The Weight of Him(55)

He returned to his wardrobe mirror and pulled his supersized T-shirt over his head. He’d used the same photograph of himself and Michael on the T-shirts as he had for the flyers. His right hand moved to Michael’s face on his chest. Above the photograph, a slogan in dark green ink read, Suicide Is Not the Answer! He moved his hand, allowing Michael to look out of the mirror. He studied Michael’s pixilated face in the glass, again searching for any hint of the horror that was to come.

He pushed aside the ache and checked his wristwatch. He needed to hurry. He wanted to be down at the church a good hour before the march’s official start time. The journalist from the local newspaper had promised he would arrive early, too, as had Sheila Russell from the Samaritans and the social worker Kathleen Davey. It was hard to gauge how many in all would show. Local support seemed strong, but making a difference was going to require a lot more than just his friends and neighbors. He was hopeful of hundreds from all over, maybe even upward of a thousand—enough to cause a stir that would echo throughout the nation. He straightened in the mirror, his pose as rigid and proud as a soldier’s.

He moved downstairs, his mind going over the checklist that had looped in his head over the past several days. He’d hardly slept for weeks, unable to silence his litany of hopes and fears, his list of all he had to do. He needed to double-check that he’d put everything into the car, including the song sheets. Earlier, he’d returned to Ajadi in the stationery shop, to make photocopies of his drill song. It was an easy song to learn, mostly just a case of calling the refrain back to him, so the song sheets were probably unnecessary. Still, they would be a nice touch, and a powerful keepsake.

He couldn’t forget, either, to bring the bullhorn. He’d purchased the red loudspeaker versus the blue model that had first caught his eye, red more suited to the big effect. Denis would bring the video camera and extra batteries, to record the march and the meeting afterward, footage they would use in the documentary. Billy pictured himself and Tricia leading the marchers out of the village and onto the main road. They would hold high the supersized, double-sided banner between them, its signage reading in large green block letters, Suicide Is Not the Answer!

If today didn’t sway Tricia, didn’t move her to support him one hundred percent, then nothing would. She would see all he had put into his campaign and would, at last, be convinced. These past few weeks especially, he’d given the march everything he could. He’d knocked on doors, placed countless phone calls, distributed his flyers ever farther afield, and with Denis’s help had done his best to get the word out on the Internet. Now all he could do was trust that his efforts would bear fruit.

He hesitated at the kitchen door, willing his family to like the T-shirts and to get the military look to his shaved head. He reached for the doorknob, his throat thumping, and pushed himself into the room.

Tricia’s mouth dropped open, as if in a silent scream. She sank into her chair.

“Jesus Christ, Dad,” John said. “What have you done?”

Billy held up the four T-shirts draped over his arm. “I got one for each of us.” Tricia jerked backward, as if he were carrying venomous snakes.

“Don’t you see?” he said. “It will be like Michael is right there, marching with us.”

“Stop,” Tricia said.

He held out a T-shirt to John, who also recoiled. “No way, I’m not wearing that.”

Billy shook with temper. “Do you even care that your brother is gone?”

John lifted his square jaw, channeling his grandfather. “Did he care about any of us?”

“What class of a statement is that?” Billy said.

“It’s the truth,” John said.

“Your brother wasn’t in his right mind when he did what he did—”

The veins in John’s neck bulged. “Oh, for God’s sake, say it. Why can’t you ever say it?”

“You’re one to talk,” Billy said. “You’ve hardly mentioned your brother since—”

“Since he committed suicide.”

“Michael didn’t commit anything,” Billy said. “Don’t use that word about him, about anyone like him, do you hear me?”

Tricia stood between them. “Stop it, both of you!” She looked at Billy through the glint of tears. “Wear your T-shirt. Walk in your march. Do whatever it is you think you have to do, but leave us out of it.” Her voice wavered. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry, I thought I could, but I can’t. I want to try to put all this behind us, but you, you want to keep … I don’t even know what you want.”

“I want to do something that counts.”

“Just carrying on, that counts!” Tricia said.

“That’s not enough!” Billy said. “My God, are you telling me you won’t march in memory of your own son?” He glowered at John. “Your own brother?”

“Why should I march for him?” John said. “He’s done nothing but march around my head these past six months. I want to forget about what he did, just like he forgot about us.”

Billy drew out and slapped John hard across the face. Tricia gasped.

Anna and Ivor entered the kitchen. “What’s going on?” Anna asked. John’s hand dropped from his face, showing the angry red. Billy choked back an apology.