The Weight of Him(86)

“If you say so.” Denis slid off the seat. He and Billy stood together on the grass verge, watching Adam speed away in a screech of tires.

“Jesus, that was brutal,” Denis said.

Billy saw the toll in Denis’s face, saw him again inside the Hallorans’ living room, his eyes wet, his chin quivering. “I know, I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Denis asked.

“You’ve been a great friend to me and I’m not sure I’ve been much of a one to you.”

Denis snorted. “You’ve been all right.”

Billy sad-smiled. “I didn’t realize how much you’ve been carrying around all this time, too.”

Denis looked at the ground, nodding. “You just keep asking yourself how they could leave you?”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry, of course you know, all too well.”

“We better get started.” They walked the road. In the ditch, golden yellow lichen bloomed from clumps of rock. Seeing life where you’d least expect it, Billy felt slammed all over again by the death he’d never foreseen.





Twenty-eight

Billy and Denis hitchhiked to the train station, rescued by a young schoolteacher in a green Honda Civic. Alone on the backseat, Billy crossed his arms over his middle and slyly grabbed at his sides and the rolls of loose, drooping skin. Folds and folds that had once housed so much more of him. Hid so much more. He squeezed his blubber, squishing the fleshy bulges in his fist, the action strangely pleasant, calming.

He and Denis didn’t admit to the schoolteacher how they’d ended up stranded on the side of the road and, happily, the young man didn’t press them, content instead to make small talk. Billy could just about take in the schoolteacher’s words, his head back with the Hallorans and his certainty inside that living room, as though the departed had spoken through him. He’d like to think that was possible.

He doubted what he’d said had helped the Hallorans or Denis, not long term. The solace of the moment had already gone out for him. Blame, the truth, it was something you had to feel for yourself. He closed his eyes, asking, waiting. He couldn’t feel much of anything, besides a dull ache in his stomach. His eyes opened. Maybe it was too soon. Maybe he wasn’t ready. Maybe he would never know for sure. He looked out at the sky. Maybe that was one of life’s great lessons—to accept that there was so much we could never know for certain, and to forgive ourselves anyway.

He gathered himself and checked the time on his phone. He texted Tricia and told her and the kids to go on into town without him. He’d never make it back now for the film and their evening out together. Another horrible, shivery feeling came over him.

*

Later, in the dark, a taxi drove him home from the train station, everything passing in a flash. He dragged his hand down his face, stifling a groan. All he could see was that living room and Liam rubbing his hand over the top of that displaced TV, and Beth with her hands covering her face.

In the village, TV images flickered white and blue across a window above Caroline’s shop. She was likely sitting in an armchair—her slight body making shallow dents in the cushions, her black cat with the one good eye purring in her lap, her hand stroking its soft warmth. He’d known Caroline his whole life and yet he’d no clue if she had what she wanted and needed. If she felt content with her lot. How was it we could know so little about those around us, those we saw practically every day? He wished her well.

He arrived home to an empty house and stood inside the rare silence of the kitchen. This strange emptiness was what it would be like if ever Tricia and the children left him. If ever he ended up alone. Tricia had texted earlier, saying John was out with friends and confirming she had arrived at the cinema with Anna and Ivor.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, rereading the last line of her message. John said he’d go see the film another night with you. He held the phone tight, as if afraid the message would disappear. He couldn’t remember the last time John had wanted to do anything with him. He realized he hadn’t gone straight to the fridge. He crossed the room and opened the fridge door, feeling nothing. That was something, too.

Upstairs, he retrieved tiny Michael from beneath his pillow and returned outside. In the garage, he looked down at the miniature toys and village through the sting of tears, thinking of the memorialized house down in Cork. Beth’s words chased him. We all have our own ways of trying to keep them alive. Nell Riordan’s revelations also knocked about his head. Pretending, when it was only to hide the truth, was killing. With a tortured sound, he lashed out with his arm, sending the village and its inhabitants crashing to the floor. It was stupid make-believe. He was no savior. There was no bringing Michael back. No miraculous family reunion. He kicked at the toys and village on the floor, scattering them farther. He whirled around and punched the garage wall, breaking the skin on his knuckles. How could you have done this to us, Michael? To yourself? He gripped tiny Michael with both hands and snapped the toy in two.

*

He drove through the dark, the car seeming to drag, as if something were pulling on it, trying to make him turn around. He arrived at the cliffs, a place he remembered from his childhood, and parked.

He climbed the trail, his good hand gripping the heavy-duty flashlight, his mouth sucking on his bloodied knuckles. The chill evening wind bit at his nose, cheeks, and the tops of his ears. Up he climbed, it still a struggle despite all the swimming and the weight he’d lost. I’m not fit nipped at him.