Small Mercies by Eddie Joyce Read Free Book Online Page B

something else but not likely; good men mostly, solid, dependable men who work hard and don’t expect much of the world, but men who you look at across the table and think only this: you are not Bobby. You will never be Bobby.
    You don’t. So she stopped trying. Until her dead husband’s older brother called her and said, I have someone I’d like you to meet, and she demurred, and then he said, He’s a widower, his wife was killed in a car accident three years ago, and she thought, What the hell, and so they had one dinner and he made you laugh with his unexpected sarcasm and old-fashioned manners, then they had another and he made you laugh again, and then they had a few more dinners and then he met your kids. . . .
    “Have you spoken to Peter lately?”
    Wade’s question suggests news of some kind.
    “No, not really. Why?”
    “I think he and Lindsay are going through a rough patch.”
    “Bullshit. The Stepford couple?”
    “I think so.”
    He sounds grim, like a doctor giving an unfavorable prognosis. Tina wonders whether Gail knows. Peter’s the successful son, lives in Westchester, partner at a law firm. Gail always jokes that he’s gone lace curtain, but she’d be crushed if something actually impinged on his perfect life. Marital problems are for people like Stephanie and Vinny, not Peter and Lindsay.
    “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”
    “No, it’s not that. I just hope I didn’t put too much on Gail’s plate today. And Peter’s the golden boy, never does anything wrong.”
    He reaches over and grips her hand.
    “Sorry.”
    Stephanie’s teasing has stuck in Tina’s head; she was trying to turn this into something base, something vulgar. Not sex but money, Stephanie rubbing her fingers together. Tina looks out the front windshield and sees the blue span of the Verrazano approaching.
    “Do you care if we don’t go to Per Se?”
    “I guess not but . . .”
    “Get off at this exit. Here. Now.”
    The urgency in her voice surprises her.
    “Jesus.”
    He swerves toward the Lily Pond Avenue exit, cutting in front of a low-slung Camaro. Tina watches the car’s passenger window slide down. A Hispanic teen in a Yankees hat nonchalantly gives them the finger as the car reaccelerates away from them and climbs toward the bridge.
    “We have to cross over. Go back the other way. Make a left here.”
    Wade makes the left and after a few hundred feet, he pulls onto the shoulder, puts the car in park, and turns on the blinkers. They are parked underneath the on-ramp to the bridge, a half mile of quasi-tunnel. A few cars zip past, but the traffic is light.
    “Where the fuck are we going?”
    His usually placid face is curled with annoyance. Tina hasn’t ever seen him angry. She unbuckles her seat belt, leans over, and kisses him, shoving her tongue into his mouth. His anger fades and he responds in kind. She pulls away, a little, so their eyes are inches apart.
    “Only to get the best fucking pizza in the world.”
    She kisses him again, closes her eyes, and lets the world narrow to the entwining of their tongues.
    * * *
    Denino’s is packed. A throng of people stand in the crammed entryway, waiting to be seated. Families spill into one another at long planks of connected tables. Crews of oversize men squeeze into booths. A large group of teenagers sits in prim tribute to times gone by: girls on one side of the table, boys on the other, the space between them heavy with hormones. Old and young, sweaters and jeans, earrings and chains, pitchers of beer and soda, silver plates with bubbling pies, the air thick with the smell of garlic and oregano. A raucous, semicommunal pizza party; every soul in the room content.
    Tina and Wade slide past the crowd in the hall. The woman at the hostess stand—ancient, white-haired, Italian—gives Wade the once-over before taking his name. Wade navigates them to an empty stool at the bar, turns it so Tina can sit, stands next to her as they wait. He