Bicycle Days by John Burnham Schwartz

rolled over, turning his face toward the wall, which was streaked with shadows, and said that he hadn’t liked it, that it had been strange and quiet. He wouldn’t say any more after that, except that he was tired and wanted to go to sleep. And Alec didn’t push him for more, because Mark seemed afraid to him then, and that made him afraid, too. He went back to his room and crawled into bed, thinking about the club, wondering what his father did while he was there, whether he talked and laughed more than he did while he was at home. He knew it would be his turn to go the next year, when he would be thirteen. He fell asleep waiting for it to happen.
    A year later, the two of them stood alone in the cool, musty billiard room. The room was dark except for a rectangular light suspended above their table. Rows of other tables shrouded in dust cloths surrounded them, reminding Alec of a graveyard. He took a deep breath and smelled the staleness of the room. His father bent low over the long stretch of green felt and drove the cue ball hard into the multicolored rack.
    “No luck tonight,” his father said, checking to make sure none of the balls had gone into the pockets. “Your go.”
    Alec stared at the table until the colored spheres blurred together, until he had to shake his head to make any sense of it. He lifted his pool cue, feeling its weight. Off to the side, where his father stood in the dim light, he heard a brief clipping sound, and then the sudden flare of a match. Thick clouds of cigar smoke began to drift under the overhanging light.
    “Dad?”
    His father was looking at the end of his cigar. “Hmm?”
    “What are we playing?”
    “Eight ball. You know how.”
    “I don’t think I remember.”
    “Sure you do. I taught you and Mark a long time ago. Mark and I played only last year. He was good.”
    The cue was too long for him, and Alec settled it as best he could on the rest made by his thumb and forefinger. The woodwas smooth, and it slid easily back and forth. He lined up behind the cue ball.
    “Keep your head down low over the ball, Alec,” his father said. “That’s the only way you’ll really know where it’s going.”
    Alec bent his head so that he was looking almost straight down the length of the cue.
    “And don’t forget about your legs. That’s where the balance comes from.”
    Alec spread his legs a little wider. He was having trouble keeping his hands still. The movement of the cue against his skin was no longer smooth, but awkward, uneven. He took a deep breath to calm himself. It was full of dust and smoke. He made his shot. The five ball missed the pocket by about half a foot.
    His father stepped up to the table and sank the three ball with a quick shot into the side pocket.
    “Looks like you’re stripes, Alec.”
    Alec nodded. “Stripes.”
    “See the way I’m lined up behind the cue ball here? Where my head’s pointing, the spread of my feet? All of it’s important. And your breathing. Don’t forget to stay relaxed.”
    “It’s not that easy.”
    “You just have to concentrate, that’s all. Don’t think about anything else.”
    Alec watched the cue ball hit the dark green six ball and send it rolling softly down the table and into the far corner pocket.
    “Do you come here a lot, Dad? I mean, to the club.”
    His father was chalking the tip of his cue. “I used to play a lot of pool when I was your age. Did you know that, Alec? Almost every day. Your grandpa bought a beautiful table so he and I could play together. And we did.”
    “So you come here to play pool.”
    “Sometimes.”
    “You mean you play pool here sometimes?”
    “I come here sometimes after work, perhaps a couple times a week. And sometimes when I’m here I play pool.”
    Alec noticed that his father still held the lit cigar between hisfingers as they gripped the cue. He wondered whether some of the ash might fall onto the felt and burn a hole through it. He watched his father attempt an