The Weight of Him(78)

He struggled to come up with a response. The silence ticked. His attention jumped to his family. He could see the anguish in their faces, willing him to end the awful pause, but to not say anything crazy-sounding. He looked straight at Tricia. Her eyes urged him on. Anna, too. You promised, Dad.

He faced Maeve. “I’m just doing my best, you know? Trying to make something good come out of Michael’s great loss. It’s such a senseless waste.” He drew a breath, struggling to keep his voice steady. “In fighting to keep others alive, I’m also trying to keep Michael’s memory alive and to give his too-short life the most meaning possible.”

“This has become your life’s work,” Maeve said.

“Exactly,” he said, struggling not to break down. “In Michael’s name.”

Applause erupted. As soon as the audience quieted, he continued. “I’m wearing this uniform tonight to show people how serious I am and how hard I’m willing to fight to save lives, raise awareness, and bring about positive change. I’m on a mission and I intend to succeed.”

The audience broke into more loud and long applause. In closing, Maeve thanked him for his passion and plugged the making of his documentary. “Best of luck with the film, Billy, and with your sponsored weight loss. With all of it. You’re terrific.” She turned to Tricia and the children and again offered her condolences. They smiled bravely. Billy looked down at the coffee table and the miniature village. There, outside the cottage, stood his tiny family of six, the center of his kingdom.

*

There was high chatter on the drive home. “You were brilliant,” Anna said.

“Yeah, everyone kept clapping and clapping,” Ivor said.

John remained quiet on the backseat. Just as his silence threatened to sour the mood, his hand reached out and curled around the top of Billy’s shoulder, pressing his collarbone. “Well done, Dad.”

“Thanks, son.” Billy put all the feeling in his every fiber into those two words.

True to form, Lisa and Denis phoned and both gushed into Billy’s earpiece. Meanwhile, Tricia and the others fielded messages and posts on their phones. “You’ve like a thousand new Twitter followers,” Anna said.

Tricia’s hand covered Billy’s on the gear stick. “You did great,” she said, softly. Euphoric, he gripped her fingers in his. Was it possible? Was she finally on his side? She pulled her hand free and reached into her bag for nicotine gum. He shifted on his broken seat, fighting the plunge of disappointment. He’d wanted the spark between them to have flared for much longer.

They traveled for miles. Anna, and then Ivor, fell asleep. Only the radio filled the silence. Tricia stared out the passenger window, chomping on nicotine gum and making wet, smacking sounds. Billy glanced at her profile every so often, trying to gauge her expression. She seemed far away, unreadable. He tried to recapture the surge from her hand on his earlier. Behind her, John hitched his elbow on the thin window ledge, his hand under his chin. Like Tricia, he was staring into the darkness, a look of concentration on his face, as if trying to make out something amid the blur of passing shadows.

As they turned into the village, a familiar car drove toward them. Billy strained to see, to be sure, wondering what had brought Patrick Keogh out this far. Keogh tapped his car horn in a salute. At least he was being civil this time around.

At home, when they entered the kitchen, John spoke up. “If it’s okay, I’d like to sleep in Michael’s bed tonight, from now on, actually.”

Billy and Tricia exchanged a look of surprise. “Up to your dad,” she said.

Billy nodded. “Yeah, of course, son, no problem.” Maybe he only imagined a look of relief cross Tricia’s face.

The five moved up the hallway, Tricia steering Anna by the shoulders and Billy steering Ivor, both children still half asleep. As they neared the stairs, Tricia spotted the brown envelope on the carpet beneath the letter flap.

Billy brought the envelope to the dim light of the hall lamp. On its front, in thin, small black handwriting, For To Save Lives. He counted the money inside. Three hundred euro.

“Who’s it from?” Tricia asked.

Billy blinked back tears. There was no note or name, but he knew. “Patrick Keogh.”

“God love them,” Tricia said. Three hundred euro was big money for the Keoghs.

Billy eased the folded envelope into the breast pocket of his army jacket, next to tiny Michael.

Upstairs, as John climbed into Michael’s bed, Billy kissed the top of Ivor’s head. “Night, night.” He crossed the room and turned off the light. “Night, John.”

“Night, Dad.”

Billy moved into the hall. It had been a long time since John had called him Dad and now he’d said it twice in one night. Tricia was putting Anna to bed and he called good night through the door.

Minutes later, Tricia entered their room. Billy tensed on the bed, hoping he had understood her correctly and that she hadn’t expected him to sleep in John’s bunk. She moved in front of the wardrobe mirror and fiddled at her right ear. He realized with surprise, and then a needle of irritation, that she was removing her earrings. Since when could she bear to touch her lobes? She must have asked one of the children to put the earrings in earlier, demoting him ever further.

“Who put those in?” he asked, trying to sound casual, annoyed with himself for needing to know.