“Oh, not again! I’m totally off my game,” Joanie exclaimed after throwing her second gutter ball in a row. Though the ball ran afoul, she threw with the same effortless grace that Tom remembered from years ago.
“It’s all right. You’re just a little bit rusty,” Tom said, suppressing a smile.
They were bowling at Gooley’s run-down alley, where Richmond Avenue intersected the Terrace a few hundred feet from the murky Kill Van Kull. He wasn’t doing particularly well himself. Unlike his former girlfriend Martha, Joanie was not competitive, immersing herself in the sheer joy of whatever activity in which she engaged. This noncompetitiveness was a trait shared by Tom, himself, whose approach to sports was to have fun. The obsession with winning at all costs—inherent in organized sports—did not appeal to him.
Tom recalled a ping-pong game he had played with Martha when they were dating. It was a close hard-fought game when Martha smashed a shot that Tom somehow returned with equal velocity. The ball landed squarely on her left boob, causing the skinny teacher to giggle. This infuriated the tall husky woman, who threw her paddle at him. Unlike his barroom fights when he was an easy target for tough guys like Wayne O’ Toole, Tom managed to duck, avoiding the hurtling paddle.
After a couple games, Tom went up to the dimly lit bar and started to order a Ballantine beer. Then he changed his mind, ordering a Coke for himself and a ginger ale for Joanie. Whether Joanie noticed the change in his drinking preferences, she made no comment about his unusual choice. The serene brown-eyed beauty had the ability to take the good and the bad that life presented without losing her equanimity. She wasn’t one to analyze and dissect a person’s behavior to the detriment of enjoying life in all its manifestations. Whatever misfortunes had beset Joanie prior to her reacquaintance with Tom, she was not anxious to talk about them. Her authenticity was manifest in that Joanie was fundamentally the same person no matter what circumstances or company she was thrown into.
Sitting at a booth, they drank their beverages and nibbled some pretzels. Smiling at the skinny teacher, she said, “I remember the first time I saw you, riding that old red bicycle, with the canvas bag of newspapers on your back, delivering the paper early in the morning.”
“That was my Herald Tribune paper route—seven days a week, in rain or snow, I delivered that damn paper.”
“It probably made you the special person you are today. Hardworking and dedicated to your students,” she said with admiration.
“There were days, especially during winter, when I wanted to quit. But my mom said no way.”
“She felt it was a good experience for you. Your mom has smarts.”
“That she does. But I’ll tell you one thing: during the four and a half years I had that paper route, I never caught the flu, had a cough, or a cold. And it gave me the strength and endurance to compete in sports at a fairly high level.”
“Why didn’t you deliver the Advocate, like most of the boys?” Joanie asked.
“You had to know somebody to get a paper route delivering Staten Island’s favorite newspaper, which was an afternoon paper.”
“I wanted my dad to order the Tribune, but he said it had stale news,” she said with a smirk.
“Stale news or stale buns?” he chided her.
“Now you’re being fresh. If only your students could hear you now.”
“The Herald Tribune was a good newspaper, comparable to the New York Times in terms of news coverage. And they had great writers: Red Smith, Walter Kerr, Walter Lippmann, Tom Wolfe, and Jimmy Breslin.”
“My dad liked reading the community news, the sports section, and the obituary column in the Avocate.”
“Too bad your dad didn’t read the Trib. I would have gotten to know you sooner. Imagine seeing you snatch the paper from your front porch in your pink nighties.”
“How did you know I wore pink PJs?” she asked, scrutinizing him at length.
“I didn’t. Just a guess. You’re kind of a pink cotton pajamas girl. I can’t quite see you in a diaphanous negligee,” he replied, smirking.
“Wow! So fresh—no longer the sweet honors student.”
Changing the subject, Tom brought up the Herald Tribune again. “It was a really good paper, founded by Horace Greeley. You know, the guy who said, ‘Go west, young man, go west, and grow up with the country.’”
“Only you would know a ridiculous fact like that, Tom. Just like the time you told me about the old Dutchman Peter Stuyvesant buying Manhattan from the Lenape Indians for twenty-four dollars.”
“How did you remember that, Joanie? That was … what, seven years ago?”
“I remember like it was yesterday. We were sitting on a wooden bench in that little cemetery across from your old elementary school.”
“PS 21 on Walker Street, in the heart of Elm Park,” Tom related, picturing the two of them on their last date before he got the terrible news of her moving to that faraway Midwestern state, Indiana.
“Yeah. You were an Elm Park boy, and I was a Graniteville girl—star-crossed lovers torn apart by evil fate.”
“It kind of sounds melodramatic, but it was one of the worst things ever to happen to me, along with having to leave my foster parents in South Jersey for the Island, which is my favorite place in the entire world. Thomas Wolfe said it best: ‘You can’t go home again.’”
Joanie’s eyes filled with tears as she reached over and held his hands. “I’ll never leave you again … ever. I promise.”
“Just looking at you sitting across from me seems like a dream. I’m afraid to pinch myself, because I might wake up and you’ll be gone.”
“Maybe everything that happens in life is a dream. And we don’t wake up from this dream until we die,” she said dreamily.
“Amon once said that we were destined to be together. But for reasons of my own, I couldn’t buy into it. I had to get on with my life—going to school, learning how to teach, and doing the nitty-gritty things to survive in this world.”
“Talking about Amon, how is he doing?” she asked.
“Amon’s had some rough times lately. But he’s a strong person, and he’ll overcome anything they try to throw at him.”
Joanie shuddered momentarily, as if she had seen a ghost.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing … I hope. I just had a premonition about Amon.”
Tom looked at her closely and then sighed loudly. “It’s weird when I look at all the things I’ve done in my life—farm boy, newspaper boy, security guard, and now a science teacher at Curtis High School. But I’m best known for being Amon’s sidekick.”
“You’ve done well for yourself. The Elm Park boy who became a schoolteacher. Betcha that none of those other kids that played stickball with you have accomplished what you have, Tom.”
“Joey Caprino is a stockbroker on Wall Street. Albert Cloots was on his way to becoming a famous mathematician until he was killed in Vietnam. Your cousin Jake is an insurance agent. Stan Mislicki is a lawyer with an office right on Morning Star Road. And there are plenty of others from Elm Park who made good. Not to mention my sister, Cara, who will make a name for herself as an artist.”
“Think of it this way. The years we were apart and all the things that happened led to this special moment and all the moments we will spend together for the rest of our lives. And we’ll never take each other for granted,” Joanie said fervently in a low voice.
“So what color nighties do you wear?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see,” she replied with a sly grin.