The Weight of Him(35)

*

Denis joined Billy in the canteen. They stood out among the scatter of navy overalls sitting about the tables, Billy in his signature, supersized navy tracksuit and Denis in a faded denim shirt and jeans. Between his clothes and his gelled hair, Denis looked more like a member of a boy band than a numbers man from upstairs. He had also opted for the green salad with chicken breast and vinaigrette dressing. “I’m going out in sympathy with you.”

Billy looked at his newfound friend with thanks, experiencing that same start of surprise he got whenever he found things in the wrong place—his car keys in the fridge, that barn owl flying in full daylight, that time he’d discovered Ivor hiding underneath his bed when the boy should have been at school. Billy could chat and joke away with people in the village, town, at the factory, and the football matches, but having as close a friend as Denis had fast become felt strange and thrilling. Nerve-wracking, too. He worried he’d somehow mess it up.

“How’s it going?” Denis asked.

“It’s gone actually, thirteen pounds and counting.”

“That’s brilliant, well done.” Denis high-fived him. “You’re going to do this, you’re going to go all the way.”

Billy grinned. “Yes I am.”

“What else is going on?” Denis asked.

Billy hesitated, but then confided in Denis about the AA meeting. “When it came to my turn to introduce myself, my mouth felt cemented shut.”

Denis winced. “You should probably have said something, all right.”

“What was I supposed to say?”

“You could have kept it vague, maybe said you were struggling like the rest of them and trying to find your way?”

Billy munched on his lettuce, wishing he’d thought to say something nearly as good as that. Denis chuckled. “Just as well you didn’t get talking to that sponsor they wanted to set you up with. You would have had some job trying to explain to her what you were doing there.”

Billy stopped mid-chew, another brilliant idea taking shape.

“I know that look,” Denis said, amused, wary. “What now?”

“You could be my sponsor—”

“What? No way,” Denis said. “You need to go to an OA meeting and get someone there to sponsor you. Do this on the up-and-up.”

“I can’t. Not yet, anyways. Maybe down the road. For now, you have to do this for me. I can’t fail, there’s too much at stake.”

“It wouldn’t be right. There’s an honor code to all this—”

“What’s more honorable than helping me stick to my diet so I can help save lives?” Billy said.

“Alcoholism and overeating, it’s not the same—”

“Addiction is addiction, how hard can it be? Come on, it’s all for the greater good.”

“I don’t know,” Denis said, faltering.

Billy grinned. “Thanks, sponsor.”

*

A long line of smoking vehicles clogged O’Connell Street, road works blocking an entire lane. The car clock read ten after four. The Samaritans’ head office closed at five. Move, Billy willed the traffic. Thoughts of Michael’s upcoming inquest made his right eyeball twitch. He would feel like even more of a hostage inside that makeshift courtroom in Moran’s Hotel.

He’d cut out of work at three o’clock, citing a migraine. He didn’t want that and the long drive to be for nothing. Tricia would go mad if she knew. He had worked at the factory for twenty years, though, and prior to Michael had rarely taken a sick day. That had to count for something. Besides, he really was getting a mother of a headache. His eyes returned to the car clock. Fifteen minutes after four. Cars honked and drivers shouted, adding to the clangor of a distant jackhammer. His head felt caught in a vise.

Pedestrians took advantage of the stalled traffic to cross against the lights. A brunette passed in front of his windscreen, her pale, freckled legs long and bare, her breasts jiggling. As she reached the pavement, he spotted the cut above her right ankle, as if the strap of her shoe had bitten into her. He imagined easing ointment onto her wound, imagined her smiling and murmuring thanks. She disappeared into the crowd. That lonesome feeling came over him again, that voice telling him he would end up alone.

On Marlborough Street, his luck changed and he found easy parking. He arrived at 112, an impressive redbrick building with oversized windows. He leaned next to the doorway, re-rehearsing his speech. The cool, hard brick felt good against his back. Just as he’d readied himself, a middle-aged woman passed, her skirt suit dark and fitted, her legs skinny above high heels, her lipstick a splash of cerise. Tricia used to wear a lot of cerise, in particular a cap-sleeved, short-hemmed dress from their dating days that he’d loved. It seemed so long ago, another life.

The woman doubled back and asked if he was okay.

“Yeah, grand, thanks,” he said, embarrassed.

She looked to the front door of the Samaritans. “Are you going in?”

“Yeah, I’m just taking a sec.”

“Go on so,” she said. “I’ll watch.”

He looked back when he reached the doorway and she nodded encouragingly. “Go on. Good luck.” He thanked her again, realizing she thought he was on the verge. His throat thickened. She’d seen him. She cared.