Jack tucked his chin, taken aback. He recovered. “Let’s start with your fund-raiser for suicide prevention. How and why?”
The two women sat down on the next bench. They pulled sandwiches out of white paper bags, still laughing too loud. The brunette sat with her back to Billy. The auburn-haired girl sat facing him. He watched her stretch her mouth around a fat baguette. As she chewed, her finger moved to the corner of her brown-red-painted lips and pushed an errant shred of lettuce into her mouth. Billy’s stomach growled.
“Billy? Are you okay?” Jack asked.
Billy took a deep breath. “‘How and why?’ I’m not sure where to start.”
Jack pushed the recorder closer to Billy on the bench. “Wherever feels right.”
Fear seized Billy. This journalist would try to get inside him, to see what made him tick. He could paint whatever kind of picture he liked of Big Billy Brennan, and of Michael, too. He would also try to get some sob story around why Big Billy was so enormous. He might also insist Billy explain how he could possibly have had no clue Michael felt such depths of despair.
Another burst of laughter erupted from the other bench. Billy winced. Jack glanced at the two women and back at Billy. “Would you like to go someplace more private?”
Billy stole a longing glance at the gray-blue river. He had thought this would be the perfect place. Reluctantly, he led Jack to his car.
Inside the car, Jack’s dark eyes strayed to the large gap between Billy’s shoulder and the broken driver’s seat, its defeated slope betraying the burden of him. Billy continued to talk, willing Jack to focus on him. He was trying to get across how special Michael was, how utterly senseless his death. “I don’t know,” he finished. “I suppose we have to accept something in him snapped—” The recording device on the dashboard buzzed, startling him.
“Sorry.” Jack grabbed at the recorder and changed its batteries. The recorder’s light burning bright red again, Jack asked Billy to talk about his own childhood.
Billy shook his head. “We don’t need to bring my past into this. This is about Michael and the here and now. About how I’m trying to help people like him, before it’s too late.”
Jack pressed him. “I think readers would really like to get a sense of you—”
Billy shook his head, his irritation returning. “This isn’t about me.”
“I beg to differ—”
“It’s about getting the word out on my sponsored diet and the documentary I plan to make, so I can help save lives in my son’s memory.”
Jack stabbed the point of his pen into his notepad, leaving dots of ink on the page like a dark blue rash. “Okay, then, if you insist. Why don’t you tell me the one story you think best captures Michael?”
“Only one story? That’s hard.” Billy thought for several moments, his hand rubbing at his mouth. “I remember Michael’s first day of school. He walked around the kitchen in front of his mother and me, marveling at how his uniform trousers, these navy cords, made this noise when he moved. The legs swished together, you know? I can still hear it. The delight on Michael’s little face, you’d think he’d just discovered the most wonderful thing ever.” Billy laughed softly. “Then there was the way he’d sing around the house. He was always singing. Right up to the end he was singing.” Billy’s voice broke. “It used to drive us mad, by times, to tell you the truth. Now, though…”
“Can you give me something more?” Jack asked gently. “Something that will really help readers know Michael?”
“Well, they can’t, can they?” Billy said severely.
“I’m sorry, I—”
“No, it’s okay,” Billy said. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”
“Please, take your time.”
Billy raked his memories. It made him feel a little sick that he wasn’t flooded with stories. It was scary how much he’d forgotten. How much he didn’t keep account. There were so many little things he could share about Michael, but to have to tell one story that was big and interesting enough for the newspaper?
He remembered the dog Michael brought home. Michael was eleven, maybe twelve. He found the half-dead animal in a field and carried it in his arms for more than a mile. It looked to be poisoned and Billy doubted it would live. Tricia and Michael nursed the dog, little more than a pup, really, around the clock for days. At last, its whimpers stopped, and when he fully recovered, he proved to be lively and lovable. Michael, a U2 fanatic, named the dog Bono. He, all the children, doted on that dog. Billy’s voice trailed off.