The Weight of Him(38)

“It might start early.” Her fingernail dug at her thumb, drawing blood.

“It’s not going to start early,” John said.

“Let your mother do what she wants,” Billy said.

“I want this over with,” Tricia said. “Before I get sick all over the place.”

Billy fetched her a glass of water from the witness table. “What are you doing?” she said nervously. “That’s not for us.”

“What are they going to do?” Billy said. “Arrest me?”

She took a long drink. “Thanks.”

These were the things to notice, Billy thought, a thirst quenched, a kind word, a seat beneath them, and warmth out of the cold. That was how they would get through this.

Fantastic smells wafted from the hotel’s kitchen—fried foods, roasted meats, and creamy, herbed sauces. A lid opened on Billy’s stomach, letting out a wail. He felt starved. He needed to eat. To stuff himself. At the very least, he deserved a little treat. No one could blame him for breaking out today, of all days.

He could be in and out of the hotel restaurant in minutes, could put away a burger, chips, and Coca-Cola in record time. No one need ever know. He could make some remark to the staff about it being for John and Tricia, then he could scoff the lot in the car. His mouth wetted and his eyelids turned heavy. He could taste the salt and grease and meat already. A little treat would calm him. Fortify him. After, he’d get right back on track. He’d never again cave.

The door opened and Sergeant Deveney entered. Billy’s stomach bucked. He hadn’t seen the policeman face-to-face since that night in Kennedy’s. Now the fucker had ruined his planned treat, too. A short, white-haired man with small round spectacles followed Deveney, a thick file of papers under his arm. Billy, Tricia, and John stood to attention, a sweat breaking on Billy that rivaled the condensation on the two water jugs.

Deveney nodded his hellos and introduced the coroner, Mr. Feeney. Feeney’s small eyes slid over Billy’s bulk and then darted to Deveney, as if to say, You weren’t joking. Billy pulled on his open cardigan, trying to drag the front panels around his drooping sides and middle. Twenty-nine pounds gone, but he couldn’t get any more give out of the garment.

Feeney offered his condolences. “I know this is difficult,” he continued, “but we’ll move through everything as quickly as we can, all right?” Billy and Tricia thanked him. John hung back like a distrustful dog.

Moments later, Kitty Moore arrived. She looked frightened, and as pale as her putty-colored coat. Billy still couldn’t get his head around the fact that the stubborn seventy-two-year-old had braved that freezing January morning to take her usual early ramble through the woods, little knowing what she would find.

He linked Kitty’s arm, guiding her to a chair, feeling her tremble. She and Tricia chatted about the loveliness of the hotel, and the perfume of the purple hyacinths out front. John sat with his elbows on his knees, his attention trained on the patch of gray-and-black-striped carpet between his feet. He worked his lower jaw left to right nonstop with unnerving speed. Billy experienced a fresh spike of panic. What if things ever got to be too much for John, too?

“You all right?” Billy asked.

John nodded. “Yeah, you?”

“It’ll be good to get this over with.”

“Yeah.” John’s attention returned to the striped carpet.

Beyond the large windows, the sky sheathed itself in a magnificent blue. Beneath it, the world marched on. Billy again wondered how Michael could choose to leave it all.

Ronin Nevin completed the gathering, dressed in his black leather biker suit, his gloves and helmet in his hands. Like the rest of them, his face looked whitewashed. Feeney called the inquest to order. Billy’s tongue fastened to the roof of his mouth. The pits of his shirt and the crotch of his underwear turned damp. He wished he could take off his cardigan, but didn’t want anyone to see the full size of him, or the cling of his shirt to his rolls, its dig into his grooves. Worse, he’d had to cut slits in the shirt’s side seams, to just about make it fit. When he was sitting, bubbles of fat bulged between the shirt buttons. He tugged again at his cardigan, trying to hide himself.

Feeney invited Sergeant Deveney to take a seat at the table next to him and deliver his report. Billy reached for Tricia’s hand, her palm slippery in his.

Deveney moved behind the table and glanced nervously at Billy. Billy recalled his parting threat inside Kennedy’s, warnings of what he’d do if Deveney ever again mentioned Michael and that morning. Billy sat straighter on his chair, pleased the policeman seemed afraid. People rarely took Big Billy Brennan seriously.

Deveney’s words rushed out like bats. He gave the date, time, and location of the discovery of Michael’s body. With the aid of the paramedics, Deveney cut Michael down and the boy was pronounced dead. The estimated time of death was between two and five A.M. His findings were consistent with death by suicide.

Every time Deveney opened his mouth, Billy felt as if the sergeant were sucking the air from his lungs. Blood filled Billy’s head to bursting and pushed against the back of his face. He struggled not to jump up and shout, Stop! Tricia rubbed at her eyes and nose with the tattered remains of her tissues, struggling hard to quiet her breathless crying. John’s foot bounced faster on the carpet. Divine smells from the restaurant filled the suffocating space. Billy was going to lose his mind if he didn’t get something to eat. Deveney kept on talking. Why couldn’t the policeman shut up? Hadn’t he said enough already? Michael was gone. By suicide. There was nothing more to say.