The Weight of Him(75)

Tony held up his palms. “Whoa, there, now, I think you might be getting a bit carried away.”

“I think, Tony, you might need to get a bit more carried away yourself, otherwise I doubt you’ll ever again see an upswing in company sales.” He told Tony about the stories he and Michael had made up about the damaged soldiers, and the stories Billy was still making up for them. He stopped, realizing he’d admitted to taking home the seconds.

Tony didn’t seem bothered. His thumb and finger went again at the sides of his mouth.

Billy kept after him. “You could sell the seconds, too, at this big Christmas sale. I can talk them up on the show. I’ll bring a few with me and tie it all in, say how just because something is different or broken it doesn’t mean it still can’t have value.” He thought of Tricia, of what she’d said about their family being broken and her being stuck, like it was something they could never fix, never come back from.

“That’s good,” Tony said, bucking now in his chair. “That’s really good.”

Billy smirked. “Looks like I’m not the only one getting carried away.”

Tony shook his head, his smile embarrassed. “Touché.”

“While we’re on the subject,” Billy said, “I was thinking you could do with making the toys more relevant and appealing.”

Tony’s expression dulled to defensive. “What do you mean?”

Billy mentioned the packed tour buses on the roads carrying schoolchildren and tourists, all chasing a bygone Ireland that was once heroic and great. “Right now our toys, as beautifully crafted as they are, are just toys, but what if we made them something special? If we had a whole line of heroes from Irish history and mythology, like Fionn MacCumhaill, Oisín, and Cú Chulainn, and the queens Medb and Niamh, and Grace O’Malley, and on and on. We make those kinds of toys and print storybooks to go along with them, and get all those tourists and schoolchildren to stop here and not just above at Newgrange.”

Tony performed a complete spin in his swivel chair and grinned at Billy. “I think you’re really on to something. You better say all that on the show, too, talk up this whole new line of Irish heroes we’re creating.” His hand swatted the air. “To hell with the board, I’m making an executive decision on this.”

“Great. And another thing, the toys have to have movable parts, their arms, legs, and heads.”

Tony pushed back on his chair, almost to the point of tipping over. “I don’t know about that, now, the costs—”

“I’m telling you, you’ll be well rewarded for the investment.”

Tony nodded. “Maybe. I’ll have to think about that.” He looked at Billy hard. “These new toys and the books, is this something you’d be interested in taking the lead on?”

Fear rushed in. Billy was no leader, no manager. To see his ideas to completion, though, and to make more money, that would be something. He inhaled, thinking, to hell with fear. Where had it ever gotten him? He nodded. “Yeah, all right, I would.”

Tony smiled, wolfish.

“That is, of course,” Billy said, “if there’s a raise involved, and royalties.”

Tony rubbed at the back of his head. “My God, man, you’re really pushing me into a corner now.”

A short while later, Billy strode out of Tony’s office, triumphant. It struck him he hadn’t once reached for tiny Michael in his pocket.

*

At home, Billy took a long, hot shower, taking pleasure in lathering and rinsing his shrinking body. His elation over his growing successes fizzed inside him. Successes that now included a huge promotion and besting Bald Art. He chuckled to himself.

He moved downstairs and into the living room. He knew straightaway something new was wrong. Tricia and the children sat staring at the TV, their expressions pained. A photograph of a young girl filled the screen, her hair blond and curly, her eyes bright blue. “Another one,” Tricia said, her voice as thin as the rest of her.

The girl was only fifteen, the sister of the nineteen-year-old down in Cork who had killed himself just three months ago.

“God, those poor parents,” Tricia said.

Billy could not come to grips with having to go through the shock and horror a second time.

The TV screen shifted back to the familiar face of the reporter. He was especially somber, saying suicide was now the leading cause of death of young people in the country, and young men in particular, even surpassing the record numbers of those killed in road accidents nationwide.

Billy and Tricia looked at each other, fresh waves of alarm coming off them. The number one killer went off in Billy’s head like a firecracker. Tricia powered off the TV. “Everyone, go wash your hands before dinner.”

That’s it? he wanted to shout. Go wash your hands? He rushed out of the house and into the garage, where he paced back and forth, fighting a frantic, sick feeling. He stopped, his hands squeezing the back of his head and his eyes fastening on the tiny world he was struggling to keep wonderful. Tricia, his parents, everyone, had better pay attention now. Had better completely and utterly support him in his takedown of the nation’s number one killer.





Twenty-four

A mess of nerves and hope, Billy laid the army uniform out on the bed, readying for his grand appearance on national television. He had a huge opportunity tonight to make people wake up and take a historic stand against suicide, a national killer and crisis. And he had to give it everything he could. He scanned the army gear again, drawing a deep breath. He’d found the uniform after a frenzied search of the garage, a Halloween costume from years back that he’d never worn because it hadn’t fit. It looked like it might now.