by Mary Simses
Mitch gasps. “You mean you got her fired? Over grammar?”
I raise my hands. “No, no, that had nothing to do with it. She was fired a lot later. Months later,” I insist, trying to recall the exact timing of the apostrophe battle and when I learned the waitress was gone. “At least, I don’t think that had anything to do with it.” Now he’s got me worried.
“Relax,” he says, a glimmer in his eye. “I was only kidding.”
He’s got a good sense of humor. I smile and shove another book at him. “You can put that one over here,” I say. “Biographies.”
He looks at the cover and lifts the book, pretending to be overcome by the weight. “Einstein. No wonder it’s so heavy.” He places it on the shelf. “Do they have any sports books here?” he asks. “Maybe you can find something on cycling, to help you get ready for the outing on the Fourth.”
The bike outing. I haven’t even thought about it since the day I signed up. And I did it only because of Regan. Fifty miles. There’s no way I can ride that far. I’m not going. But I’m not about to mention it to Mitch. I don’t want it to get back to Regan that I’m canceling.
“I haven’t come across any sports books yet,” I tell him, “although I’ve only started sorting. Anyway, I already know a few things about cycling. I’ve seen plenty of cycling movies.”
“Movies. Oh, Hollywood again.” He takes a book on vegetable gardening from the pile. There’s a bright-green head of lettuce on the front cover. “What movies? Breaking Away?” He says the name with the tiniest hint of disdain.
He’s right. That’s the first cycling movie that came to mind. “Yes, I’ve seen that,” I say with a casual tone, in case it might be considered cliché by hard-core cyclists.
“No surprise. That’s the one cycling movie everybody’s seen.” Mitch removes a piece of paper that’s sticking out of the gardening book. Someone has written Tips for Growing Radishes at the top.
“Oh, I’m sure,” I say. “But I do think it’s a good movie. You know, production-wise, acting-wise.” I leave out script-wise, because I don’t want to get caught in a trap about how accurate the story is with someone who knows a lot more about cycling than I do. Trying to sound blasé, I add, “I’ve seen others.”
Mitch looks at me. “Oh?”
“American Flyers, for one.” Maybe he hasn’t seen that. I hope he hasn’t.
“Kevin Costner?” he says, with a bit of a snicker. “Not very good.” He looks at the back of the gardening book. A photo shows a woman holding a bowl of red chili peppers.
No, American Flyers wasn’t that good. He’s right about that, too. Damn. “Well, there’s The Flying Scotsman, of course.” Now I’m getting a little more obscure. I’m confident I can stump him with this one.
But I don’t.
“Pretty good movie,” he says. “Graeme Obree was quite a racer.”
Damn again. “Yeah, he was.” I struggle to remember what other bicycling movies I’ve seen that he probably hasn’t. Then I think of one. “I liked Two Seconds,” I say, trying to sound as if I’m not even interested in the conversation anymore.
“What’s that?”
A warm feeling begins to settle over me. “Oh. You don’t know that one?” I pretend to be surprised. “It’s about a girl who’s a professional racer. But she gets kicked off the team, so she becomes a bike messenger. It’s in French. With subtitles.” I grab the next book in the pile, something called When Your Inner Self Wants to Be Your Outer Self.
“Subtitles? French? That’s too much work.”
Mitch and I reach out to shelve our books at the same time, and for a second, our hands collide. I think about the other day in the bike shop, the tug-of-war over the flyers. I move Inner Self over a couple of inches.
“So you wouldn’t invest the time in a good movie just because it has subtitles?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Probably not. I wouldn’t put that much effort into a movie.” He leans against the bookcase and crosses his arms. “In fact, I’ll be glad when that whole film crew leaves town. Kevin and A.J. at the shop—they won’t shut up about wanting to get autographs from Brittany Wells and Cici Thorne.”
“A lot of people are excited about having them here,” I say. “I sure am. I think it’s great for the town.” I run my hand along the spines of the books, making them even. “The director, Peter Brooks, is a very close friend of mine. We went to high school together. He invited me to watch some of the filming.”
“I think it’s nuts,” Mitch says. “It distracts everybody from doing their work. And I got stuck in traffic for twenty minutes the other day because the streets around St. John’s Church were all blocked off for filming.”
“Oh, come on. It’s only for a few weeks. And won’t it be fun to see the places we know in a movie?”
“I think people are getting too carried away,” he says. “The lady at the post office said the Dorset Inn is going to give tours of all the spots where the movie’s being filmed. Who’d want to go on that?”
“You’d be surprised. Tons of people would. I’m sure they’re counting on it bringing in business.” There are two books left on the floor. I pick up The Latitude and Longitude of Love: Where to Find Your Perfect Match.
“Yeah, well, I think it sounds ridiculous. Driving people around in a little van, pointing out Rance Marina and the Sugar Bowl and—”
I gasp. “They’re filming at the Sugar Bowl?”
“I don’t know if they’re filming there. I was just using it as an example.”
“Oh. But maybe they will. Wouldn’t that be great? Having the Sugar Bowl in a movie? Maybe it could become famous, like Mystic Pizza. I wonder if the waitresses would get walk-on parts. I wonder if they’d change anything. You know how movie companies sometimes make a place look really different for a film?”
Mitch looks at the ceiling. “Enough about the movie already.”
“Sorry,” I say as I place Latitude and Longitude next to Inner Self.
He picks up the last book, a collection of poems by Mary Oliver, and starts to put it in the gardening section.
“That doesn’t go there. It’s poetry.”
“It could go there. Have you read her poem ‘The Gardener’?”
Actually, I have read that poem. I think about the first couple of lines, the narrator questioning the way in which she’s lived her life. I look at Mitch, holding the book, looking at me. “Yes, I have,” I say with a smile. “Okay, then. Put it there.”
“You mean, you want to play pool?”
“Yeah, that’s what I mean,” Mitch says.
I gaze at the green surface of the pool table and the balls arranged neatly in the triangular rack. The wooden edges of the table gleam under the glow of the stained-glass lamp. I’ve only fooled around at pool tables a dozen times in my life, at most, but I’ve managed to hit some pretty good shots. In fact, I think I might even have a natural flair for the game. I wonder if he’s any good. “Do you play?” I ask.
“Just a little,” he says, leading the way to the table.
Perfect. That means I can probably beat him. Let’s face it, the whole game is nothing more than pushing a ball around with a pole. “Sure, I’ll play.”
“Okay, Hollywood. Pick your stick.”
I glance at the cue sticks lined up in the rack. Most of them are long, made for men. I choose the shortest one. It’s black at the large end, tapering to light blue, then to yellow, and finally to a cream color at the narrow end. I like the way it feels, the wood smooth and cool in my hands.
“I’ll bet you didn’t know,” Mitch says, taking a stick from the rack, “that pool was originally a lawn game, like croquet.” He picks up a blue cube of chalk. “In the fifteenth century it was played by people in northern Europe and probably in France.” He rubs the chalk over the tip of his cue stick, a fine veil of dust falling through the air. “When the game was brought indoors, it was played on a table with green cloth so it would look like grass.” He hand
s the chalk to me.
“I know you’re a history teacher, but I didn’t know you taught History of Pool.”
“Oh, sure,” he says. “It’s an advanced-level course, though. Juniors and seniors only.” He walks to the triangular rack on the table and adjusts a couple of the balls. “Do you know how to play eight ball?”
That’s the only game I do know. You have to sink all of your balls as well as the eight ball before your opponent does. “Of course,” I tell him.
“All right, then.” He slides the rack back and forth, the balls forming a more compact triangle.
I watch as his hair flops over his forehead and he sweeps it back with a quick gesture. He picks up his cue as if he’s been hanging out in smoky pool halls his entire life rather than teaching history. I know exactly what he’s doing. He’s showing off. And if he thinks this is going to intimidate me, he’s wasting his time. He pulls the rack away with a swift movement, like a magician lifting a cape. “Shall we flip a coin to see who goes first?”
“Absolutely,” I tell him. “I’ll take heads.”
He pulls a nickel from the pocket of his khakis and flips it. “Heads.”
“Okay.” I pick up my cue stick and move toward the end of the table opposite the balls. I lean over the edge of the table the way I remember Tom Cruise doing it in The Color of Money. I’m ready to take my break shot when Mitch says, “Wait a minute. Time out. You can’t hold a cue stick like that.”
I turn my head, the rest of my body still hovering over the table. “What?”
“Let me show you how to hold it.”
“Hey, I was right in the middle of my shot. Do you think I’m one of your students?”
He laughs. “I think I could teach you a few things.”
“Oh, really?” I say.
“Really.” He walks over and stares me straight in the eye. He takes the stick from my hands. “Here’s how you hold it.” He leans over the table, positioning the narrow end of the stick so it’s floating in the crook between his thumb and index finger.
“That’s how I was holding it,” I say. “You’re doing exactly what I was doing.”
“No, I’m not,” he says. “You were doing some crazy thing with it. Here, I’ll show you.” He stands beside me and places the stick in my hands. I feel his shirt brush against my bare arm. It’s soft, as though it’s been washed a thousand times. He smells like fresh soap and clothes hanging outdoors on a line.
“Or you can hook this around,” he adds, raising my index finger so it forms a loop around the cue stick. “Whatever’s more comfortable.”
For an extra second or two, he stands there, next to me, with his hand on mine. “Okay, I think I’ve got it,” I say at last, leaving my index finger around the cue stick.
Mitch steps away. I take a deep breath and exhale. I bring my stick back and then forward, giving the ball a serious jab. It flies across the table and, with a loud crack, hits the balls at the other end. They scatter, spinning and clacking, colliding with one another, bouncing off the rails, and rolling around in search of places to land. One disappears into a side pocket with a resonating thunk, and another drops into a corner pocket, followed by another thunk. It’s a satisfying sound.
I can’t resist clapping. “Wow, I got two in!” I’m proud of myself.
“Not bad,” Mitch says, looking at the table. “You sure you haven’t played much before?”
“Well…” I look down and pretend to fidget. “Actually, I spent most of my childhood in pool halls. My father tried to make a living at it, and we traveled from town to town, going from one seedy hotel to another, so he could play in tournaments.” I look up and gaze across the room. “It was tough.” I let out a sigh. “I was just too embarrassed to tell you.”
Mitch snaps his fingers. “I knew you were trying to hustle me.”
I point to a solid-yellow ball close to a corner pocket. “I’m going for that corner.”
“Then you’d say, One ball in the corner pocket. Didn’t your father teach you the rules?”
“Of course he did. I was just testing you. I happen to be one of those people who like to follow the rules.”
“Ah,” Mitch says. “So you’d never be an anarchist.”
“Oh God, no,” I say as I get into position for the shot. “At least not unless it was the last job available and the benefits were really good.”
I hear him laugh as I line up my shot. I slide the stick back and forth a couple of times and then gently tap the cue ball. It creeps toward the yellow ball, and there’s a quiet clack as the yellow ball slides into the corner pocket. For a moment it looks as though the cue ball will follow. I clutch my stick, anticipating the worst, but the cue ball stays on the table.
“That was so close!” I throw my hand over my heart, an unexpected rush of excitement pulsing through me.
“You saved it,” Mitch says. “Great shot!”
I hear applause. Buddy and Jan and Ruth and Keith Frye, who own Frye Sporting Goods, are standing by the sofa, watching me.
“She’s a hustler,” Mitch says, crossing his arms.
Jan gives me a thumbs-up. “You go, girl. Maybe you’ll beat him.”
“If you beat me,” Mitch says, “you’d better be prepared to play again. Grudge match.”
“Not tonight,” I say. “I need some sleep. I start work tomorrow, remember?”
He looks surprised. “Oh, you got a job?”
“Well, yeah,” I tell him. “I’m starting in the workroom tomorrow morning.” I study the pool table for my next move, but I don’t see any easy shots.
“What’s the workroom?”
I turn to him. “Your workroom. At the shop. Your dad hired me?” I say the last part like a question because I guess now it is in question.
“Hired you. To do what?”
“To organize it.” I walk around the table. There’s a red ball very close to one of the corner pockets. “In exchange for restoring my bike,” I add. “I’m going to be working there for a couple of weeks. Didn’t he tell you?”
“No, he must have forgotten,” Mitch says as he holds his cue stick in a vertical position, like a spear.
“Three ball to the corner pocket,” I say. But this time, I don’t make the shot.
“Oh, too bad,” Ruth says.
“Yeah, well, I guess that’s it for me.” I’ve lost my turn.
Mitch picks up his cue stick and walks around the table, his eyes never leaving the green surface. “So, when was this arrangement made?” His voice has taken on the tone my mother used to adopt when I didn’t put my dishes in the dishwasher for the third time in one day.
“We arranged it today,” I say. “I’m sure your dad meant to tell you. It happened just this afternoon.”
He points across the table with his stick. “Ten ball in the corner pocket.” His tone is all business.
I look at the shot he wants to make, and I wonder if he’s going for a bank shot. That seems like the only thing he can do, but even I know that’s not an easy shot for a beginner. He’ll never make it.
He leans over the table, positions his cue stick, and lets it go. The cue ball crosses the table, hits my side, returns to Mitch’s side, and knocks the ten ball right into the pocket. Thunk.
Wow.
Buddy and Jan and the Fryes clap. I’m about to clap as well when Mitch looks at me from across the table and says, “So what is it you’re supposed to be doing in the store?” His tone is almost accusatory, as though he’s cross-examining me. My mind is racing, trying to figure out why he’s getting upset. I don’t want to be in the middle of a father-son conflict.
“Your dad just wants me to organize the workroom,” I say. “And I thought maybe I could even do a little tidying up in the store as well. Your dad said—”
“My dad doesn’t always know what he’s saying.” His voice is louder now.
I take a step back. “Excuse me?” I try to gather my thoughts. I know I need to come to Scooter’s defense, but this
is all moving so quickly. I feel as if I’m losing control of the situation. “I think your father knows exactly what he’s saying,” I finally say.
Ruth and Keith Frye slip away, and I’m guessing Buddy and Jan probably want to do the same. But then Buddy comes to my defense.
“I’ve known Grace a long time,” he says. “She’s good at organizing stuff. Really good. I remember her notebooks in high school. Her notes were so neat, they looked like she typed them.”
“I did type them.”
“See?” Buddy says. “She did type them.”
Mitch picks up his cue stick again and walks around to my side of the table. “Fourteen ball in the side pocket,” he says, and he takes his shot, the green and white ball rolling obediently into the pocket. Thunk. “Twelve ball in the corner,” he says. His stick flies, the twelve ball ending up in the corner pocket. Whack.
I’m speechless, both at his talent with a pool stick and his sudden anger toward me.
“I think I know my father a little better than you do,” he says, chalking his stick again. “He never should have made that kind of deal with you.” He steps closer to me. “No offense. But you don’t know the first thing about bikes, so how could you possibly organize anything in a bike shop? It’s like somebody asking me to organize a dentist’s office.” He’s standing very close, and the fresh-air smell is gone, replaced by something a little stale.
“Well, I could organize a dentist’s office,” I say, not backing away.
“Oh, okay, great. Remind me to give you Dr. Howard’s number so you can go over there after you do our place.”
This is ridiculous, the two of us sparring like children. “Why don’t you just talk to your dad about this whole thing?”
“Oh, I will,” he says, the edge still in his voice. “I’ll definitely discuss it with him. I’m tired of people taking advantage of him.”
I clutch my cue stick. “What?”
“You heard me. Telling him you can redo the workroom so he’ll fix your bike for free. Admit it. You’re doing this to get a free repair. You’re taking advantage of an old man.”
“Mitch, you don’t really believe that,” Jan says, stepping closer to me. “Come on. That’s not like Grace.”