The Weight of Him(56)

“Daddy, your hair,” Anna said, shocked.

“You look like you have the cancer,” Ivor said.

Billy faced Anna and Ivor, trying to steady his voice. “Come on, it’s time to go.”

“They’re not going anywhere,” Tricia said, moving between him and the children, as if guarding them. “They don’t need to be put through all that.”

Anna and Ivor both looked like they were about to cry. They looked frightened, too. Billy made himself as tall and collected as he could and walked out the back door, the four T-shirts still on his arm.

*

The churchyard was empty. Billy’s eyes cut to his phone and back to the road. Forty minutes till seven o’clock and the start of the march. He moved through the graveyard, down to the back wall, and to Michael. The brass plaque on the temporary wooden cross gleamed, thanks to all the polish Tricia gave it. Aged 17 years. His throat felt as if it had a trapped bird inside.

On the afternoon of Michael’s removal from the house and transfer to the church, the hearse had rolled slow, slow over the five hundred yards of road. The six pallbearers and three-hundred-plus mourners followed on foot, Michael held high in his dark coffin. Billy rode next to the funeral director in the front of the hearse, too fat and unfit to carry his own son the short distance to the village and the beginning of his end.

Inside the church, Billy had insisted on swapping places with Tricia’s brother. He needed to at least carry Michael up the aisle and to the altar. He struggled along, his arm on his father’s shoulders, his father’s arm on Billy’s massive, sweat-soaked back. No one had wanted him to risk trying to carry the coffin even that short distance. But he’d shown them.

The next day, he carried Michael back down the aisle and out to the hearse. At the graveyard, he carried Michael to the open grave. It had taken all his strength, but he’d done it. Six months later, and Billy could still feel the weight of his son’s coffin on his shoulder. He stayed with the heavy sensation for several long seconds, a sob about to tear out of him. The coffin had left a red line, right at the point that connected Billy’s neck and shoulder. He had wanted that hot, tender mark to stay, but it had faded within days.

He plucked the dead leaves from the purple geranium on Michael’s grave. “We’re going to be all right, son. Your mother and me, your brothers and sister, all of us. You don’t worry about a thing, okay? You just rest in peace now, like you wanted.”

He returned to his car on shaky legs and stood waiting—the banner, bullhorn, stack of battery-operated tea lights, and photocopies of the drill song all inside the open boot of the car. He watched the road, his panic feeling bigger than the church behind him. Where was everyone? Just as he thought something inside him might burst, Denis drove up.

As Denis approached, Billy petted his buzz cut. “Don’t say anything.”

“I’ll try not,” Denis said, making light. He accepted the T-shirt intended for John and pulled it on over his denim jacket. He asked after Tricia and the children.

“They’re not coming,” Billy said.

“What? I don’t understand.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Billy said.

“Of course it matters.”

“Drop it, okay?” Billy watched the road, praying for the throngs.

The journalist, Jimmy, arrived. He’d sounded young on the phone, and looked even younger in person. Billy greeted him, trying to hide his dismay at the lad’s boyish pink skin, gelled hair, and lip piercing. Jimmy admitted the best he could promise was a short article in the online version of the local newspaper. Billy cursed himself. He should have held out for a journalist with more seniority to write up the event on a grand scale, not jumped at the first fella who agreed to cover it. Jimmy looked about, pulling a face. “Where is everyone?”

Just then, the director of the Samaritans, Sheila, showed up. Minutes later Kathleen appeared, the pretty social worker with that single blond curl at the front of her dark hair. After greeting both women, Billy’s attention returned to the direction of his house, willing Tricia to have a change of heart. He didn’t dare hope that Lisa would defy their parents and drive down from Dublin to join him.

His nearest neighbors, Magda and Peter, appeared with their daughter, Sorcha, a good friend of Anna’s and the oldest of their four children—four children, something the two families no longer had in common.

“Look at you, and your T-shirt,” Magda said, her tone tender but also unsure.

“Thanks for being here, it means a lot.” He looked behind her to Peter and Sorcha. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” the three chorused.

Magda scanned the small group. “Where’s Tricia and—”

“They’re all still up at the house. They won’t be joining us.” Before she could quiz him, Billy moved back to his car, busying himself.

At twenty minutes to seven, the football trainer, Molloy, appeared in his white van, followed by a short convoy of cars that carried the rest of the football team. Moments later, Ronin Nevin roared up on his motorbike. He and Billy exchanged nods. The boy’s visits to the house had dwindled in recent weeks. Truth be told, that was easier all around. Billy and Tricia would never get used to seeing him without Michael.

Billy handed Molloy a wad of song sheets to distribute to his team. Molloy looked from Billy’s buzz cut and down to the song. “I see you went all-out.”