The Weight of Him(13)

“I did,” Liz said, smiling, but he worried he saw more uncertainty than support in her eyes.

“Cover me for a sec,” Vera told Liz. “I’m going to make a pledge right this minute.”

“Thanks a million,” Billy said.

He carried his food tray through the canteen, avoiding his usual crowded table, and continued to the far, empty corner.

“Are you not joining us, Big Billy?” Bald Art called out.

Billy turned around. “Can’t, sorry.” He delivered a sideways nod, indicating the bulletin board. “All that food on your plates will only tempt me.” It was partly true. Mostly, though, he didn’t feel up for company. He also didn’t want to risk having to withstand any more negative reactions to his diet and march.

Bald Art and the rest of the group looked confused. Billy again indicated the bulletin board with a jerk of his head. “Go check it out.”

Seated, Billy started into the rabbit food, munching lettuce and crunching cucumber. He pretended not to watch while people gathered in front of his flyers, his hand curled around the outline of the soldier in his trousers pocket. Bald Art, and everyone in the place, it seemed, made pledges and then hurried over, full of congratulations and praise. Billy’s face hurt from smiling.

Yet as the clock turned toward the hour and the canteen emptied, Billy’s mood sank again. None of this would be happening if Michael wasn’t gone.

*

Inside the men’s room, Denis Morrissey availed of the urinal next to Billy. Denis, a numbers man from upstairs, wasn’t usually seen about the factory floor and Billy only knew him in passing. “Are you feeling all right?” Denis asked.

Billy wasn’t sure if Denis was referring to Michael, his sick day, or his frequent need to urinate as his meeting with Tony drew closer. “Fine,” he mumbled.

“I heard about your march and your sponsored diet, and I think what you’re doing is brilliant.”

Billy blushed. He and Denis had never really spoken before and he didn’t know much about him, other than that the thirty-something hailed from Dublin and had moved to town a few years back, after he married Frances Callaghan, but they’d since separated.

“My dad died when I was thirteen,” Denis continued. He looked away, facing the wall again. “It’s not the same, I know, losing a father and losing a son, not even close, but”—his voice wavered—“I understand death by suicide is a whole different story and takes so much more out of you.” He looked at Billy, his eyes damp. “I tell people my father died of a heart attack, but he didn’t. He hanged himself.”

“Christ, I’m sorry.” Billy finished and zipped up. “Let me just…” He raised his hands apologetically and moved to the sink.

Denis cleared his throat. “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

While Billy dried his hands, Denis worked the soap between his fingers and lathered and rubbed with the violence of a surgeon.

After, Billy thrust his damp hand at Denis. “Sorry about your dad.” The men shook hard. Billy again wished there were other, better things to say to people in mourning. He exhaled, grasping at some new language for grief. “Tell me about him?”

Denis looked taken aback. Then he sad-smiled. “He was a Dublin man, a welder. Made gates, mostly. He had his moods, but he was kind and funny, too, and really smart. The true gold, though, was in his hands. He could make anything. I often think of how he made a living from soldering things together, only to fall apart himself.” He recovered and brightened. “This one time, I’ll never forget…”

Billy listened.

*

Almost three o’clock, and Billy’s meeting with Tony loomed. Just as Billy thought he couldn’t stand to wait another minute, Bald Art appeared. “Big Billy, how’s it going?”

“It’s going.” Billy kept his eyes trained on the conveyor belt and its parade of toys. He didn’t need small talk right now. He needed to focus on his big speech.

Bald Art watched Billy work for a few moments. “I see you’re hard at it, so I’ll get right to it. I need to ask you about the missing seconds?”

Billy felt himself pale. All last week, he’d saved every damaged doll and soldier, bringing them home and hiding them in his toolbox in the garage.

“Why don’t you turn off the machine, Billy?” Bald Art sounded like one of those TV hostage negotiators. When Billy ignored him, Bald Art reached out and knocked off the power himself.

“What are you at?” Billy said, annoyed.

Bald Art leaned over the conveyor belt, trying to get a good look at the empty seconds bin. Billy got an up-close view of Art’s shaved head and its stud of black hair follicles. “There were no seconds for the entire week you were here, and then you went out sick yesterday and the seconds returned. Now you’re back, and again there’s none?”

Billy shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“What?” Bald Art asked, baffled.

“Does it matter where they go, as long as they don’t go to packaging?”

“Well, of course it matters.”

Why? Billy wanted to roar. And why was Bald Art going on about the seconds anyway? Didn’t he know Michael was gone? Did he really think Billy gave a crap about anything after that, least of all the protocol for the correct disposal of the seconds? The seconds didn’t matter, at least not to anyone except Billy now.