The Weight of Him(84)

Billy, confused, alarmed, said, “I understood you invited us here today? That you wanted to take part in our documentary?”

Mr. Halloran shook his head. “I said we’d think about it, but not now, so soon.” The surviving son, a young man of maybe twenty, appeared behind his father.

Adam addressed Mr. Halloran, speaking fast. “Our documentary will save lives, don’t you want to be a part of that?”

The blood drained from Mr. Halloran’s face. “I can’t.”

Billy pushed on Adam’s shoulder, appalled. “Come on, let’s leave these good people be.”

“Wait.” Mr. Halloran glanced back at his son, the young man frowning now with a mix of anger and confusion, and pulled open the door. “You’ll take a cup of tea at least.”

“Don’t let them in!” the son said.

A stout, middle-aged woman with plum-dyed hair walked up the hall, her fingers at her chest and her hand a dappled red and white, as if marbleized. “What is it? What’s going on?”

“It’s the fellow from the TV, on Matters with Maeve,” Mr. Halloran said.

“Oh, hello,” she said, looking bewildered.

The son’s eyes raked Billy. “At least you’re not wearing that army uniform.”

“I’m sorry,” Billy said, addressing Mrs. Halloran. “We didn’t mean to barge in. There’s been a misunderstanding. We thought you were expecting us.”

“Expecting you?” she said.

Mr. Halloran flapped his arm in Adam’s direction. “I talked to this fellow on the phone a couple of times, said I’d think about taking part in this film they’re making, to … to help to save lives, but I never told them they could come here.”

“No, no,” Mrs. Halloran said, her hand still clasped to her chest. “We couldn’t.”

The son moved toward Billy and Adam. “Have you no respect—”

“We’ll go,” Billy said.

“I offered them tea,” Mr. Halloran said. “They’ve had a long drive.”

“Yes, okay, all right then,” Mrs. Halloran said.

*

Mr. and Mrs. Halloran sat at the kitchen table with Billy, Adam, and Denis. The son, Christy, moved about, fixing tea and a plate of biscuits and sandwiches. Billy felt no appetite. Several photographs of the deceased children stood on display, alongside the lineup of sympathy cards, and the scatter of burnt-down candles and holy medals in plastic pouches. A set of brown rosary beads hung from a nail next to the door, the dye faded in places from pure use.

Billy pulled himself back to the chat at the table. Despite the nerve-wracking reminders all around them, the pleasantries and conversation went on almost like normal—about the weather, the recession, the empty, unfinished housing estates, and the mass exodus of emigrants. Talk of all the young people leaving Ireland and of the ghost housing estates made for slippery subjects, though, and the chat and forced laughter started to strain. A frantic need to get out of there and home to his own family seized Billy.

“You’re some man, to do all you’re doing, and to be able to go on television and say all you said, too,” Mrs. Halloran, Beth, said with admiration.

Billy held her kind gaze, trying to put into his face all the thanks and sympathy he felt.

“Wasn’t he, Liam?” she said.

“He was,” Mr. Halloran said.

“Liam,” Billy said. “That was Michael’s second name.”

Beth and Liam smiled sadly. Then Beth managed, “We named our Rosie after my mother, and our John after Liam’s father.”

“That’s right,” Liam said, nodding sadly.

“My second son is named John,” Billy said, realizing too late it was a thoughtless comeback. Beth and Liam stared.

Christy stood leaning against the range, his eyes darting about the group. Billy recognized the mounting agitation in the young man, that crazed need to do something to relieve all the ugly brewing inside. They should leave, and let these poor people get on with trying to put themselves back together.

Christy lunged at Adam, slapping at his camera. “Turn that thing off!”

Adam checked the camera, its red record light still on, and then glared at Christy. “Do you have any idea what this is worth?”

“That’s it.” Billy placed his hands on the table and pushed himself to standing. “We’ve taken up enough of your time and hospitality, thank you. We’ll get going. And again I’m sorry, this is all a misunderstanding. Our intentions are only good, I promise you, but I see of course it’s too soon, too much. We shouldn’t have come. It’s just we’re desperate to stop suicide—”

“Are you for real?” Christy sneered. “Why don’t you go ahead and stop cancer, then, and murder, too, while you’re at it?”

“Stop, Christy,” his father said. “Remember this man lost his son, too.”

Beth stood up, scowling at Adam. “I’ll thank you and your camera to leave.” She nodded at Billy and Denis. “You two can come with me.”

“What are you doing, Ma?” Christy said.

Billy, Denis, and Adam remained at the table, no one seeming to know where to look or what to do.

Christy glared at Adam. “She told you to leave.”