The Weight of Him(37)

Billy at last found Michael’s easel behind the old blue-painted sideboard that had stood in their dining room for years, before Tricia replaced it for something better. He removed the folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and taped it to the easel. After an Internet search for the most beautiful villages in Ireland, he had printed out this color photograph of Inistioge in Kilkenny. Inistioge sat nestled in the Nore Valley and boasted the remains of a Norman castle and monastic priory. Period homes and traditional cottages lined the streets, most whitewashed and several others covered in red and green ivy. More trees than people populated the village and its environs, clusters of firs, poplars, redwoods, chestnuts, and giant weeping beeches. He knew of the weeping willow, but not the weeping beech. As if those melancholy, copper beeches weren’t enough, the River Nore ran alongside the village, right under a majestic eighteenth-century stone bridge with ten arches—magnificent images both, and both representing Michael’s two greatest fears.

Billy placed a length of wood on the table and set about cutting and sanding it. He would first make the base for the miniature village, and then a thatched, whitewashed cottage to house the six tiny Brennans. After, he would build thatched cottages for the rest of his growing seconds community, and then make the ruins of the castle and priory. He would paint the river and create the stone bridge from clay, and also re-create the trees and wooded hills, and the meandering roads and walkways. He would make a wonderful new world, and there, he would teach Michael to not be afraid.





Twelve

The day of Michael’s inquest fell. Billy, Tricia, and John arrived at Moran’s Hotel, dressed in their Sunday best. To everyone’s surprise, John had insisted on attending, and looked about as ill as Billy felt. The three hurried toward the entrance, hoping they wouldn’t meet anyone.

They paused inside the hotel lobby, trying to locate the makeshift courtroom. A receptionist with a tall black beehive sat behind the desk, but they didn’t want to ask directions and dally in plain view. They would get this fiasco over with fast, put it behind them, and never make mention of it again. Even as Billy told himself these things, some force felt as though it were gathering inside him and would erupt through the top of his head.

They charged forward, Billy in the lead, half blindly following the signs. His anger and anxiety climbed. It was beyond wrong for the government to put them, anyone, through this, forcing them to listen to details that would burn inside them for a long time afterward. So help Billy, if anyone in here said “committed” next to “suicide.” He never used the term now. Never wanted to hear anyone else use it, either. Suicide wasn’t a crime. Its victims weren’t criminals.

He couldn’t decide if it would be better or worse if the autopsy revealed the presence of drugs or high levels of alcohol in Michael’s system. He even had wild thoughts of the coroner saying the results showed Michael was dying of some fatal disease or had suffered some personality-altering seizure, thereby explaining why he’d done what he did. Billy had other mad thoughts, too. Like the court revealing Michael hadn’t taken his own life after all, but was murdered. All these horrible scenarios would be easier to accept than not knowing, than Michael seeming to have had no other reason than that provided by the expert guesses of social workers and the police. They all said Michael had to have suffered unbearable anguish and utter hopelessness, and saw no other way out.

A woman called out Billy’s name. He spun around, seeing Delia Murray. A florist, she had supplied the flowers and wreaths for Michael’s funeral. “Ah, hello, there, how are you?” she said. “I’ve thought of you all often.” The three Brennans mumbled embarrassed hellos. “This is a pleasant surprise,” Delia continued. “What brings you here so early?” Billy wasn’t sure if she was making idle small talk, or fishing for news.

He, Tricia, and John looked at each other guiltily. “We’re here for a meeting,” Billy said.

“I see.” Delia looked unconvinced. Her attention remained on Billy, as if she was trying to figure out what had changed about him. He’d lost twenty-nine pounds.

Delia raised the green watering can in her hand, looking pleased with herself. “I do the flowers here.”

“Very good,” he said.

“Well, I’ll let you get on with it,” she said. “Best of luck with everything, now.”

They hurried down the corridor away from her. “Do you think she knows?” Tricia whispered.

“Who cares?” John said.

“We’re here,” Billy said, breathless. He pulled open the heavy wooden door.

Two tables stood at the head of the empty room, spaced several feet apart and covered with starched white cloths—the makeshift judge’s bench and the witness stand. A lonely-looking jug of iced water sweated on each table, a stack of glasses next to them. Behind the tables, two red-velvet chairs with thick wooden arms, and in front, a dozen gray plastic chairs arranged in three rows. Billy, shaking, checked the time on his mobile phone. Twenty-five minutes before the hour.

“We shouldn’t have come so early,” Tricia said.

“Where is everyone?” John also sounded rattled.

They sat in the front row and waited. Tricia’s pointer finger picked at the skin next to her thumbnail. “I’d kill for a cigarette.”

“You’ve time,” John said.