The Weight of Him(61)

Jack Dineen had responded favorably to Billy’s e-mail and wanted to profile him for the Independent, in their coveted Sunday edition. The news should have delighted Billy, but ever since he’d found out he felt riddled with fear and confusion, his need for publicity always pitted against this urge to lie low and hide.

He was vexed with himself for not doing more with the media before the march. Then he would surely have drawn a much bigger crowd. The truth circled him. Maybe he hadn’t sought more publicity because he knew people rarely took him, or anyone of his size, seriously. Worse, deep down he’d feared he would fail and that the more public he made his diet and the march, the more public he would make his disgrace.

But what of it, these small-minded notions of success and failure? What did they matter? He saw the elderly Dublin widow in the meeting after the march, her damp blue eyes. He also saw the parents of Rachel, unable to put their pain into words, and the parents of Finn, unable to say they now had only two children. Billy needed to push his fear and shame aside. He knew what really mattered. From here on out, he would rev everything up. He would circulate his pledge sheets ever wider and make phone calls to friends, neighbors, businesses, politicians, and the greater community. Everyone and anyone he could think of.

Jack Dineen finished his call and looked up and down the quays, his air impatient. Billy hauled himself and his dread out of the broken driver’s seat. He plodded toward the thirty-something, pulling down on the cling of his T-shirt and wishing Jack didn’t look quite so young, lean, and attractive. They shook hands, Jack’s grip strong, his smile wide. His eyes, though, held a hint of contempt. “Nice to meet you.” Before Billy could respond, Jack looked him up and down and, frowning, said, “Perhaps we should sit someplace?” He charged toward the row of benches painted that signature dark green.

When they were both seated, Jack placed a recording device on the bench between them. “Do you mind?”

Billy, still winded from his best attempt at a quick-march and trying not to breathe so loud and fast, stared at the machine. The device, not much bigger than a mobile phone, sported a dimpled silver ball at its top, like the decapitated head of a microphone.

“It also has video capability,” Jack continued. “Maybe we can—”

Billy’s hands shot up. “No, no, audio is fine.”

Something like glee flashed in Jack’s eyes. “So! Yours is quite the story, thanks for giving us an exclusive.”

Billy balked. “‘Quite the story.’ You said that with a bit too much enthusiasm.”

Something close to contrition crossed Jack’s face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound insensitive.”

Two young women, loud, laughing, walked past in heels, blouses, and dark, tight skirts. Jack glanced at them, admiring. The auburn-haired girl, the prettier of the two despite the heavy makeup, spotted Billy and immediately sobered, casting him a look of utter pity. Billy turned his attention back to Jack, the blood rising in his cheeks. “What do you want to know?” he asked sharply.

Jack tucked his chin, taken aback. He recovered. “Let’s start with your fund-raiser for suicide prevention. How and why?”

The two women sat down on the next bench. They pulled sandwiches out of white paper bags, still laughing too loud. The brunette sat with her back to Billy. The auburn-haired girl sat facing him. He watched her stretch her mouth around a fat baguette. As she chewed, her finger moved to the corner of her brown-red-painted lips and pushed an errant shred of lettuce into her mouth. Billy’s stomach growled.

“Billy? Are you okay?” Jack asked.

Billy took a deep breath. “‘How and why?’ I’m not sure where to start.”

Jack pushed the recorder closer to Billy on the bench. “Wherever feels right.”

Fear seized Billy. This journalist would try to get inside him, to see what made him tick. He could paint whatever kind of picture he liked of Big Billy Brennan, and of Michael, too. He would also try to get some sob story around why Big Billy was so enormous. He might also insist Billy explain how he could possibly have had no clue Michael felt such depths of despair.

Another burst of laughter erupted from the other bench. Billy winced. Jack glanced at the two women and back at Billy. “Would you like to go someplace more private?”

Billy stole a longing glance at the gray-blue river. He had thought this would be the perfect place. Reluctantly, he led Jack to his car.

Inside the car, Jack’s dark eyes strayed to the large gap between Billy’s shoulder and the broken driver’s seat, its defeated slope betraying the burden of him. Billy continued to talk, willing Jack to focus on him. He was trying to get across how special Michael was, how utterly senseless his death. “I don’t know,” he finished. “I suppose we have to accept something in him snapped—” The recording device on the dashboard buzzed, startling him.

“Sorry.” Jack grabbed at the recorder and changed its batteries. The recorder’s light burning bright red again, Jack asked Billy to talk about his own childhood.

Billy shook his head. “We don’t need to bring my past into this. This is about Michael and the here and now. About how I’m trying to help people like him, before it’s too late.”

Jack pressed him. “I think readers would really like to get a sense of you—”

Billy shook his head, his irritation returning. “This isn’t about me.”