As the three young people meandered along Richmond Avenue, Tom asserted that science and art are related in that “both represent a search for truth by different means.”
“Speaking of art, that yonder house is a work of art,” said Amon, pointing to an old colonial-style house, which was situated between a three-story brick apartment building and an abandoned factory.
“It looks like it goes back to the early twentieth century. Kind of reminds me of my mom’s stucco house on Pulaski Avenue.”
Suddenly, there was a loud snap, followed by an awful sound of wood tearing. Then the sound of a man wailing emanated from within the house. Before Tom and Mary could react to the situation, Amon dashed into the house, heading for the ground floor. Upon arriving at the scene, Tom saw Amon struggling to lift a heavy wooden beam, under which a workman was trapped.
“Tom, help me lift this beam, while you pull him out, Mary,” Amon gasped as he hefted the wooden brace.
Together, the two young men hoisted the heavy beam a few inches while Mary grasped the man by his shoulders and pulled him from under the thick wooden beam. The man gasped in relief but was unable to speak. It appeared that his chest had been crushed by the beam that fell on him.
Tom was astonished to recognize the man. It was Harry the Horse, the notorious Pied Piper of Elm Park, who used to lead the neighborhood kids in boisterous games of stickball on the Pulaski Avenue. Unlike the other dads of the neighborhood, who were too busy working or drinking at Kaffman’s or K. C.’s, Harry always had the time and the inclination to play street games.
“I think I broke my collarbone,” he exclaimed, obviously in pain.
“Just rest a minute,” Amon replied as he rubbed his forehead, arms, and chest.
After a few minutes, Harry appeared to revive. “I’m feeling a little better. Are you some kind of faith healer?”
“Not at all. Most people are capable of healing themselves. A working man like you has the strength to bounce back from a minor injury.”
“Wait a minute. I’ve met you before in Elm Park.” Looking over toward Tom, he said, “You were with this guy, the worst stickball player in the neighborhood. But at least he made something of himself, teaching those brats at Curtis High School.”
“I think you’re feeling better already. Back to your usual good-natured self,” Tom snapped.
Standing up and dusting himself off, Harry said he bought the ramshackle house for a song. “I’m tired of paying rents in Elm Park. So I’m fixing this place up in my spare time.”
Turning to Mary, he exclaimed, “And thanks to you, young lady. Yours was the first face I saw when I came through. I thought I had died and gone to heaven.”
Mary blushed sweetly. “It’s something anyone would do under the circumstances. I’m so glad you’re okay.”
Looking around the debris-filled house, Tom declared, “I guess it’s what real estate brokers call a fixer-upper.”
Shaking Amon’s hand, Harry said, “I wish I could repay you in some way. But between this place and my job, I’m busier than a one-armed paper hanger.”
“No. Just keep doing what you’re doing. That’s reward enough for me. But when you finish this place, I’d like to see it,” Amon replied.
“I’ll have the three of you here for a meal. My wife’s a great cook. You like Italian food?”
“Nothing’s better. But there is one thing. You’ll have to show me how the fast-pitch game of stickball is played. I’m a county boy who’s ignorant of that sort of game,” Amon said.
“You’re on. I can tell right away that you’re a natural. Unlike this guy here,” Harry replied, rapping Tom on the shoulder.
“What do you mean? I wasn’t bad as a stickball player,” Tom retorted.
“Yeah, sure. He once broke Mrs. Eggert’s window. Another time he hit a pop-up that landed in a concrete tub a man was using to fix his sidewalk,” Harry said.
“Tom’s a real menace, but he means well,” Amon replied.
“Tom’s a good guy. Loyal and true blue,” Mary concurred, giving the skinny teacher a hug.
Later on, the three young people sat at a luncheonette on Richmond Avenue, sipping coffee and eating some apple pie. Amon was trying to extricate a large splinter from his right hand—the result of his lifting the heavy wooden beam from Harry the Horse’s chest.
“Wait a minute,” the pretty young woman said as she took out a small sewing kit from her pocketbook. “Hold still, and don’t be a baby. I’ll get it out pronto.”
“Do you always go around equipped with needles and first-aid stuff?” Tom inquired.
“I have no choice. This man’s an accident waiting to happen,” she exclaimed, giving Amon a resounding thump on the chest.
“We’re two of a kind. Partners in crime when it comes to mishaps,” Amon said.
Looking down the lunch counter, Tom noticed a former classmate, Perry Pantino, who had been rescued by Amon last year after jumping off the ferry.
Perry greeted the threesome with a too-loud “Hi there, guys!” followed by his customary high-pitched laugh.
The high-strung young man reached over and shook hands with Amon. “The last time we met I was swallowing that pissy seawater in the New York Bay.”
“How are you doing, Perry?” Amon asked, eyeing the obstreperous young man closely.
“Not great. But I’m hanging in there, doing some work for the Salvation Army. I drive a truck for them. Remember Tommy Spider? Work with him, talking about the girls we left behind at Port Richmond.”
“It’s good you’re working,” Tom said encouragingly.
“If you don’t work, you don’t eat. Yesterday, I was having bacon and eggs, and a guy came in here barefoot and sat down next to me. He didn’t seem to have any money, so I bought him breakfast.”
“That was very generous of you,” Amon remarked.
“I’ve been there, done that. So I ask him where he hung out last night. He says to me, ‘Do I look like I know where I slept last night?’” Cackling with shrill giggles, Perry left a $5 bill and hopped out of the luncheonette.
Tom sensed a bitterness to his humor as the place echoed with his harsh laughter.
“Shall I follow him to make sure he’s okay?” Mary asked.
“No. We’re far from water, thank God,” Amon replied, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders somberly.