Small Mercies (23 page)

Michael walks into the less populated kitchen, steps out onto the back porch to get some air. He is a little drunk. From the back porch, he can see the lights of Manhattan. He watches a ferry slink toward the city, takes a sip of beer. His gaze wanders over the low bulk of Brooklyn. He leans over the railing to get a better view of the Verrazano.

“Checking out the ginny gangplank?”

He turns, startled, and sees a bright red ember floating in the darkness on the other side of the porch.

“Incoming,” says an older man’s voice. A second later, a can of beer flies out of the shadows. Michael raises his right hand just in time to snag the can.

“Good hands.”

“Thanks.”

The ember disappears, then blazes full. He watches the red circle rise and move toward him until a burly man with a bald head and a thick, reddish brown mustache emerges from the shadows, a cigar trapped between his teeth. He walks up, stands against the railing next to him. He’s holding a large, yellow container—a Polly-O cheese tin, with the parrot in the chef’s hat—in his right hand. He takes the cigar out, raises the container to his lips, and drinks deeply. He points the stub of the cigar out toward the bridge.

“That fucking bridge is gonna ruin this Island.”

He turns back to Michael, looks him over.

“You played ball against one of my boys.”

“Yes, sir. I played football against Ryan. Baseball too. Michael Amendola.”

The man snaps a finger in recognition.

“That’s right. Amendola. Fullback.”

“And third base, sir.”

“Stop calling me ‘sir.’” He puts the cigar back in his mouth, moves the Polly-O container to his left hand, extends his right. “Gus Feeney. Pleasure to meet ya, kid.”

They shake. He smiles at Michael, his whole face creasing into an exuberant Celtic grin.

“You blocked for that little fucking rabbit Terrio.”

“That’s right, Mr. Feeney.”

“Shit, kid. If you don’t start calling me Gus, I’m gonna put this fucking cigar out in your eye.”

He raises the cigar in mock menace, laughing as he does.

“What are you doing now, kid?”

“I just got out of the army.”

“Well, hell, crack that beer, Private Amendola. Congrats.”

Michael opens the beer, takes a long pull.

“Were you in Vietnam?”

“For six months.”

“See any action?”

He wants to say yes, wants to impress the legend. But he doesn’t want to lie.

“Not much, sir. Gus. I got lucky.”

“Don’t be ashamed of that, kid. Better to be lucky than good.”

He drapes his elbows over the railing, leans over. The wood creaks; Michael worries for a moment that the whole railing might snap, sending them both sprawling into the yard.

“So what are you doing now?”

Michael takes another sip of beer.

“My father has a store, a butcher’s shop, on Hylan Boulevard. I’m working there.”

Gus spits a large loogie out into the darkness.

“You like it, working there?”

“I hate it. I absolutely hate it.”

He has never said this out loud to anyone, not even Tiny. He’s a little drunk, yes, but it’s more than that. Gus Feeney is a legend for a reason; the man has charisma. Michael has known him all of five minutes and already wishes he were part of the family, wishes he had seven brothers, wishes he had a father like Gus Feeney. He met men like Gus in the army—men who could lead other men—but they were all pricks. Gus is a rough-and-tumble uncle, a jovial soul who can give you a kick in the ass when you need it. Michael can just sense it.

“You’ll be all right, kid. We’ll get you straightened out.”

The back door opens and another reveler staggers out onto the porch. A scrawny, blond-haired kid, completely tanked. He walks over to the space between them, a crooked smile on his face. When he reaches the railing, he leans over and pukes. Michael watches Gus put his hand on the kid’s neck.

“Get it out. Get it all out, son.”

The kid vomits, sporadically, for another minute. After a few dry heaves, he rises up, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You okay?”

The kid nods.

“Good. Take a sip of this.”

He gives the kid a sip from his container. He looks over at Michael, winks.

“No man should go into the army sober.”

Gus pulls the container away, whirls the kid around so he faces Michael.

“Jerry, this is Michael Amendola. He played ball against Ryan. Michael, this is my youngest, Jerry.”

Jerry smiles, extends the same hand he used to wipe the vomit from his face. Michael shakes it. Gus points his cigar at Michael’s chest.

“We’re gonna make a firefighter out of him.”

* * *

The following Saturday, after Enzo closes the shop, Michael goes to the Feeney house to start training for the firemen’s test. Gus and his sons run him ragged, but he loves every minute. The following spring, he takes the test. In September 1967, after Gus pulls a few strings and gets his name bumped up the list, Michael enters the academy.

He graduates the same week that Jerry Feeney comes home from Vietnam in a box.

* * *

Tina looks happy, a little glow in her face. Michael gives her a peck on the cheek, a quick hug.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asks, as she shuffles some papers off the kitchen table. He sits. “Coffee?”

“Don’t bother yourself.”

“It’s already made. I’ll zap a cup for you.”

“No work today?”

“They have me down to three days a week. Barely enough work for that.”

“You could run that bank.”

She takes a mug out of the microwave, hands it to him.

“I’ll tell ’em you said that.”

He sits down across from her. She looks like she did back in those early years with Bobby: never far from a smile. Some people aren’t meant to be unhappy, doesn’t suit them. He’s always thought of her as family, the daughter he never had. He’s happy she met someone.

“So what’s up?”

He takes the sheet out of his pocket, unfolds it, slides it across to her.

“So when the boys were young, we’d only put in one entry for the family. Each of us would pick one team and Gail would choose the winner. I don’t know why we stopped doing it that way, but we did. Anyways, this year, I’m going old school. I already picked my team, so did Peter. I figure you could make Bobby’s pick. Sound okay?”

Her face widens in a broad smile.

“Sure. Sounds great.”

She looks down at the paper.

“You know I don’t have any earthly clue who’s good. There’s not as much basketball watched in this house as there once was.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Which region?”

“You have the Southwest.”

Her finger moves down the list, pausing occasionally.

“What’s this?” she asks, pointing to a line that has two teams instead of one.

“That was a play-in game. VCU won, so you can ignore the other team.”

“Good. I’ll take VCU.”

“But they’re an eleven seed, Tina.”

“Hey, you asked for my pick. That’s my pick.”

He pulls the sheet back across the table, scribbles in her pick.

“Can I ask why?”

“Those are my mother’s initials. Valentina Cara Ummarino. VCU.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

He has what he came for, but he wants to sit with Tina, have a chat, let her know he’s happy for her. Glad to see a smile on her face.

“You hungry, T.?”

“Always.”

“I’ll make you some peppers and eggs.”

“No, Michael, I can cook you some eggs.”

She stands, moves to the fridge.

“Tina, sit down. I want to cook. Please.”

She returns to her seat, assumes a pose of complete relaxation.

“Can’t argue with that.”

* * *

He slices bell peppers while Tina sits at the table. He doesn’t cook that much anymore. He misses it, the satisfaction of providing for others in the most basic way possible. He used to cook all the time at the firehouse, making communal meals for hungry brothers. He pours some olive oil into a pan, takes the eggs from the fridge.

“Hey,” he offers, eyes still on the pan. “Gail told me about your new friend. I think that’s great.”

“Yeah?”

She sounds surprised. He looks over at her, winks.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Thank you, Michael.”

“Well, you’re welcome.”

He pushes the sliced peppers and onions into the pan. They crackle in the oil, start to fry.

“What about Gail? How do you think she’s taking it?”

“She’s happy for you too, but you know, you get older, you don’t like change as much. You want things to stay the same. But, in her heart of hearts, I know she’s happy. I think she’s worried about how Franky’s gonna take it.”

“That makes two of us.”

“The two of you worry too much. He’ll be fine.”

It occurs to him that this is something he can do, something he can take off Gail’s plate. He’s gonna see Franky later. He can tell him, face-to-face. Let him know that no nonsense will be tolerated.

He adds the eggs to the pan, watches them scramble into shape. He sprinkles on some salt and pepper. He uses a spatula to slide the peppers and eggs onto rolls, walks over to the table with two plates, hands Tina one. They eat in silence for a bit.

“Delicious,” she says, between bites. He’s almost finished with his sandwich.

“I miss cooking. I used to do it all the time at the firehouse.”

“Can I ask you something, Michael?”

“Of course.”

“Why did you become a firefighter?”

The question catches him off guard. He hasn’t been asked it in a long time.

“Well, it’s hard to say exactly.”

“I don’t mean to pry. I just mean, how did it happen?”

“No, I understand. It’s a fair question.” He pauses, takes a sip of coffee. “Gus Feeney.”

Tina laughs. “Is that a person?”

“Yes.”

“Who was he?”

“He was a real character, a Staten Island legend. A big, boisterous guy. He had seven sons, all of them became firefighters. All except Jerry. He was killed in Vietnam. Anyway, Gus had all these sayings.
The Feeneys have fought fires on every block in the five boroughs
or
There will be a Feeney fighting fires until this city burns, and because of us, it never will
. He had three brothers himself, all FDNY. The department is lousy with Feeneys. I’m sure Bobby worked with a Feeney at some point.”

He tosses the last scrap of his sandwich into his mouth.

“Tell me more,” Tina says.

“They had this great old house at the top of Forest Avenue, overlooking Silver Lake. The house was on the verge of falling down, but no one seemed to care. The house was always full, someone was always laughing. You could see Manhattan from the back porch. Gus would sit out there in the summer, like a king surveying his kingdom. Beer in one hand, his feet perched on the half-rotted railing. He used to drink his beer out of a Polly-O cheese container, you know, the yellow ones?”

“That’s hilarious.”

“For whatever reason, Gus took a shine to me and he made being a firefighter seem like the most noble thing imaginable. Underneath the jokes, there was a sense of purpose. He took the job seriously, even if he didn’t take himself too seriously. He didn’t even consider it a job. It was a calling, something sacred. Hell, you know how firefighters are. The good ones, anyway. I was twenty years old, fresh out of the army, and had no idea what the hell to do with the rest of my life. Gus seemed to have things pretty sussed out.”

Tina nods, satisfied.

“Thanks, Michael.”

He glances at his watch. He needs to get to the Leaf.

“Sure. Any other questions?”

“Actually, yeah. One more.”

“
Marone.
”

“Something I always wanted to know.”

He exhales in mock frustration. “Go ahead.”

“How did you meet Gail?”

“Gail never told you?”

“No. And Bobby didn’t know.”

He stands.

“Sorry, can’t tell you.”

“C’mon.”

He walks to the door. She follows behind, whining. “Why can’t you tell me?”

He turns back, gives her a good-bye peck on the cheek.

“I made a promise.”

* * *

This was typical Tiny. He meets a girl—God knows where he met all these girls, but he did—and asks her out. She’s from Bay Ridge, suggests a bar in the neighborhood. The girl, Sheila, wants to bring along a friend. Tiny says fine. Enter Michael. They drive over the Verrazano together, Tiny scheming, Michael hoping the friend isn’t a complete horror show. Simple enough.

Except when they show up at the bar, it turns out that the friend is an absolute fox, makes poor Sheila look like a consolation prize. Most guys would shrug their shoulders, play the cards they’d been dealt. Not Tiny. He gets one look at the friend and decides to make a play for her. Screw gallantry, screw Sheila, screw Michael, screw the best-laid plans of mice and men. He starts flirting with the friend, who responds in kind, leaving Michael to deal with a rightfully pissed-off Sheila. He’s tried a few different times to engage her, but she keeps ignoring him, glaring at her friend and Tiny. He waves a hand in front of her face.

“Hey, I’m going to get a beer. You want something?”

“A Tom Collins,” she says, eyes still fixated on the treasonous couple.

Michael wanders down the bar, looking for an open space. He needs this like he needs a hole in the head. It’s been a rough week. His father was finally getting over the firefighter thing—it had only taken a year!—and then Michael tells his parents he’s thinking of moving out. Now, his mother isn’t talking to him. They would never fully understand. He can see the questions piling up on their faces, not getting asked.
Why would anyone risk their life for strangers? Doesn’t this life make you happy? Why do you need to move out? When are you going to meet a nice Italian girl?

Michael waves at the bartender. He’s about to shout his order when the guy sitting on the bar stool next to him tries to stand up and starts to fall backward. Michael reaches over, steadies him. The guy is in his early fifties, weighs next to nothing. He mutters something incomprehensible, slumps onto Michael’s shoulder. He is completely ossified.