The Weight of Him(60)

Billy struggled off the exam table and marched out. Slammed the door after him for good measure. Why the hell was Shaw telling him about his mother? What about supposed doctor-patient confidentiality? Billy didn’t need Shaw, anyone, to make him feel any worse than he already did.

*

The following week, Billy returned to work. He didn’t want to, but he had to. First thing, Bald Art was lying in wait. “Welcome back,” he said.

Billy grunted, and moved around the man, took his place at the conveyor belt. He didn’t want to see or talk to anyone, least of all Bald Art.

“You feeling better?” Bald Art asked.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“I’ll get straight to the point. I don’t mean to play hardball, but there’s clearly an issue with you and the seconds,” Bald Art said.

“What?”

“The seconds,” Bald Art said, his scalp slick and shiny under the fluorescent lights. “You’ve started taking them again.”

“So what?” Billy said. “Please, go away.”

“Like I said, I’m not trying to play hardball. I know you’ve been through a lot—”

“I’m serious,” Billy said, feeling at breaking point. “I can’t do this right now.”

“I’m going to have to ask you to cooperate, Billy, and to give me your word that the seconds will be disposed of in the manner mandated by factory policy.”

Billy shook his head. “Are you for real?”

“This is very real, Billy. We have policies for a reason—”

“What reason?” Billy asked.

“There has to be order—”

“Don’t talk to me about order—”

“I’ll thank you not to raise your voice or take that tone. I’m your supervisor, Billy. I’m also the one who could report you to management—”

“And tell them what?”

“Tell them you’ve been stealing factory property.”

Billy almost pushed Bald Art away. He would have, too, if the man hadn’t participated in the march. “Please,” he said, waving Bald Art away. “Go on about your business and leave me alone.”

“I’m trying to be understanding here, Billy, but I’ll have to insist you treat me with respect and that you toe the line.”

“I’m warning you, Art.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Oh, get lost, would you?”

“I’m not going anywhere until I get your word you’ll stop taking the seconds and will place them in the bin each day, as per your job description. Otherwise, I’ll have no choice but to take this further.”

Billy reached up and turned on his machine. He saw himself hauling Bald Art onto the conveyor belt and ferrying him on up to packaging.

“Do I have your word?” Bald Art asked.

“Yes,” Billy said through gritted teeth. He didn’t need any more trouble, or stress.

Throughout the rest of the day, anytime he dropped a damaged toy into the black bin, it felt like the nick of a knife at his insides. He wasn’t saving anything anymore.

*

That night on Michael’s bed, Billy couldn’t drift off, his body vexed by energy that demanded to be spilled. There was nothing for doing at this hour, except eating. He would knock out his own teeth, though, before he’d go back to secret pig-outs in the night. Secret pig-outs at any time. The march had changed the tide of things. Had made him feel like a loser. He needed to get back to feeling like he was in charge and in control.

Across the room, John’s snores climbed. Every so often, Ivor spoke in his sleep, mumbles Billy couldn’t make out. Tricia was on the other side of the wall. It sounded like she was pacing their bedroom, that floorboard that creaked going off every few seconds. Billy longed for her. For the way things used to be. For all the things gone from them. He shot up on the narrow bed, remembering the clothesline he’d cut down and had yet to dispose of. He rose in the dark and went outside.

He walked through the fields, toward the band of trees behind the football pitch. The same path Michael had taken that terrible night. Billy dragged the end of the rope along the ground like a snake, similar to how he imagined the previous clothesline had trailed Michael.

He stopped in front of Michael’s tree. Pitch-black, he couldn’t see Michael’s initials. He reached out, his fingers feeling the tree trunk for the letters, like reading Braille.

He uncoiled the clothesline, letting in a stampede of feelings. He knelt on the ground and took the gas lighter from his coat pocket. The rope caught, and burned and twisted. He watched it blaze. Liked how it lit up the dark.

When he returned home, the world still in deep black, he went straight to the bathroom. He weighed himself. Three hundred and forty-eight pounds. Jesus. He’d put on another pound, making a total gain of four pounds since the march. His resolve faltered, but only for a moment. He was done with wallowing. He opened the medicine cabinet and removed the electric shaver. He took the razor to his head, shaving the sprout of fresh curls to oblivion.

*

Billy easily spotted the journalist among the scatter of locals and visitors down by the quays. Tall, lean, and well dressed in beige khaki trousers and a starched white shirt, he was pacing up and down, talking on his phone. Billy remained inside the safety of his car, watching the sun again make the gray-blue river glisten.