“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.
Billy sat trembling with his idea. He could set a weight goal and people could pay him for every pound he lost. Or, like the walkathon, they could donate a flat amount. He rubbed at his mouth. Michael’s death had cut him in two, so he would set his weight-loss goal at two hundred pounds. Half of himself. The money he raised would help save lives, in Michael’s memory. He grew inches on his chair.
Tricia and his mother chatted. Another idea gripped him. For Michael’s funeral, hundreds of mourners had formed a procession behind the hearse like a dark flood, following the boy in his coffin from the house and to the church. People crowded villages all over the country in similar processions for the dead. But what if they walked with Billy in their droves to prevent suicide and save lives?
The more he thought on his ideas, the more convinced he felt. He could really do good with this, and make some meaning out of the awful. Several times he began to tell Tricia and his mother, but he couldn’t get the words out. Something told him that the moment he spoke his plans aloud, they would be diminished.
*
Billy hung his head over the blue casserole dish, taking in the intoxicating waft of garlic, beef, and vegetables. His tongue tingled with the spicy memory of paprika. Hungarian goulash was one of his favorites. He refused even a small amount, though, opting instead for yet another bowl of vegetable soup.
He carried the steaming soup to the table, struggling not to spill any. He was shaky all over, a nervous feeling coursing through him. Adrenaline, too. Since his mother’s visit, he could think of nothing else but going public with his diet and organizing the march of all marches through the village.
Anna also refused the goulash. “It’s too gooey,” she said. The light fixture above her head brought out the golden in her hair. Billy could remember a time when Tricia had looked as pretty and shiny.
Tricia caved and allowed Anna to eat cereal instead. She drew the line at added sugar. “You’ll rot every tooth in your head, catch diabetes if you’re not careful.”
The glass of milk paused at John’s mouth and he repeated catch with a sneer. He looked tired, the black under his eyes recalling the smudges of mascara on Tricia’s face in those days after Michael.
“Are you feeling all right?” Billy asked. Too late, he realized the now-familiar question would only annoy the boy.
“Jesus,” John said. “I’m not going to kill myself, okay?”
Everyone at the table stopped. Copycat suicides, once unheard-of, were now making national news.
“We would never do what Michael did, all right?” John continued, his voice rising. “Tell them,” he said to Anna and Ivor, sitting opposite. Ivor’s tongue poked his cheek and Anna’s face blazed.
“Tell them,” John repeated.
“Stop that,” Billy and Tricia said in near-unison, their fright also matching.
“He’s right,” Anna said, her voice shaking. “You and Mam don’t have to worry about us.” She elbowed Ivor. “Right?”
“Right, we’d never be that stupid,” Ivor said innocently.
Billy and Tricia exchanged a pained look. Anna elbowed Ivor again, drawing a yelp from the boy. “Michael wasn’t stupid.”