Small Mercies (8 page)

Anyway, that’s how Gail feels in their new house, like one of her father’s flickering quarters come to rest in a hidden corner of the booze-soaked wooden floor: spun in Bay Ridge and rotated right over the Verrazano Bridge and come to rest in this forgotten place, this fifth of five boroughs.

She can’t get comfortable, has never lived in a house before. Takes some getting used to, being in a place with more rooms than people. Their old apartment was tiny, just a kitchenette with a bedroom barely large enough for the bed. They lived there for three years, saving every penny so they could afford the down payment on a house. This house. Her house.

Her house. Doesn’t feel that way. Every wall is covered in hideous wallpaper: garish yellows, greens, and oranges. Nicotine stains cover the ceilings in the bedrooms and bathrooms; the old couple who lived here must have smoked themselves into the grave. Every day, she smells the ghosts of cigarettes smoked long ago in a new spot: in the cabinet next to the fridge, at the top of the stairs, even in the emptied-out shed in the backyard. Whenever she catches the scent, she thinks of blue smoke drifting out from between her mother’s brown teeth and her stomach churns.

Michael says he can’t smell anything, that she’s imagining things. He doesn’t understand, couldn’t understand. She can smell the brown mustard he’d smeared on the sandwich he’d eaten for lunch. She can smell the can of Schaefer beer Mr. Greeley, their new next-door neighbor, drank before he walked over to welcome them to the block. She can smell the chicken pot pie he’d had with the Schaefer, the Ivory soap he cleans himself with.

The nose of a pregnant woman is a wondrous curse.

Pregnant. Another thing she doesn’t feel. Well, most of the time. An occasional dab of nausea, precipitated by nothing at all. The supercharged sense of smell. And the other thing. But that’s it. Only in the last few days has she noticed a change in her stomach; the gaze of her belly button has drifted up, its bottom half pulled out ever so slightly by a nascent bulge.

The pregnancy. It is the reason for the house, its expedited purchase, the loan from Michael’s parents, the awful dinner with Constance, the silent walk home, the disorienting move.

She goes days without seeing a soul. No one to talk to. She draws stares at the market. Tight smiles that don’t linger. She can almost hear slack returning to cheeks when her back turns.

The house is cold and creaking. She stays in the kitchen with the occasional dash to the toilet. The phone sits in its cradle, no hint of agitation. In Bay Ridge, she had her friends and her job. Waiting tables wasn’t glamorous, but it passed the time, kept a few coins in her pocket. Michael doesn’t want her to work. He wants her to rest, to get the house ready. She can’t rest and she can’t ready the house either. There’s too much to do; it overwhelms her. So she sits and she looks out the window or reads a book, and when Michael comes home every day, he looks around at his unchanged home a little confused but says nothing.

She looks out at the trees; their black, barren limbs sway menacingly at dusk, threatening to choke the street itself. A few hundred feet away, an empty lot stands rife with them, foreboding and defiant. The whole place makes her long for the dense certainty of concrete.

Michael is always at work, either at the firehouse or with his father, making a few extra bucks, putting a dent in the loan. His father owns a shop: part butcher, part deli. Enzo’s Italian Delicacies. They make their own sausages, their own soppressata and fresh mozzarella. When Michael comes home from the store with a grocery bag full of food, Gail makes him shower, a quick rinse, but it does no good; she can still smell the meat and blood on him. He cooks and pleasant aromas—garlic in olive oil, the fry of onions, fennel, and pork sausage—fill the house, mask the stink of sinew and tendon on him. She watches him cook and feels useless.

He is excited.

“I bet it’s a boy.”

“Maybe.”

“It’s a boy. I can tell.”

“How?”

“Girls take their mother’s looks.”

“So?”

“You still look beautiful.”

They go straight upstairs, dinner unfinished, because when she isn’t sick to her stomach, she wants Michael desperately. This is the other thing besides the nausea and the nose. She thinks of little else. And when he isn’t around, she pretends that he is and touches herself, gently but still. She worries that something is wrong with her. He worries that they might hurt the baby, but the doctor assures her that sex is perfectly safe.

What about being so horny that you can barely read? Is that safe too? She doesn’t ask these questions.

When they finish, she cries. The hormones are fiends: happy, sad, feisty, horny, withdrawn, hopeless, angry. All in the space of thirty minutes. Ping-ponging from one to the next with no discernible pattern. Michael tries to comfort her, asks her what’s wrong.

“I’m lonely.”

She is lonely, yes, but also unhappy. A new feeling for her. She’s never been unhappy before, not really. Her mother hoarded the entire family’s unhappiness so the rest of them simply pretended it didn’t exist, despite all the evidence to the contrary. Gail couldn’t wait to get out, get away, and now that it was done, what?

Unhappiness.

“You’ll meet people. It takes time. Besides, in a while, you’ll have all the company you need.”

He rubs her stomach. She is already ready for another go. She feels out of control. No, that isn’t it. Controlled by some other part of her, one she never knew existed.

“I miss my mother.”

Words she never thought she’d utter. He frowns, furrows his brow.

“Hey, I have an idea. What if my mom came over, kept you company?”

“Michael, she doesn’t like me.”

“Of course she does.”

“She doesn’t speak English.”

“She does. It’s broken, but it’s English.”

“Broken?”

“Okay, it’s fucked up beyond all repair.”

Gail giggles and her breasts heave. The pregnancy has given her boobs. Michael reaches over and fondles one. He kisses her nipple.

“She can teach you how to cook.”

She slaps the unshaven cheek grazing her nipple.

“Are you trying not to get laid?”

“All’s I’m saying is you’re always saying how you’d like to learn how to cook.”

“I know how to cook. Open can, pour.”

“Man cannot live on soup alone.”

“Bread alone.”

“Whatever.” He rolls up on one shoulder, earnest as an altar boy. “Give it a shot, Gail. For me.”

She rolls her eyes, pulls him to her.

“Okay. Now shut up and fuck me again.”

She thinks,
I don’t say things like that.

* * *

A black car stops in front of the house and Maria gets out. Enzo beeps the horn and the car slowly rolls back into motion. Enzo drives like a man who learned to drive late in life, overly cautious, fixated on every detail. He performs a slow, precise K turn. The street is a dead end.

Maria ambles up the steps, one giant smile. She is a short stout woman with a ruddy face, a long thin nose, and stringy gray hair. She wears glasses that enlarge her eyes and give her face a slightly grotesque appearance. She looks like the den mother for a house of goblins. Enzo is handsome and dignified, despite his line of work and age. Gail would love to know how they ended up together.

Gail opens the front door, manages a smile. Maria hands up a bag of groceries from the store. She uses the railing on the stairs, helps herself up. She seems ancient to Gail.

“Grazie.”

She gives Maria a tour of the house. They walk from room to room. Gail comments on the first few rooms, speaks of their plans and designs, but after a while she stops, frustrated by Maria’s silent scrutiny. Maria inspects each room with the intensity of a drill sergeant: she knocks on doors, she flushes toilets, she opens and closes windows, she kneels down to peer under beds. They finish in the kitchen. Maria looks at Gail.

“Needs work.”

“Yes, you’re right. It needs work. We . . .”

Gail’s voice drifts and she turns to hide a leaking tear from Maria. For a moment, she’s afraid she might start sobbing in front of this woman who clearly dislikes her. Maria takes a hold of Gail’s arm; her fingers are surprisingly thin and delicate.

“Is very nice. Very nice. But . . . uh . . . needs work. Good?”

Gail nods.

“Good? Good.”

Maria puts on a white apron and produces a tiny knife with a chipped black handle. She starts taking things out of the grocery bag and putting them on the counter. Garlic, onions, a can of tomatoes, a few stems of parsley, sausages. She takes out a chopping board and goes to work, all the while using the little knife. She moves quickly. The kitchen gets heavy with smells. They’re like the smells that Michael’s cooking produces but heftier, more elaborate.

Gail tries to follow what Maria’s doing. The can of crushed tomatoes is opened and poured into a pot with olive oil and garlic sliced so thin it’s translucent. Another burner is lit, sausages are tossed into a pan. Maria adds things to the pot, she adjusts burners. A film of sweat appears on her forehead. Gail watches as a bead rolls down her nose and drips into the pot as she’s stirring it. She laughs. Maria turns, smiles, rolls her shoulders as if to say, “Hey, it happens.”

The aroma in the kitchen adds layers, blends into a whole with distinct notes. After a while, Gail realizes she’s no longer watching what Maria’s doing. Instead, she’s watching Maria: the crooked smile on her face, the lips moving silently, words in another tongue, conversing with ghosts. She’s watching someone who loves what she’s doing, who’s transported by it. She’s seen this look on Michael’s face.

The pot is on a simmer. Maria slides some cooked sausage and meatballs into it. She lowers a wooden spoon into the sauce, tastes it. She reaches for the salt, throws a handful into the sauce. She chops some herbs, drops them in too. There’s no recipe, no set of instructions; Gail will never learn to cook like this. It would take another lifetime, a different mother. Michael will have to learn to deal with canned soup.

A natural pause in the process. Maria ushers Gail to the new table, a housewarming gift from her and Enzo. She tears an end from a loaf of bread, dips it into the sauce, and hands it to Gail. She breaks off another piece for herself. She removes the cork from a half-full bottle of homemade wine. She ferrets out two glasses from a cabinet, pours a few mouthfuls of wine into each. She sits at the table, in a full sweat. Gail can smell her, an earthy funk, under the heavenly aroma of the sauce. Gail takes a bite of the soaked bread. The sauce hasn’t simmered long enough yet, but somehow witnessing its construction makes it more delectable than usual.

“Delicious.”

“
Grazie
.”

Maria pushes the glass of wine across the table at Gail, raises her own.

They haven’t told his parents yet, haven’t told anyone yet. Michael is superstitious, wants to wait until she’s three months along. He allowed her to tell her mother to explain the move and she didn’t even manage to do that. And it doesn’t seem possible that something is growing inside of her. She could say that she didn’t feel like a glass, that she didn’t drink in the afternoon, that she wasn’t feeling well. She could even take a sip, couldn’t hurt, and Lord knows she needs it. Maria holds her glass out, waiting. Gail pushes the glass away.

“Maria, I shouldn’t. I’m . . . we’re expecting.”

A quizzical look. She doesn’t understand. Gail thinks of a dozen euphemisms to explain, but none will help here.

“You know, I’m pregnant.” She points to her stomach. “With baby.”

Maria’s expression changes. She understands. She removes her glasses, puts them on the table. She stands abruptly, spilling a little wine. Gail stands in response, uncertain. Are they going to hug? Maria walks in front of Gail, grips her arms. She kneels on the floor and kisses Gail’s stomach very gently. Twice. When she looks up at Gail, her eyes are brimming with grateful tears.

And suddenly the pregnancy feels very real to Gail.

* * *

After Peter is born, Maria comes every day. She doesn’t need to be asked. She knows Gail is overwhelmed, that Gail’s mother will give no help, that her own son is working most of the time and trying to sleep when he isn’t. She knows that tending to infants is tedious, endless work: they eat, they sleep, they shit, they cry. She knows that the tender moments of immeasurable joy are surrounded by hours of frustration and anxiety and uncertainty. She knows that the soft purple of a newborn’s closed eyelids makes every mother think of death and drives her to do the silliest of things: wake a sleeping baby. She knows that caring for an infant requires the energy of the young and the patience of the old.

She also knows that Enzo will grow impatient with driving her to Michael’s house every day, so in the winter months before Peter is born, she forces Enzo to teach her how to drive. They practice on the street in front of Gail’s house, the car drifting into snowbanks. Gail stands and watches from the kitchen, her hands snug around the ball of her stomach. She sees Enzo’s frustrated gesticulations in the passenger seat, Maria’s shoulder shrugs in response. She tries not to laugh. Maria is learning how to drive so she can come help Gail. When she thinks about this, her eyes well up and her chest throbs with gratitude.

When she’s not learning how to drive, Maria teaches Gail how to cook. Sunday gravy, eggplant parmigiana, chicken cacciatore, osso buco, a lentil stew with sausage. Gail picks up a little Italian, surprises Maria a few times with a few words or a phrase. They develop a language, a means of communicating: some Italian, some English, a few hand gestures. In the quiet moments, Maria kisses her own hand, reaches over and touches the bulge of Gail’s stomach.

A host of incremental improvements occur in the run-up to the baby’s arrival: Gail’s cooking, Maria’s driving, the state of the house. Michael and his friend Dave Terrio, who everyone calls Tiny, work on the house on the weekends. They finish the baby’s room with two days to spare.

The tiny, spattered, shrieking pink wonder that Michael lays in Gail’s arms has a shock of black hair.