The Weight of Him(12)
Billy felt the sting of betrayal. John must have mouthed off about him and his plans. “I haven’t time for this, I’ve to get to work.”
“Oh, don’t let me keep you.” His father straightened and slapped the car roof. “You might want to phone your mother, though, and let her know there’s no truth to this march and sponsorship business. She’s in a right state.”
“I won’t be phoning her, then, unless you want me to tell her a lie.”
His father’s expression softened. “You’re not in your right mind yet, there’s none of us the same. Can’t you wait and see how you feel down the road? Get the first year over you, at least, before you go putting yourself and the rest of us through something like this. It’s too soon. Too much.”
“I can’t wait, there’s too much at stake,” Billy said.
His father curled his hands around the base of the window. “I’m telling you not to do this. You’re making a mistake. We’ll be all the talk.”
“That’s all you’re worried about, isn’t it?” Billy gunned the accelerator and pulled his car around his father’s Nissan, coming within a sinew’s breadth of the vehicle.
The entire drive to work, Billy seethed. The old man might have looked shaken by what Billy had said, but they both knew he’d spoken the truth. Billy was always all the talk. Even before Billy had become a fat boy, back when fat boys were a rarity, he was considered odd because he hated the family farm, and didn’t ever want to work it, or inherit it, either—a prison that would dictate to him for the rest of his days.
No one understood it. “What’s wrong with him at all?”
His father would look away, embarrassed, maddened. “I don’t know where we got him.”
Once, outside the church, when Billy was about ten, he’d overheard his father lament to Willie Birmingham, a neighbor and big-time farmer, “It doesn’t look as if herself has another one left in her, either, to give me a right son.”
Decades later, and Billy could still hear those words, as fresh as ever inside him.
*
Inside the factory, Billy hurried toward the black phone on the far wall, his head full of what he was going to say. The phone looked like a glossy insect on the red brick. Maybe it was a sign? Maybe he should rethink all this? No. He couldn’t let his dad, anyone, get to him. He grabbed the receiver and pressed Tony’s number, fresh fear blooming.
Right as he was about to hang up and let panic win, Lucy, Tony’s longtime secretary, answered.
“Hello,” he mumbled, his mouth dry and his tongue clingy. “It’s Billy Brennan.”
“Ah, Billy, how are you? No, don’t answer that stupid question. How could you be? How could anyone be? I’ve been praying for you all.”
“I know, thank you. Everyone’s been very good. Listen, I was hoping to meet with Tony sometime today? There’s something important I’d like to discuss.”
“Can I ask what it’s about? You know what he’s like.”
He hesitated. “I’d prefer not to say, he’ll find out soon enough.”
She put him on hold. He waited, his teeth soldered together.
She came back on the line. “Yeah, Billy, that’s fine. He’ll see you at three o’clock.”
He forced his jaw open. “Can he meet any earlier? Sometime this morning, by any chance?”
“’Fraid not, Billy. The man has spoken.”
*
At lunchtime, Billy entered the canteen on shaky legs. He pressed on past the food counter, struggling to ignore his bully stomach and trying to appear confident and purposeful. As he moved through the long rows of tables, all crowded with food and his fellow workers, he kept his eyes trained on the bulletin board at the back of the room, determined not to lose his nerve.
He hung both flyers, one for the march and one for his sponsored diet, the pins piercing him as much as the corkboard. People were either going to love his plans or think he had gone mad. He stood back to admire his and Anna’s handiwork. The flyers would never have turned out so well without her help. For the headings and borders, they’d used dark green ink, Michael’s favorite color. The pledge sheet’s header read Give for Every Pound Big Billy Loses & Help Save Lives. The second flyer read March Against Suicide & Help Save Lives.
Both flyers displayed the same color photograph in the top center, a shot of Billy and Michael taken last Christmas, just weeks before everything changed. Billy touched Michael’s pixilated face, his fingers lingering on the boy’s smile. He swore he could feel heat pass through his fingers and down into his palm.
Vera, a veteran canteen worker, greeted him at the food counter. “How are you holding up, Big Billy?”
“As well as I can, thanks.”
“Day by day, that’s all you can do.”
He swallowed and ordered a triple portion of salad, with extra boiled egg and the vinaigrette dressing on the side.
“Ah, God love you, are you still not well?” He realized she was referring to his supposed sick day yesterday. Embarrassed, he pointed with his thumb to the bulletin board and explained.
Vera’s smile split her face. “Well, if that isn’t the best ever.” She pulled her brown-stained apron over her head and called to Liz, another veteran, “Did you hear what Big Billy is doing?”