The Pool Table 

Julie Young (U.S.)

The clack of pool balls banging against each other, followed by loud laughter flittered through my bedroom walls and woke me up with a smile. The young adults I took in were in my living room enjoying life with my grandson, Clemente and his girlfriend, Kyle.
My husband, James, whom I married on my 21st birthday, died of a heart attack two years prior. I often wondered if the laughter and clacking, that happened about once a week would disturb his sleep. He was a good-natured man, so I imagined me telling him to go back to sleep, after all, the only crime the kids had made was just a good old fashioned belly laugh. I felt joyous because they weren’t drinking, or smoking, or doing drugs. They were just enjoying life in my home. My king-sized bed felt less lonely that night as I imagined James grumbling and pointing out he had to work in the morning as he rolled on his side and fell back to sleep.
We were married for 43 years. Most of it was spent laughing over silly things like the time we hiked up Beaver Creek and I got too cold, so we climbed up a steep cliff that led to a trail. My boot slipped off a rock. I slid down the rugged side cutting and scraping my bare skin. Jim caught two of his fingers in my belt loop. I swung in the air, until I was able to grab hold of his best friend’s leg and climb to safety. Jim would have enjoyed the pool table, maybe as much as he enjoyed fishing.
I bought the pool table on a whim after my grandson, Colten, told me I had room for it in my living room. He was right. That room, I nicknamed an art gallery caught in a tornado, was rarely used and stood cold to the touch, except when my younger grandkids visited and created box castles, mighty forts out of sheets, and bounce houses out of the cushions. When my children were little, they tore up junk mail, flew paper airplanes and left their art supplies strung across the floor. Now, my mom’s magnificent artwork and stepdad’s bronze sculptures guard the room like a museum. But it rarely laughed, anymore, until the pool table sprung it to life.
A pool table was an extravagance I really couldn’t afford, but birthday presents for each of my grandkids would cost almost the same, so instead of buying my eleven grandkids individual presents, I ordered a pool table from Amazon. It was smaller than a normal table, but just the right size for that grand room.
Not able to get back to sleep, I walked into the kitchen to get a drink of lemonade and noticed the young women, sitting on the couch, all looked sullen. I smiled at them. They didn’t smile back. The oldest, black hair pulled into a knot, stared at me, hard. She and her girlfriend moved into my pump house a few weeks prior. They were often at my home, so I took them in when they told me they were evicted because Ryan, one of my adopted kids, drove too fast in the mobile home park they lived at.
The pump house wasn’t much, but it was well insulated and had sufficient electricity. I wish it had a bathroom, but it didn’t seem to bother the girls, whom I suspect didn’t have much growing up. They, along with Ryan and his girlfriend worked at an assisted living center, for minimum wage. Rent in Yavapai County, Arizona tripled over the past few years, so I opened my home to Ryan and his girlfriend, about three years ago. They paid me a small sum in rent and helped out occasionally. I did have to scold them about cleaning the bathroom, but other than that, they were sweet roommates.
It was a larger group than normal. The young men, crowding the pool table, laughed when Clemente took an easy shot and missed. I assumed the boys were hogging the game and didn’t give the forlorn looks much thought until the next morning.
As I grabbed my cup of coffee, Clemente snapped at me and I snapped back, or maybe it was the other way around, I don’t recall because what he told me after our spat, hurt me to the core. A young couple, Tristan and Hannah lost their eight month old baby a few days before. All of their close friends lived at my house. Tristan’s parents kicked them out. I’m not sure why. Nor do I care. I’m only glad they came to my home and found solace with their friends, who rallied around them from dusk until dawn. That pool table gave them something to ease their pain. They were too young to suffer such unimaginable grief.
I’d only met Tristan once before. I was impressed by his knowledge and his desire to acquire a job capable of supporting him and his new family. Barely 19, he stood tall like a stalk of corn. He had planned to work in the oil fields. A job was waiting for him. But now he was lost, cradling a pool stick instead of his son.
I’d never met Hannah before. She reminded me of a doe, wandering in the forest, kind eyes hoping to find something to eat. Clemente opened our refrigerator and our home to them. At first they stayed in their car, parked outside my house. I urged them to sleep on the couch, but Tristan insisted they were fine in the car.
A few days later, I posted a note on my garage door telling everyone they were not allowed in my garage because they kept leaving the outside door open. It was wintertime. My cats lived in that area because I was allergic to their fur. During the day they scampered up my cottonwood trees and chased butterflies in my fields. At night, they were tucked in my insulated garage. Nighttime temperatures were dropping below 30 degrees. I was worried they would freeze.
Tristan saw the note, so he told me, with fought back tears in his eyes, that he and Hannah had moved into the bedroom inside my garage. They set up an air mattress, at Clemente’s urging. I felt the pain in Tristan’s heart as he apologized for the mistake and asked if they could still remain in the room. Of course they were welcome; it was the least I could do.
Clemente always brought home stray kids who were kicked out of their homes. When they were underage, I made them tell their parents, typically a single mom, where they were. It’s illegal in Arizona to run away, so I knew I could get in trouble for harboring runaways, but my husband and I would rather know they were safe in our home, than on the streets. Typically, they would stay for a few days, realize I was stricter than their mom, and scurry back home, with their apologetic tail tucked between their legs.
On the day Tristan and Hannah picked up their baby’s ashes, I gave them a wooden urn I never used for my husband because I can’t bear the thought of touching his ashes that still remain in a cardboard box inside my closet. I never wanted his ashes. My oldest daughter insisted we get them. I bought the urn for her. Instead of filling it with her Daddy’s ashes, she lay in bed with a booze bottle hanging off her lip, until the judge ordered her to be committed to a mental health hospital. She watched her Daddy die. She thought he reached for her tummy to give her a tickle; instead she performed CPR, until the ambulance came and pronounced him dead.
Later that day, my doctor told me I had kidney failure. I wasn’t surprised. I’d had swollen feet and legs for months and a dull throb in my back, I mistook for a kink. I chose to ignore the tell-tell signs of impending death, for months, if not years. Even my purple toes did not chase me into the ER begging for help. I assumed I’d die peacefully in my sleep.
Upon their return Tristan noticed the pain in my eyes as I hobbled over to my refrigerator. My gout flared so badly that day, the pain shot through my entire body like a sharp contraction that never stopped. Unable to drown my pain in the handful of Motrin, I normally took on such wonderful occasions; I fought the pain by lying in bed most of the day.
He asked me gently if I was okay. I burst into tears. He held me like a son as I wept on his shoulder. I had wanted to do something, anything to ease their unbearable pain. Instead, Tristan provided me with the love I needed at that moment in time.

The pool balls still clack in the middle of the night. The laughter is loud, at least once a week. I wish there was a reason some young souls are swept away before they can speak, but I like to envision my husband, my dear sweet husband, holding that precious baby in his arms as we sleep.