Billy did a quick count in his head.
“Goodness. Thirteen thousand. Okay.” Tony tugged on his lower lip, making wet sounds. “How about this? I’ll match donations up to fifteen thousand and you go on national television tomorrow night and mention the factory every chance you get, sell the toys hard. Mention, too, that we’re going to have a big sale before the Christmas.”
Billy winced, dreading their first Christmas without Michael.
Tony continued, “We could reach a whole new customer base—”
“What if,” Billy said, seizing on Tony’s flush of excitement, “in addition to the regulars, we also sell the seconds? Children could conjure great stories around the toys’ lacks and differences.”
Tony held up his palms. “Whoa, there, now, I think you might be getting a bit carried away.”
“I think, Tony, you might need to get a bit more carried away yourself, otherwise I doubt you’ll ever again see an upswing in company sales.” He told Tony about the stories he and Michael had made up about the damaged soldiers, and the stories Billy was still making up for them. He stopped, realizing he’d admitted to taking home the seconds.
Tony didn’t seem bothered. His thumb and finger went again at the sides of his mouth.
Billy kept after him. “You could sell the seconds, too, at this big Christmas sale. I can talk them up on the show. I’ll bring a few with me and tie it all in, say how just because something is different or broken it doesn’t mean it still can’t have value.” He thought of Tricia, of what she’d said about their family being broken and her being stuck, like it was something they could never fix, never come back from.
“That’s good,” Tony said, bucking now in his chair. “That’s really good.”
Billy smirked. “Looks like I’m not the only one getting carried away.”
Tony shook his head, his smile embarrassed. “Touché.”
“While we’re on the subject,” Billy said, “I was thinking you could do with making the toys more relevant and appealing.”
Tony’s expression dulled to defensive. “What do you mean?”
Billy mentioned the packed tour buses on the roads carrying schoolchildren and tourists, all chasing a bygone Ireland that was once heroic and great. “Right now our toys, as beautifully crafted as they are, are just toys, but what if we made them something special? If we had a whole line of heroes from Irish history and mythology, like Fionn MacCumhaill, Oisín, and Cú Chulainn, and the queens Medb and Niamh, and Grace O’Malley, and on and on. We make those kinds of toys and print storybooks to go along with them, and get all those tourists and schoolchildren to stop here and not just above at Newgrange.”
Tony performed a complete spin in his swivel chair and grinned at Billy. “I think you’re really on to something. You better say all that on the show, too, talk up this whole new line of Irish heroes we’re creating.” His hand swatted the air. “To hell with the board, I’m making an executive decision on this.”
“Great. And another thing, the toys have to have movable parts, their arms, legs, and heads.”
Tony pushed back on his chair, almost to the point of tipping over. “I don’t know about that, now, the costs—”
“I’m telling you, you’ll be well rewarded for the investment.”
Tony nodded. “Maybe. I’ll have to think about that.” He looked at Billy hard. “These new toys and the books, is this something you’d be interested in taking the lead on?”
Fear rushed in. Billy was no leader, no manager. To see his ideas to completion, though, and to make more money, that would be something. He inhaled, thinking, to hell with fear. Where had it ever gotten him? He nodded. “Yeah, all right, I would.”
Tony smiled, wolfish.
“That is, of course,” Billy said, “if there’s a raise involved, and royalties.”
Tony rubbed at the back of his head. “My God, man, you’re really pushing me into a corner now.”
A short while later, Billy strode out of Tony’s office, triumphant. It struck him he hadn’t once reached for tiny Michael in his pocket.
*
At home, Billy took a long, hot shower, taking pleasure in lathering and rinsing his shrinking body. His elation over his growing successes fizzed inside him. Successes that now included a huge promotion and besting Bald Art. He chuckled to himself.
He moved downstairs and into the living room. He knew straightaway something new was wrong. Tricia and the children sat staring at the TV, their expressions pained. A photograph of a young girl filled the screen, her hair blond and curly, her eyes bright blue. “Another one,” Tricia said, her voice as thin as the rest of her.
The girl was only fifteen, the sister of the nineteen-year-old down in Cork who had killed himself just three months ago.
“God, those poor parents,” Tricia said.