boy his father kept trying for, God knows why, because Danny spent his childhood trying to avoid his father’s drunken rages. That he gave up drinking himself when he was in his early thirties. That he liked it a little too much, didn’t want to become his father. He didn’t elucidate, didn’t need to, not with Gail.

  “A good-looking Irishman who doesn’t drink and has lots of money? Where do I sign up?”

  Out on the floor, a whistle blew, louder than usual. Gail half expected the ref to point up in the stands at her.

  Flirting, Amendola #40, flirting with a married man.

  Her cheeks turned red. She’d crossed a line. She resolved not to do it again, no matter what.

  * * *

  The holidays. A pause in the season. The older boys came home. She and Michael temporarily broke their silence, acted civil in front of the boys, fooled no one. The whole family decorated the tree joylessly, quickly, eager to be away from one another. Gail couldn’t even listen to Christmas songs; they seemed to be written for people living different lives entirely.

  Michael gave no explanation for Enzo’s absence at Christmas; the boys barely noticed. Gail tried to go see him, but the shop was closed, the house empty. He didn’t answer the phone. She asked Michael, a little concerned.

  “He’s in Italy,” he said, his voice cold and sharp.

  She usually loved the holidays: a week off from school, the whole family back together. But that year was dreadful. The boys, Bobby included, spent as little time in the house as possible, and who could blame them? She was miserable and Michael was gruff. The whole house reeked of unhappiness. After the first few days, they dropped the illusion of normalcy and went back to silent glares.

  She missed Bobby’s games, missed basketball, missed Danny too. She knew that was a bad sign, a dangerous one, but she was too angry to care. She spent New Year’s Eve alone, on the couch, making her way through two bottles of Chianti and watching the ball drop in Times Square. She woke up the next morning, still on the couch, a single resolution in her fuzzy head:

  Flirt with Danny as much as humanly possible.

  * * *

  The first game back and Danny was late. Worse still, Nancy Duggan slid into Danny’s normal spot at Gail’s side, spent the first quarter chewing Gail’s ear off about how Coach Whelan was misusing her son, playing him at small forward when it was clear that he should be the point guard. Never mind that the Baddios—whose son was the point guard—were sitting right in front of her, well within earshot. Never mind that the team’s record was 8 and 3, a fair bit better than anyone had expected. Never mind that Matt Duggan had struggled through the first half of the season, looking overwhelmed and skittish most of the time.

  Gail listened halfheartedly, her eyes drifting to the gym’s entrance. Where was he? She’d waited two weeks for this night and he wasn’t going to show up? The enormity of her disappointment was unnerving.

  Out on the court, the ref blew the whistle and pointed at Bobby. He gaped at the ref incredulously, the picture of innocence. In the past year, his gangly limbs had thickened with muscle, but his face was still comically boyish. His second foul. He’d have to sit out the rest of the first half. She watched him trot to the bench, a frustrated look on his face. He sat down, his back to her; a sickle of bright red acne ran out from under his maroon jersey and curved onto his neck. She brought her right hand to her mouth, started to run her front teeth over her fingernails.

  Without Bobby, they were having trouble keeping Wagner off the boards. A Wagner player grabbed an offensive rebound, took a low, steadying dribble, and rose for a putback off the glass. Another whistle. And one. Bobby flapped a towel in exasperation on the bench. She looked up at the scoreboard. Tie game, 22–22. Four minutes left in the first half.

  This was supposed to be an easy win, but the whole team was out of sorts. Pat Keegan couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn and Vinny was turning the ball over at an alarming rate. The Wagner player made his foul shot: 23–22. Gail bit down on the knuckle of her thumb.

  A few seconds later, Vinny threw another ill-advised pas
s; this one sailed out of bounds. Nancy Duggan exhaled in frustration, a little too forcefully. Gail noticed Dana Baddio’s ears turn scarlet in front of her.

  “Jesus, they need to take Vinny out of the game, let Matty run the point for the rest of the half,” Nancy said, ostensibly to Gail, but loud enough for the crowd. Gail glanced at the Baddios nervously.

  Paul turned his head.

  “Nancy, I’d appreciate it if you kept your opinions about Vinny to yourself. He’s doing his best.”

  Nancy rolled her eyes.

  “Jeez, Paul, you can’t be so thin skinned. It was a bad pass.”

  “Yes, it was. I’m sure Vinny knows that. We do too. Enough.”

  “It’s not his fault, Paul. Coach Whelan should have Matty playing point guard.”

  Dana exploded off the bleacher, swung around, and put her finger in Nancy’s face.

  “Shut the fuck up, Nancy. Shut the fuck up. I’m sick of hearing about your fucking Matty.”

  Paul reached a hand over to corral his wife.

  “Dana, take it easy. Calm down.”

  Nancy swung her hand, knocking Dana’s finger away. Dana lunged, her hands reaching up for Nancy’s neck. Gail stepped in, tried to move Nancy away.

  “Nancy, move. Jesus.”

  Paul was holding Dana at bay, but it was taking some effort. Dana tried to wriggle out of her jacket so she could get at Nancy. Other parents noticed the commotion; some of the players on the Farrell bench did too.

  “Fuck you, bitch.”

  Dana’s face was red, maniacal. Gail tried to hustle Nancy down out of the bleachers. Jesus Christ, she thought, there may actually be a fight.

  Nancy finally stopped resisting, stepped down, and walked off the bleachers to the other side of the gym. With a little help from the Keegans, Paul calmed Dana down. The whole gym had been watching, even a few of the players on the court. Dana turned to Gail, apologetic, the fury gone as quickly as it came.

  “I’m sorry, Gail. I just couldn’t take another fucking word.”

  Gail laughed nervously.

  “It’s okay, Dana, most excitement I’ve had in weeks.”

  Her heart was still racing. She looked up and there was Danny, looking sharp in a blue pinstriped suit and beige overcoat. In all the commotion, Gail hadn’t even noticed him come in. He waved hello to the whole group. He sat down next to Gail.

  “So,” he said, a wry little grin on his face, “I miss anything?”

  * * *

  Two weeks of intermittent practices and holiday indolence had put the whole team in a torpor, but they somehow pulled the game out in the last few minutes. Gail watched, distracted, not sure how to act around Danny. He was quiet too, his charm shelved for the night. She felt like she was on a first date, as ridiculous as that seemed. After the game, they all moved down to the court, the usual crew huddled together, discussing the game. Nancy Duggan waited on the other side of the gym, giving Dana a wide berth.

  Gail stood, not listening to John Keegan’s complaints about the referees. She was despondent. She’d thought for sure there was some connection between Danny and her, but she’d been wrong. They didn’t even have anything to say to each other. The whole thing had been foolishness. A bit of fantasy. Stupid.

  “Gail?”

  He touched her arm.

  “Yes.”

  “You okay?”

  “Grand.”

  He pulled her gently out of the larger circle, lowered his voice. He put his hand in his coat pocket, took something out, and placed it in her hand.

  “Late Christmas present.”

  She looked down: a tiny box wrapped in solid red.

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll see.”

  He leaned down and kissed her cheek. A surge of desire welled up inside her. The smell on him. Jesus.

  “Merry Christmas.”

  She wanted to say something clever, something flirty and witty, but there was no opportunity because the team had begun emerging from the locker room in small groups; the huddles of parents were breaking down or expanding to accommodate their presence. Danny’s son, Kevin, was one of the first to emerge—bench players always were—and his sulky, disgruntled air did not square with the larger group’s geniality. He walked straight up to Danny, ready to go.

  “Say hello to Mrs. Amendola.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Amendola.”

  Kevin pulled on his father’s arm, urging a hasty departure. Danny snuck a wink to Gail. She watched him walk across the gym, his hand draped over his son’s shoulder, his mouth near his ear, giving counsel she wished she could hear. Gail put the gift in her coat pocket, rejoined the other parents.

  “What’s the matter with that kid?” Paul asked her, nodding in the direction of Kevin and Danny.

  “His mother’s nuts. Certifiable,” Dana said.

  “So sayeth the woman who nearly got into a donnybrook this evening.”

  “I never said I wasn’t nuts. Besides, you knew who you were marrying. You can take da girl outta Bensonhurst, but you can’t take Bensonhurst outta da girl.”

  She kissed her husband, her anger a distant memory. Gail winced. How long since she had kissed Michael? A long while.

  Bobby and Pat Keegan emerged from the locker room, walked into the semicircle. The usual congratulations and idle commentary ensued. After a few minutes, Gail and Bobby broke away and walked toward the exit. Gail tucked her hands in her coat pocket and felt the gift. She was curious, but she couldn’t open it in front of Bobby.

  Only Bobby was no longer beside her. She turned and he was five paces back, leaning down to talk to a short girl who was staring up at him with lovesick eyes. Gail watched their interaction with a smile. When Bobby noticed her watching, he shuffled over.

  “Can we give Tina a ride home?” he asked. Gail tried to remember whether he’d ever mentioned someone named Tina. No, he’d never mentioned the name. Or any girl’s name, for that matter.

  She’d been a little worried, in fact, at the lack of girls’ names. Peter and Franky had shown interest—could barely hide their interest—at much younger ages and each had had a girlfriend, of sorts, by their sophomore years in high school. But Bobby had said nothing on the subject, had shown no progress in that arena, and he was a senior. Gail wasn’t worried about his proclivities—she’d found a magazine shoved between his bed and the wall; was disturbingly relieved when she opened it and found the right kind of naked pictures—but he didn’t seem to possess any ability or desire to interact with actual, living girls. He barely seemed to notice them and he never talked about them, no matter how delicately Gail tried to raise the subject.

  Yet, suddenly, here was Tina.

  “She lives in Eltingville, on Winchester,” he added, the words flying out of his mouth.

  “I hope it’s not too much trouble, Mrs. Amendola,” said Tina.

  “No trouble at all.”

  She was a sweet girl, cute as a button, and unfailingly polite. Everything was Mrs. Amendola this and Mrs. Amendola that. When they reached Tina’s house, Bobby got out of the car and walked her to the door. They didn’t kiss or hold hands. When he got back in the car, he offered no explanation. They drove home in silence and as soon as they walked in the door, he went straight up to his room, stopping briefly at the fridge for a plate of chicken cutlets and a jug of the ubiquitous yellow Gatorade. Gail waited in the kitchen for a few minutes, wondering whether she should say anything at all. She slipped the tip of her index finger into her mouth, gnawed at the worn nail.

  She had to know.

  She opened the door slowly in case he wasn’t decent. He was lying on his bed, still clothed, flicking a basketball up at the ceiling. His feet dangled off the edge of the bed. Thick headphones covered his ears, but he removed them when he saw her.

  “Jesus, Mom, you scared the hell o
ut of me.”

  “Who’s Tina?”

  His cheeks reddened, but the smile was irrepressible. She took another step into the room.

  “Bobby, is Tina your girlfriend?”

  He kicked his legs up at the ceiling like he was pedaling a bicycle. He started laughing; threw the ball against the ceiling and it ricocheted downward, hitting his stomach and then bouncing across the room. He sat up in bed.

  “Not just my girlfriend, Mom. The love of my life. The girl I’m gonna marry. The mother of my children.”

  He was dead serious. Right, she thought, sure. Heard this story before.

  “Easy, Romeo,” she said. “She seems very nice.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  She walked across the hall to her bedroom, euphoric from Bobby’s long-awaited progress with the ladies. Another worry crossed off the list. It had turned out to be a good night, the first one in a long while. She looked at Michael’s empty half of the bed and felt a kind of gloom creeping over her, threatening her good mood.

  Not today. He wouldn’t ruin today. She wouldn’t let him.

  The gift! She’d forgotten all about it. She sat down on the bed, reached into her pocket, and took out the tiny, rectangular package. She removed the red wrapping with a quick rip to find a small black box. With two fingers, she eased the lid off the box. A shiny, metal object lay inside. She tilted the box and the item fell into her palm. It took her a few seconds to identify it: a nail clipper.