The Weight of Him(49)

Just as he thought she would turn on her side and get back to the business of sleep, she dipped her head again and kissed him. He struggled to rise up toward her, part lifting, part rolling himself, and fell against her. “Sorry.” She was beneath him now and he rushed his lips back to hers. His hand slid from her neck and down her front to her small, soft breast. He caressed her, reverently, greedily, like rubbing a magic lamp. When he worked her erect nipple between his thumb and fingers, she made a little sound that he hoped was pleasure.

Oh, Tricia. He’d yearned for her for so long, this hardly seemed real. He’d thought they’d never get back here, never get back to the way they used to be together. He pushed aside the nightdress covering her soft skin and lowered his lips to her hard nipple. As he sucked, her hand rubbed the back of his head and her body arched against him. With a grunt, he drew up his knee as high as he could and straddled her thigh. His resurrected, burning flame of a penis humped against her, and in an unstoppable burst, he ejaculated.

With a soft cry, she pushed out from beneath the pin of his leg and torso and hurried to the bathroom.

He listened to the long run of water, imagined her wiping hard at herself.

When she returned to bed, she turned her back to him.

“I’m sorry, it’s been so long,” he said.

“It’s okay.”

He touched his hand to her shoulder, trying to turn her toward him. “We’re not finished. I want to take care of you, too.”

She scooted away, to the farthest edge of the bed. “It’s okay, I said, go to sleep.”

He rolled over. Quietly, secretly, he reached beneath the covers and touched his right knee, his fingers pressing the cap of bone. He waited for the flood of relief. As long as he could still reach through all his blubber and feel his bones, that always calmed him. He pressed harder, deeper, trying but failing to find the usual comfort in the solid knit of his skeleton.





Sixteen

One evening, Billy found John out back, cleaning cow shit off his Wellingtons. The boy, off school for the summer, was spending most of his time up at the farm, fulfilling Michael’s role. Billy’s stomach tightened. Had anyone asked John if that was what he wanted?

“You were up at the milking?” Billy tried to sound casual. John continued to drag his boots across the grass, leaving smears of shit. Billy tried again. “You like the farming, yeah?”

“God, Dad, just ’cause you didn’t.”

“I’m only asking.”

John started to walk toward the back door, holding his Wellingtons by the neck.

“It didn’t just happen to you, remember that,” Billy said. “The way you’re carrying on, it’s as though it’s somehow worse for you.”

John turned around. “I’m the one making out it’s worse for me?” He shook his head. “You’re classic, you are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, come on.”

“If you’ve something to say, say it,” Billy said.

“Forget it.” John continued toward the house and then whirled around. “Fine. Okay. You want me to say it? You never cared about much of anything before you got all these big ideas of yours, and now there’s nothing else for you but all that—”

“I cared about plenty—”

“No, you didn’t,” John said, his cheeks pulsating, his eyes full. “And why is it”—his voice shook—“I don’t think you’d care this much if it was about anyone else but Michael?” Billy followed John and grabbed his arm, forcing the boy to face him. “Take that back. That’s not true.”

John shrugged free and disappeared into the house, leaving Billy heaving hard. Billy’s hands curled into fists. The only thing he’d never cared enough about was himself. Jesus H. Christ. His now eldest son was a little shit. Nothing but a little shit. The cry Billy wanted to let out could cut the air. Why wouldn’t the little shit just let Billy love him?

*

After dinner, Tricia returned to the kitchen dressed in her tawny-colored coat. She announced she was headed into town with their neighbor, Magda, and a few others to see a fashion show at the college. “Right so,” Billy said, hiding his surprise, and his discomfort. It was hard to look at her straight ever since he’d spilled himself over her leg. It was hard, too, to see her trying to get on with things without him.

“Have fun,” he added, trying to sound like he meant it. He should feel delighted for her, getting out for a few hours with friends, having a few drinks, a few laughs. Life goes on. Instead he felt resentment, and a pang of jealousy. When was the last time she’d gone out with him, just the two of them?

She held out her hand, her stud earrings on her palm. Ever since she’d gotten her ears pierced as a girl, on the day before her mother’s death, she’d felt squeamish about her lobes and couldn’t put in or take out her earrings. He eased her lobe between his finger and thumb and inserted an earring, then fastened it in place with the gold backing. The second earring done, he dropped his hands reluctantly, wondering if this was the only way he would ever again get to touch her with any intimacy.

As Tricia drove out of the yard, the blare from the living room grew—the TV yet again holding his three children captive. Billy thought to go join them, but doubted they would even know he was there. He moved to the radio. Found a classical station. In the center of the kitchen, as the sinking day pressed on the window and car headlights sliced the gray, he remembered his first dance with Tricia, on the night they met at the wedding.