The Weight of Him(14)

“Everything has to be accounted for,” Bald Art said. “That’s the issue, and right now everything can’t be accounted for, can it?”

As hard as Billy tried to stop them, tears stung the back of his eyes. “No, everything can’t be accounted for.”

Bald Art’s round cheeks reddened and he turned flustered. “Well, now, that’s all right. We just need to agree you’re going to go back to how we’ve always done things. Right?” he finished, almost cheerful.

“Right. Absolutely.” Billy just wanted this over with.

“Good. No sense in doing things different, is there? Not when the system works so well.”

Billy smiled wryly. “Oh, I don’t know, I’ve become a bit of a fan of doing things differently.”

Bald Art’s frown deepened. “I’m not sure I follow—”

“Don’t worry about it. Now go on. I’ve heard you loud and clear.”

“All right, then.” Bald Art moved off, but right before he disappeared around the corner, he glanced back. He looked worried, as if afraid Big Billy might have lost more than his seventeen-year-old son.

*

Billy arrived at Lucy’s desk, sweating and breathless. Lucy looked out over her thick glasses. “Did you take the stairs?” The silver neck chain drooping from her glasses shook as she spoke. “The stairs?” she repeated. He nodded, lying. She smiled. “Good man, keep it up.” She suggested he drink green tea, too, great for the metabolism and full of antioxidants. He wasn’t sure if she’d heard about his sponsored diet, or if she was just giving him unsolicited weight-loss tips, as so many others were prone to do. Either way, he couldn’t listen straight.

“If I can do anything for you or your family, Billy, please say the word.”

He nodded, his lips pressed together. She punched buttons on her desk console. “Billy’s here.”

“Send him right in.” The crackle of Tony’s voice sent a shiver through Billy. Lucy rolled her wrist and nodded encouragingly, ushering him forward. His hand dropped to his trousers pocket, feeling for the soldier. He pushed himself into Tony’s office.

Tony came out from around his desk, his arm outstretched. He invited Billy to sit down, but then looked dubiously at the steel chair in front of his desk. He scanned his office, seeming to search for a couch that didn’t exist, then looked at the floor, as if about to suggest they sit on the ruined orange-yellow carpet. Billy forced himself into the chair, trying not to grimace as its metal arms scraped over his hips.

“Oh, good,” Tony said, sounding much too relieved. He returned behind his desk and dropped onto his swivel chair. He rotated the chair, left, right, left, right, his thumbs holding on to the edge of his desk. As Tony and the chair moved, Billy fought feelings of seasickness. He tried to focus on a spot on the desk, to stop the dizziness, and gasped at the nicotine-poisoned air. Tony often ignored the ban and smoked out his top-floor window, liking to think he was above everything and everyone.

Billy tried to stop breathing so loud. His rapid, wheezing noises sounded much worse than usual, like a car engine heaving to spark. He held his breath. His lungs filled. Filled and protested. Sweat gathered on his eyelids and the back of his neck.

“How are you ever since?” Tony asked.

“All right, yeah.” Billy continued in a burst. “I have a bit of an unusual proposal.”

Tony’s expression jumped to guarded. “Is that right?”

“Yeah, the thing is, I’ve set a goal for myself, to lose two hundred pounds for charity, for suicide prevention.”

Tony joined his hands prayerlike and tapped them against his mouth. When no further response came, Billy considered bolting, but pressed on. “It’s in memory of Michael, obviously, and I was hoping the factory might match the donations that come in, euro for euro? It’d be great publicity all round, and it’s for a great cause.”

Tony pressed his pointer fingers hard to his lips. “Tell you what,” he said at last. “I’ll talk to my board members and get their take on it, yeah?” He raised his palms apologetically. “Don’t get me wrong, part of me wants to say, yeah, absolutely, I’m most certainly sympathetic to the cause, and I’m happy to make a personal donation, but it’s another story to involve the factory, especially in these recessionary times.” He spread his hands wide, like a priest calling people to prayer. “I’m just being honest here, Billy; if you don’t reach your goal, and the factory sponsored you, well, it’s just awkward all round, you know?”

A shiver rose from the back of Billy’s neck and over his scalp. He sat blinking, asking himself if Tony really had said all that. The bastard didn’t believe he would succeed. Billy licked his lips, fighting the feeling he’d lost his voice. “I am going to reach my goal, I can promise you that. I’m giving this all I’ve got, because people are in serious trouble. Did you know there have been over five thousand known suicides in this country in the past decade alone?”

“I didn’t actually—”

“There are now, like, ten suicides a week, and most of them are young men. If there was a serial killer knocking off that number of people, everyone would be up in arms, terrified they or theirs might be next, but the way it is right now, no one seems to care nearly enough.”