The Mariners Harbor Messiah

by Todd Daley

  “But prayer is forbidden in the public schools,” Tom replied. He recalled listening to Bible readings in elementary school, but the Supreme Court put a stop to that by the time he was in high school.

  “No. That’s out of the question nowadays,” Tony said ruefully.

  “Just go up to the one with the biggest mouth and jab him in the stomach with your finger … playfully, with a smile on your face. He’ll get the message,” Dick recommended.

  “I couldn’t do that. ‘Know your limitations’ is an adage I follow as a teacher. My approach is to grab their attention with a booming practical experiment.”

  “You can’t set off a match-head rocket every day of the week,” Tony replied.

  “Whenever the hall is filled with sulfur fumes, the kids say it’s Mr. Haley with one of his practical experiments. It’s your trademark,” Dick exclaimed.

  “I wish I had my friend Amon’s charisma. He had the kids eating out of his hands when he spoke here last week.”

  “He’s a star, all right. But you know what happens to shining stars?” Dick asked.

  “They lead us to our destiny?” Tom responded uncertainly.

  “No. They burn out and fall to the earth,” Dick declared grimly, pointing to his steel brace.

  “Ah, don’t say that,” Tom said as Tony turned away and Dick smiled with a grimace that reminded Tom of his late alcoholic father, Thomas Haley. Thinking about his unhappy father, Tom felt an urge to visit Kaffman’s bar for an early afternoon picker-upper.

  CHAPTER 64

  Jake Gardello

  Driving up Morningstar Road, Tom slowed down as he approached Kaffman’s on the corner of Walker Street. Then cursing at himself, he opted to turn left on Walker Street, heading for PS 21. The best way to blow off steam and forget your troubles, he realized, was with some healthy exercise.

  Taking out his basketball from the gray Pontiac, Tom walked over to the nine-foot basketball court and began shooting baskets, working up a nice sweat and forgetting the ups and downs involved in teaching pesky adolescents. Before long, a pale-blue Chevy that was vaguely familiar pulled up to the school yard. It was none other than Jake Gardello, his old flame’s cousin. The two greeted each other awkwardly and, as young men are wont to do, started shooting baskets together.

  They played some games of horse and then a spirited game of twenty-one. Jake removed his suit jacket and loosened his tie, but his leather-soled shoes prevented him from getting the traction needed to stop, start, and change directions quickly. A stocky thirty-year-old, Jake lacked the sprightly energy of his graceful cousin. Tiring quickly, Jake finally spoke up and revealed the purpose of his visit to Elm Park.

  “Joanie’s marriage has broken up. It’s a long story, which I don’t want to go into. Let her talk about it.”

  “What? I’m astonished. How is she doing?” Tom replied, shooting a line drive that caromed off the front of the rim. Knowing Joanie, he figured the breakup was due to betrayal by her asshole husband.

  He remembered visiting Joanie at St. Vincent’s Hospital some time ago with Amon. His friend had placed his hand on her forehead, healing her almost immediately. It was one of his amazing miracles, which made him a local celebrity.

  “She’s good. I thought I’d find you at Kaffman’s doing some elbow bending.

  Then I figured you might be at the school yard playing ball.”

  “You know me well, Jake. Either drinking or playing ball or teaching science,” Tom replied.

  The skinny teacher was glad he had chosen the PS 21 school yard instead of the hazy, sour-sweet–smelling Elm Park gin mill. He recalled that wonderful softball game, so many years ago, when he had collided with a teammate in the outfield and Joanie ran over, fussing and cooing over him. Jake had played on the opposing team and probably was the reason his cousin Joanie was there as a boisterous spectator. Indeed, Tom had been so distracted by the cute teenager that he crashed into Joey Caprino while chasing a fly ball in center field.

  “I’m not sure when Joanie’s coming back to the Island, but it will be soon. Be nice to her! She’s been through a lot,” Jake declared, grabbing his jacket and heading for his sleek Chevrolet.

  Later on, Tom was talking excitedly with his friend Amon about Joanie’s return to the Island. Amon grabbed the skinny science teacher by the arm. “Didn’t I tell you that you two were soul mates, inextricably bound together?”

  They were shopping at a local supermarket, where Amon was purchasing food items and household comestibles for the residents at his Victorian boardinghouse on Union Avenue. Checking out at the cashier’s register, Amon found he was a bit short on cash. Amon asked if he could put the amount he owed on his tab, as usual.

  “No, sir. We can’t do that anymore. Your tab keeps getting bigger, and your people come in here all the time, charging stuff—including beer and cigarettes,” the clerk responded sourly.

  Uncharacteristically, Amon turned red with fury. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your money. Friggin’ money gougers. You’re just as bad as the bankers, businessmen, and landlords who rip off working people trying to get by.”

  Reaching into his pocket, Tom paid the balance as Amon muttered epithets under his breath. Patting the Mariners Harbor resident on the back, Tom said, “You’re beginning to sound like my Marxist mom.”

  “Well, your mom makes a lot of sense. How is she doing, by the way?”

  “Good. Why don’t you drop over Saturday morning? Elm Park could use a visit from the Mariners Harbor Messiah. We need someone to talk us out of our evil ways.”

  CHAPTER 65

  Charismatic Portrait

  As it happened, Cara was at the flat-roofed stucco house with their mom, having coffee, talking about her secretarial job in the city, and complaining about her brutish husband, Phil. The thought of his sister’s unhappy marriage gave Tom pause when it came to resuming his connection with the tumultuous Martha. Answering the ring of the doorbell, Tom ushered Amon through the long narrow hall and the central TV room, to the bright sunny kitchen.

  Amon gave Tom’s mother and sister a hug and a kiss, exclaiming, “I’m so glad to see you again, Mrs. Haley. Tom talks about you all the time.”

  “I can only imagine what he says about me,” Claire responded with a sardonic laugh, giving Tom an angry look.

  “Oh, no! It’s all good, Mrs. Haley. Tom’s a good son and a loyal friend. He has done much on behalf of the homeless, in addition to his teaching duties at Curtis High School.”

  “Well, he damned well better be. I worked very hard—wearing the skin off my fingers, typing envelopes at night—after working as a bookkeeper all day long in the city.”

  “Mom, please don’t get the shoebox of canceled checks from the Smiths,” Cara said, shaking her head and looking up at the ceiling.

  “Both of your children have inherited your work ethic—of that you can be sure, Mrs. Haley,” Amon intoned diplomatically.

  “I hear you’re some kind of faith healer,” Claire asserted, pointing to the right side of her face, which had been scarred by radium burns in her youth. “Can you do something about this?”

  “I’ll try,” Amon responded, going over to Claire and gently touching the disfigured woman’s face.

  Tom sensed that Amon no longer was confident about his healing powers. The fact that Dick Grimsby was now wearing a brace and the car-crash victim, Evette, had begun complaining about an aching back gave him pause.

  “You should have been around to help Tom and Cara’s father. He was an incurable alcoholic.”

  “The rumors concerning my abilities have been hugely exaggerated by the local papers,” Amon offered quietly.

  “Yeah. That damned Advocate is a rag. They like to play up the misfortunes of working people just to sell their rotten scandal sheet. Just like those damned saloons selling booze to helpless drunks. Blood money, I called it
… right to their faces.”

  “You’re definitely a woman of strong opinions, which I admire greatly,” Amon replied, sipping on coffee that Cara had given to him.

  Cara also gave the charismatic Mariners Harbor resident one of her homemade cupcakes, which he seemed to enjoy immensely. Tom remembered his sister giving their neighbor Antonio, the mason, one of her special cupcakes when he was furious with Tom. Her brother had hit a pop-up, which landed in some cement Antonio was mixing to repair his sidewalk.

  Surprising everyone in the small kitchen, Cara had Amon sit by the window, where she began to paint his portrait. He complied willingly, sitting motionless while the young woman sketched and painted with amazing skill. Before long, a striking resemblance of the handsome, dark-complexioned young man was completed before everyone’s eyes.

  “Cara, it’s an extraordinary painting. It looks just like him!” Tom exclaimed.

  “Cara has her father’s talent. Although he painted in a room, using his imagination. He worked quickly and effortlessly, producing excellent stuff, when he was sober. Not bad,” Claire said, examining the picture closely.

  Putting her brushes and tubes of paint away, Cara placed the painting on the living room coffee table to dry.

  “Mrs. Haley, you must be very proud of your gifted children.”

  “Of course I am. But don’t let it go to your head—the both of you,” she replied with a smile, which was more like a grimace, reminding Tom of the way his dad smiled.

  Tom realized that the ability to find joy in life and to smile with your whole being was not widely disseminated in those who had gone through some tough times in life. Indeed, Claire Haley had a good sense of humor, but her laughter was usually manifested as a response to sarcasm mixed with ironic wit. Her wisdom about the world and its ways was tempered with a bitterness that sometimes surprised her son. Like many people who have had disappointments in life, she could not laugh at herself easily.

  Later on, his mom and Amon had a philosophical discussion about charity. As a Marxist, Claire Haley did not believe in charity, stating that it was the role of government to eliminate poverty by moving resources from the wealthy to the poor. Amon agreed with much of what she had to say but asserted that until “the fortuitous arrival of a utopian society, we are obliged to help the poor, the downtrodden, the desperate, and the afflicted.”

  Surprising everyone, Cara used the term “post-office socialism” to describe her mom’s political philosophy. “You want the government to own corporations and run them like the post office. Whenever I go to the post office, there are long lines and the postal employees are all sitting around in the back.”

  Looking askance at Cara, her mom said, “You’re getting like your brother. The both of you deal with the world’s problems with a snappy argument that doesn’t hold water.”

  Getting ready to leave, Tom and Amon walked down the long narrow hallway, where the latter bumped his head on the hanging light fixture. Smiling, Tom mentioned he had learned to duck in that hallway after enduring many bumps to his noggin.

  “Wait! Your picture,” Cara called out as she ran into the living and retrieved her portrait of the Mariners Harbor resident. As she handed it over to Amon, the young woman did a double take.

  “Look! There’s a halo over your head,” she called out.

  “You’re kidding … you’re not kidding,” Tom said after examining the picture.

  “Com’ere, Mom. There’s a halo in my picture, which I did not paint.”

  Ever the doubter, Claire Haley scrutinized the painting. “Yeah, sure. You must have been thinking about post offices while you were painting Amon’s picture.”

  “Don’t forget, Mom. Life must be lived on the basis of reality,” Tom said, teasing his unspiritual, down-to-earth mother. As a science teacher, Tom believed that the events of life, though ostensibly random, were linked by cause and effect.

  Always the realist, Claire yelled from the front porch, “I’ll believe it when my face turns pretty and General Motors is owned by the government.”

  CHAPTER 66

  Reluctant Hero

  A few weeks later, Tom was treating Amon and Mary to dinner at their favorite diner beyond Union Avenue on Richmond Terrace. The dingy diner had been the scene of Amon’s earliest miracle: resuscitating an elderly man who had an apparent heart attack. His wonderful feat of hands-on faith healing had prompted Mary to call her boyfriend the Mariners Harbor Messiah. This label was reinforced by the local newspapers after he rescued Perry Pantino from the swirling waters of the New York Bay.

  Sitting in a booth under the neon lights, the three young people were greeted by the same gaunt, gray-haired waitress who had served them so long ago. Tom and Amon ordered hamburgers and french fries, while Mary requested her customary BLT on toast. Tom noticed that Mary had changed little in the past few years. She was still the slender sweet-faced parochial school teacher who doted on her students and adored the charismatic Mariners Harbor resident.

  As the threesome chatted and ate their down-home diner food, Tom observed the fatigue in Amon’s face. Gone were the radiant smile and glowing energy that were part of his friend’s persona.

  When the waitress came back with the bill, which Tom grabbed unceremoniously, she scrutinized Amon at length. “I remember you, young man. You saved Danny when he had a heart attack here a couple of years ago. He was a steady customer.”

  “Oh, yes. Whatever became of that poor man?” Mary inquired.

  Pausing momentarily, the waitress replied, “Danny collapsed and died on Richmond Terrace from a massive heart attack. He was seventy-five years old, an old sailor who liked his whiskey and his rye.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear about that. I wish Amon had been around. He would have saved him again,” Mary responded.

  Shaking his head sadly, Amon disagreed. “Mary, I’m no miracle worker. So-called faith healing is akin to the placebo effect. If the afflicted person is convinced that his helper has a special gift, he feels better about his condition and therefore heals.”

  Tom began to wonder about Amon’s special powers. Were they real? Were they receding? Dick Grimsby was wearing a steel brace on his leg again, Evette’s leg—damaged in a car accident—had begun to bother her, and his mom’s appearance had changed only slightly. Even that black cat, which had been struck by a car and revived by Amon, was limping badly and not eating, until Mary took it to a vet. And Amon himself seemed to be in a funk, unlike his usual optimistic self.

  As the three friends ate their dinner quietly, Tom thought about the deleterious effects of time. He was no longer the raw rookie teacher often mistaken for a student in the hallways and cafeteria of Curtis High School. The good-natured Mary had a few gray hairs scattered in hair wavy dark-brown hair. Time, the ineffable stuff that life was made of, was relentlessly moving forward, carrying all of us unwillingly in its wake.

  Tom’s unhappy thoughts were interrupted by a commotion in the front of the diner. A husky masked man with a gun had demanded the cashier empty the cash register in his canvas bag. “Do it now, bitch, or I’ll blow a hole in your head!”

  Tom and Mary looked to Amon, anticipating heroics in the form of a lightning move or a fearless face-off with the gunman. Instead, Amon remained sitting, chewing on his hamburger, as if nothing amiss had occurred. Then the thief moved along the row of booths, looking for something else to snatch. He noticed Mary’s silver cross, given to her by Amon himself.

  The latter slowly looked up and told the perpetrator to “quit while you’re ahead of the game.”

  “Shut up, preacher, or I’ll put a hole in your chest!” he snarled at the Mariners Harbor resident. Tom couldn’t quite figure out why the thug thought Amon was a man of the cloth.

  As he reached over to grab the cross, Tom threw his glass of soda in the man’s face, and Amon, finally coming alive, wrested the gun from the would-
be assailant’s face. Tom knocked the crook to the floor with a body slam, as if he was a base runner trying to knock the ball from a catcher guarding home plate. The three men tussled on the floor for a few minutes until the sound of a police siren told them the ordeal was ending.

  After the gunman was taken away and the dust settled, Tom was amazed at how long it took for Amon to step in and take action. Something was amiss with the Mariners Harbor Messiah. Even Mary was puzzled by her boyfriend’s slow response to the dangerous situation. She looked at him uncertainly.

  Shrugging his broad shoulders, Amon responded, “I get tired of playing the hero. There are so many jerks in the world. As soon as you deal with one asshole, another comes along that you have to smack down.”

  Another thing that bothered Tom was that guns were so readily available to lawbreakers. Recently, one of his students claimed that it was easier to get a gun than to borrow a book at the library, in certain parts of the North Shore. Although he was raised on a South Jersey farm where hunting was common, Tom had never fired anything but a BB gun. His idea of sports was hitting a Spalding with a broomstick bat or shooting a basketball at a school yard hoop—not stalking a fleeing deer or a quacking duck with a loaded shotgun.

  Harry Bridges

  Harry Bridges, a native of Australia, was the leader of the longshoremen’s union for more than forty years. Born in Melbourne, Australia, Bridges first went to sea at the age of sixteen as a merchant seaman. Bridges said he was inspired to go to sea by the legendary writer Jack London. In 1920, Harry Bridges arrived in the United States, where Americans nicknamed him “The Beak” because of his hooked nose. As a result of his strong Australian accent, Bridges was also called “The Limey” by his fellow dockworkers.