Billy hid his disappointment and moved to the gate and into the field. He pictured Michael singing his way along the trodden path. The boy had likely looked to the trees and sky every so often, watching the birds wheel over the world. He probably tried to get the birds to sing back to him. Billy started to whistle, to drown out the sound of Michael’s singing in his head. Sometimes he loved to hear it still. Other times it was too much. The only response came from his father’s cows, sounding their impatient noises.
At the crest of the hill, Billy’s childhood home came into view. Constant smoke puffed from the kitchen chimney. It didn’t matter if the weather dawned warm or wretched, his mother kept the fire going in the range year-round. Not just to cook, boil the kettle, and heat the old, draft-filled house, but because she liked to sit and look in at the flames. She imagined whole stories inside the leap of orange, blue, yellow, and red. He remembered the coiled clothesline still hidden in his car. He had yet to burn it.
Any other day of the week, Billy’s father could likely be found in the rust-red barn behind the house, drawing out the turf or scaring off the birds and their squirts of shit. There, or his father was down in the fields with the cows, checking on those about to calve, those that were sick or stricken with bloody, infected udders, and those among the big-eyed brutes with any hint of personality, be it strength, stubbornness, or force of kick. These feisty beasts were his father’s favorites, and he’d clap each on her broad back and shake his fist in her face, talking in tones twisted with affection and goading.
*
Billy entered his mother’s kitchen and its tormenting smells of roast beef with all the trimmings. His mother greeted him, her air cool. She returned her attention to the children and asked about mass and school, and Anna’s dance lessons, Ivor’s chess lessons. Lisa marched everyone into the dining room and told each where to sit. Billy was put at the far end of the table, opposite his father.
“Come out to the milk shed,” his father said. “There’s something I want you to see.”
“The dinner’s ready,” Lisa said. “You can show him that later.”
“It’ll only take a minute,” his father said. “You, too, Tricia.”
The three entered the empty shed and its heavy smell of cattle and overripe milk. His father led Billy and Tricia across the straw-strewn floor and down to the back wall, a pine shelf there that looked new, and on it some kind of ornament. When had his father ever displayed anything in the milk shed?
“Lisa got it done,” his father said. Billy studied the bronze Wellingtons, his throat closing. Etched on the gold plaque on the sculpture’s base, Our Michael, Boots No One Can Fill. Billy’s hand reached up and clasped a bronze ankle. His fingers and palm tingled. He remembered the similar sensation in the canteen, when he’d touched Michael’s photograph on the flyer. He couldn’t stop the horrible sound that ripped from him.
Tricia touched her hand to his back. “It’s lovely,” she said, her voice faint. She and his father stood in silence, waiting for Billy to recover. Billy snuffled and rubbed at his eyes and nose, his hand robbed of the tingling sensation.
Billy’s father appeared to hesitate, but couldn’t seem to stop himself. “We weren’t sure if you would want us to order a second sculpture for yourselves, knowing how you feel about the farm?”
Billy’s jaw hardened. Of course he’d like one, too, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. Instead, he would create his own shrine to Michael. Something extraordinary.
When they returned to the house, Lisa asked if they liked the sculpture. Even in this, she insisted on praise.
“It’s lovely,” Tricia repeated.
“Lovely,” Billy said with less feeling.
During the meal, the stilted conversation stretched past the point of a hungry focus on food and started to feel uncomfortable. It didn’t lessen Billy’s unease any that he had to watch everyone else scoff his favorite meal while he downed chicken stew. Tricia had made the dish just for him, all-natural and low-fat, with no salt or potatoes. Her efforts well-intentioned, but the meal was as good as tasteless.
Billy’s father held a forkful of beef, gravied potatoes, and mushy peas at his mouth. “A pity, Billy. This is only gorgeous.”
“Daddy!” Lisa said.
“What did I say?” his father said.
Billy, refusing to give his father any satisfaction, struggled to look nonchalant. The old man’s attention jumped to John, a look of fondness coming over him. Billy’s chest constricted. His father was setting his sights on John now. The old man made mention of the match, kickoff just a couple of hours away. John again bragged about how easily they would win. He seemed to give no thought to Michael’s great loss to the team, to everyone. Tricia complimented Lisa on the delicious dinner, making Billy’s sister look almost as smug as his father and John.