by Todd Daley
Tungsten: W
Raising his hand and scratching his head, Barry said, “Wait a minute, didn’t we cover the symbols of the elements before?”
Skimming through his lesson plans, Tom smiled sheepishly. “You’re right, but the elements are such an important topic that they bear repeating. Repetition is the key to learning.”
“And drinking is the cause of amnesia,” the rude teenager replied.
“What did you say your name was?” the skinny science teacher retorted.
Tom mentioned that certain elements like radium and uranium were radioactive, emitting dangerous radiation. “Years ago, people working in clock factories would paint radium on the clock faces, so the numbers would glow in the dark. Many of them came down with tongue cancer as a result.”
He recalled his mother’s terrible experiences with radium as a youngster. Doctors had tried to use radium to remove a purplish spot from her face. It caused severe burns on her face, requiring years of surgery and disfiguring of that side of her face. Suffering comas, she had spent most of her adolescence in hospitals and hardly attended high school at all. Her parents did send her to business school to learn typing and other secretarial schools so she could find work. Forty years later, Claire Haley was still doing office work, which, along with reading, was the supreme joy of her life.
Stirring the skinny teacher from his reverie, someone from the back asked Tom what he was going to do with the mercury.
First, he showed that an iron nail could not float in water, because iron is denser than water. Then, he placed the iron nail in the beaker of mercury, where it actually floated on the surface of the liquid metal. “What does this demonstrate about the metal iron?”
Wendy raised her hand. “That iron is more dense than water but less dense than mercury.”
“Right on, Wendy,” Manny yelled from the back of the room.
“Incidentally, scientists have found high levels of mercury in tuna fish due to contamination of the oceans with methyl mercury, a by-product of coal-burning power plants,” Tom lectured.
He thought about Amon fishing in the polluted Kill Van Kull, which likely had high levels of methyl mercury. Perhaps his friend’s weakened physical and mental condition could be attributed to the fish he had consumed over the years from that murky body of water. Tom made a mental note to warn Amon about fishing in that contaminated North Shore bay.
“Does density have to do with how close the atoms are packed together?” Ronnie inquired.
“Yes. Density is obtained from the following formula,” Tom replied, turning to the blackboard.
Density = Mass / Volume
Next, he listed the densities of several common substances on the board.
Densities:
Water = 1.00
Alcohol = 0.78
Iron = 7.86
Copper = 8.92
Silver = 10.60
Gold = 19.31
Wood = 0.71
Aluminum = 2.70
Lead = 11.34
“Then why do ships made out of steel float on rivers and oceans?”
Again, Wendy responded. “Because ships are hollow with lots of space for air. So their overall density is less than water. But if they spring a leak so ocean water rushes into the hull, they will sink. Like the Titanic did when an iceberg tore a hole in its hull.”
“Excellent, Wendy!”
“How come you always say ‘excellent’ when Wendy answers a question? But when I answer a question, you just say ‘correct,’” Barry said half-seriously.
“You’re right. I’ve been remiss. The entire class was excellent today. It was like everyone was wearing those magical copper bracelets that Lora has.” This remark caused Lora to rattle her copper bracelets and anklets joyfully.
“And to show my appreciation, I’m handing out these magical glass marbles, which will give you all positive energy and good vibrations.”
Tom walked down the aisles, handing out marbles to his students—most of whom accepted them happily—proving that people will accept freebies, regardless of their minimal value.
Barry grabbed more than his fair share, asserting he would sell them to the little kids on his block, proving that the entrepreneurial spirit was alive and well in America’s teenagers.
The Berrigan Brothers
The Berrigan brothers, Daniel and Philip, were deeply involved in the antiwar movement during the Vietnam War. Daniel Berrigan was a Jesuit priest who taught theology at Le Moyne College in Syracuse, New York. Philip Berrigan served in the army during World War II as an artillery officer, fighting in the Battle of the Bulge.
Both Berrigan brothers participated in the Vietnam-era antiwar movement, organizing protests and writing letters to newspapers urging an end to the war. Philip Berrigan was arrested for nonviolent protests and was sentenced to six years in prison. Daniel Berrigan traveled to Hanoi during the Tet Offensive in 1968 to take custody of three American airmen who had been released by the North Vietnamese government.
In 1968, Daniel Berrigan signed a pledge refusing to make tax payments in protest of the Vietnam War. He changed his tactics from nonviolent to violent in the form of using homemade napalm to destroy the draft files of the Catonsville, Maryland, draft board that same year. Berrigan was arrested and sentenced to three years in prison for his actions against that draft board. However, Daniel Berrigan went into hiding before being apprehended by the FBI.
Philip Berrigan also became embroiled in the antiwar movement during the late 1960s. In 1967, Berrigan and three others poured blood on the Baltimore draft board’s records. When arrested, Philip Berrigan calmly handed out Bibles and lectured draft board employees on the “terrible waste of American and Vietnamese blood in Indochina.” In 1968, Berrigan asserted that the Catholic Church, the Protestant churches, and the synagogues of America were complicit in the American war effort because of “their silence and cowardice in the face of the country’s silence.” Philip Berrigan went on to accuse the American religious bureaucracy of overt racism and indifference to the poor.
After the Vietnam War, Daniel and Philip Berrigan and others formed the Plowshares Movement, which operated against munitions manufacturers. At one point, they trespassed onto the General Electric nuclear missile plant in Pennsylvania. At this facility, they damaged nuclear warhead nose cones and poured blood onto documents and files. Both Berrigan brothers were arrested and charged with felonies and misdemeanors, eventually spending two years in jail after ten years of appeals.
The Berrigan brothers also inspired other antiwar efforts by the “Catholic Left.” A group organized by Jerry Elmer took action against corporations fulfilling military contracts during the 1970s. This group was willing to do jail time as a consequence of its actions against the military-industrial complex. There were actions against Dow Chemical, which produced napalm for use in Vietnam, and against General Electric, which had contracts to produce incendiary weapons employed in Vietnam.
Near the end of his life, Philip Berrigan spoke against the scourge of nuclear weapons—mining uranium, manufacturing the bombs, and using them in future wars. He said these weapons are “a curse against God, the human family, and the earth itself.” Daniel Berrigan continued to be involved in the Plowshares Movement. Both brothers were opposed to American intervention in Central America, the Middle East, and Afghanistan. In recent years, Daniel Berrigan spoke out against abortion, against capital punishment, and in support of the Occupy Movement to address economic inequality. Daniel Berrigan was not an admirer of American material success. He thought of it as a death trap. Berrigan felt that “each person must struggle to stay alive and be of use as long as he can.” Philip did not believe the ballot box lead to reform:
“If voting made any difference, it would be illegal.”
CHAPTER 69
The Undesirables
&nb
sp; Returning to the flat-roofed white stucco house on Pulaski Avenue, Tom’s plans of checking his students’ science homework were interrupted by a panicky phone call from Mary, Amon’s girlfriend.
“Amon’s been arrested for beating up a man in the Simonson Avenue house. He’s being detained at the St. George precinct,” she said in a feverish voice.
“Beat up a guy? That doesn’t sound like Amon. What happened?”
“He’s a new resident at the Simonson Avenue house. Moved in a few weeks ago with a woman friend. They had a big fight, and he smacked her around. So Amon intervened and punched him out. When the police arrived, Amon started arguing with them, and he was taken into custody.”
“You don’t argue with the cops. He should know better,” Tom replied.
“Amon hasn’t been himself lately. Either he’s too laid-back and doesn’t want to intervene, or he jumps into situations with both feet,” Mary related sadly.
“I’ll call Stan, the Elm Park lawyer. He helped us when those developers were trying to seize his tugboat for that dumb condo project.”
“By the way, those people have begun bulldozing the Terrace waterfront a few blocks from us. He’s very upset about that also. Sid Davidoff came around again and spoke to Amon, but there’s little he could do to deter the big shots from their ambitious projects,” she explained.
“Friggin’ developers. Urban renewal, they call it. But it’s really poor people removal. Don’t worry. We’ll get him out. They can’t pull that shit with the Mariners Harbor Messiah.”
“The police were taunting him about that epithet. There’s a lot of ill will directed toward Amon. The local people resent the so-called undesirables he’s bringIng into the neighborhood,” she said.
“Yeah. Staten Islanders are not crazy about undesirables. I don’t know how they put up with themselves.”
Within an hour, the congenial attorney Stan Mislicki had sprung Amon from jail, posting a modest $2,500 bond. A few weeks later, Amon and Stan stood before the black-robed Judge Taylor. The judge, a wise gray-haired magistrate, who was aware of Amon’s good standing in the community, admonished him to “restrain your passions in helping the sick and the poor. Remember, young man, Jesus said the meek, not the mighty, shall inherit the earth.”
Embarrassed by his angry display of violence, so uncharacteristic of his past behavior, Amon replied, “I am very sorry for my actions. I promise you, sir, it won’t happen again. I shall turn my cheek to all attacks—verbal and physical—upon myself. Blessed are the peacemakers. They are the sons of God.”
On the way back to Mariners Harbor, the three men stopped for a drink at K. C.’s bar, where Pat McDean greeted him. “Aha, the prodigal son has returned to the fold. What are you guys having?”
Tom ordered a Ballantine beer for himself, and his two companions indicated that the same beverage would suffice for them. Tom noticed that the place was jumping that night—attributing it to a full moon.
“Have you noticed that crime rates go up during a full moon?” he asked his companions.
“As Shakespeare once said, the fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves,” the young lawyer declared.
“That crime pattern follows the moon’s phases sounds like an old wives’ tale,” Amon observed.
“How is your teaching going?” Stan asked the skinny science teacher.
Tom replied that his teaching job was coming along, now that he had more control over his restless charges. Teaching is about “stuffing as much information into their craniums as possible, keeping them busy so that there’s no time for troublemaking.”
“St. Paul said it best: Idle hands are the devil’s workshop,” Amon commented.
“Well, Tom. You were always busy as a kid. Delivering the Herald Tribune, going to school, and playing stickball in the street,” Stan replied.
“I remember you working in the bakery on Morningstar Road. The only time I ever saw you uncovered in white flour was when you were carrying that old briefcase, going back and forth to law school.”
“The road to law school was strewn with doughnuts, sweet rolls, and cheesecakes. It’s still hard to believe I became a lawyer,” Stan said in his usual self-effacing manner.
“And a damned good one, to boot,” Amon asserted.
“The best lawyer in Elm Park,” Tom concurred.
“Actually, the only practicing attorney in the neighborhood, since Bob Whitman retired a few years ago,” Stan replied with smile.
“Mr. Whitman was my mom’s lawyer when she bought her house on Pulaski Avenue. It seems like you need a lawyer nowadays to get permission to spit, piss, or fart. People run to court at the drop of a hat,” Tom said.
“Indeed. We are becoming a litigious society,” Stan replied.
“There are so many rules, regulations, ordinances, and laws that a person is afraid to step outside his house,” Amon said mournfully.
“What’s the alternative? Living in the sticks like a hermit?” Tom asked.
“Sounds good to me. Maybe I should go to the desert and live by myself,” Amon declared more to himself than to his companions.
CHAPTER 70
Coming and Going
It was Friday night, and for the lack of alternative plans, Tom decided to stop into Kaffman’s, where Rudy greeted him with a smile and an overflowing glass of Ballantine beer. The place was packed, as befitting a full moon.
Looking around the noisy, sour-sweet–smelling saloon, Tom observed his former girlfriend Martha sitting at the end of the bar. He sat on a stool next to the tall, attractive brunette and said hello. Propitiously, the young woman smiled tepidly and asked him about his teaching.
“Not bad. I’ve become Curtis’s super-sub, covering classes for those missing in action during my prep period,” he replied, looking at his old flame wistfully.
“I heard it through the grapevine that your buddy Amon was arrested for punching someone out,” she said grimly.
“He intervened in a domestic dispute. Amon doesn’t tolerate bullies.”
“Yeah. The Mariners Harbor Messiah playing the hero, at the drop of a hat,” Martha grumbled as she sipped some white wine. “He’s a good guy in a world filled with money-grubbing SOBs.”
“So how’s your love life?” she inquired bluntly.
“I love playing stickball. I love teaching, especially the summer break. And I love drinking Ballantine beer,” he said with a wry smile. “How about you?”
“I’m seeing somebody. A guy from a good family, who knows what he wants in life,” she replied with a half grin.
“Good for you,” he replied magnanimously.
At that moment, Tom sensed the presence of someone in the bar, which caused him to turn abruptly toward the entrance. It was his old flame Joanie, who smiled sweetly at the skinny science teacher. As he got up from his stool, Tom was punched squarely in the jaw by the androgynous Martha, knocking him to the floor. As the blood spurted from his nose, Tom was dimly aware of two actions: Martha storming out of the crowded saloon and Joanie hovering over him with a hankie, daubing his throbbing nose. The fracas caused a momentary stir of Kaffman’s patrons, before everybody resumed their merrymaking.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” he mumbled happily. Years ago he had first met Joanie, lying dazed on the ground after colliding with a teammate while chasing a fly ball in the outfield.
“Oh, shut up, you big jerk. Why don’t you learn to duck when people swing at you?” she said with a giggle.
“What can I tell you? It’s a full moon, and I’m an easy target,” he replied, getting up slowly and asking Rudy Kaffman to get Joanie a ginger ale. A confirmed teetotaler, Joanie distained alcoholic beverages of any type—a trait that Tom, despite himself, hoped to emulate.
“How’s your friend Amon? I’ll never forget how he helped me when I was sick at St. Vincen
t’s. They thought it was a brain tumor. As soon as he touched my forehead, the pain subsided.”
“Amon’s fine. That special gift of healing seems to have diminished a bit. He fixed up an old Victorian house for the homeless in Mariners Harbor. But some local people are opposing it and making trouble for him.”
“Why would anybody oppose a person doing good things in the world?”
“It’s that old saying—not in my neighborhood. People are worried about their property values,” Tom explained.
“Why does everything have to have a dollar sign attached to it?” she asked.
“Money makes the world go round.”
“No. Love makes the world go round.” The jukebox began playing a popular song by the Carpenters. “Come on, Tom. Dance with me,” Joanie said softly, taking his hand and leading him to a small dance area at the rear of the bar.
It was a new experience for Tom. When he dated Joanie that summer after graduating from high school, they had never danced. Dizzy from the beers he had consumed and from Martha’s shot to his head, the skinny teacher managed to slow-dance with the graceful young woman, who held him closely. No longer the cute, lissome teenager, Joanie was in the full bloom of womanhood.
Feeling light-headed, Tom took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Was this a dream? Slowly they whirled round and round, keeping time with the Carpenters’ haunting melody—their faces touching, inhaling each other’s breath, and kissing long and slow. The twists and turns of fate in that social whirlwind called life had led the two of them to this unlikely convergence.
Karen carpenter’s soulful voice filled the smoky bar:
“Long ago and so far away , I fell in love with you before the second show. Don’t you remember you told me you loved me, baby? You said you’d be coming back this way again, baby.”
They went back to the bar and sat and talked awhile about general things. Tom wondered about Joanie’s personal life. Was she attached to someone back in Indiana? Had the relationship been severed? He didn’t really care, as long as she was with him in the here and now. With true love, all that mattered was the existential present. The past was irrelevant, and the future was uncertain. His mom’s often-repeated axiom that life must be lived on a basis of reality was preposterous.