The Weight of Him(76)

Before he could change his mind, he stepped into the camouflage pants. His stomach sucked in, he tugged the waistband and managed to make the button close. He pulled on the matching jacket and moved to the wardrobe mirror. He fussed with the front of the jacket, trying to let as much of his T-shirt show as possible, with its photograph of him and Michael and its slogan, Suicide Is Not the Answer! He rubbed his hand over the harsh feel of his fresh buzz cut and pushed his army cap down onto his shorn head.

A wave of grief came over him. Not only for Michael, and the brother and sister in Cork, and everyone like them. But for himself, too. He would never be able to explain to anyone how a part of him missed his ever-diminishing massiveness and its protective padding. Its hiding space. His shedding that cushion was like losing a childhood friend, a faithful shield that had wrapped itself around him for decades. It was terrifying to let all that go. To unbury himself and let himself be seen. It was the second-hardest thing he had ever done. Yet he was somehow surviving without Michael. He would survive this strange loss, too. Trembling with fresh determination, he drew himself up tall and saluted his reflection.

When he entered the kitchen, Tricia shook her head, her look of horror bringing back the evening of the march. “You can’t go dressed like that.”

“I’m sorry, I have to do this my way. If that news story last night hasn’t persuaded you—”

Her expression hardened. “It persuaded me, all right. Of the importance of keeping everything as normal as possible around here. Of not going on about suicide and copycats and mental illness, making all of us think on it all the time.”

He started to speak, but she pushed past him. “The children are waiting. I’ll let you decide if you really want them to see you like this.” She marched up the hall, her shoulder blades two sharp points in the back of her black coat.

He followed her into the living room. The children were sitting on the couch, also dressed in their best.

John shot to standing. “You’re not seriously going on TV like that?”

“Are you, Dad?” Ivor asked.

Anna looked miserable. “Please change, Daddy.”

Billy didn’t say that he already had.

In the kitchen, John, Anna, and Ivor trooped out to the car. “Last chance,” Tricia said. “Are you going to get out of that rig-out or do you want the whole country to think you’re an absolute head case?”

He strode out past her. The children stood waiting at the locked car. He continued across the yard, telling them to follow.

“What are you at now?” Tricia asked, furious.

He led them down the back of the garage and lifted the covers off the miniature village and its inhabitants.

“Wow,” Anna said. “It’s beautiful.”

“So this is what you’ve been at all this time,” Tricia said, a note of wonder in her voice.

Billy asked Anna to put the toys into the vinyl carrier and bring them out to the car. Ivor helped him to lift the village by its base and they carried the tiny world outside.

“Where are you bringing all that?” Tricia asked.

“It’s going on the telly with me,” Billy said.

“You’ve lost your fucking mind,” John said.

“John!” Tricia said.

Billy faced John. “I’m trying to do some good in the world, in your brother’s memory. For Christ’s sake, if you can’t get that by now—”

“What’s wrong with everyone?” Ivor asked, panicked. “Why’s everyone fighting? I thought this was supposed to be exciting, Dad going on TV?”

“No one’s fighting,” Tricia said.

Billy dropped onto the driver’s seat and slammed his car door closed. Anna also sat in. He found her in the rearview as the other three joined them, and gave her a look that he hoped said everything was going to be okay. She nodded, her lips pressed together. He could tell how brave she was trying to be. How much she wanted to believe him.

As the Corolla crossed the miles, hardly anyone spoke. Anna kept her attention on her phone and Ivor lost himself in his PlayStation. Next to Anna, John’s eyes had closed and his head bopped in time to the music thumping through his earphones.

*

Billy paced the “green room,” a term he’d learned from the show’s producer, in circles. At first he’d thought she was making a joke, but, no, it was the actual showbiz jargon. With his hand, he wiped the sweat from his forehead. Stage fright had resurrected his old cravings with a vengeance, and the tantalizing, spring-green walls inspired fantasies of chocolate-mint ice cream. Worse, the colorful array of food on offer tugged. His stomach bucked to get at the platters of strawberries, nuts, sausage rolls, chicken skewers, iced cakes, and countless chocolates. He reminded himself how little he’d enjoyed the bar of chocolate in the hospital and made a mental note to phone Shaw’s office on Monday, get that referral to a nutritionist.

He wondered who would watch the show. He knew Denis, Tony, and likely everyone else from the factory would. Lisa, too, from London. She’d had to travel again for her job, otherwise, she’d assured him, she’d be in the front row, cheering him on. Yet again his parents had opted to keep their distance. He had to believe they would watch the show from the secrecy of their sagging couch, if only out of curiosity. He’d also told Adam Simon and Jack Dineen he was on tonight. He wondered how many other families in the same post-suicide situation would watch. If the Hallorans would, the family of the double suicide down in Cork.