The Weight of Him(51)

Those stories had delighted and impressed Michael, but Billy had faked them all. He had wowed his son with tales of a Billy Brennan who didn’t exist.

*

The week rolled on and Billy remained in Michael’s bed at night. Sleeping there proved to be a form of torturous rapture, like getting to almost touch the horizon, and every night he found himself going back for more.

“Why put yourself through that?” Tricia asked. “Put John and Ivor through it, too?”

He shrugged. “I sleep better there.”

Her face colored. Too late, he realized the unintended dig in his words, but before he could try to fix it, she spoke again. “We should get rid of that bed, and the bunk beds, too. Get two single beds in there for John and Ivor.”

That cold feeling came over him. How hard she was. How quick to move on. “The room stays the way it is,” he said.

Her eyes roved him, as if appraising his shrinking size, and she seemed to soften, seemed about to say something, but her expression hardened again. She grabbed her cigarettes and lighter and moved outside.

That night, Billy returned to Michael’s bed. He would never allow Tricia to get rid of it. He felt closer to Michael here than he did anywhere else. He could still smell the boy on the pillow and mattress—that faint mix of soap, sweat, and the spicy, earthy deodorant Michael had favored.

Those fading traces also almost drove him out of his mind, though, adding fuel to the rabid energy inside him that railed to get back to Michael that final night. To stop the boy from leaving the house. From cutting down the clothesline. From tying the noose. From climbing the tree.

From jumping.





Seventeen

Billy sat at the laptop, checking his website and social media accounts, his mood sinking. He didn’t appear to be very good at this publicity business. The attention the march was getting remained underwhelming.

“What are you doing?” Ivor asked, entering the kitchen.

“Nothing.” Billy lowered the lid of the laptop and turned around, forcing a smile.

“That’s a lie,” Ivor said darkly. He moved to the fridge, opened the door, and looked inside. He looked and looked. Something in Billy’s chest broke open.

Minutes later, Billy returned from upstairs and found Ivor still in the kitchen. The boy was on his PlayStation, a hunk of red cheese in front of him on the table. “C’mon, son, come with me.”

“Where are we going?” Ivor asked.

“It’s a surprise,” Billy said.

“Not another one,” Ivor said, sarcastic.

“You’re going to have fun, trust me.”

“If it’s something stupid…” Ivor warned.

In the yard, Billy dropped onto the driver’s seat, making its broken back shake. Ivor followed him into the front of the car, scowling. Billy turned the key in the ignition and released the hand brake, not listening to the voice that told him this could be another disaster.

*

At the edge of the swimming pool, Ivor sat hunched over himself, his thick calves and swollen feet in the water, turning blue. Billy wasn’t able to find the boy’s swim trunks and had packed the same polyester shorts Ivor had worn for the walkathon. They fit worse than Billy had remembered and seemed to be trying to castrate the boy. Ivor, his teeth chattering, hugged the rolls of fat around his middle and again refused to get into the pool. Billy had bribed the boy five euro just to emerge from the changing rooms.

“You don’t get a cent if you don’t get in,” he said, struggling to not let his frustration show.

“It’s too cold,” Ivor said.

“It’s not cold once you get in and start moving.” Billy loved the chill entry into the water, how its startle made him feel more alive.

“I can’t swim,” Ivor said.

“That’s the whole point, I’m going to teach you.”

“I won’t be able to stay up, I’ll sink.”

Billy fought to keep his cool. “You won’t sink, you pump your legs and move your arms, that’s what keeps you up. It’s like riding a bicycle. You took to riding a bicycle faster than Anna and both your brothers, remember? You were a superstar on your bicycle. You’ll be a superstar swimmer, too, wait till you see.”

Ten more minutes passed and still Ivor wouldn’t get in the water. Billy raised the bribe to ten euro, then fifteen, then twenty. “And that’s final.” Christ, what was he doing? If Tricia knew.

“Fine.” Ivor dropped into the water, setting off a spray. Billy’s attention jumped to the lifeguard, afraid he’d shout or blow his whistle. The lifeguard, young, muscled, looked away from Ivor, as if making a pity call.

After more coercion, Ivor finally stretched out on his back in the water and allowed Billy to support his fleshy torso and thick legs.

“Don’t let me go,” Ivor pleaded.

“I won’t let you go.” Billy couldn’t keep the shake out of his voice.

After several false starts, Ivor finally relaxed in Billy’s arms and floated.

“You’re doing it, Vor, you’re doing it,” Ivor told himself, elated. This was the first time Billy had heard the boy call himself by the nickname only Michael had used. That, and the smile on Ivor’s face, thrilled Billy even more than seeing his weight on the scale earlier. In four months, he had lost a grand total of forty-nine pounds. He would never have believed.