Small Mercies (28 page)

Gail threw in a few desultory, household complaints about Michael: socks on the floor, dirty dishes in the sink, drops of cold piss on the toilet seat. She took a sip of iced tea. Diana leaned back, her eyes made small by the girth of her cheeks.

“Jesus, you look great.”

“Stop.”

“Really, you look fantastic.” She paused, refilled her glass. “You lucky bitch.”

Gail rolled her eyes in disagreement, but it was true; she looked better than she had ten years earlier. Before the kids, she’d been skinny, devoid of the curves that turned male heads. And three pregnancies had taken their toll: varicose veins, a stubborn pouch of fat in her lower stomach, a softening and slackening of the major muscles. Any attempts to coax her body back to leanness had always been thwarted by the demands of motherhood. She barely had time to brush her teeth, never mind spend forty-five minutes trying to imitate Jane Fonda doing aerobics in a garish body suit.

So she spent fifteen years as a frumpy, disheveled mess. Who cared? Not she and not Michael and that was all that really mattered.

Midway through her forties, her body had coalesced into a curvaceous version of its former self. Her thighs, her hips, her rear were all thicker but contoured; four years of walking at night had transformed fat into muscle. Her small bust had navigated the ravages of time and gravity far better than the showstoppers of Diana Landini and her big-busted cohorts; it was still only a handful of tit, but at least it was in the right place. She was no rare beauty, she knew that, but age, in its fickle generosity, had treated her well. There were a few wrinkles, a few gray hairs, but they conveyed a contrarian idea: well-worn beauty. Beauty that had survived.

It happened to men all the time—bit of gray or white bestowed an air of wisdom, compensated for any physical decline—but women were stuck with the absurd monotony of male desire: young and thin, except where it counted, thank you very much. Anyway, she’d lucked out. Time had touched her, but gently. And her eyes hadn’t changed at all. If anything, the gleam within had grown more brilliant. In jeans and a sweater—her standard attire—she was pleasant to look at. Maybe even desirable, she allowed herself, on her better days.

She noticed the looks men gave her. In the supermarket. In the street. Even at school. Mr. Torrenson, the high school baseball legend turned gym teacher, walking past her classroom a few times a day for no reason at all. Mr. Williams, the principal, dropping in on her classes “to observe her teaching method.”

Right. Observe her ass while she wrote on the chalkboard was more likely.

Men were so transparent, especially teachers. Last year at the faculty Christmas party, Torrenson, a mess of black chest hair sprouting out of his half-unbuttoned shirt, had put his hand on her ass in a dimly lit corner of the school cafeteria. He leaned down, his thick tongue sliding between ruby-stained teeth, and whispered in her ear.

“Good God, Gail. I’d love to take you to the Victory Motor Inn and toss you around a room for a few hours.”

Then his tongue landed in her ear, encasing it in warm, brackish drool.

She reached back, grabbed his meaty wrist, and removed it from her backside. She took a half step away. Her voice was low but firm.

“Danny, I think you’ve had too much to drink. You’re forgetting about your wife and kids.”

He grinned, the dopey wide smile of an inebriate, and moved off in the direction of Edna Adelstein, the frizzy-haired music teacher who’d grown accustomed to being his backup plan at such events. When Gail left shortly afterward, Torrenson’s left arm was draped over one of Edna’s ham-hock shoulders, a clear plastic cup holding a pint of thin red wine at his lips.

Torrenson’s advance hadn’t shocked Gail. Torrenson was a well-known lech. What surprised her was the lowness of it: The Victory Motor Inn? With its room-by-the-hour pricing and pink bedsheets? Quite an offer.

She never told Michael, couldn’t see any point. Torrenson was a pig, but not worth making a scene. And it was nice, in a way, to be desired. Gail had never encouraged that kind of attention, but it was flattering, she had to admit.

Maybe she should have told Michael, sparked a little jealousy in him. Let him know that other men had taken notice, even if he hadn’t.

* * *

He grew more and more distant as the summer progressed. Something had come between them. It wasn’t a woman, she was sure of that. But what could it be? She didn’t know and not knowing scared her as much as the gulf between them. She wanted the summer to end. She wanted to go back to work, establish some semblance of routine in the house.

One night, a little before Labor Day, she came home from Diana’s and Michael was outside on the back patio, grilling a sausage wheel and some peppers for dinner. He turned and smiled when she stepped outside.

“Hey, here you are,” she said.

“Hey, here I am.” He rotated a green bell pepper with tongs. “Long legs is home too. We can all have dinner together.”

“Great, I’ll open some wine,” she said, before stepping back inside, her mood a bit lighter. “Been a while.”

It was nothing. A late summer barbecue, sitting at the kitchen table while the light outside refused to die. Sausage and pepper sandwiches on fresh bread. Bobby had taken a shower, smelled like soap for once instead of sweat. Michael was his old self again, laughing and smiling, touching her bare leg under the table whenever Bobby said something goofy. The closed intimacy of family sharing a simple meal.

She’d worried for no reason. Michael had been in a funk, that was all. Gail sat there, floating from the wine and the return to normalcy. This is what she’d imagined the whole summer would be like. She took a sip of wine, looked absently out the window as a car braked in the street to let a neighborhood kid retrieve a Wiffle ball. By the time she turned back to the table, it had already started to fall apart.

“Coach Whelan,” Bobby was saying, “says that I’m gonna be the starting center this year. Probably team captain.”

The words came out in a panicky rush. His eyes searched for Gail’s, looking for support. She watched Michael, whose face betrayed nothing. But she knew it was bad.

“But if I play football, I have to sit out the first five games, including the Thanksgiving eve game, and I can’t be captain.”

Bobby looked at his father, awaiting a reaction. Gail swallowed.

“So, no football,” said Michael. “That’s what you’re saying.”

Bobby’s eyes shifted to meet hers.

“Well, I guess, umm, I can’t be captain if . . .”

“Even though you made a commitment, even though your teammates are relying on you. That doesn’t matter to you.”

Bobby reached for a glass of water, took a long sip.

“I don’t look at it that way, Dad. I’m the backup tight end. I barely play. I’m gonna start on the basketball team this year.”

Michael wasn’t listening, was staring at the window.

“You’d rather run around in your underwear playing a nigger’s game.”

“Michael!”

He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up.

“Michael, sit down, please,” she said. She glanced over at Bobby, who was fighting back tears and choking down anger at the same time.

“Why? He’s already made up his mind,” he said, waving a dismissive hand in Bobby’s direction. He walked out of the kitchen, out of the house. She turned back to Bobby, who was crying openly, on the verge of sobbing.

“Bobby, he didn’t mean that. He’s upset that you’re not playing football, that’s all. You should have told him earlier.”

“When?” Bobby asked, his head tilted sarcastically, a tick picked up from his father. He stood, embarrassed that he couldn’t stop crying.

“Bobby, sit down. Let’s finish eating.”

She reached a hand across the table, but he stormed off and a minute later, she heard the familiar boom of the Wu-Tang Clan coming from his room.

“Fucking dandy,” she said, to the empty table. She finished her glass of Chianti in one swallow.

* * *

Weeks passed. The older boys came home for Labor Day, sensed the tension in the house, and quickly departed: Peter back to college, Franky back to the job, college on hold for another six months. Gail went back to work. Bobby went back to school. Michael went back to his routine of sleeping in, disappearing for hours at a time, and spending every night at the Leaf, in the company of hiccuping half friends. He went away for Columbus Day weekend, a golf trip down to Myrtle Beach with a few of the boys from the Leaf.

She spent the weekend pacing the house, rehearsing her remarks, preparing her arguments. She jotted down a few points on a piece of yellow paper, kept it in her pocket for easy reference. A summer of silence followed by a month and a half of bitterness? She’d had enough. He’d had his fun; it was time for things to get back to normal. As the weekend limped along, she replayed the events of the past few months and a sense of dread seeped into her. Their fight had distracted her, masked an absence that was conspicuous in retrospect: Enzo. She hadn’t seen him all summer, wasn’t sure Michael had either. Was there a dispute about the price? Had Enzo decided he wanted to hold on a little longer? She didn’t know what was wrong, but now she was certain it had to do with his father.

She came home from school the Tuesday after Columbus Day and Michael was waiting for her in the kitchen, his golf clubs propped up in front of the refrigerator. His face was red from sun and booze. He sat with his back straight, like he was expecting a confrontation. She sat across from him.

“How was the trip?” she tested.

“Fine. Few laughs.”

“Good. Glad.”

She felt like she was sitting in her kitchen with a total stranger.

“We need to talk,” she said.

“Agreed.”

She reached into her purse and pulled out the folded piece of yellow paper. Her list of points had spilled onto the other side of the paper.

“Before you start, Gail, I need to tell you something.”

She’d convinced herself there wasn’t another woman but was suddenly unsure. He spoke with the tentative air of a husband who’d lapsed.

“What is it?”

He eased the brim of his baseball cap back on his head, scratched the place where his hairline began.

“Danny offered me a couple of nights behind the stick at the Leaf. Tuesdays and Fridays. Every other Sunday afternoon.”

“Okay,” she said, relieved but confused.

“I’m gonna take them.”

She stared at him and he averted his eyes. Whatever it was, he hadn’t told her yet. Or maybe she hadn’t heard it. Tuesdays and Fridays?

“Bobby’s basketball games are gonna be on Tuesdays and Fridays,” she said.

“Really?” he asked, as though he hadn’t attended every one of them last year. “I forgot.” He took his hat off and scratched the top of his head. “Well, I can ask Tommy to switch me from Tuesdays, but I’d hate to give up Fridays. Busiest night of the week.”

“If anyone would know, it’d be you,” she said, unable to resist the shot. She was irritated—Bobby would be upset, though he wouldn’t admit it—but it was better than another woman. She looked down at her list. From the miasma of scribbled, angry words, Enzo’s name flashed up at her. She looked back at Michael.

“Wait, are you gonna keep these shifts when you take over the shop?”

She didn’t understand until the words were out of her mouth. He looked down at the table, ran his right hand in circles over its surface. He wouldn’t return her gaze.

“Michael, what are you telling me?”

“I think you know exactly what I’m telling you.”

He looked at her, mind made up, no discussion necessary.

“I don’t understand this. I don’t understand this. Why?”

He shrugged his shoulders, as though she were asking why he preferred vanilla ice cream to chocolate.

“I don’t want to be a butcher. Don’t want to smell like blood all the time.”

“You want to be a bartender, instead? Spend your time with drunks and winos? Smell like the inside of an ashtray all the time?”

Her tone was manic. He shrugged again.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Gail.”

“Michael, this is insane. This makes no sense.”

He stood, yawned.

“Your father will be heartbroken.”

“Well, sons don’t always do what their fathers want them to. Such is life.”

The line sounded prepared, like he’d been waiting weeks to drop it. She wanted to slap him. Slap his face until his cheeks bled.

“You’re not talking about Bobby? Tell me this is not about Bobby not playing football?”

He looked at her. His face was the picture of calm.

“No, Gail, no. It’s about me not wanting to be a butcher. That’s it.”

He yawned again, stretched his arms.

“I’m bushed. I’m gonna take a nap.”

She looked down at the floor, filled with a sudden, seething hate for him.

“You are such a fucking asshole. Such a fucking asshole.”

He walked away without responding. She heard his feet on the stairs. She noticed his golf bag. She stood and kicked it as hard as she could, sent it skittering across the linoleum. Not satisfied, she lifted it up and turned it over and the clubs dropped out, one after another, producing loud clangs as they fell to the floor. When the noise died, the word
divorce
was in her head, in a way it never had been before.

* * *

Gail laughs at the memory. Her eyes drift to the spot on the floor where she spilled all his golf clubs.

We knew nothing, she thinks. We were young and dumb and we knew nothing.

She’s hungry. She had a buttered roll for breakfast and nothing for lunch. And daydreaming about food hasn’t helped. She puts on a jacket and walks out to the car. She knows exactly what she wants: chicken cutlet hero with the fresh muzzarell and red peppers, oil and vinegar. She usually shops at the Enzo’s in Eltingville—it’s closer, has a better selection because it’s bigger—but when she needs a sandwich, she goes to the original.

The chimes above the door startle to life when Gail walks in. The display counter—antipasti, trays of prepared dishes, a selection of cuts of meats—is on the right. Opposite the display counter are shelves that hold boxes of pasta, jars of tomatoes, loaves of fresh bread. The smell is heavenly. She looks at the wall above the counter and spots the black-and-white picture of Enzo—Maria’s Enzo—standing outside the shop when it first opened. If you look closely at the picture, you can see a glimpse of Maria in the shop window, staring out at the photographer. Gail knows. On a handful of occasions, she has asked Enzo—the new Enzo—to take the picture down so she can inspect it more closely. The only other customer is an old lady who is pointing out the precise stuffed peppers she wants to an impatient teenager behind the counter. He picks up a pepper with tongs and turns it so the woman can inspect it through the glass. The lady peers at it for a few seconds before nodding her head yes. He lets the oil drip off the pepper and places it in a plastic container, joining a single companion.