Small Mercies

“And that’s the problem. If no one can come up with a solution, but a solution has to be found, then this — by being any kind of solution at all — is the best solution by default.”

He says nothing for a bit.

“You don’t look convinced,” she says.

“No matter what we claim in public, in private we all know that the only law and the only god is money. If you have enough of it, you don’t have to suffer consequences and you don’t have to suffer for your ideals, you just foist them on someone else and feel good about the nobility of your intentions.”

“Phew,” she says. “You’re cynical.”

“I prefer skeptical.”

“You can’t compare the public schools here to the private schools in the suburbs. It’s not apples and oranges.”

“Why not?”

“Because people pay for the right to...” She turns in the bed and looks at him. “Ooooh, you bastard.”

“Right?”

“You set me up.”

“I did not.”

After a bit, she says, “But something had to be done.”

He flashes on Mary Pat Fennessy in the morgue the other day. Talk about someone who believes something has to be done, no matter what the fallout is. Jesus.

“Yeah, something had to be done,” he agrees.

“Because if not now, when?” she asks.

He sighs and stubs out his cigarette. “There’s the rub.”

“Can I ask you something... delicate?”

“I’ll gird my loins.”

“You’re an Irish cop from Savin Hill,” she starts.

He knows exactly where this is going. “How come I’m not a racist? Is that the question?”

“Kinda. Yeah.”

He drinks some water. “My parents were, let’s say, difficult people. They’d both given up their dreams when they married, so to be their kid was, uh, not fun. They were angry and hated each other and couldn’t admit to themselves that they were angry and hated each other. So they drank and they fought and they found a million different ways to make us kids proxy soldiers on their battlefield. Then my mother got sick and died. And my father realized he’d loved her as much as he’d hated her. And that fucked him up even worse. So, when I say my parents weren’t saints, probably weren’t even good people, you can believe me.”

She’s watching him with a curious half smile. “Okay.”

“But they also weren’t racists. Something about the idea of it — the pure irrationality of it — offended them. They didn’t think black people were necessarily good, don’t get me wrong, they just thought everyone — regardless of what color they were — was probably an asshole. And to say you were less of an asshole because your skin was lighter was reprehensible to them. It just made you a bigger asshole.” He smiles, remembering their utter core contrariness. “There were only two big sins in the house on Tuttle Street — feeling sorry for yourself and racism, which, when you think of it, are two sides of the same coin.”

“I think I might have liked your parents.”

“Until the fifth drink,” he admits, “they could be a lotta fun.”

“What were their dreams?”

“Hmm?”

“You said they’d given up their dreams.”

“My father was a painter. Not a housepainter — well, he was that too — but a genuine artist.”

“And what did your mother want to be?”

“Anything but a mother. Or a housewife. I think she just wanted to be free.” He can feel her looking deeper into him than anyone’s cared to look for a long time. “What about your parents?”

“They wanted me to marry well. And live in the suburbs. And not need a job. I was always fairly certain I’d been a disappointment to them. But just before my mother died, she told me, ‘We never approved, but we were always proud.’ Isn’t that a weird thing to tell your kid?”

He thinks about it. “It’s nice, actually. She’s saying you took your path, and it wasn’t what she would have chosen, but you did well.” He finds himself flashing on Mary Pat Fennessy again, a woman robbed of both her children. Christ, he wonders, what could possibly give her the strength to get out of bed in the morning?

Fury.

Anguish.

Rage.

“You come from the upper middle class,” he says to Carmen, “but you left it all behind to help people. To actually fucking matter in this world. If I was your parent, I’d be proud of you.”

She taps his nose with her index finger. “If I was your mom, I’d be proud of you.”

“This is a weird conversation to have naked.”

“Ain’t it?”

She rolls on her side and he tucks in tight behind her and they fall asleep with the windows open to the night and the TV still on.

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