Chapter 7: Not in the Next Room

Jo was waiting at the curb in a dented gray Honda when I got back to Pittsburgh.

She had changed out of her scrubs into jeans and a hospital sweatshirt, and she had not slept.

"Where does he go when he's drowning?" she asked as soon as I got in.

"Pool hall on Murray. The one with the broken jukebox."

"Why there?"

"He took me there when his dog died. He didn't talk for three hours, and he beat me at nine-ball."

She pulled out into traffic without another word.

The pool hall was dark and low, with a green neon sign half burned out.

We found him at the last table by the wall, alone.

He had a rack of balls in front of him he hadn't broken and four empty glasses lined up beside the cue.

He looked up when we came in.

He smiled, which was worse than anything he could have said.

"Hey. It's the whole family."

"You've been drinking," Jo said.

"I'm paid up." He lifted his glass. "Fully paid. I'm paid for everything."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"It means I'm square with the house."

"Shane."

"No, I'm serious. Four years, Devin. I'm paid up."

Jo took the glass out of his hand and set it on the table, very gently.

"Come on. You're coming home."

"Can't. She said to be at the airport on the fourteenth. She's got my passport."

"Why does she have your passport?" I said.

He looked at me with enormous, wet, drunk eyes.

"Because she asked for it."

"That's not a reason."

"It's the only reason there's ever been."

He put his forehead on the felt.

"I'm sorry," he said to the table. "I'm so sorry, man. Don't hate me. I can't be hated by you too."

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