“Nothing to be nervous about,” Matt or Mick said. The fiftyish producer was short and portly, with a tweed cap that likely hid his bald spot. That was the second time he had tried to reassure Billy, and it made Billy feel ever worse. Yet again, Billy’s heart amazed and scared him with how fast it could go.
“Now,” the producer continued. “No bad language, that’s number one, and number two, try to remember listeners won’t see gestures, nods, facial expressions, you get it. And you want to avoid long pauses as best you can.” He gave a small chuckle. “You want to keep talking, that’s actually number one. No yes-or-no answers, either, you check me? Be yourself, yeah? You’ll be great.”
Billy’s stomach gurgled like water going down the drain. The producer’s unruly eyebrows shot up. “Sorry,” Billy said, mortified. “It always wants in on the act.” The producer threw back his head and laughed. Billy smiled tightly and clenched his stomach, afraid it would pipe up again.
The producer led Billy into the recording studio proper, and introduced him to the famous Frank Galvin. Frank pumped Billy’s hand, the presenter’s face round and red, jolly. His tie boasted more colors than a rainbow. “A pleasure. Please, take a seat.” Billy sat into the black bucket chair, grateful of its size and comfort. “Just be yourself,” Frank said, echoing his producer.
Matt or Mick pushed his cap back on his head, revealing a high, wrinkled forehead, and brought the large desk microphone close to Billy’s face. Next, he showed Billy the button to press if he needed to silence his microphone, should he have to sneeze or cough.
Frank pointed to the green light on the wall behind him, and the identical light behind Billy. “When they turn red, we’re live.”
“You’d think it would be the other way around,” Billy said, his voice coming out high and thin.
“Remember, in here, red is go,” the producer said.
“Thanks, Mick,” Frank said.
“Thanks, Mick,” Billy said.
Mick gave Billy a thumbs-up before he disappeared behind the closed door.
“Here we go,” Frank said softly, three fingers in the air. “One.” His first finger dropped. “Two.” With his free hand, Frank reached for the switchboard, killing the music. “Good afternoon, and welcome to All the Talk.”
As Frank Galvin introduced him, Billy experienced that floating sensation, as though he were rising out of himself and drifting toward the ceiling, leaving his massive body behind. Frank’s voice grew fainter in Billy’s head. Billy fixed on the mute button, about to hit it and admit he couldn’t do this.
Then he was talking, answering Frank’s questions and telling listeners about his morbid obesity, sponsored diet, village march, and planned documentary. He rushed to tell them about Michael, the boy’s smile, his love of music and football, and the story about the stray dog.
He also shared how much he looked forward to losing all two hundred pounds, half of himself, and to one day getting to wear Michael’s favorite sweatshirt. How he especially longed for the time when someone would come up to him and say, Because of you, because of your son, Michael, I didn’t kill myself.
The switchboard lit up. Caller after caller shared how they’d lost a loved one to suicide. How they, too, never saw it coming. Thank you, they told him, something major needs to be done.
On his way home, Lisa phoned. “You were brilliant, well done.”
“Thanks, that means a lot.”
“Seriously, I can’t say it enough. You were amazing.” Her voice cracked. “I’m sorry I ever doubted any of it.”
It took him a moment to be able to speak. “That’s okay, don’t worry about it.”
“I’m so proud of you, well, well done.”
“Thanks, sis.”
“You’re welcome, Will.” They laughed.
Denis also phoned. “You’re doing it, man, you’re really affecting people. You’re making all the difference.”
“Thanks. Thanks so much.” Billy felt he would burst. He knew that feeling well. But never in a good way. Until now.
*
Tricia was sitting at the kitchen table when Billy arrived home, drinking coffee and kicking her crossed leg in time to the caffeinated beat of her heart. She pushed aside her coffee-stained mug and reached for a fresh stick of nicotine gum. She’d taken to rolling the silver foil wrappers into tiny balls and dropping them all over. He and the children would find them littered throughout the house, like a trail she was leaving.
“Well?” he said.
“Well, what?”
“Did you listen?”
“Yeah.” She rolled the silver ball of foil faster between her finger and thumb.
He felt a flash of irritation. If he had to pull it out of her, forget it. But he couldn’t stop himself. “What did you think?”
She looked up, the tears in her eyes making his chest constrict. “What you’re doing is great, it is.” Tears spilled onto her cheeks and she wiped at them hard. “But I hate it. I just hate it.”
He stepped toward her.
She raised her hands in a yield sign. “Please, I really want to be left alone right now.”