Juju started the car up and they sat there listening to it throb.

"You see what you're doing to this mat," Nick said. "Only three weeks it's been. You're wearing it out. You're wearing down the ridges with your feet. You and her. Use the backseat, animal."

"The backseat's cramped."

"Animate."

"It's roomier up here."

Juju and his girlfriend shared the front seat for hours at a time, Gloria, french-kissing into the night, the young man's hands exploratory, but it was the action of their feet that caused the trouble, it was the grinding of their feet in unavailing passion that was destroying the traction on the mat.

"Explain to her that if she puts put, Gloria, in a polite way, tell her, the damage to the car will be reduced in the long run. You won't have all this frustration that the both of you take out on the furniture."

"The furniture."

"Put out or stay out. Tell her nice-nice. Because we can't afford this girl destroying our property."

Juju put the car in gear and drove the two blocks to the poolroom, parking away from the streetlight. They got out, examined the car and then crossed the street and went up the long flight of steel-tipped stairs and through the tall metal door into the sparse smoke of the big room, where a single dim figure was hunched over a table, cue ball spinning in the gloom.

A woman rapped a penny on the window and Klara looked up. The woman waved, missus somebody, and Klara smiled and hurried on. She had company coming and she was late.

She stopped for some things at the grocer's and then went up the front steps and there was Albert's mother in the window, cranked-up, wearing a white hospital gown and facing straight out, with a religious medal dangling, and she looked a little like a vision or someone waiting for a vision.

Klara did not want to give this striking scene a title out of some Renaissance gallery because that would be unkind. But the fact, after all, was that the woman was on display.

Mrs. Ketchel sat with Albert's mother this afternoon. The child was being minded by a girl in the building who was capable and trustworthy.

Klara tidied the place a little, not much, and then stood in the spare room looking at the sketch on the easel, a study of the room itself. She'd been sketching the room for some time now. She did studies of the door frame, the molding on the walls, she did the luggage stacked in a corner.

When Rochelle rang the bell she was standing in the kitchen smoking.

"So, Klara. Here you are."

"Don't look too closely. I didn't clean."

"You don't clean for old friends."

They sat in the living room with coffee and snacks.

"So here you are."

"Exactly, what, six blocks from where we grew up?"

"It feels strange coming back. Everybody's so ugly. I swear I never noticed."

The real Rochelle. This is what Mara wanted but wasn't sure she'd get.

"You have a new place," she said.

"Riverside Drive. How did I get so lucky I don't know."

"You're looking very Parisian or something. The hair, maybe, or the clothes. What is it?"

"Once you start, you can't stop. It's like a disease," Rochelle said. "You still have your willowy look, which is the envy of my life."

Rochelle's husband was a developer. She called him Harry the Land Man. They went to Florida and Bermuda and shopped for lingerie together on Fifth Avenue.

"So you're here, Klara. Teaching art."

"There's a community center. The children come to me, some of them kicking, some of them screaming. Others are very willing, they love to draw."

"So it's satisfying."

"At times, yes, I enjoy it."

"So you enjoy it. So it's good. And Albert. He's a teacher too. Everybody's a teacher. Half the world is teaching the other half."

"Albert's a real teacher. A professional."

"That's his mother in there?"

"A forceful woman actually, even in this condition. I admire her in a number of ways. Takes no crap from anybody."

"She's dying in there?"

"Yes."

"You'll let her die in the house?"

"Yes."

"You were always open-minded that way. You have a lover, Klara?"

"Ten minutes you're in my house. The answer is no."

"You want to ask me if I fool around?"

"I know what I'm supposed to say. Youd be crazy to fool around. Risk all that? Harry, the apartment, the underwear? But in fact."

"Once or twice only. I need something in the afternoon or I feel useless."

Rochelle wanted to see her work. There were several small canvases stacked against the wall in the spare room and they stood there a while, looking. The pressure Rochelle felt to say the right thing mashed her head into her torso.

"Harry wants to buy art."

"Tell him to get an advisor."

"I'll quote you that you said that."

Klara showed some pastels.

"So Albert's a dear sweet man, right? He likes it that you paint?"

"He thinks it relaxes me."

"So you enjoy it. You come in here and paint. I can picture you, Klara. Standing here thinking, measuring with the brush. Itbu're trying this, you're trying that. Once I let an elevator man rub against my thigh, in Florida."

They had another cup of coffee and then went upstairs to see Klara's child. She was on the floor playing with jigsaw pieces and they stayed half an hour talking to the baby-sitter and watching the child make a world independent of the puzzle.

"Klara, say it. I should have a baby."

"You're the last person I would say it to."

"Thank you. We're friends to the end. Give me a hug, I'll go home happy."

They went down and stood on the stoop talking. Three men were pushing a car to get it started. A light snow was falling.

"So she takes no crap, Albert's mother. Take me to her deathbed before it's too late. Maybe she can tell me something I should know."

When she was gone Klara went into the spare room and restacked all the canvases and stood looking at the sketches she'd done. The door, the doorknob, the walls, the window frame.

She sent Mrs. Ketchel home and sat with Albert's mother until it got dark. Then she went into the kitchen to do something about dinner. But first she turned on the lamp near the bed so Albert would see his mother when he came up the steps.

The poolshooter was George Manza, George the Waiter, and he was playing alone at the back of the room. He was not a man who mixed with the regulars and he was a master shooter besides. It was rare that anyone came in who could play at this level.

Nick stood near a table where a gin rummy game was going but he was watching George shoot pool. Bank the six, play beautiful position for the ace, make a masse shot that Nick could barely visualize even after he saw it.

Once, nearly a year ago, George came up to Nick, unexpectedly, and asked him to go to the unemployment office with him. He needed to fill out some forms so he could collect for the next twenty weeks and he didn't say it outright but Nick understood that he required help reading the forms and filling in the information. Nick also understood that an older man might not want to ask someone his own age for this kind of help. They went to the office and filled out the forms and George didn't feel embarrassed and ever since that day he always had a word for Nick, some advice to give, regards to your mother, stay in school.

Somebody says, "What's this, fuck-your-buddy week?"

Mike the Book stood behind the counter, under the TV set, a short square-jawed man who was always about a day late shaving. The poolroom was a sideline to Mike's bookmaking operation. Sometimes he let Nick and his buddies shoot pool with the light off over the table, which meant they didn't have to pay.