‘Just a warning,’ he said. ‘Harley has teeth.’

‘Teeth? Harley? What for?’

‘For Miss Pringle, he says, out of respect.’

‘Miss Pringle! Good heavens. Do you think . . . ?’

‘I can’t imagine it, no. Just being thoughtful of others, surely. I have to tell you, the teeth scared me to death.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘In Kentucky. A cousin cut him a deal.’

He loved the look on her face.

‘Just a warning,’ he said.

•   •   •

HE’D SEEN SAMMY toward the end of July, before the Ireland trip. Now he marveled again how people can change so noticeably, so quickly. Striding across the yard to the porch, Sammy seemed taller, more muscular; the old scar on his cheek more noticeable. Really noticeable was the boy’s mane of red hair caught back in a ponytail. Though younger than Dooley, Sammy could easily pass for Dooley’s twin.

Sammy pounded up the porch steps carrying the cue stick he’d given the boy for Christmas last year.

‘Hey,’ said Sammy.

‘Hey, yourself.’ He gave Sammy a hug, slapped him on the back. They’d been down the road together, so to speak. ‘Great to see you. Welcome home.’

Sammy peered at the dozen quarter-pound burgers on the fire. ‘Smells good, I could smell ’em c-cookin’ from over yonder.’

‘Where’s the rest of your crowd?’ It was hard to picture Hélène Pringle as part of this particular mélange.

‘They’re comin’. Where’s ol’ B-Barn at?’

‘Under the deck chair. How was Kentucky?’

‘They cain’t sh-shoot pool, I can tell you that, I whipped ever’body plus somebody’s granmaw, she was eighty-two. She was a wild ol’ woman, sank five balls in one turn. I hope you g-got coleslaw.’

‘We’ve got it all.’

Sammy drew a cigarette from his shirt pocket.

‘No smoking, remember?’

‘I was hopin’ you’d g-got over that notion.’ A word, then, that wasn’t allowed.

‘Watch your language, buddy. You know the rules.’

Sammy looked at him with distaste, spit over the porch railing. ‘You ain’t changed any.’

‘Just a little older,’ he said. No wiser.

•   •   •

AS A FRENCH-BORN ONLY CHILD of a Parisian mother, Hélène might rightly be fascinated by sibling relationships and the less cosmopolitan ways of her tenants.

During dinner on the porch, he watched her watching them. He was amused by her generous laughter, a side of Hélène Pringle he hadn’t previously seen.

•   •   •

‘YOU READY?’

‘As I’ll ever be. Remember this is a tutorial.’

‘A what?

‘You’re just teaching me the basics this time. It’s not about winning, right?’

Sammy was incredulous. ‘It’s always about w-winnin’.’

•   •   •

WHEN DOOLEY WANTED TO BUY Sammy a pool table a few months ago, the only problem was where to put it. Not many women would move the dining room furniture to the basement and replace it with a pool table.

He gave his wife a pat on the back. ‘You’re the best,’ he said as they gathered in what Dooley called the Kavanagh Ball Hall.

‘I already racked ’em f’r eight ball,’ said Harley, glad to be of service.

Though he’d shot a few games with Sammy, he was as nervous as a cat. In truth, he hadn’t really learned anything; the instructions had passed through his head like a drift of smoke.

He could grow roses, he could make a decent soufflé, he could quote long passages from the old poets and Holy Writ, he could run five miles—what was his problem? He took a cue stick from the rack. Why was everyone staring? So intently did Hélène gaze at the preacher chalking his cue, she might have been front row center at the opera.

‘I’ll b-break,’ said Sammy. ‘Don’t want you to strain yourself.’

Sammy hunkered down, scattered the balls, made a stripe, kept shooting, pocketed four stripes in a row.

Cynthia stood by the window with Hélène, another opera buff hoping for the best, yet he’d somehow known from the get-go: there would be no aria from him tonight. He was too old to eat fries and a burger-all-the-way before shooting pool with a seventeen-year-old shark.

Sammy missed a shot, said something under his breath, looked up. ‘I could of hammered that ’un, just wanted to make you l-l-look good.’ Sammy pointed at the six ball. ‘Okay, there’s your six. Shoot it in th’ side pocket.’

He stepped to the table.

‘It’s a easy shot,’ said Sammy, ‘unless you’re like a t-total beginner.’

He leaned over the table, sighted the ball.

‘Remember your bridge hand,’ said Sammy. ‘Grip on c-cue. Hit th’ cue ball in th’ center. Now, sight through th’ cue ball to th’ s-six ball. Got that?’

‘Got it.’ Not really, but God knows, he was trying.

‘Put th’ six in th’ side pocket—it’s pretty much a straight-in s-shot.’

The silence in the room was unnerving.

‘T-two words of advice,’ said Sammy. ‘Don’t miss.’

He stroked the shot, smacked the cue ball, and sent it into the six ball, but at the wrong angle. The six ricocheted off the cue ball and rolled to the left of the side pocket; the cue ball careened to the right of the pocket, bounced off the side rail, rolled to the end rail, and wedged behind the four ball.

Harley and Kenny erupted in laughter.

‘He’s sandbaggin’ ye, Sam!’

‘You’ve met your match, dude.’

The scar flamed on Sammy’s cheek. ‘Where’s your head, man? I told you to hit th’ freakin’ six ball into th’ s-side pocket.’

More laughter.

Sammy’s violent strike of the cue stick against the table rim snapped the stick in two. Harley and Kenny ducked as the cue end flipped into the air, fell to the floor, and skittered into the hall. Sammy stood as if paralyzed, then slammed the butt-end onto the table.

He heard Hélène catch her breath, the sound of Sammy’s feet pounding along the hall, the screen to the side door slapping shut . . .

He turned to Kenny, stricken. ‘What happened?’

‘Your shot left ’im with a really bad leave,’ said Kenny. ‘He had nowhere to go.’

‘Y’r shot was real good,’ said Harley, hoarse with feeling. ‘But he sure handled it bad. Lord help, I’m sorry.’ Harley looked at the floor, shaking his head. ‘Lord help.’

‘We shouldn’t have laughed,’ said Kenny. ‘But it was pretty amazing, that shot.’

‘Yeah,’ said Harley, fighting to put a shine on things. ‘It was . . . real good.’

But it hadn’t been real good. Not at all.

•   •   •

HARLEY FOLLOWED HIM TO THE KITCHEN.

‘That was a fine spread, Rev’ren’, we thank ye.’

He poured a cup of coffee for Hélène. ‘Enjoyed it myself. Glad you’re home safely. We missed you.’ He and Harley were avoiding eye contact.

‘Me an’ Kenny’ll stay an’ give y’uns a hand.’

‘Not tonight, thanks.’ He set the sugar bowl on the small tray. ‘How did the boys do out in Kentucky?’

‘Kenny done fine, he’s a upstandin’ young ’un if I ever seen one, but Sammy, he was always tryin’ t’ fight m’ cousin’s boys. It’s a wonder he didn’t git ’isself shot.’

He put a napkin on the tray, a spoon.

‘He’ll be feelin’ bad about ’is cue stick you give ’im. I don’t think he meant t’ do that, he was real attached t’ that stick.’

He turned and looked at his old friend. ‘What’s it going to take for him, Harley?’

‘A strong hand, a real strong hand—which I ain’t exactly got. He’s a pain in th’ butt, Rev’ren’, but he’s m’ boy an’ he’s gon’ be all right.’

‘You really think so?’

‘Yes, sir, I do. He’s gon’ be all right, don’t you worry.’

Harley’s earnest face.

He wanted to bust out crying, but no. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I needed that.’

•   •   •

HÉLÈNE LINGERED AT THE FOOT OF THE PORCH STEPS.

‘What shall I do, Father?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘About the boy. I’m so sorry for . . .’

She was choosing her words.

‘. . . the heartache he caused this evening.’

What solution could he possibly come up with right here, right now? What could he say to her about what she should do?