The Weight of Him(7)

*

Despite all his promises, Billy found himself hurrying along St. Patrick’s Street toward Seanseppe’s. He entered the eatery through the side door, always with that feeling of being watched. Instantly, the familiar, soothing aromas of meat, hot oil, garlic, and oregano calmed him.

His hunger rose up and chased off the last of his willpower. He was putting in a hell of a day at the factory. The least he deserved was a nice lunch. He would eat something light for his dinner, soup or salad, and tomorrow he would again walk three laps of his yard. Maybe more.

He waited in the shortest of the long lines, avoiding eye contact and the stares of strangers. Dr. Shaw’s warnings and his vows to himself wrecked his head. This would absolutely be his final feast.

Armed with his order, he drove to the relative seclusion of the car park down by the quays, away from most of the gawkers and that forever feeling of not wanting to get caught. His hands shaky, he started into the thick, salted, vinegar-drenched chips. The first delicious wad burned the roof of his mouth, but he kept eating. The chips gone, he went at the onion rings, his teeth sinking into the succulent mix of crispy batter and crunchy vegetable. Between bites, he pressed his tongue to the newly formed blister next to his molars, liking its stubborn resistance.

He stretched his mouth around the loaded burger and its mess of cheese, bacon, onions, and coleslaw. He slurped the sugary cola, making rude noises with his straw, and enjoyed its icy swim inside him. He bit into the bread-coated chicken and sucked the oil and crumbs from his fingers. His greasy hands broke the breastbone with a snap, its white meat coming apart like wet teeth opening in song. This was church.

Billy’s eyes fluttered with thanks and pleasure. His whole life, he could always count on food. From his earliest memories, he’d loved food’s colors, textures, and tastes. The way flavors went off in his mouth. How food distracted. Kept his mind still and his bad feelings quiet. Comforted. Pleasured. Sated. Filled him up. Made him feel in charge. A giant. Food made everything better.

At least it had made everything better. Finished, stuffed, Billy remained parked by the quays. His tongue pressed harder at the burnt bubble of skin on the roof of his mouth, flirting with the verge of bursting. His bloated stomach felt as though it were forcing his lungs up and into his throat. It was hard to breathe. He tried to reverse his seat, but it was already out as far as it would go. He shifted about, pulling his trousers bottoms off his middle and down around his knees. He slumped forward over the wheel with a groan.

Sweat turned his skin sticky. His heart was thumping so hard, he could feel its beat in his palms. Dr. Shaw’s warnings went off in his head. Maybe he needed medical attention? What if his heart gave out? This was how someone would find him, stuffed and slumped, his trousers down around his knees. He would die alone, too. Just like Michael. He removed the soldier with no chin strap from his trousers pocket and gripped the toy in his palm. He leaned back against the headrest and ordered himself to stay calm and his breathing to slow.

He felt almost human again and tried to rouse himself. He needed to get back to work. Yet he stayed parked. The clouds had shifted, letting the sun out, and the river glistened gray-blue, the color of Michael’s eyes. Billy had always thought it funny that the boy’s eyes matched the color of something that scared him so much—Michael terrified of bodies of water and of heights, bridges in particular.

*

When Michael was nine, Billy took the family on holiday to Kilkee. A record heat, the sun had never seemed so near. So much so, as soon as they arrived at the caravan park, they broke with tradition and put off unpacking and settling in. Instead, they headed straight to the beach—everyone giddy and grinning, shiny with suntan oil and excitement.

Billy and Michael entered the water, Billy intending to teach Michael how to swim. Tricia watched from a blanket on the sand, Ivor on her lap. John and Anna played next to them, building sand castles with bright shovels and buckets.

The deeper they moved into the water, the more Michael knitted himself together—his shoulders pulled to his ears, elbows at his sides, and his clasped hands twisted beneath his chin. “I want to go back,” he said, his voice shaking almost as much as the rest of him.

Billy finally convinced Michael to stretch out on his back while Billy held one hand beneath the boy’s narrow back and the other beneath his slender thighs. “Look at you, floating already.”

“Don’t let me go,” Michael pleaded.

“You’re well able to do it on your own,” Billy said, only half aware of the three boys playing in the water close by.

“No, I’m not!” Michael said.

“Relax,” Billy told him. “I’m not going to let you go until you tell me it’s okay.”

“Promise?” Michael said.

“Promise. Now, keep your arms and legs straight, and your eyes on the sky, your lungs full of air. That’s it, perfect.”

The three boys messing about next to Billy and Michael grew louder, splashing and shouting, trying to push one another underwater. Billy worried they would splash Michael and make him panic. “Take it easy, lads, all right?” he asked. “You’re not the only ones in the water.” He returned his attention to Michael, telling him to kick his legs as hard as he could. Michael obliged, tentative at first, but then slicing the water fast and strong.

“You’re doing great,” Billy said. “You’re practically swimming already.” Michael’s small, shaky smile grew. “Okay, let’s try this.” Billy dropped his arm from beneath Michael’s thighs.