“You’re calling in sick again? That’s hardly wise,” Tricia said.
Billy forced himself to stir one spoonful of sugar, not three, into his tea. “I’ve worked there long and hard enough these past twenty years. They can do without me for one more day.”
She placed a plate of buttered toast in front of him. “Don’t you know I’m on a diet?” he said, sharper than he’d intended.
She snatched the plate back. “Forgive me for forgetting, but your diets never usually last long.”
His jaw clenched. Back in his early twenties, when they’d first gotten together, he’d lost almost eighty pounds. He’d managed to keep the weight off, too, at least until three or four years into the marriage. Then, the constant empty feeling returned and his weight climbed ever higher. Tricia sometimes said she felt conned. That she’d married one man and ended up with another.
“This time is different,” he said.
“Everything’s different now.” She set about sweeping the floor, swiping at the same tile repeatedly, as if it couldn’t be cleaned.
*
Billy was eight years old and sitting at the kitchen table with his parents and Lisa. A drop of water fell from the ceiling and onto his father’s forehead. Billy almost laughed, but caught himself. His father jumped up, knocking over his chair. “What in blazes?” He held out his hand, catching more water in his palm. With a sick feeling, Billy remembered the bathroom sink.
“Jesus Holy Christ!” His mother rushed out, and upstairs.
His father moved into the hall. “Well?”
“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—”