“Take it easy, can’t you?” Billy said, too sharp. Tricia’s eyebrows shot up. A warning. They had to be careful. They had to do a better job with the remaining three.
The Beatles’ “Yesterday” floated out of the radio. Tricia crossed the room and powered it off. John chewed his meat as though still slaying it. Ivor’s chubby hand pushed a wad of bread into his mouth, his chin shiny with butter. Anna inspected the lump of potato on her fork. Tricia remained at the window, her back to them and her arms wrapped around what was left of her. Billy pushed away his plate, his dinner untouched. A first.
Tricia returned to the table and mentioned her morning shift at the chemist. Some strange fella had wanted them to sell his homemade potion, a “cure” for rashes related to measles, chicken pox, and the like. “He couldn’t understand why we refused.”
Anna chimed in about the Sullivan twins in her class, home sick with the mumps. “Their necks swelled like melons.”
The banter went around the table. Billy sat smiling and nodding, adding the odd comment. Inside, though, he couldn’t stop the churn of panic, awful sensations that had descended after Michael and which were getting worse by the day. The more he ached to turn back time and undo the unthinkable, the more the torment built. As his family chatted, clocks ticked in his head like bombs, their black arms turning wildly forward, carrying them forever into the future and farther away from Michael.
His attention jumped to the vase of lilies Tricia had moved to the counter, in the farthest corner. He could still catch their smell. The slice of the spades filling in Michael’s grave started up again in his head, a wet, rhythmic music. He saw his naked reflection in the wardrobe mirror upstairs. He was killing himself—not nearly as swiftly or brutally as Michael, but killing himself just the same.
Two
Billy had slept badly, his head a mess of thoughts, like an overheated radio about to blow. The same questions had chased him throughout the dark. Why had Michael taken his own life? How could he have done that to himself, and to those he left behind? Why hadn’t he, the boy’s father, noticed that Michael had felt so depressed or scared or heartbroken—whatever it was that ailed him? There must have been signs.
The social worker had said there are usually indications, especially in hindsight, and always reasons, even if they only make sense to the victim. Billy and Tricia had agonized, going over everything for any clue, but nothing stood out. Yes, Michael was sensitive, and could be troubled at times by his various fears—of exams, of the dark, of water, of bridges, and who knew what else—but there had been nothing to suggest any deadly extent to his anxieties. Billy could only imagine the stories going around. Drink, drugs, a fallout with family, friends, a girl. He and Tricia had asked the same questions of everyone they could, but no one could explain. No one could believe.
He burrowed deeper on the bed and covered himself completely with the comforter, letting the darkness swallow him. His hot, damp breath surrounded his head like a welcome fog. The social worker had assured them they had done nothing wrong. “People can be great actors,” she’d said. “They can hide a lot.” Billy hadn’t been able to meet her gaze, knowing how much of himself he’d always hid.
He grabbed at the bottom sheet on Tricia’s side of the bed and scrunched it in his fist. During the long, sleepless night, he’d felt her breath on his arm. Two cool streams from her nostrils that he’d counted up to one hundred, two hundred, three. He’d thought about waking her up, but that had seemed unfair. She should get whatever rest she could. He wasn’t just being considerate, though. He hadn’t wanted her to see him so distraught. So weak.
The ache to have done better by Michael, to have saved him, set on Billy again. There was one thing he could do, at least. His resolve from last night returned. He was done killing himself slowly. He was going to lose his weight, once and for all.
*
The motor in the fridge made its whirring sound, as though getting a surge of electricity. It seemed to call to Billy, inviting him to plunder its laden, condensation-fogged shelves. Shelves that shouldered roast chicken, creamy coleslaw, bars of chocolate, a block of sharp red cheddar, cheesy pizza topped with meat and mushrooms, and lots more salvation. Billy’s empty stomach called back, almost as loud as the noise of the motor.
He glanced at Michael’s empty chair, and out at the clothesline, steeling himself. “Just one scrambled egg, please,” he told Tricia. “And only one slice of toast, with the barest lick of butter.”
“Are you feeling all right?” she asked.
“I’m back on my diet. I’m going to lose this weight, for good this time.”
She worked on his breakfast in silence.
“You don’t believe I’ll do it,” he said.
“I didn’t say that.”