The Weight of Him(11)

“You’ve what?” John asked, appalled.

“What do you mean, Dad?” Anna asked.

“I’m going to ask people to sponsor my weight loss. You know, the way people sponsor your walkathon. I plan to drop two hundred pounds and to donate whatever money I make to the Samaritans, in Michael’s memory.”

Tricia’s face knitted. “Who ever heard of such a thing?”

“Exactly,” he said. “That’s why I think it’ll be so successful.”

“What’s the Samaritans?” Ivor asked.

“They’re named after the man in the Bible. They pick people up when they’re down,” Tricia said, her voice seeming to come from far off.

“Do we get to keep any of the money?” Ivor asked.

Billy laughed. “No, son, afraid not.”

“Not fair.”

“Of course that’s fair,” Anna said. She looked at Billy, her eyes shining. “I think it’s a great idea, Daddy.”

“Thanks, love.” He drew a breath, deciding to go all the way. “I also plan to lead a march through the village, to call attention to the suicide crisis and to demand more be done to stop it. The march would be an appeal to people in trouble, as well, urging them to seek help before it’s too late.” He could see it all in his head and it was terrible-beautiful.

He pressed on, even though it was clear from Tricia’s dark look she didn’t approve. “I thought July twenty-first would be a good date, Michael’s six-month anniversary. That gives us over four months. More than enough time. The weather should be nice, and there’ll be a great stretch in the evenings. We’ll walk through the village and out the main road to the roundabout and back, stop the traffic on all four motorways, make a right statement.”

Tricia’s fingers pinched the skin at the base of her throat, turning it an angry red. “Marches take place up in Dublin and in other cities, not anywhere like here.”

“My point exactly,” he said. “Something different, so people will take notice.”

“It would never work,” Tricia said. “People would be mortified.”

“She’s right,” John said with relish.

Billy quaked with hurt and disappointment. “People will get behind this, wait till you see.”

Tricia cleared the table with quick, angry movements. Anna and Ivor looked nervously at her and Billy. John lifted his plate and carried it to the sink. In addition to his grandfather’s square jaw and temper, he had his stiff-backed walk, too. Aside from that, though, it could be Michael crossing the room. John walked to the door.

“Have you nothing more to say?” Billy asked.

John swung around. “Like what?”

“Let him go,” Tricia said. “He’ll be late to training.”

Billy held John’s furious gaze. “I don’t know, congratulations, maybe? Fair play?”

“You want me to get excited, is that it? You wouldn’t be doing any of this if Michael hadn’t checked out and if you weren’t as fat as fuck.”

“John!” Tricia said.

Billy sat stunned, his lips parted and his eyes unblinking. John slammed the kitchen door closed. Tricia followed him, calling.

“Don’t mind him, Dad,” Anna said kindly. “He didn’t mean it.”

Billy nodded, unable to speak. Ivor seemed oblivious, punching buttons on his PlayStation, sending up rapid gunfire. The boy’s stomach pushed against the table. Breast buds poked through his school shirt. Tricia blamed Billy. “Monkey see, monkey do.”

“What did your mother say about gadgets at the table?” Billy said, suddenly cross. “Put that away.”

Tricia returned and ordered Anna and Ivor upstairs to do homework. As soon as they left, she started in on him. “You couldn’t have talked to me first, before you came out with all that in front of the children?”

“I thought you’d support me, thought you’d see the good I can do.”

Her blue-veined hand pressed her forehead. “My God, why would you want to bring any more attention on us?”

Billy looked down at his chubby hand on the table, his thick fingers moving back and forth on the wood, as if clawing. She wasn’t just referring to the scandal his size had caused them over the years. Her head was also full of accusations out of small mouths and dour faces, people saying Michael was selfish. Weak. Mad. A sinner. Billy didn’t know why she cared so much. To hell with those people.





Four

The next morning, Billy pushed aside his dread and readied to return to work. Yet his late-night fears about his public diet and march nagged. He told himself all of his concerns, all of Tricia’s, would be sent running once he got a strong show of support. For that, he needed to return to the factory and spread the good word.

He had almost made it out of his driveway when his father pulled up in his red Nissan. The seventy-eight-year-old strode toward Billy, one of his dark braces dangling off his shoulder and catching above his elbow, as if trying to get away. The old man brought his white head level with Billy’s open window, his pinched face shrinking his eyes and exaggerating his crow’s-feet. When he spoke, he revealed wet, pink-red gums that took up too much of his mouth. “Quare talk about you carried into Kennedy’s last night.”