The Weight of Him(47)

“What are you at out there?” Tricia asked, but he brushed her off. No one needed to know about the kingdom he was creating. They would ruin that on him, too.

This particular evening, he lifted tiny Michael and tiny Billy from the cottage and placed them on the ledge of the clay bridge, above its middle portals. The two set about fishing, their legs dangling over the rushing river.

Billy, an excellent fisherman despite his missing arm, catches something large and fierce on the end of his line. He struggles to reel in the catch, gripping the pole with both his good arm and his stump. Using all his might, he raises the fishing rod straight, facing the tip skyward. The fight the fish is putting up, it has to be a record-sized carp.

Michael also grabs hold of the pole, helping to keep the tension on the line and stopping the carp from spitting out the hook. Both toys pull and pull, and just as the carp tires and they think they have him, the line snaps, sending Billy backward onto the bridge and plunging Michael into the churning water below. Billy roars, feeling kicking sensations in his chest, and dives into the river. He reaches Michael and hooks his good arm and stump under the boy’s armpits. He drags his son to safety, the water ripping around them like dark cloth.

“It’s all over,” Billy says. “I’ve got you, Michael. I’ve got you.”

*

Billy revisited the cove, hoping hard he wouldn’t meet anyone he knew. Ever since the walkathon, he’d avoided people. He would have to face them eventually, and sooner rather than later—he wasn’t going to get where he needed to be with his weight, the march, or his documentary if he stayed in hiding—but he’d gladly delay exposure for a little while longer.

He reached an imaginary starting line on the beach, the sound of the ocean loud in his ears. He readied himself, his arms hitched and his feet pawing at the sand like a bull in the ring. With a roar, he started to jog. As of that morning, he’d lost those two pounds he’d gained plus seven more, and was now at three hundred and sixty-five pounds. Never again would he allow the hand of the scale to move in the wrong direction. He’d subsisted mostly on the performance shakes, juiced wheatgrass, fruit and vegetables, and a high-protein, low-carbohydrate, no-sugar diet. All his dieting wasn’t going to be enough, though. If he was going to shed half of himself as soon as possible, he would have to exercise every single day, and hard.

As he moved over the sand, he felt the need to hold out his hands in front of his barrel chest—afraid he would fall flat on his face. The pain in his knees and ankles snapped at him. His right leg hurt the most, the bones grinding. After only a few hundred yards, he had to force one foot in front of the other. With every stab of pain, he focused on all those who had sponsored him, and the naysayers he wanted to prove wrong.

Within minutes, he slowed to a limp, the pain in his right leg crippling. Every time his feet touched the sand, searing pain shot through his joints. He bit down on his lip and tried to continue, but the pain, the breathlessness, proved too much. At this rate, was he even going to be able to take part in the march himself? Tricia’s voice filled his head. You’ve made a show of us again. If he became too banged up to lead his own march … It didn’t bear thinking about. Defeated, he dropped onto the sand.

As the waves rose and fell, Michael’s long-ago pleas niggled. Don’t let me go. Then, when Billy had pulled Michael from beneath the water, how the boy had slapped and raged at him. Get away from me. Billy groaned out loud. His right knee and ankle felt as if someone were going at them with a knife. His breath came in short, tight streams. A cormorant dove into the glittering water, and then rose victorious, a blue-silver fish in its beak. Billy looked to the sky and out over the blanket of sea, at the almost impossible blues and greens, the world beating on, brilliant and glorious.

He struggled to remove his shoes and socks. After a messy effort, he got back up to standing. He removed tiny Michael from his trousers pocket and placed him inside his shoe, under the ball of his socks. He rolled his trousers legs up to his bumpy knees and limped to the water’s edge, the broken shells and sharp stones nipping at the soles of his feet. His toes tested the water, its chill making him shudder and roll his shoulders to his ears.

He pushed on, till the freezing water climbed past his knees. His waist. His chest. Almost out of his depth, he flipped onto his back and floated, the salt water lapping at his ears and mouth. His arms and legs scissored the water as fast as they could, fighting the chill. Seaweed touched his face. He chased away images of the brown-green tendrils tightening around his neck and tried to relax. As his limbs cut the water, he marveled at the sudden absence of pain, at the laws of suspension. Even as his teeth chattered and the Atlantic snapped at him, he remained floating. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so light.

*

A couple of days later, Billy stood in front of the Sports Center in town. As awful as it had felt to attend the AA meeting a while back, it was nothing next to his walking into this place now, about to sign up for a swimming pool membership, and then strip almost naked in public. He’d decided to give up his torturous efforts at walking, and his sad aspirations to build to jogging and then running. Instead, he planned to swim in the pool every day—much kinder, gentler exercise. The downside was that he’d likely meet people he knew while he was letting it all hang out. He reminded himself how surprisingly freeing the photo shoot with Denis had proved. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, either.