Window Boy Page 3

  One day, when Sam was five years old, he and his mother were watching the Boston Celtics play the Philadelphia 76ers on television. Since Stirling is only two hundred miles from Boston, like most people in town, Sam and his mother are diehard Celtics fans. At the time, Sam was trying to puzzle out how people, just ordinary people, could walk, run, dance. How did the right leg know to come down when the left leg lifted? It seemed remarkable to Sam that the teenagers he watched on Dick Clark’s Bandstand, a dance show, could move their two arms, two legs and ten fingers at the same time. But the Celtics were in a different league, almost superhuman.

  Not only did the individual players know how to walk, run and shoot—acts that required control over at least 14 separate digits—they seemed to move as a single organism. With the Philadelphia 76ers committed to stopping them, the entire Celtics team—five pairs of legs, arms, feet, fingers, toes, hands—were united together in a single goal, the basket.

  Sam will never forget seeing Bill Russell jump off the ground holding the basketball in one hand. Wilt Chamberlain, even taller than Russell, bounced up as though he had springs in his shoes and tried to block him. But Bill Russell looped the ball over Chamberlain’s head.

  Beating long odds, Bill Russell’s basket dropped in.

  That’s when Sam became a basketball fan.

  Now that Sam is older, he is no longer in awe of basic skills like running, shooting and jumping, but he is still amazed by the greatest players. How can Bill Russell pivot after a rebound and, in one motion, make a perfect overhead pass to start the fast break? How could that great point guard, Bob Cousey, accurately make a pass behind his back without looking at the target, running in a parallel lane?

  After Mickey has left, Sam sits in the empty classroom, looking at the thirty desks lined up in uneven rows. He has always wanted to find someone—besides his mother—to talk to about basketball. It won’t be Mickey, he thinks regretfully.

  ___

  † 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.

  Chapter Five

  Although Miss Perkins is walking down the hallway of Stirling Junior High, her thoughts are far away. The bell for recess—its jarring cry— had reminded her of one particular afternoon. It was the fall of 1940. The Battle of Britain was raging. She had been passing a primary school—breathing in the familiar smell of coal dust and cabbage—when the alert had sounded. Air raid sirens were spaced every fifteen blocks or more. The one she heard was to the south but was shortly followed by another one, even closer. Not all of London’s children had evacuated, and peering through the windows of the school, she could see students streaming down the stairs into the basement. Their innocent, excited faces. Their navy blue and white uniforms. She can remember marveling: this could be a normal scene. Students rushing to recess. To play football. To swing. Only it’s not. The students are hurrying to a shelter. By hiding, these kids hope to get what everyone wants: a chance to live a good life.

  How many of those kids had died during the war, she wonders?

  Miss Perkins reaches into her large bag and takes out a tissue. She blows her nose. The sight of Room 114 shakes her out of her mood. A girl with blonde hair is peeking inside the classroom. Miss Perkins reminds herself. I’m in America. The war is over, and I have a job to do. A boy whom I love.

  The blonde’s dress is a little too fancy for school, something an old-fashioned mother would pick out. Miss Perkins can’t say why, but she thinks the girl seems lonely.

  Miss Perkins taps her on the back. “Hello. I’m Miss Perkins.”

  The girl turns around. “I’m Ann Riley,” she says.

  “Why aren’t you outside for recess?” Miss Perkins asks.

  Ann shrugs. “My best friend is sick.”

  “Well, maybe you can help us, because I have a problem,” Miss Perkins says.

  Ann looks down the hallway as if she wants to run away.

  Miss Perkins has seen this look before, and she does what she always does—she starts talking faster. “Sam is a good boy. It’s his first day at school. You seem like a very nice girl. It would mean a lot to both of us if you introduced yourself to him. I don’t want to go into the classroom with you because I want him to think your visit is your idea. Could you do us this favor and make a sweet boy’s day?”

  Ann keeps her eyes fixed on her clean white Keds.

  Miss Perkins nods at Room 114. “Go ahead. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

  Slowly, the girl turns the corner into the classroom.

  ***

  The girl with the blonde hair enters through the door. At first, Sam thinks that she’s returned because she’s forgotten something. But instead of her desk, she heads straight for him.

  Before Sam can even try to stiffen his neck muscles, she’s standing next to him.

  “I’m Ann.”

  Sam is amazed. While his body is bent; his smile, crooked; and his brown hair, wavy; everything about Ann is straight, including her hair, which falls like a sheet to her shoulders, and her even lips. You’re beautiful, he thinks.

  “When my grandmother was in a wheelchair, I got to push her around. I’d like to push him,” Ann says, as if to herself.

  To say yes, Sam starts to look up until he remembers that she won’t understand. He takes a deep breath. He dreads speaking for the first time to anyone, much less to a girl his own age, but Miss Perkins is nowhere in sight. He makes an “O” with his lips and pushes air out so he won’t be so loud. “YYes,” he says.

  His voice is softer than it usually is. Still, she jumps back.

  “You can talk?” she asks.

  Sam likes her very much and thinks she is a brave girl for speaking to him, but he can’t help feeling resentful when she acts so surprised. “YYess, I can,” he says firmly.

  He’s proud of this ‘yes I can.’ He thinks it’s one of the most perfect ‘yes I can’s that he has ever uttered. Out of sheer joy, he’s getting ready to repeat the phrase when Miss Perkins strolls into the room.

  “He talked to me,” Ann tells Miss Perkins excitedly.

  Miss Perkins smiles at Ann. “Mrs. Martin misunderstood me. Sam doesn’t like to talk, but he can when he has to.”

  Ann nods her head. “May I push his wheelchair?”

  “That’s a jolly good idea.” Miss Perkins smiles. “Don’t you think so, Sam?”

  Sam looks up.

  “Sam is so happy,” Miss Perkins says. “He would love to have you push him. I promised his mum I would keep him buckled up at school. Let me just check his seat belt. We have enough problems without a broken leg.” She pulls Sam’s seat belt tight.

  Ann studies the controls. “So how do you get the chair out of park?”

  In the hallway, some metal lockers are hanging off their hinges, the yellow tiled floor is littered with paper, and the only trashcan is overflowing. But with its dark wood paneling and high ceilings, the school still manages to look distinguished. A tattered bulletin board announces in large print. “Parents’ Club Meeting Tonight. Help raise money for our Sports Teams.”

  “These are the sixth grade lockers,” Ann says. On her tour, she is pushing Sam behind two tall boys from Mrs. Martin’s class. When Sam recognizes them from the basketball court, he feels as if he has just finished a layup, his heart is pounding so hard with excitement.

  Ann points at the boy with reddish-brown hair who had opened the door for them earlier. “That’s Charlie Simmons. He’s the captain of our basketball team. His father is a pilot in Vietnam.” She nods towards the stockier boy. “The other boy is Bobby Sur. He’s always chewing gum, even though the teachers tell him not to.”

  “III wattcch them.” Sam tries to explain his habit of viewing the team from his apartment window.

  “What did he say?” Ann asks Miss Perkin
s.

  Without looking, Sam knows that Ann’s face is twisted in confusion. He dislikes talking to strangers, but every once in a while he will say ‘hello’ to the grocer, the mailman or a neighbor. When this happens, the person will stare at Sam as if he were speaking a foreign language, maybe Vietnamese—like the Viet Cong Sam sees on the news.

  “I can’t hear him,” Miss Perkins says. “This hallway is too noisy.”

  Sam has noticed that when Miss Perkins can’t understand him, she often blames the noise. Sometimes, he resents her attempts to protect his feelings. Now, he wants to point out that although the players are a few feet away from him, he can hear their conversation perfectly. But this thought is complicated to communicate, and he gives up before he begins.

  “Have you signed up any new players?” Bobby asks Charlie. His tone is confidential, and Sam feels privileged to overhear him.

  I know a lot about your team, Sam wants to tell them. I see things that even you may not notice. Because you’re playing, and I’m just watching.

  Charlie frowns and shakes his head. “No.”

  “We’re a tall team. I don’t understand why we can’t score,” Bobby complains.

  You need a good point guard, Sam thinks. Of all positions, Sam likes point the best. Although usually the shortest player on the team, not only does the point guard need to be able to dribble, he needs to stay confident and make things happen.

  “I don’t understand why we can’t score either,” Charlie says.

  Your team has all the elements, Sam imagines himself telling them. You should be scoring. But you’re too slow. No one is driving the ball.

  The basketball players duck into the restroom.

  Ann stops at the end of the hall, “This is the cafeteria.”

  Sam peeks inside and sees a large room with a green linoleum floor and lots of brown formica tables. A woman with a mop is cleaning.

  “We’re going to eat in the classroom,” Miss Perkins tells Ann.

  Thinking about his messy eating style, Sam tenses. He’s not always able to keep food in his mouth, and sometimes he coughs it up. He feels certain that Miss Perkins is about to repeat one of her frequent observations: No offense, Sam dear. You are not your most attractive when you eat.

  “The cafeteria makes good fish sticks. That’s too bad,” Ann says.

  As Ann pushes him away from the cafeteria, Sam is amazed and grateful that Miss Perkins has managed to stay mum about his eating habits. Her uncharacteristic silence gives him hope that she won’t share with the other kids the details of his diagnosis or of his mother’s lawsuit against the doctor who delivered him.

  They face the clock on the wall. It’s 10:28. “The bell is about to ring,” Ann points out.

  “Thank you so much, Ann, for this tour,” Miss Perkins says.

  “Sure.” Ann begins pushing Sam back toward the classroom. “My mother is a nurse.”

  “Is that what you want to be when you grow up?,” Miss Perkins asks.

  “Maybe a doctor,” Ann says shyly.

  “GGGood ddoctor,” Sam agrees. He knows many doctors, and he can’t imagine Dr. Adams—when he was younger—spending his recess pushing around a strange boy in a wheelchair. Maybe if Ann becomes a doctor, the shots that she gives won’t hurt as much.

  “What did he say?” Ann asks.

  “Sam, what did you say?” Miss Perkins leans toward him.

  Sam repeats his compliment.

  “He’s saying that he thinks you’ll be a great doctor,” Miss Perkins explains.

  “Thanks,” Ann says.

  “WWWelcome,” Sam says. He would like to ask her to push him again, but her giggle stops the question from forming inside his throat. His tongue feels like a useless wet blob.

  Ann giggles again.

  Sam feels himself grow hot with embarrassment. He decides that Miss Perkins may be right. It’s probably better if he stays quiet. And yet…

  Chapter Six

  Elm Street Apartments is a dark six-story building. “Crumbling Georgian,” his mother likes to say. The windows are large, but the back, like the front, has no awnings. Off to the side, a drained pool, which is dry even in the summer, has begun cracking. When his parents moved into the apartments, they had been new, but according to his mother, the apartments have been going downhill even faster than the neighborhood. After detouring around a patch of uneven concrete, Miss Perkins pushes Sam up to the back entranceway.

  Sam smells the apartment building even before he enters it. One couple from China cooks spicy food. Six kids live in an apartment on the first floor, and their mother keeps a pot of hot dogs on the stove all day and night. Wood is rotting in the corners of the window frames, and mildew freckles the halls.

  Miss Perkins leans on the elevator button, and moments later, she angles his chair into the small metal space. They can hear the elevator creak and groan as it travels upward.

  The elevator door opens onto the second floor. As Miss Perkins pushes him down the hallway, Sam realizes that he feels as worn out as the frayed carpet. He’s smiled more than he ever has in his life. His face muscles—from smiling—and neck muscles—from trying to hold his head upright—feel like Jello.

  Apartment 207. Home. Paint peels off their brown door.

  As usual, it takes Miss Perkins too long to find the key in her purse. It is so large. Sam jokingly thinks of it as “The Suitcase.” He hears the English mug that she carries everywhere bang against the jar of ointment for her rheumatism attacks. Sam wants to tell her to hurry up, but he reminds himself that either way, he’ll still be sitting in his chair. This thought—not much is going to change—gives him the patience that he needs to control himself.

  “Now tell me, how am I going to make dinner and iron your mother’s frilly shirts exactly like she likes them?” Miss Perkins glances at her watch. “In two hours?” She looks around at the small but neat kitchen and living area, as if she expects the apartment to answer. It’s decorated in blue and green, his mother’s favorite colors. In a burst of energy one weekend, she had tie-dyed the pillows herself. To allow Sam to maneuver better, the linoleum floor is without carpet, and all of the furniture—a television, couch and card table—is pushed against one wall or the other.

  Miss Perkins takes Sam’s schoolbooks out of The Suitcase and drops them on the counter.

  Sam knows that setting books down is a normal act in so many households, yet the sight of the stack makes him sit straighter in his chair. I went to school!

  “Do you mind if we don’t work on math tonight?” she asks.

  Sam looks down.

  Miss Perkins stares at him. “I have to confess. I don’t know how to solve those problems.”

  “MMe either,” Sam says, but he’s disappointed. How can Miss Perkins teach him how to do the problems if she doesn’t know herself? It’s only the first day, but he has a hunch that Mrs. Martin is going to be too busy to spend much time with him.

  “Well, your mother told me that we don’t have to take tests until Mrs. Ellsworth returns and you’re properly placed, so I don’t think we should worry about a little homework. Besides, I’ve got a lot of ironing to do. I don’t want to fall behind and upset your mother. I better get busy. Where do you want to be?”

  “Wwwwindow.”

  Miss Perkins pushes him to his favorite spot in front of the window.

  Below Sam, the whole Tomcats basketball team is positioned on the court. After years of watching different teams, Sam’s excited to finally know a team by name, even the gym teacher. Mr. Fitzpatrick who Sam met in the halls today is standing on the sidelines. He is wearing gray knit shorts and a T-shirt and holds a whistle in his mouth.

  Charlie Simmons, the red-headed captain, is tall—maybe about 5’ 10’’. But he’s slow. Bobby Sur, the pimple-faced center is taller— maybe 6 feet—and even slower. In class, Mrs. Martin had called on some of the other boys. A.J. Douglas, a blubbery kid with big hands, is always tripping over his huge feet. He can palm the
ball but he can’t dribble it. Larry Veselka, a pale boy with blonde hair, runs as if he is moving underwater.

  Suddenly, Sam has a great idea. The Tomcats could use a fast boy like Mickey. He wonders, why isn’t Mickey on the team? Maybe the fact that Mickey is Russian has something to do with it. He remembers Mickey’s almost spooky accent today as he hissed at him. “Stop steering at me. Ve’re not friends.”

  Or maybe, Mickey’s not on the team because he’s so mean. He might have even fought some of the kids. Sam reminds himself not to look at Mickey in class tomorrow. But what about here at the window?

  Don’t worry. Sam tries to reassure himself: if Mickey looks up at the apartment, all he will see is a dark window. But not knowing, Sam shudders.

  The lock clicks.

  Sam’s neck won’t let him turn, but he doesn’t need to see his mother to know that her dark hair crowns pale skin and flashing gray eyes. He hears a familiar sound, his mother singing. A Beatles song. “Yellow Submarine. Yellow Submarine.” One of Sam’s favorites. “We all live in a yellow submarine.”

  My wheelchair, Sam thinks, is my yellow submarine.

  “Aren’t you happy tonight, ma’am?” Miss Perkins says.

  “Hello, Miss Perkins.”

  Sam is disappointed when instead of rushing towards him, his mother lingers in the entranceway. He strains and turns his neck as far as it will go. Because his chair is slightly angled, he can just glimpse his mother standing in the doorway with her blue coat still on. She is holding a small sack from Corner Market. Miss Perkins towers over her.

  “I know that this will mean a late, late night for you, but a friend asked me to go dancing tomorrow night.”

  Dancing? Sam is all for his mother having fun, but he doesn’t like thinking about his mother dancing. Mothers aren’t supposed to dance, are they?

  “Could you? I mean, would you?” his mother continues.

  “Sure. Sam and I will have a great time,” Miss Perkins agrees. Although her voice is hearty, Sam knows she’s not smiling.