Small Mercies

They lift something out of the boat. They carry it through the dark, each man about four feet from the other. As they cross the road, they pass under the edge of the streetlight, and Mary Pat sees they’re carrying a duffel bag. It’s dark green, similar to the one Noel returned home from the army carrying, except she’s pretty sure this one has a zipper running up the center. George opens the trunk to his Impala, and they place it inside.

The car is only five or six yards away; Mary Pat can hear them pretty well now as Brian puts his hands on George’s shoulders.

“You tell those stoned-up Moreland monkeys I expect maximum bang for my buck.”

George nods.

Brian slaps George’s face. Not lightly. “You listening?”

“I am, I am.”

“You make damn sure they know they don’t do something makes the front page, we’ll dry up their entire fucking pipeline.”

“Okay.”

“And then you move the rest of the shit.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Not next month, not next year. Now. We clear?”

“We’re clear.”

“You’re not family, kid.” Brian steps in close and makes like he’s going to slap George in the face again, but at the last moment, he pats his cheek instead. “You’re just the son of the broad my boss fucks.”

“I know.”

“You what?” Brian’s voice is sharp.

“I said I know. I know.”

Brian Shea stares at him for a bit before walking back across the street. He drags his boat into the water with a few splashes and a few grunts, then engages the outboard and motors off.

An hour later, when George exits the expressway, Mary Pat thinks he must have made a mistake — instead of turning right toward Southie, he turns left toward Roxbury. She figures he’s distracted and will bang a U-ey soon, but he takes them deeper and deeper into the heart of Roxbury, down streets she’s never visited before, subsections of the city that feel as alien to her as Paris. But Paris is on the other side of the Atlantic; these streets are less than five miles from Commonwealth. It’s midnight on a Sunday, but some streets are as lively as a block party — coloreds mingling on their porches or gathered on the sidewalk around their cars. Other streets are dead quiet, not so much as an alley cat’s meow to break up the stillness. She feels eyes on her everywhere. Wonders if someone will just step in front of her car and scream, “White woman!” before they descend and tear her limb from limb.

That’s what they do around here, isn’t it? Wait for the unsuspecting honky, the disoriented whitey, the naive ofay? So they can show her who really owns these streets and how angry they truly feel.

She has no idea why they hate her so, but she feels their hate, in the looks she won’t acknowledge, the looks she doesn’t exactly see but knows are there, the looks that come from under the hoods of thick, sullen eyelids that clock her every movement.

Look around, a voice dares her.

She accepts the dare. Looks at the porches and stoops. No one’s looking at her. No one’s even aware she’s there.

And they’re not looking at George. Because...

George isn’t there anymore. An intersection glows yellow a block ahead, but George’s car isn’t at it. She accelerates, the fear suddenly overtaking her chest with the pounding of cymbals: I have no idea how to get out of here. She reaches the intersection and looks up at the street signs to her left — she’s on Warren Street, intersecting with St. James. She can’t tell if George went right or left. Can’t see his taillights. She looks up at the street signs again, this time to her right, and she wants to thank Jesus and the Holy Ghost and Saint Peter too that in a neighborhood this shitty, the street signs are actually intact, because it appears Warren Street splits two streets up the middle — to her left, St. James, but to her right, Moreland.

You tell those stoned-up Moreland monkeys I expect maximum bang for my buck.

She turns right on Moreland and accelerates. After one block, no George. After two blocks, no George. Resisting the urge to stand on the gas pedal, she keeps Bess at a steady pace. At the next stop sign, she looks to her right and sees the Impala. It’s parked on the other side of a playground a half block over. Parked beside a white van with its left rear door open. Three black guys stand with George at the back of the van. One’s tall and fat, another is skinny and short, the third is average height and build. They all have tall Afros and facial hair. They all wear glasses and turtlenecks. George is handing them items from his trunk, one after another after another.

Mary Pat’s no expert, and her vision is limited, but she knows a rifle when she sees one.

Why is a white drug dealer from Southie giving rifles to three black guys in Roxbury on the eve of forced busing?

Mary Pat presses her head to her seat back.

What the fuck is going on?

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