The Weight of Him(32)

Tricia touched her hand to his back. “It’s lovely,” she said, her voice faint. She and his father stood in silence, waiting for Billy to recover. Billy snuffled and rubbed at his eyes and nose, his hand robbed of the tingling sensation.

Billy’s father appeared to hesitate, but couldn’t seem to stop himself. “We weren’t sure if you would want us to order a second sculpture for yourselves, knowing how you feel about the farm?”

Billy’s jaw hardened. Of course he’d like one, too, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. Instead, he would create his own shrine to Michael. Something extraordinary.

When they returned to the house, Lisa asked if they liked the sculpture. Even in this, she insisted on praise.

“It’s lovely,” Tricia repeated.

“Lovely,” Billy said with less feeling.

During the meal, the stilted conversation stretched past the point of a hungry focus on food and started to feel uncomfortable. It didn’t lessen Billy’s unease any that he had to watch everyone else scoff his favorite meal while he downed chicken stew. Tricia had made the dish just for him, all-natural and low-fat, with no salt or potatoes. Her efforts well-intentioned, but the meal was as good as tasteless.

Billy’s father held a forkful of beef, gravied potatoes, and mushy peas at his mouth. “A pity, Billy. This is only gorgeous.”

“Daddy!” Lisa said.

“What did I say?” his father said.

Billy, refusing to give his father any satisfaction, struggled to look nonchalant. The old man’s attention jumped to John, a look of fondness coming over him. Billy’s chest constricted. His father was setting his sights on John now. The old man made mention of the match, kickoff just a couple of hours away. John again bragged about how easily they would win. He seemed to give no thought to Michael’s great loss to the team, to everyone. Tricia complimented Lisa on the delicious dinner, making Billy’s sister look almost as smug as his father and John.

*

When Billy was a boy, his family rarely sat together around the table, aside from Christmastime. He could still see, could almost smell, those long-ago scrumptious Christmas dinners—steaming slices of turkey and honey-baked ham, sausage stuffing with fresh herbs, mounds of mushy peas, mashed and roast potatoes, buttered carrots and parsnips, and all smothered in a dark, rich, delicious gravy. He’d loved Christmas. Not Santa Claus and the presents so much, although all that anticipation and excitement could make his insides quiver for weeks. No, it was the Christmas dinner he loved most of all.

For the Christmas dinner his family sat together in the dining room, at the fancy mahogany table. All four of them wore colorful paper hats pulled from crackers—gold-sheathed tubes that made the sound of shots and let the smell of sulfur hang in the air. Never had his family seemed to have so much as they did on Christmas Day. The food. The presents. The fun.

After the dinner and a dessert of his mother’s sherry trifle and whiskey-soaked Christmas cake, Billy would help his father clear the table and do the washing up. While they worked, Billy’s father would tell him stories, mostly about the history of the village and its families and their holdings, right down to the number and breed of animals. Billy’s favorite stories were his father’s memories from childhood, when he talked about catching frogs, or getting caned in school, or riding on barebacked donkeys till they bucked so hard they threw him off. Billy listened to his father’s every word, rapt. Never had he felt so close to the man, so close to being the right kind of son.

St. Stephen’s Day, they would regather in the dining room and eat the leftovers—without paper hats for the second go-around, but still with the food, chatter, and laughter. Every other day of the year they ate at the kitchen table. Those days, his mother fed Billy and Lisa their dinner when they came home from school. His father ate his dinner alone, much later in the evenings, whenever he finally came in from the farm. Maybe that was when Billy had first started to hate the farm, when he’d realized how much the land and livestock took his father away from them.

His mother ate every meal at the kitchen counter, standing between the sink and the fire roaring in the range. She said she hadn’t time to sit still. For years, Billy sat in the heat and smoke of that turf-fueled kitchen, thinking if he just stayed eating, just stayed sitting long enough, his mother would join him. But she never did.

*

The main course finished, Anna and Ivor took turns trying to fire peas into the other’s mouth. “Stop that,” Tricia said. “You’ll choke yourselves.” She turned crimson, her words lingering. Lisa rushed up from her chair, clearing the table while taking dessert orders.

Pavlova, Billy’s all-time favorite, was on offer, as was Neapolitan ice cream with strawberries. He refused both. His stomach sulked and kicked. Ivor wanted some of everything, his flesh straining against his Sunday shirt and pouring over his good trousers.

“Choose one,” Tricia said.

“Why can’t I have both?” Ivor asked, slapping the curls out of his eyes.

“Choose one,” Tricia repeated, her voice firm. He chose Pavlova. “A small amount,” Tricia told Lisa.

“Not fair,” Ivor said.

The desserts arrived. Ivor compared his small portion to Anna’s and John’s. “How come they get more than me?”

“I think someone’s eyes are a little too big for his belly?” Billy’s mother said.