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  Although his head feels as if it weighs one thousand pounds, slowly Sam lifts his neck to look at his teacher.

  Mrs. Martin leans close to Sam. Behind her thick lenses, her brown eyes appear huge and sad. “I’m ashamed that I didn’t recognize your abilities from the beginning, but I promise you this: I’ll never forget you. Thank you for teaching me about Winston Churchill and his bravery. Please remember you have friends here. Ann and I will miss you very much.” She turns away from him. “Ann, I know you’re there.”

  Ann pokes her head inside the door. Like always, she is wearing a dress. This one is brown with a black belt. Sam takes no pleasure in the fact that her lower lip is trembling like she’s going to cry.

  “You can come in and tell Sam goodbye,” Mrs. Martin calls to her.

  Ann runs to Sam. “Bye, Sam.” She squeezes his hand hard.

  The word that Sam needs to say is the hardest word that he’s ever pronounced, harder even than the first few words that he worked on: ‘Mother, window’. Harder than the longest word that he unsuccessfully tried but was never able to master: ‘Mississippi.’ Sam finally manages to croak it out. “GGGoodbye.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Ann runs ahead of Sam to the basketball court. Despite her blue coat, she has goose pimples on her legs, and he feels sorry for her. Marigold and the rest of her dance group have stayed inside today. He doesn’t know Ann’s plan, but he senses that her presence outside on such a cold day has something to do with him. Mickey is playing tether ball alone. Miss Perkins pushes Sam past him. On the court, the team is huddled around Charlie Simmons, who watches Ann with mild curiosity as she waves at him. Although none of the boys have zipped their jackets, a few are stamping their feet to keep warm.

  “Charlie,” Ann calls from the sidelines. “Come here.”

  Charlie turns toward Ann, frowning. “Can’t you see we’re practicing?” he yells.

  “Sam’s leaving,” Ann shouts bravely.

  “What do you mean?” Charlie walks over to Ann, who is standing on the sidelines.

  Ann points at Sam. They have a hurried conversation. Sam guesses that she is telling Charlie that he is going to live in an institution, and for an instant, he feels vaguely ashamed.

  “Oh, my goodness. What are we going to do?” Miss Perkins fusses to herself.

  “Sstop!” Sam snaps.

  Miss Perkins stops his chair a few yards from the basketball court. “Of course, you want to say goodbye to your friends. Oh, Sam…”

  Sam had meant that he wanted Miss Perkins to stop talking, but when she quits pushing his wheelchair, Sam realizes that she’s right. He has one last chance to help his Tomcats. After all, no one in the whole school knows that Mickey’s a great basketball player, except for Sam. “CCharlie.”

  Charlie and Ann are still talking.

  “CCharlie,” Sam repeats.

  Charlie runs over. He bends down and stares into Sam’s eyes.

  When Sam points at the card, “Tomcats Score!” he experiences a familiar frustration. He has managed to communicate only a tiny fraction of what he needs to say. He shifts his tongue into position so he can speak clearly and carefully. “MMickey.” By turning slightly, he is able to point at Mickey. “Ppynt gaaard.”

  Charlie nods his head slowly. “I understand. It’s just that the other kids don’t want to play with Mickey.”

  This is Sam’s last chance. He tries to put all of Winnie’s conviction and determination into his words. “Ppynt gaaard,” he insists.

  Charlie looks off into the distance, hesitating.

  Sam needs to find one word that will help Charlie understand Sam’s vision for the team. What is it? “WWWin,” Sam bursts out.

  Charlie scratches his head. “What?”

  “WWin,” Sam repeats.

  “You’re probably right.” Charlie agrees slowly. “The other kids don’t like losing all the time, either.”

  Relieved, Sam nods.

  “O.K. Thanks.” Charlie turns away from Sam.

  You did it, Sam, Winnie says.

  Although the tip of his nose and his fingers are freezing, Sam feels his accomplishment warm his body.

  Charlie stands in the middle of the court with the basketball in his hands. “Mickey,” he shouts.

  Mickey’s hands drop to his sides, but he doesn’t turn to look at Charlie.

  “Come here,” Charlie orders.

  Mickey takes a few steps away.

  “Me?” he says.

  Charlie throws Mickey the ball, and Mickey leaps sideways and catches it.

  “We don’t want to play with him,” Bobby Sur and A.J. jeer.

  “Shut up,” Charlie shouts at them. “I saw him the other night. He’s good.”

  When Mickey’s feet touch the court, he begins dribbling.

  He moves the ball so fast that it’s a blur. The boys all part to let Mickey through. He stops in front of Charlie.

  Charlie points at Mickey. “I need to talk to Mr. Fitzpatrick. But I want Mickey to be our point guard,” he says. “Now, play.”

  Bobby and the rest of the team are staring at Charlie. They all ignore Mickey, who is standing on the court in torn jeans, looking lost.

  “What are you doing, Charlie?” Bobby says.

  “Sam’s right. Mickey’s our only hope to win the tournament,” Charlie says.

  Bobby scratches his head. “Sam Davis?” he asks. “The kid in the wheelchair?”

  “What does he know about basketball?” A.J. says.

  “I can’t explain what’s happened. Just play,” Charlie shouts. He turns to Mickey. “Come on.”

  Mickey continues to look doubtfully at him.

  “Come on,” Charlie encourages him. “We don’t have all day.”

  Mickey begins dribbling the ball toward the basket. He goes for an easy layup. The ball slices cleanly through the hoop.

  Can’t you see? Sam wants to shout to Bobby, A.J. and the others. Mickey’s great!

  “Bobby, guard Mickey,” Charlie demands.

  Sam grins. Bobby’s too slow to stop Mickey.

  As Bobby glares at Charlie, he blows a gum bubble as big as a baby’s head.

  “Afraid you can’t do it?” Charlie goads him.

  Bobby’s bubble pops as he darts forward to block Mickey.

  Sure enough, Mickey feints, turns and drives to the basket. He is a small boy, but so quick. Popping in and out of the stronger, taller boys on the court effortlessly, he makes Bobby Sur and the others look as if they are moving in slow motion. Mickey shoots and scores.

  “Stick closer to him, Bobby,” Charlie orders.

  Bobby is furiously chomping on his gum. His blemished face has turned bright red. He raises his hands and jumps in an effort to block Mickey.

  Mickey bounce-passes the ball past Bobby into A.J.’s outstretched hands.

  With Bobby chasing him, Mickey races underneath the basket. He holds out his hands, and A.J. throws the ball to him. Just as Sam knew he would, Mickey makes the layup.

  “Mickey’s not bad,” Larry shouts.

  “You won’t get past me this time,” Bobby threatens.

  As if Mickey hadn’t heard the taunt, he dribbles right past Bobby.

  Yeah, Mickey, Sam thinks. Despite the fact that Mickey has a foreign accent and a funny last name. Mickey scores again.

  Miss Perkins jiggles the handles of his wheelchair. “It’s cold. We need to go.”

  Sam wants to stay courtside forever, but when she starts pushing him away, he’s too tired to object. His eyes feel swollen, as if he had already been crying for hours. His head aches.

  “Sam,” Charlie shouts. “Goodbye.”

  We could have been friends, Sam thinks sadly as Miss Perkins turns towards the apartment.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Miss Perkins stands behind Sam and rubs his shoulders. He faces the window.

  “It’s been a rotten day, and I hate to make it even more rotten, but I’ve got to leave you again, Sammy,�
� Miss Perkins tells him.

  Yesterday, she was unable to figure out a bus route to Mannville. After wasting a lot of time, she ended up going to the bank and withdrawing the money for a cab. Today, she intends to visit the place. “I have to go back… to the doctor… this afternoon. I was going to ask Mrs. Martin if you could stay with her, but now I can’t. You know I don’t like to leave you alone.”

  “I’ll be…back in plenty of time for dinner. Then, we can…..talk.” She pauses. “I promise. I know you’ve got lots of questions. I do, too. I’m working on the answers. I really am. Tonight… I’ll have some.”

  She hopes.

  ***

  The door slams, signaling Miss Perkins’ departure.

  Sam faces the window. Almost immediately, Sam’s seat belt catches as his chair begins to drift backward toward a dip in the floor.

  Before Miss Perkins bustled out in such a hurry, Sam had detected the hitches in her voice that told him that she was nervous. She must be as worried as he is and had forgotten to set the brake. Why couldn’t she have picked any other afternoon to go to the doctor’s?

  And then the wheelchair starts to slowly roll. When it reaches the dip, the chair slowly rotates. Now Sam faces the couch and the back of the television. He considers wheeling himself back over to the window, but what’s the point? Since he can’t set the brake, he’ll just end up in the dip again.

  On top of everything, Miss Perkins has forgotten to give him water. Or maybe she didn’t forget. Sam honestly can’t remember. All he knows is that he’s thirsty.

  Usually, his mouth is a spit factory. It manufactures extra spit twenty-four hours a day, more than he can use, sometimes so much it’s a nuisance. Now his tongue and mouth are dry.

  Drip. Drip. Drip. A leak in the kitchen faucet? As if the sight of water would quench his thirst, he tries to turn his head toward the sink.

  But his neck won’t carry his eyes that far.

  Although it’s freezing outside, the sun streams through the window and warms his shoulders and his face. He hasn’t been home for a while during midday, and he’s forgotten how hot it gets in the apartment even in late October. He touches his head. It feels hot, too. He wonders if it’s better or worse that Miss Perkins forgot to turn on the television. Sometimes, he enjoys his own thoughts more than the constant stream of programs and commercials. But today the loss of school is a dull ache all over his body, and entertainment might help. Why did Miss Perkins have to go to the doctor today of all days?

  Sam has had to visit the doctor too often. So often, that he does his best not to think about Dr. Adams in between appointments. Dr. Adam’s office—even with its huge goldfish—is not Sam’s favorite place. He’s had too many shots and X-rays there. His body has been twisted and turned into too many awkward positions. Too many experts have stared at him naked with frowns on their serious faces.

  There’s one memory of the doctor’s office that Sam works harder not to think about than any other. He was about five or six, lying on the examining table. Dr. Adams and his mother were outside the door, talking. He heard Dr. Adams say as casually as if he were prescribing an aspirin, “This boy may need to be institutionalized one day.”

  For all these years, that word has haunted him. What kind of place is an institution? Will an institution have other kids?

  If Sam goes to live in an institution, he might never see Ann Riley or Charlie Simmons again. He might never be able to tell Mrs. Martin all that he knows about Winnie. With Mickey as their point guard, Sam is sure that the Tomcats will start winning. He longs to see his team play. To cheer for Mickey. To see him score points.

  Why, he’ll even miss the eleven potted plants.

  Institoooshen. No matter how much he practices, he will never be able to say the word, but when Miss Perkins gets back, he promises himself that he will try.

  From his Churchill books, Sam’s heard the phrase, “the institution of government.” He thinks that the word means a government building. But why would he, a boy with CP, be housed in a building with the government?

  He checks the clock on the wall again to be sure. It’s only 12:19. For him it’s rare, but this afternoon, he’s living in slow time.

  For one thing, his brain feels incapable of a story. He is staring stupidly at the blank television when out of the corner of his eye, he becomes aware of something. A gray object darts across the floor.

  A cat? One hot summer, Miss Perkins had left the door open, and a stray had slipped inside. He can’t twist his neck far enough to be sure. Then, the confusion that has filled his mind like a gray fog lifts, and he remembers that it’s not summer, but fall, almost winter. Besides, the blur of fur was too slick to be a cat’s.

  The gray animal scurries out from the couch’s shadows. A rat. As if sizing him up, the rat stares at him. Then, it disappears.

  Luckily for me, I have no horror of rats,29† Winnie brags.

  When Winnie was twenty-five, he was taken prisoner in South Africa. Eventually, he escaped. He knocked on a random door, and the Englishman who answered helped Winnie by hiding him in a mine for three days. The mine was infested with rats.

  Once I awoke from a doze by one actually galloping across me, Winnie reminds Sam. They seemed rather nice little beasts.

  But you were a grown man and strong, and I just have my pointer finger, Sam tells Winnie.

  That’s not exactly true, Winnie says. What about your legs?

  Sam starts to concentrate on his legs, on making them kick.

  But wait a minute. Why is he considering this unreliable weapon? Surely Sam is dreaming. There’s no large rat in this empty apartment craving him for its delicious dinner.

  Just as Sam feels himself start to accept this conclusion as the only logical one, he spots the creature again. This time, he is sure. It’s a rat that he sees.

  From beneath the couch, a pair of beady eyes are fixed on Sam. The rat appears to be the same size as Sam’s foot.

  After three days in the mine, Winnie’s new friends decided to smuggle him out of South Africa. They packed wool tightly in a train car and hid him in a small space in the center of the bales.

  The rat has crept out from underneath the couch and continues to watch him, curiously. You were in great danger, weren’t you, Winnie? Sam asks.

  I had a revolver with me, two roast chickens, some slices of meat, a loaf of bread, a melon and three bottles of cold tea. The journey was going to take sixteen hours. To check the progress of the journey, I had learnt by heart beforehand the names of all the stations on the route. I can remember many of them today. Witbank…

  Sam can’t recall the rest of Winnie’s train stops, but he knows the bus stops on the way to Miss Perkins’ doctor. He’s never been there, but she’s told him: Evergreen, 34th, Harvard Street, and Glade Avenue.

  He looks again at the clock. The hands have actually moved surprisingly fast, all the way to 1:30.

  He pictures Miss Perkins. Right now, she’s talking to the receptionist. Any minute, she will look at her watch and say, “Oops. I’ve got to go. I can’t be late. I have to get back to my Sam.” Still talking, she’ll head for the door. The bus will start back with her on it. Soon, he’ll hear her footsteps in the hallway and her key in the front door.

  Not soon enough. But Miss Perkins never runs. She always moves at the same steady pace. Run, Miss Perkins. Run.

  The rat scurries across the field of carpet and stops only a few paces in front of Sam.

  But what would I do with the pistol, if I were caught? Winnie is still talking about the train trip that he took hidden in the wool car. Shoot the whole Boer army? Winnie asks. I was at the mercy of events, and I knew it.

  Hush, Sam orders Winnie. I don’t care about your adventures.

  Except for the rat’s breathing, the apartment is completely quiet.

  Is Sam losing his mind? The loud exhalations are not the rat’s but his own. Because of the heat and his thirst, Sam’s breathing is raspy, like an animal’s.
When he meets the rat’s serious gaze, he understands the reason the rat is completely silent. The rat is getting ready to jump him.

  Sam remembers the rat’s body that he saw twisted by the steel bar. Now, in revenge, this rat has trapped Sam. The hair rises on the back of his neck, and he tenses, readying for battle. He focuses all his energy into his legs, hoping to produce the wildest and jerkiest of his kicks. Of course, his legs have minds of their own. When they respond with little more than twitches, Sam despairs.

  Winnie continues to drone on about events that took place over fifty years ago. I squinted through my peephole…

  Be quiet, Sam shouts. I’m in a real-life predicament.

  Winnie ignores him: I saw that we had reached safety, I was so carried away by thankfulness and delight that I fired my revolver two or three times...30†

  Wait a minute! Sam has been trying to shut Winnie out, and now Winnie has given him a great idea.

  The rat lopes towards him. Sam braces for the animal to attack.

  No time to lose. ACT, Winnie orders.

  Sam cocks his finger. He takes a deep breath. “BBBBAMMM,” he shouts. The blast is so loud that it hurts his ears.

  Even as his arm drops, he understands too well that his gun is fake, ineffective. Just a finger, after all.

  He shuts his eyes and waits to feel the creature’s claws tear through the cloth of his pants leg.

  Nothing happens.

  He opens his eyes. How long have they been closed he wonders. He searches the carpet and finds the rat is gone. His head droops. He can’t feel glad about the fact that his gun has worked.

  After all, his whole body aches; he’s so thirsty; and it’s only 1:48 p.m.

  ___

  † Reprinted with permission of Scribner, an imprint of Simon & Schuster Adult Publishing Group, from MY EARLY LIFE: A ROVING COMMISSION by Winston Churchill. Copyright © 1930 by Charles Scribner’s Sons; copyright renewed© 1958 by Winston Churchill. All rights reserved.

  ___

  † Reprinted with permission of Scribner, an imprint of Simon & Schuster Adult Publishing Group, from MY EARLY LIFE: A ROVING COMMISSION by Winston Churchill. Copyright © 1930 by Charles Scribner’s Sons; copyright renewed© 1958 by Winston Churchill. All rights reserved.