The Weight of Him(9)

“The sink overflowed,” his mother shouted down. “There’s water everywhere.”

His father returned to the head of the table, red-faced. He looked right at Billy. “Which one of you left the water running?”

“Wasn’t me!” Billy said, his stomach lurching.

“Well, it wasn’t me,” Lisa said, calm. Even if the leak had been her fault, she wouldn’t get punished. Not really.

Their mother called down for more towels. Lisa hurried to the hot press, and upstairs.

Billy’s father shook his head. “Have you no brains at all? Get up those stairs right now and help clean up that mess, and then straight to bed.”

“But I haven’t eaten dinner,” Billy said, trying not to cry. “And there’s a new Flash Gordon tonight.”

His father’s arm shot out. “Get, I said!”

Billy’s tears pressed harder. “I haven’t done my homework, either. My teachers will kill me if I don’t do it.”

“Don’t have me to tell you again—” His father fumbled with his belt buckle. Billy scampered.

Later, in the dead of night, Billy sneaked downstairs, his stomach empty and his chest full of the churn of his heart. His father’s voice filled his head. Have you no brains at all? Billy only dared open the fridge a crack, afraid its light would give him away.

He removed a tomato, onion, head of lettuce, hunk of cheese, and several slices of ham. Don’t have me to tell you again. He lovingly carved up a fresh, spongy bread loaf and slathered several thick slices with a creamy mixture of butter, mustard, and mayonnaise. He pushed away a flash of his father’s thick fingers going at his belt buckle.

Billy ate, the sandwich making his stomach sing. After, he ripped open a bag of crisps, a burst of salt and vinegar filling the air. Next, he eased the purple foil from a bar of chocolate, revealing the wrapper’s shiny silver underside and the dark, sugary slab. With a dreamy moan, he let the savory crisps and thick, sweet squares melt together in his mouth.

No one ever asked, but he’d filled the bathroom sink so he could pretend-shave, in a great hurry to be more grown up, more like his dad. He’d hoped that might at last please and impress the man.

*

Billy’s mother appeared through the back door, bringing in the smell of home bake. Billy eyed the bright yellow bundle in her hand, his mouth watering.

“What are you doing home?” she asked, surprised.

He glanced at Tricia. “I’ve a bit of a cold.”

“A bit,” Tricia muttered.

Billy patted the chair next to him—John’s, not Michael’s. His mother placed the bundle on the table and opened the tea towels. Billy watched the ribbons of steam rise from the two rounds of soda bread, his stomach rumbling. She sat down, her white hair set in faultless curls and her ruddy hands clasped in her lap. Tricia offered tea. His mother, refusing to ever sit still for long, agreed to a half cup.

“Have you a knife, Tricia?” his mother asked, reaching for the bread.

Tricia returned the bread to the cover of the tea towels, their cotton the color of the butter Billy so wanted to spread over at least one thin slice. “You may take this away, thanks. Billy has started back on his diet.”

Billy swallowed his disappointment and pushed a look of thanks into his face.

His mother pursed her lips. “It’s not for me to say…” But of course she would say. “Do you really want to be at all that now, and everything that’s going on?”

Billy made some incredulous sound. “You’re the very one always going on at me—”

“I’m just saying—”

“Christ, we need a new kettle,” Tricia said, moving to the boiling contraption to stop its screech.

His mother said, “I was thinking I could stay here with the children while you two go off on a holiday? Someplace foreign, maybe, Croatia or Budapest. Aren’t they all the rage now? Let you get away from everything for a while.”

He could tell from the hitch of Tricia’s shoulders she shared his reaction to the idea that there was any getting away from it all. There was also the issue of his not fitting in an airplane seat. He wasn’t even sure he would fit in two. “That’s very kind,” Tricia said. “Maybe down the road.” She turned brisk. “There is something you can do, though. Anna and Ivor’s school walkathon is coming up and they’ve to get as many sponsors as possible.”

His mother sniffed. “That school is always looking for money.”

“You don’t have to,” Tricia said, her voice tight.

“Of course I will. How would it look if their own grandparents didn’t sponsor them?” She poised a pen over the pledge sheet. “Remind me how this works?”

“You can sponsor them by the number of laps they complete or give an overall flat donation, whichever you prefer,” Tricia said.

Billy straightened on his chair, his thoughts coming in a rush. A fund-raiser. Now, there was a sure way for him to make his diet stick. A way for him to help more than himself with his weight loss, too. He could go public with his diet and get people to sponsor him, for suicide prevention.

“There,” his mother said, pushing away the pen and pledge sheet. “A euro each per lap, is that fair?”

“They’ll be delighted, thanks,” Tricia said.