The Weight of Him(62)

“I beg to differ—”

“It’s about getting the word out on my sponsored diet and the documentary I plan to make, so I can help save lives in my son’s memory.”

Jack stabbed the point of his pen into his notepad, leaving dots of ink on the page like a dark blue rash. “Okay, then, if you insist. Why don’t you tell me the one story you think best captures Michael?”

“Only one story? That’s hard.” Billy thought for several moments, his hand rubbing at his mouth. “I remember Michael’s first day of school. He walked around the kitchen in front of his mother and me, marveling at how his uniform trousers, these navy cords, made this noise when he moved. The legs swished together, you know? I can still hear it. The delight on Michael’s little face, you’d think he’d just discovered the most wonderful thing ever.” Billy laughed softly. “Then there was the way he’d sing around the house. He was always singing. Right up to the end he was singing.” Billy’s voice broke. “It used to drive us mad, by times, to tell you the truth. Now, though…”

“Can you give me something more?” Jack asked gently. “Something that will really help readers know Michael?”

“Well, they can’t, can they?” Billy said severely.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“No, it’s okay,” Billy said. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”

“Please, take your time.”

Billy raked his memories. It made him feel a little sick that he wasn’t flooded with stories. It was scary how much he’d forgotten. How much he didn’t keep account. There were so many little things he could share about Michael, but to have to tell one story that was big and interesting enough for the newspaper?

He remembered the dog Michael brought home. Michael was eleven, maybe twelve. He found the half-dead animal in a field and carried it in his arms for more than a mile. It looked to be poisoned and Billy doubted it would live. Tricia and Michael nursed the dog, little more than a pup, really, around the clock for days. At last, its whimpers stopped, and when he fully recovered, he proved to be lively and lovable. Michael, a U2 fanatic, named the dog Bono. He, all the children, doted on that dog. Billy’s voice trailed off.

“Do you want to take a break?” Jack asked.

“We must have had Bono for a month, maybe more, when the vet phoned. The dog’s family arrived at our house that evening. Michael, John, Anna, and Ivor, they all cried. It turned out the dog’s real name was Duke. His family, the two little girls especially, were shrieking, and hugging and kissing him. They fed him chunks of roast chicken right out of their hands. When they put Bono, Duke, into their car, Ivor let out a wail. Michael wrapped his arm around Ivor’s shoulders. ‘Look how happy they are,’ he said. ‘Look how happy Duke is. We should be celebrating for them.’ That was the sort of lad he was. Kind. Very, very kind.”

Billy wondered if Michael could possibly have imagined that taking his own life was some form of kindness to himself.

Jack reached for the recorder on the dashboard. “We can leave it there for now, if you like, do the rest over e-mail?”

Billy shifted on the broken seat, rousing himself, and agreed to keep going. Outside, the two young women remained on the bench, their laughter piercing.





Twenty

Their neighbor Magda appeared through the back door, clips in her caramel hair, her face its usual color of bone. She spoke to Billy and Tricia in a rush. “I need to get to work, but come out to the car for a sec, I’ve something for you.” Billy pulled himself away from the Internet, still trying to find a filmmaker for his documentary—a search that was proving near-impossible.

Inside the boot of Magda’s car, a stone birdbath finished with shiny, colorful tiles. “I decorated it myself,” Magda said. “I thought you might like to put it right here in front of the window.” Billy and Tricia glanced at each other. Magda intended the gift and its songful visitors to distract them from the band of beech trees beyond the football pitch. Tricia hugged her. Billy nodded his thanks, not trusting himself to speak.

Back at the laptop, Billy received an e-mail from Jack Dineen. He’d given the paper an exclusive, and until his profile was published, they had him in a publicity chokehold and he couldn’t allow other media outlets to pick up the story and spread the good word. He speed-read Jack’s e-mail. His profile would run in two weeks. His pulse throbbed at his right temple. Jack could have written anything about him—and Michael. What if Billy came across as a sad, fat fool? If the article dishonored Michael somehow? Billy went over every moment of the interview again. There was nothing bad Jack Dineen could have taken away from their conversation. Was there?

Billy had also asked Jack for any leads on a filmmaker. Jack recommended Adam Simon. He didn’t know Adam personally, Jack explained, but the filmmaker had some nice credits, and also a special interest in suicide. Billy, his breath held, clicked through to Adam Simon’s website. The thirty-eight-year-old hailed from Dublin and boasted a couple of independent films and a Special Mention at the Cannes Film Festival. His website didn’t reveal any special interest in suicide, but a quick search of the Internet did.

Five years ago, Adam’s twelve-year-old nephew, Rory, took his own life. The story was all over the news for weeks and had sparked a nationwide debate on both suicide and guns in the home. Why would someone so young do such a thing? the papers had asked. Billy’s palms turned damp. He remembered the poor boy, all right. One of the youngest suicide victims on record.