He hesitated. “I’d prefer not to say, he’ll find out soon enough.”
She put him on hold. He waited, his teeth soldered together.
She came back on the line. “Yeah, Billy, that’s fine. He’ll see you at three o’clock.”
He forced his jaw open. “Can he meet any earlier? Sometime this morning, by any chance?”
“’Fraid not, Billy. The man has spoken.”
*
At lunchtime, Billy entered the canteen on shaky legs. He pressed on past the food counter, struggling to ignore his bully stomach and trying to appear confident and purposeful. As he moved through the long rows of tables, all crowded with food and his fellow workers, he kept his eyes trained on the bulletin board at the back of the room, determined not to lose his nerve.
He hung both flyers, one for the march and one for his sponsored diet, the pins piercing him as much as the corkboard. People were either going to love his plans or think he had gone mad. He stood back to admire his and Anna’s handiwork. The flyers would never have turned out so well without her help. For the headings and borders, they’d used dark green ink, Michael’s favorite color. The pledge sheet’s header read Give for Every Pound Big Billy Loses & Help Save Lives. The second flyer read March Against Suicide & Help Save Lives.
Both flyers displayed the same color photograph in the top center, a shot of Billy and Michael taken last Christmas, just weeks before everything changed. Billy touched Michael’s pixilated face, his fingers lingering on the boy’s smile. He swore he could feel heat pass through his fingers and down into his palm.
Vera, a veteran canteen worker, greeted him at the food counter. “How are you holding up, Big Billy?”
“As well as I can, thanks.”
“Day by day, that’s all you can do.”
He swallowed and ordered a triple portion of salad, with extra boiled egg and the vinaigrette dressing on the side.
“Ah, God love you, are you still not well?” He realized she was referring to his supposed sick day yesterday. Embarrassed, he pointed with his thumb to the bulletin board and explained.
Vera’s smile split her face. “Well, if that isn’t the best ever.” She pulled her brown-stained apron over her head and called to Liz, another veteran, “Did you hear what Big Billy is doing?”
“I did,” Liz said, smiling, but he worried he saw more uncertainty than support in her eyes.
“Cover me for a sec,” Vera told Liz. “I’m going to make a pledge right this minute.”
“Thanks a million,” Billy said.
He carried his food tray through the canteen, avoiding his usual crowded table, and continued to the far, empty corner.
“Are you not joining us, Big Billy?” Bald Art called out.
Billy turned around. “Can’t, sorry.” He delivered a sideways nod, indicating the bulletin board. “All that food on your plates will only tempt me.” It was partly true. Mostly, though, he didn’t feel up for company. He also didn’t want to risk having to withstand any more negative reactions to his diet and march.
Bald Art and the rest of the group looked confused. Billy again indicated the bulletin board with a jerk of his head. “Go check it out.”
Seated, Billy started into the rabbit food, munching lettuce and crunching cucumber. He pretended not to watch while people gathered in front of his flyers, his hand curled around the outline of the soldier in his trousers pocket. Bald Art, and everyone in the place, it seemed, made pledges and then hurried over, full of congratulations and praise. Billy’s face hurt from smiling.
Yet as the clock turned toward the hour and the canteen emptied, Billy’s mood sank again. None of this would be happening if Michael wasn’t gone.
*
Inside the men’s room, Denis Morrissey availed of the urinal next to Billy. Denis, a numbers man from upstairs, wasn’t usually seen about the factory floor and Billy only knew him in passing. “Are you feeling all right?” Denis asked.
Billy wasn’t sure if Denis was referring to Michael, his sick day, or his frequent need to urinate as his meeting with Tony drew closer. “Fine,” he mumbled.
“I heard about your march and your sponsored diet, and I think what you’re doing is brilliant.”
Billy blushed. He and Denis had never really spoken before and he didn’t know much about him, other than that the thirty-something hailed from Dublin and had moved to town a few years back, after he married Frances Callaghan, but they’d since separated.
“My dad died when I was thirteen,” Denis continued. He looked away, facing the wall again. “It’s not the same, I know, losing a father and losing a son, not even close, but”—his voice wavered—“I understand death by suicide is a whole different story and takes so much more out of you.” He looked at Billy, his eyes damp. “I tell people my father died of a heart attack, but he didn’t. He hanged himself.”
“Christ, I’m sorry.” Billy finished and zipped up. “Let me just…” He raised his hands apologetically and moved to the sink.