The Weight of Him(66)

In town, inside the newsagent’s, he scanned the Indo’s front page, his scalp prickling when he saw his head shot in the bottom index. The paper had used the photo from his End Suicide Now! website—his thick neck and naked, bloated shoulders on display in all their fleshy glory. Worse, the headline read “Massive Man Hopes to Halve Himself in Son’s Memory.” He turned to page twenty-two, almost ripping the paper in his impatience.

After the first manic scan, he read the article again. Jack Dineen hadn’t included the story about Michael rescuing the dog and then returning it with such grace. That story showed who Michael was. Jack had mentioned the quays, weather, seagulls, and the two women eating lunch on the bench, everything but the story about Michael and the dog. The women’s youthful, carefree laughter carried, striking a chilling contrast with the weight, both literal and figurative, that shrouds Billy Brennan.

He paid, eying the shelves of brightly colored sweets and chocolate, the shiny foil bags of crisps in various cheese flavors. The impulse to grab at his favorites and shove them into him was overwhelming. He abandoned his change and rushed out onto the street. When he looked up, his lungs too tight to work, the sun had climbed higher, but even its budding brilliance seemed like a stain in the sky.

*

Billy arrived home, queasiness stirring up his empty stomach. Why had he done the bloody interview? Why had he put himself out there like that for everyone to see? For everyone to tear down? Tricia sat at the kitchen table, the Independent spread wide. John stood next to her, also reading Billy’s profile. Tricia would have bought the newspaper in the shop after mass as usual, and likely had to withstand commentary from Caroline and everyone else in the place. He considered continuing past her and John, wary of what they would say, but remained rooted to the spot, unable to move. “I’m not happy with it, just so you know. He didn’t write what I wanted.”

Tricia didn’t look up. John’s attention also remained on the newspaper. On the counter next to the sink, Billy’s phone buzzed, signaling a text. “That’s been going off for the last half hour,” Tricia said. “Texts and calls.”

Billy had left in such a rush earlier, he’d forgotten his phone. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and finger, as if that could make all this go away.

“My phone’s been going off, too,” she continued, “calls from your mother, Lisa, Magda—”

“Christ.” On top of the empty, hollow feeling, his stomach cramped. He was going to be sick.

“What are you so upset about?” she asked. “I thought this was what you wanted.”

“I wanted the article to be about Michael and the great loss he is, and about doing something that matters in his memory. Not about the shriek of seagulls and those women, complete strangers, and waxing fancy about my size.”

“At least it’s well written and sympathetic,” Tricia said. “It’s not like he paints you in a bad light or anything.”

“Why would he paint me in a bad light?” Billy’s voice held a dare—a warning.

“This should at least bring in more donations,” she said. “And it’ll get way more people to pay attention to what you’re doing. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Adrenaline surged through his chest and up into his head, buzzing. He started to sweat, and to feel sicker. “I said, why would he paint me in a bad light?”

“Leave it.” She lifted her eyes to John.

“Don’t let me stop you, have at yourselves.” John marched toward the kitchen door.

Tricia made to go after him. Billy’s hand shot out, covering hers on the table. “No, I’ll go.”

She looked down, furious, but didn’t pull her hand away. To his horror, he spotted salt and grease on his thick fingers and a thin line of chocolate in the bed of his nails. He stared, disbelieving. Had he gorged himself on bars and crisps at the newsagent’s after all? Only imagined that he’d walked away? He blinked, and the stains disappeared. His relief only lasted a second. His family did nothing but make him doubt himself.

“If you’re not going to go after him, I will,” Tricia said, again making to get up from the table.

He pressed down on her hand, wanting to hurt her a little, to get all the ugly out. “Say it.”

She remained seated, her eyes glittering with tears and rage. “Fine. You couldn’t have made all these changes long ago, when it might have made all the difference?”

“What difference?”

She pulled her hand free and looked into her lap.

“Say it!” he said, making her flinch.

“If you had been stronger all these years, had acted the way you’re acting now, maybe Michael would never have done what he did.”

He felt folded over the electric fences on his father’s farm, the voltage zapping and burning him. He’d known this whole time she’d blamed him. He’d known, and yet he’d hoped. Tears stung his eyes. He wanted to rip out their ducts. See if he’d stand here in front of her crying. “Do you not think for the rest of my days I won’t be wondering that same thing?” His breath seemed as knocked about as the rest of him, unable to enter and leave him straight. He thought to go out to the garage and the other world he was making. Instead, he felt pulled to the empty living room. There, he closed the door behind him and settled on his armchair, Michael’s walnut guitar on his lap.