Light From Heaven (46 page)
Authors: Jan Karon
Bud’s Billiards was empty except for someone who appeared to be the manager.
Sammy glanced at the sign on the wall, dug in his pocket for four ones, and laid the cash on the counter.
“Th’ table in th’ corner,” said the manager.
They watched Sammy as he walked to the table. Father Tim remembered his craving, during the early years with Dooley, to hear Dooley laugh. He craved now to see Sammy lose the defeated stoop in his shoulders.
“You want a beer or anything?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“I personally don’t drink. There’s some as drinks their b’iness down th’ toilet.”
“True enough.”
“You ’is daddy?”
“A family friend.” The vicar extended his hand. “His name is Sammy and I’m Father Kavanagh.”
They shook hands.
“You ain’t goin’ t’ b’lieve my name; nobody does.”
“Try me.”
“Bud Wyzer.”
“No way.”
“Some say I was named for that sign over th’ bar.”
“Truth is definitely stranger than fiction.”
“We don’t get many preachers in here.”
Father Tim watched Sammy take a cue stick from the rack and examine it.
“I always liked preachers.”
“You did?” Not everybody could say that, more’s the pity.
“My great uncle was a preacher. Every summer, me’n’ my brother went down to Uncle Amos’s little farm in th’ valley an’ stayed ‘til school started. Kep’ up with ‘is horses, fed ’is cows, done a little cookin’ for ’im when Aunt Bess passed.”
“What kind of cooking?”
“I took to cookin’ when I was ten or twelve. Mostly barbecue, cole slaw, fried chicken. Like that.”
“Your basics,” said the vicar.
“Right. Where d’you preach at?”
Father Tim watched Sammy hunker over the table and sight the cue ball. “A little church in the wildwood, you might say. Holy Trinity on Wilson’s Ridge. Episcopal.”
“I don’ know about nothin’ but Baptists. I guess th’ rest is all pretty different.”
“The key is relationship with Jesus Christ. If we get that right, the differences usually matter less than we like to think.”
Sammy loosened his arm and wrist with a couple of practice strokes of the cue, then stroked the ball, hard. In the empty room, the loud and sudden cracking sound was startling.
“Good grief! What did he just do?”
“Broke th’ rack.”
“I’m sorry, we’ll certainly replace it.”
Bud hooted with laughter. “Don’t worry, nothin’s busted.”
Father Tim adjusted his glasses. He was needing new lenses, big time, but he could see the look on Sammy’s face.
Sammy Barlowe liked shooting pool better than planting peas.
“He’s a slick little shooter,” said Bud. “Got a nice stroke.”
“I wouldn’t know, never shot pool.”
“You ought t’ try. Whoa, look at that.”
“What?”
“Put a little high left English on th’ cue ball an’ drove th’ three ball in th’ upper right corner. Th’ cue banked off three rails an’ dropped th’ seven in th’ lower right corner.”
“Aha.”
Sammy appeared completely focused, oblivious to anything except the table.
“Looks like he knows how to concentrate. Th’ problem with most shooters is, they cain’t keep their mind on th’ table.”
The cue ball cracked against the object ball and sent it into the upper right pocket.
“Pretty nice. How long’s ’e been shootin’?”
“A few years is my guess. At a place down in Holding.”
Bud leaned against the end of the bar, squinting toward Sammy’s table.
Sammy banked the four ball off the rail and put it in the side pocket. Then he hunkered his tall frame over the rail, and with his right hand made an open bridge for the cue stick. He studied the table intently and fired his shot.
“Blam!” said Bud. “Sonofagun.”
“That t-t-table ain’t no g-good,” Sammy told Bud.
“I don’t see it held you back any.”
“It m-must be settin’ on a slope.You ought t’ level it.”
“It don’t bother most people. But here’s your money back.”
Sammy looked annoyed. “Plus you got a couple of bad d-dimples in th’ s-slate.”
“You want t’ keep shootin’, that table on th’ left is as level as level can git.”
The door opened and four customers blew in, one carrying a leather case under his arm.
“There goes th’ neighborhood,” Bud told the vicar.
“Th’ kid in th’ blue jacket is Dunn Craw-ford, th’ vice chancellor’s boy. He’s a smart ass with a big mouth, an’ th’ only customer I’ve got that carries his own cue stick.”
Father Tim felt mildly uneasy. The new customers had somehow changed the way the room felt.
“Dunn’s buddies call ‘im Hook. He’s a hustier that goes after th’ country boys. Reels ’em in like fish.”
Father Tim watched Dunn light a cigarette and eye Sammy. Sammy never looked up. His cue ball cracked against the two ball but missed the mark.
“Rattled in the pocket,” said Bud.
Greek, thought the vicar. Croatian!
He and Bud watched Dunn watching Sammy, while the other three in Dunn’s crowd hassled about who had paid for the beer last time.
“I’ll lay you money ol’ Hook’s goin’ to hustle your boy.”
“Should I let Sammy know?”
“In life, you’re goin’ t’ git hustled, they ain’t no way around it. Maybe he’ll learn a good lesson. Th’ way I look at it, this game’s about a whole lot more than pool, that’s what keeps it in’ erestin’ .”
“All them boys is college-ruint.” Bud lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled through his nose.
Dunn had warmed up with a couple of games of partners’ eight ball, and walked over to Sammy’s table.
“Haven’t seen you in here before.You shoot pretty good.”
“Th-thanks,” said Sammy. “Not g-good enough t’ have m’own s-stick.”
“Birthday gift from my dad. I’m pretty lousy, really. Bet you could teach me some stuff.”
“Here it comes,” Bud said under his breath.
Dunn made a couple of random shots on Sammy’s table and missed both.
“Look, since I don’t have much time, let’s play best two out of three games of nine ball. For ...” Dunn lowered his voice.
Sammy shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Come on.”
Sammy shrugged again. “OK, I guess.”
Dunn removed the striped balls, except for the nine, which he racked with the others. “Go ahead and break ’em up if you want to.”
Sammy lined up his break and stroked hard.
The balls careened around the table; the seven rolled in.
“Got to catch th’ phone,” said Bud. “You’re on your own.”
Father Tim climbed onto the stool and drank bottled water. Sammy’s scar was blazing as they finished the game.
“Who won?” he asked when Bud came back to the end of the bar.
“Your boy. That means he’ll break again.”
Sammy broke the rack.
“Pretty nice. Two balls on th’ break shot, an’ a good leave on th’ one ball. He’s makin’ a very soft stroke here, yeah, great, sinks th’ one. Okay, he’s got an easy shot at th’ five ball to th’ upper corner ...”
Sammy bent over the table, his chin just above the cue stick, and made his shot.
“Stroked th’ ball too hard,” said Bud. “Rattled in th’ pocket.”
Dunn’s buddies quit their own game, and walked across to the table on the left. Father Tim saw the look on their faces as they watched Sammy. Not friendly.
Dunn aimed at the five and put it away.
“Where ’is cue ball’s at don’t give ’im much of a shot at the six ball.” Bud ground out his cigarette and watched Dunn bend over the table. Dunn stroked the cue ball with reverse English off the rail, just behind the six ball.
“Oh, yeah! Caromed off th’ six ball into th’ nine, right in front of th’ side pocket. Boom. Game’s s over.”
“Hey, Bud!” yelled one of the players. “Four beers and a deck of Marlboros!”
“Who won?”
“Hook.”
The vicar took out his billfold. “I’ll have another bottle of water when you get to it. Make it a double.”
Dunn broke with a shot that drove the one, six, and seven balls into the pockets. He lined up the two ball, stroked, and put it in the side pocket.
“Pretty slick,” said Bud.
Dunn attempted to bank the three ball the length of the table, but missed.
Sammy had nothing between the cue ball and the three, but other balls blocked a direct shot to a pocket.
“Cheese gits bindin’ right here,” said Bud.
FatherTim figured he didn’t have to know the game to identify the feeling in the room. Tense.
Sammy aimed and stroked the cue ball using upper-right-hand English. The cue ball barely touched the three ball, then rolled off the cushion with an angle that drove it onto the nine ball. The nine rolled toward the corner pocket, glanced off the eight ball, and fell into the lower corner pocket.
“Done,” said Bud.
The vicar couldn’t tell much from the faces of the pool players, including Sammy’s.
“What happened?”
“Your boy whipped ol’ Hook.” Bud turned toward the bar so nobody could see the grin on his face.
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