Eight
Billy struggled onto the upturned dirty-white bucket used to slop cows. He grabbed at the rope hanging from the rafters and pulled the noose over his head, its fray hard and itchy against his neck. He couldn’t breathe right. He stepped off the bucket, letting out a wretched sound. The rope broke. He tried again, and again, but every time he stepped from the bucket, the rope broke.
Michael watched from the straw-strewn floor in the corner, his back pressed against the barn wall and his arms clasped around his knees. He struggled up from the ground, shaking his head and wiping the straw from the back of his jeans. He moved toward Billy, his arm reaching for the noose. “Here, Dad, let me show you.”
Billy awoke with a gasp. His skin wet. The sheets wet. He felt a sharp pain in his chest and pressed his palm to his heart, afraid he was having an attack. He’d had a bad dream. That was all. He breathed in and out, the tension in his body starting to loosen, the pain in his chest subsiding. He was all right.
Or maybe he wasn’t. He could still taste the vinegar and cold grease from last night’s pig-out. The server’s voice chased him. What you want? The image of Deveney stumbling and mumbling inside Kennedy’s, and the appalling pose he’d struck, also knocked about Billy’s skull. That Ben Kennedy, too, treating Billy like he was some kind of imbecile. And Thumbs Tom’s crack, about Billy being on reality TV. Ha, ha.
Billy’s thoughts quickened. What if he did go on TV? Not in a reality series, but in a documentary about suicide and its aftermath? A vein in his jaw pulsed. What if he made the documentary himself? If he got those left behind after suicide on camera, to let people know the pain. The horror. The senselessness. Along with his fund-raiser and the march, a documentary would really get the nation’s attention, and could save countless more lives.
He pushed himself off the bed and put on his trousers. When his hand glanced the soldier, the rush left him and that awful ache set in. He removed the toy and moved his thumb back and forth over its painted face. Some part of him half expected the tiny fella to come alive.
*
Billy flinched when he heard Lucy’s voice crackle over the speakers—an announcement about a car blocking the loading dock. He breathed a sigh of relief. All day he’d waited with dread for her to summon him to Tony’s office. If Tony called him into his office today, to give him a yes or a no on matching donations, either way Billy would feel ever more terrible about his epic fail at the chip shop. His stomach cramped.
He’d only allowed himself three performance shakes throughout the day and hoped to go for a long, hard walk after work, too, but his body was deteriorating fast. His head felt like it would split from the pain. He also felt faint and shaky. More than his hunger and the lack of sleep, though, his efforts at exercise had really messed with his body. He felt beaten up.
A stomach-staple operation would be so much easier than all this torture. That would feel like cheating, though. Besides, he doubted people would donate nearly as much money if he lost his weight due to surgery and not sheer determination. Then there was the expense of the operation. Money they didn’t have. They hadn’t taken out life insurance on the children. Hadn’t wanted to ever consider it. His stomach cramped again.
He squatted over the toilet bowl, the fruit-filled shakes running through him. The bathroom door groaned open. Embarrassed, he clenched and wiped hard at himself, even though he didn’t feel finished.
As soon as the room cleared, he exited the stall and washed his hands in a rush, eager to leave before anyone else joined him. Too late; the bathroom door again made its eerie noises, bringing in Denis Morrissey and his toothsome smile. The men exchanged nods and Denis unzipped. “How’s everything going?”
Billy tried to sound upbeat. “All right, thanks.”
If Denis noticed a smell, he didn’t let on. “Did I see you have a bit of a limp?”
Billy mentioned his attempt at exercise. “The will’s there but the body’s not cooperating.”
“Take your time and go easy on yourself, Rome wasn’t beaten in a day.”
Billy laughed at the familiar phrase made strange. He watched Denis wash his hands, going at them again like he would never get them clean enough. The sound of water returned Billy to the rain on the day they had buried Michael, his son’s coffin disappearing beneath the shovels of wet dirt. His ears filled with a high-pitched sound.
“Are you all right?” Denis asked.
Billy, dizzy, clammy, reached for the tile wall.
Denis gripped Billy’s elbow. “Whoa, there. Do you need to sit down?”
Billy blinked back the blur of dizziness. His heart chugged and his empty stomach sounded its death rattles. He pressed his hands against the cool tile and lowered his head between his arms.