The Weight of Him(23)

He would never forgive Deveney for not sending for him that morning. To think Billy was lying warm and dreamy in his bed while just a few hundred yards away Deveney was supervising the removal of Michael’s body. The boy had fallen into the arms of a paramedic, a total stranger, when he could have met the arms of his own father. How Billy would have held Michael. Rocked him. Begged him to come back.

Billy pretended not to see the sergeant and moved to the other end of the bar. There, he waited for Ben Kennedy to make his way over. When Ben finally deigned to serve him, the publican sounded as sour as he looked. “What’ll you have?” Billy ordered a fizzy diet orange. “That’s akin,” Ben said, “to going to the doctor and asking for sweets instead of tablets.”

Thumbs Tom, his eight stub fingers all the same size as his thumbs, laughed from a nearby table. “That’s a right one. Sweets instead of tablets.” He resumed his annihilation of a bag of peanuts, popping a load into his mouth and sucking the salt off his stub fingers. Billy’s stomach kicked at him, hungry, and so soon after dinner, too.

Ben placed the bottle of orange and a glass clouded with soap residue on the counter.

“I’ll take some ice, too,” Billy said.

“Ice?” Ben said, as if Billy had asked for fire.

“Correct.”

As Ben shuffled to the ice bucket, Billy made the mistake of glancing back at Thumbs Tom, the man working his stunted trigger finger over the mashed peanuts stuck to his gums. After a quick inspection, Thumbs Tom returned the wet mush to his mouth and swallowed. Billy gagged. Ben slapped the cloudy glass back on the counter, two miserly ice cubes inside. Billy gathered his courage and launched his stuttering spiel. As he spoke, Ben cocked his head to the left in that irritated way of the hard of hearing.

“What’s that?” Ben said, forcing Billy to start over and raise his voice ever louder.

“Mother of God, Big Billy,” Thumbs Tom said. “You’ll be on one of those reality TV shows yet.”

Kennedy pointed to the notice board over by the men’s toilets. “Stick them up there,” he said. Billy moved to the bulletin board with as much grace as he could muster. He felt people watching.

The notice board was a smother of business cards and flyers, advertising everything from massages, babysitters, day care, art classes, walking tours, and more. Billy pinned his two flyers dead center. He turned away, eager to drag himself and his sore ankle home, but his full bottle of orangeade called to him, consolation promised in its sweet fizz and the false sense of fullness it might give him, if only for a short while.

Just as Billy enjoyed a long, cold swig, Sergeant Deveney lifted his half-full pint from the counter and stumbled toward him. Stay away, Billy thought. Stay the hell away.

Deveney hooked his arm around Billy’s neck. “Big Billy,” he slurred. “Oh, Jaysus, Billy.” He swayed, his head and shoulders dropping forward and rearing backward, almost pulling Billy down on top of him.

“Whoa.” Billy dug his good heel into the sticky pub floor, trying to steady himself and Deveney both. Deveney, his head shaking and his eyes squeezed shut, wore the anguished look of someone trying not to remember. He mumbled through ale-wet lips, repeating terrible and looking about to keel over, his hand rubbing at the front of his shirt as if he’d spilled drink on himself. Billy pressed his hand to Deveney’s chest. “Stop, man, and stand straight, can’t you? Cut out your messing.”

“Your boy. Your poor boy.” Deveney jerked his head toward his shoulder, his eyes staring wide, his tongue sticking out.

Billy shrugged Deveney off, letting out a roar. “What are you at?”

The policeman shook his head, stumbling, mumbling. “No one should have to see that.”

Billy slammed his glass down on the counter and grabbed the front of Deveney’s shirt. “Don’t you ever mention my son again from that morning, do you hear me? Not to me, not to anybody, or by God I swear I can’t be held accountable for what I’ll do to you.” He pushed Deveney away and wiped his hands on the front of his coat.

Kennedy, everyone, stared. Billy, quaking, delivered a final hateful look at Deveney and turned to leave. Deveney lurched forward, as if about to hug Billy, his leaden movements channeling a zombie. “Get away.” Billy pushed again at Deveney’s front and rushed for the door, his insides quivering and his right ankle feeling as though it would shatter.

He arrived home, the excruciating walk fueled by rage, and struggled into his car. He sped to town in record time. From there, he continued for miles. Then stopped at a chip shop that seemed far enough away. He couldn’t risk being seen by anyone he knew.

He parked out front and remained behind the familiar press of the wheel, rage coursing through him. As soon as the chipper emptied, he hurried inside as fast as his bad ankle and tree trunk legs would allow.

“What you want?” the Polish server asked.

Deveney’s grotesque pose filled Billy’s mind, the policeman’s head tilting toward his shoulder, his eyes wide and glazed, his tongue hanging out.

The server spoke again, his impatient voice ringing inside the small shop. “What you want?”

Billy stemmed the roars that wanted to escape him. Roars to turn back time, to before Michael, before Tricia, before Billy had buried himself in his body. That was how far back he’d have to go, to fix everything.