The Weight of Him(64)

He returned to the table and squeezed back inside the red leather booth. Thankfully, the food hadn’t arrived. Adam wore an expression of mild curiosity. “You all right?”

“Fine.” Billy steered the conversation to his End Suicide Now! crusade. “I want to help save as many lives as I can, and that’s where the documentary comes in. I’ve already gotten the names of families interested in taking part, those who have lost someone in the same way, and I plan to get more. I’m hoping their stories will really move people, make them realize that suicide is everyone’s problem—”

Adam pointed his finger at Billy. “I like you.” He lifted a ball of butter and picked at the salt granules with the nail of his trigger finger, the one he’d just trained on Billy. Over several long seconds, he went at the butter, seeming intent on stripping it of every last speck of salt.

Billy pressed on. “There’s so many people affected—we’re talking almost six hundred suicides last year alone, and those are just the reported cases—but all those families, friends, and communities left behind, they aren’t getting on board, at least not with anything like the numbers and enthusiasm I’d hoped. The Indo’s profile I mentioned—it’s coming out the weekend after next and I think that’ll really help to get the epidemic and my efforts the attention they deserve. At least, I hope so.”

Adam at last looked up from the greasy mess he’d made of the salt and butter on his hands. “Christ. People. It’s the whole Catholic guilt thing, and the stigma around mental illness. The anger and blame, too. People think suicides are selfish, that they abandoned them.”

Patrick Keogh’s angry face filled Billy’s head.

“Everyone thinks, too,” Adam continued, “that it can’t happen to them or theirs—” The food arrived, the succulent aromas from Adam’s steak snagging Billy’s breath. Before Billy could stop himself, he smacked his lips together.

“You’re absolutely on to something,” Adam continued, acting as if the food hadn’t appeared.

Ravenous, Billy couldn’t wait. He started in on his salmon and colorful salad. He ate slowly at first, wanting to appear polite and in control. Also, he was never much of a fan of seafood, and especially not salad. After just a few bites, though, he plowed in with pleasure and abandon. The entire meal tasted delicious—the seafood juicy, flaky, and topped with a sweet salsa; the salad a mound of arugula, tomatoes, cucumber, almonds, and all drizzled with a mouthwatering lemon-basil vinaigrette. Never would he have imagined such foods could satisfy him, let alone excite.

“You’ve got to make the kind of film that’s so harrowing, so compelling,” Adam said, “it won’t let your audience look away. Know what I’m saying?” He didn’t allow Billy time to respond. “See, most people won’t take a stand on things. Me? I cleaned my twelve-year-old nephew’s head off his bedroom walls. I can still see that wallpaper and its pattern of bright airplanes, a fleet of gray and green and yellow aircraft all splattered … It was like scraping at my own insides. As if I had also turned to pulp. After that, I’m up for anything, you get me? I only wish I’d caught his bedroom on camera, before the cleanup. That would make people think.”

Billy’s stomach lurched. “I’m sorry, how horrific.”

Adam reached out his hand and extinguished the candle burning in the center of the table. The flame out, he looked closely at his thumb and finger, as if checking for burns. Billy’s knife and fork remained poised over the last of his food, his appetite deserting him. Then Adam snapped out of his trance and started to eat with gusto.

Billy felt queasy. A high-pitched buzzing built in his ears. When he spoke, his voice sounded distorted. “The film I have in mind, I want it to be hard-hitting, of course, but I wouldn’t want to traumatize viewers—”

“Oh, I know, I know,” Adam interrupted, waving his bloodied knife in the air. “We have to spoon-feed viewers, I get it. Remember, though, you want people to stop looking away and to start taking action. Trust me, that’s going to require some harsh treatment.”

“I understand, but I want to emphasize, I intend the film to be inspirational and hopeful. It’s about raising awareness, yes, but it’s also about convincing the suicidal to seek help—”

“Yes, yes, that, too,” Adam said, sounding ever more irritated.

Billy, his stomach clenched, turned the conversation to their timeline. He hoped to complete the documentary as soon as possible.

“Suits me,” Adam said.

“And cost?” Billy asked, the ball in his stomach getting bigger.

“Leave the financial backing to me, for now at least. I’ve got some contacts I can work. Meanwhile, you need to do everything you can to get the word out, that’ll go a long way. Your profile in the Independent is a start, but it’s not nearly enough, you get me?”

“Yes, for sure, but I think once that runs, there’ll be a domino effect.”

“Okay, good.” Adam flashed his bright white teeth. “We’re going to make one mother of a film.”

Billy’s unease climbed. Adam certainly seemed to have the credentials and the hunger for the job, but he was strange, and maybe even crazy. Billy might never find another filmmaker with Adam’s expertise, though, or his passion and financial contacts. He reached across the table and shook Adam’s hand, catching grease and salt granules from the mauled butter ball. He moved his hand down to his lap, slyly wiping it on his napkin. Overall, things had gone well. Very, very well.