by Todd Daley
“Hey, Joey, how about a catch?” Tom called out to his neighbor.
Joey nodded, retreated into his house, and returned with two baseball gloves and a yellowish baseball. Tom ran into his sun-porch bedroom to get his worn baseball glove. Without further fanfare, the three young men began a three-way catch in the middle of Pulaski Avenue, keeping as far away from Mrs. Eggert’s house as possible. In the past, errant tosses and batted line drives had wound up in the grumpy woman’s first-floor front window.
“Stan Mislicki said you’ve developed a knuckleball. You’re pitching for the Seagulls in the men’s baseball league?” Tom said.
“Yup. I’m their ace, and Mike Palermo plays third base and relieves me late in the game. It pisses him off to be playing second fiddle to me when he was a star pitcher in high school.”
“I heard he threw his arm out in the minor leagues.”
“Sure did. The dumb Guinea never developed a curveball or changeup he could control. He’s a good hitter. Could have made it on his hitting ability if he had some smarts at the plate,” Joey replied with a grim smile.
After warming up, Joey began throwing his knuckleball to Tom, who couldn’t handle it. Tom missed a dipping knuckler that “rang his bell,” glancing off his glove and striking him in the groin. After that, Joey threw to Amon, who proved to be a very adroit catcher, despite never having played that position as a youngster.
“Want to be my catcher on the Seagulls? You’re better than the guy we have right now,” Joey told the Mariners Harbor resident.
“Wish I could do it, but my time is kind of limited right now.”
“Shit. You play the game like a semipro. And that olive tree you cursed out last year withered away and died.”
“Beginner’s luck, that’s all,” Amon said with a shrug.
CHAPTER 58
Face from the Past
In early April, the air was fragrant with honeysuckle, which grew in every backyard, vacant lot, and untamed wooded area of Staten Island’s North Shore. The blooming rosebushes, colorful flowers, pink dogwoods, and gentle breezes represented the augurs of spring. But the ultimate rite of spring—Tennyson’s poem about thoughts of love occupying young men’s fancy all over the world—was absent from the skinny teacher’s mind. Whether Martha had moved on or still had some feelings for her old boyfriend was a deep dark mystery to Tom.
Amon’s girlfriend, Mary, no longer taught in the same school as Martha and did not appear to be the best of friends with Tom’s former paramour.
A few weeks ago, Tom had bumped into Jake Gardello, Joanie’s cousin. They exchanged pleasantries, but the latter was not forthcoming about Joanie’s doings. The last time he saw Joanie was at St. Vincent’s Hospital, where she was suffering from an undisclosed illness. He had visited Joanie with Amon, who had placed his hand on her forehead, curing her miraculously. Apparently, she returned to her husband in that faraway Midwestern state that still filled him with dread: Indiana.
With the balmy breezes inspiring him to exercise, Tom drove his old gray Pontiac to PS 21, where he took out his basketball, some Spaldings, and his worn baseball glove. Working up a sweat, the skinny science teacher practiced jump shots, sweeping hooks, driving layups, and some rim-jarring dunks from various locales on the nine-foot-high rims. Next, he proceeded to the concrete wall with the rectangular strike zone and began throwing hard, alternating fastballs with sharp breaking knuckle curves.
He was surprised that he was able to throw both sidearm and overhand without any shoulder pain. Apparently, a few years of inactivity plus exercise had healed the muscle tear in his shoulder. Now he could throw that rubber Spalding so hard that it tailed up and down, left and right. The old adage—time heals all wounds—seemed to have some validity for the skinny science teacher, who seldom missed a day of calisthenics: push-ups, sit-ups, knee bends, plus curls and presses with twenty-five–pound dumbbells,
Concentrating on throwing strikes with his fastballs and knuckle curves, Tom didn’t notice the green sedan pulling up adjacent to the school yard. A pretty, curly-haired young woman with a cute toddler emerged from the hair and walked toward him. The toddler’s curly hair, pouting lips, and pretty face clearly indicated that the twosome were mother and daughter. With confident familiarity, the woman said hello and asked if Tom remembered her.
Momentarily caught off balance, Tom hesitated. “Bonnie Rosolio, I haven’t seen you since high school.”
“It’s been seven years. You look the same. Still the skinny stickball player who dashed around this playground while I read my poetry and romance novels,” she exclaimed.
“I was just trying to fit in with the Elm Park kids who didn’t give a damn about highbrow stuff like that. Is that your daughter?”
“Yes. Say hello to Tom, Flora.”
“That’s a cool name. She’s very pretty … just like you.”
“Why didn’t you say that to me in those days. I always liked you,” Bonnie said warmly.
“I was focused on my grades in high school. Besides, I was kind of backward in that area. But I was your secret admirer,” Tom replied, blushing.
“I heard that you’re a teacher at Curtis High School. I always knew you would do something special with your life. How’s your sister doing?”
“Cara’s good. She’s still drawing and painting, as in her school days.”
“You have a nice family, Tom.”
“Well, we’ve had our ups and downs. You remember my dad with his drinking binges. Remember how he disrupted our poetry recital at this school?” Tom said, pointing to the small red-brick building, with the PS 21 lettering on its facade.
“I remember the recital like it was yesterday. I felt awful about it,” she replied, smiling wistfully and pausing momentarily.
“I need your help. I read in the paper that you’re a close friend of that Mariners Harbor man, Amon. The Advocate claims he has remarkable healing powers. Reporters use words like ‘avatar,’ ‘faith healer,’ and ‘messiah’ when referring to him.”
“He is gifted in certain ways, but he’s not a miracle worker,” Tom replied.
Caressing her daughter, Bonnie said in soft voice, “She has seizures. They have been getting worse, and the pediatrician thinks they might be detrimental to her cognitive development.”
“Isn’t there medication for epileptic seizures? I had a student at Curtis who was plagued by them. His doctors prescribed medication that appeared to curtail the seizures somewhat,” Tom replied.
“I’m a nurse. We’ve tried different meds, but nothing seems to work. It’s terrible when a child suffers from seizures. She’s frightened when she regains consciousness. She doesn’t understand what happened to her.”
Grabbing his basketball, Spaldings, and old baseball glove, Tom said, “I’ll take you to him right now.”
Leaving her green sedan parked on Walker Street, the pretty young mom picked up her daughter and climbed into the front seat next to her old classmate. Tom wondered about the strange turns and twists of fate that led to his transporting his elementary school heartthrob to Amon’s boat in Mariners Harbor.
As luck would have it, Amon was at home in his refurbished tugboat, along with his girlfriend, Mary, who had been tidying up their maritime home. Coincidentally, Mary was acquainted with Bonnie; they had been neighbors on Winant Street, which was a few blocks away.
“I remember playing jump rope with you back in the day,” Mary exclaimed after she was greeted warmly by Bonnie. “And this is your daughter? Oh, my, she’s gorgeous!”
The adorable child smiled and took Mary’s hand as the latter showed her some freshly picked flowers. The brightly colored, sweet-smelling wildflowers seemed to please the youngster.
Turning to Amon, Bonnie described her daughter’s medical issues—the frightening seizures that had grown more frequent and more intense. Bursting into tears, the
pretty curly-haired woman implored the young man, “I beg you to help us. It’s awful to see her suffer such terrifying episodes.”
Suddenly, Flora became agitated, as if something was disturbing her. Amon knelt down next to the child, who despite her fretfulness was drawn to the charismatic young man—cooing, babbling, and hugging him, as if he were a long-lost uncle.
Gently stroking the little girl’s forehead, Amon murmured something about suffering the little children. The effect on Flora was immediate. She evinced a serenity that was uncanny.
Picking up the toddler, Bonnie asked Amon about continuing her medication.
“Sweetheart, I’m not a doctor. I’m not infallible. It’s just a hit or miss with me. Only time will tell what the outcome will be,” Amon replied matter-of-factly.
“How can I repay you?” she asked, hugging the adorable child, who looked at Amon with wide-eyed wonder.
“Just keep doing what you have been doing. You’re a great mom.”
On the drive back to retrieve her car at PS 21, Flora fell asleep on Bonnie’s lap. The two former classmates talked about acquaintances from Port Richmond High School. Bonnie had starred in school plays. Unlike the Elm Park maverick, she was popular. Nonetheless, both of them shared a common distinction—they were memorialized on the high school’s permanent honor roll.
“Whatever happened to that girl you were with on graduation night?”
“That was Joanie. Her family moved to Indiana. I wrote to her during college, but she met a guy and got married,” Tom said, trying to sound detached.
“That’s awful. When you’re in high school, the world is at your fingertips. Then suddenly, you’re an adult dealing with grown-up realities,” she exclaimed.
“As a teacher, you carry a lot on your shoulders. Sometimes I feel I’ve never left high school. Except you’re on the other side of the desk.”
“How are your students? I bet some of the girls have a crush on you,” Bonnie said with a melancholy smile.
“Most of the kids are great. No crushes that I’m aware of. At least I’m getting paid to be there. And I’m taking some courses at City College for my master’s degree—free of charge.”
“Well, you were always a good student. Even in the sixth grade, though you tried to hide it,” she responded.
“Yeah. I was a jerk in those days.”
“You weren’t a jerk. You were just a boy, doing what boys do.”
“Yeah. Being a pain in the ass,” he replied.
As Tom’s gray Pontiac pulled up next to Bonnie’s green sedan, she kissed him on the cheek and left his car, holding Flora in her arms.
“You’ll find someone. But don’t hang out in bars, Tom,” she said, standing next to his old Pontiac.
“How do you know I hang out in bars?” he asked incredulously.
“The North Shore is a small town. Word gets around that you like to drink … just like your dad,” she said grimly.
“I’m not like my dad, I can assure you.”
CHAPTER 59
The Mockingbird Book
Melancholy after his encounter with Bonnie Rosolio, Tom opted for some heavy drinking at Kaffman’s on Morningstar Road. He frequently sought to numb his melancholia after meeting with former classmates. Bumping into Harry the Horse, he spewed out a narrative of maudlin remarks. After an hour, Harry had heard enough from the skinny science teacher. Pocketing his money from the bar, the former Pied Piper of Elm Park grabbed Tom by the collar of his shirt and escorted him out of the hazy, sour-sweet–smelling bar into the fresh air of the balmy April night.
“It’s time both of us got out of there. I don’t know about you, but I have work tomorrow,” Harry growled, fumbling for his keys.
“Ah. Who said April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of dead land, mixing memory and desire?” Tom recited, recalling Bonnie Rosolio’s love of poetry.
“How the fuck would I know! I’m not a schoolteacher. You better get your ass home. Those kids are gonna give you a hard time, whether you’re hungover or not.”
“It was T. S. Eliot, the American expatriate, living in Paris.”
“Go home, Tom. I tell you what—I’ll play you in stickball Saturday. Bring your friend with you.”
Pleased by the notion of challenging the formidable stickball player, Tom smiled and shook the housepainter’s hand. He turned and shambled down Booker Place and was sound asleep in his sun-porch bedroom within a few minutes.
Walking into the front entrance of Curtis High School, Tom greeted the school’s principal.
“Don’t tell me, I’m going to be covering somebody’s class today.”
“Yup. By the way, you look like shit today. I hope you’re not back drinking all hours of the night,” the burly administrator said, eyeing Tom closely.
“Not at all. I might be coming down with something. Otherwise, I’m as fit as a fiddle. When was the last time I missed a day of teaching?”
“You got a point there. But burning both ends of the candle is going to affect your looks at some point,” Mr. Stout said sardonically.
“Then I’ll start living like a saint—attending church, eating healthy, getting to bed by nine o’clock, no drinking, no women, and no impure thoughts.”
“Yeah, sure. The Elm Park barfly is turning over a new leaf.”
“Anyway, whose class am I covering?”
“You know who—Miss Rearview Mirror. She’s missing in action for the next few days. You’re covering an English class,” Mr. Stout said grimly.
“Would that I grab that rear appendage, an indiscretion worth dying for,” Tom replied.
“Don’t even think about it. Rosie Murray’s husband is a New York City detective who keeps her on a short leash,” Mr. Stout said, handing Tom the absent teacher’s notes.
Entering Mrs. Murray’s class to the usual crescendo of boos and cheers, Tom wondered how he would start a lesson on Harper Lee’s novel To Kill a Mockingbird. He barely remembered the splendid book, which he had read in high school. Unlike his science lessons, he had no practical experiment or visual aid to motivate the lesson. How did English teachers get their ideas across without a dramatic opening like launching a match-head rocket or dropping a piece of sodium in a beaker of water? Nothing beat pyrotechnics when it came to grabbing teenagers’ attention. Turning to the board, the skinny science teacher wrote the name of the book on the board as his students groaned with typical irritation and petulance.
“Come on, Mr. Haley. Do one of your practical experiments,” Manny called out from the back of the room.
“Why don’t you give us a free period?” someone chimed in from the same locale.
“He’s just doing his job. Give the guy a break,” Lora said, rattling her copper bracelets and anklets.
“Look who’s brownnosing today. Yesterday you were giving Mrs. Murray a hard time,” Barry replied.
“I hate that snotty bitch. Thinks she’s better than everyone with her fancy clothes and her big you-know-what.”
“Okay, everybody, pipe down. Let’s talk about the book, which is set in a small town. When does the story take place?”
“During the 1950s,” Ronnie answered.
Looking at his notes, Tom corrected her. “I believe it was during the 1930s. There’s mention of Franklin Roosevelt’s WPA program employing some people in the town of Maycomb, Alabama.”
“It had to be a long time ago, because all the white people had black housekeepers and maids doing their work,” Barry observed.
“Those Southerners were very mean to the Negroes. My dad said people from the South are still fighting the Civil War,” Wendy observed.
“What about the two Finch children, Scout and Jem?” Tom asked, checking his notes.
“How can a six-year-old girl beat up her big brother? That’s messed up,” Barry said, shaking his head
.
“Yeah, Jem must be gay like that music teacher, Mr. Schayes,” Manny called out from the back of the room.
“Here’s some practical advice: live and let live,” Tom replied. He had heard the same advice as a CCNY student from his physics instructor in response to some derogatory remarks made by a classmate about an English professor.
“That girl Scout was the real hero of the book. Remember when she kicked that redneck in the nuts when he was getting ready to beat up Atticus?” Lora commented, shaking her copper bracelets and anklets for emphasis.
“What did you say? The proper description is to say she rattled his nuggets,” Barry interjected.
Ignoring the chitchat and perusing Mrs. Murray’s notes, Tom asked about the social taboos described in the book.
“We all know about that stuff. When a colored man messes with a white woman, he’ll wind up dead before you can say Jackie Robinson,” Barry said.
“That’s only in the South,” Lora replied.
“You kidding me? A white girl with jungle fever is asking for trouble … North or South in the good USA.”
“What about the title, To Kill a Mockingbird?” Tom inquired.
“The mockingbird was a symbol of innocence. You could shoot a blue jay but not a mockingbird, which sang each morning,” Wendy replied.
“Excellent, Wendy. Getting back to the book, was Atticus Finch a hero in the story, unlike most of the adults who had axes to grind?”
“He argued a good case for that black man, Tom. But the jury was prejudiced, and he was convicted of raping that white woman. I’m not a big fan of trial by jury,” said Riner, a bespectacled boy who always did his homework.
“Trial by jury goes back to English common law and the Sixth Amendment of the Constitution,” Tom observed.
“That white woman, Mayella, was a slut. She should have gone to jail for perjury,” Manny called out from the back row of desks.
“The thing that bugs me about small towns, like Maycomb, is that everybody knows your business,” Lora said, fiddling with her copper bracelets.