Window Boy Page 6

  “I’ll be back in a few hours, Miss Perkins,” his mother calls.

  When the door slams, Miss Perkins hurries to his side. “Now that I have the pot pies in the oven, can I read to you about Winnie?” she asks.

  Instead of answering, he clenches his teeth. He’s not going to say a single word tonight. I’m never going to talk to you again, he thinks.

  “The silent treatment, huh?” Miss Perkins says. “That doesn’t work with me.” She leaves, returning with My Early Life. She sits down on the blue and green couch. “Anywhere?” she asks, as usual.

  Sam looks down to signify ‘no.’

  Miss Perkins ignores him. I went for a row with another boy a little younger than myself,7† she reads. “Oops.” She stops. “Let me find a cheerier chapter.”

  “NNNo,” Sam says.

  “But Winnie almost drowns. You don’t want to hear about that, do you?” Miss Perkins says.

  Sam looks up.

  “I’m trying to improve your mood,” Miss Perkins objects.

  Sam doesn’t answer.

  “O.K., then,” Miss Perkins says, giving in to his mood. When we were more than a mile from the shore, we decided to have a swim, pulled off our clothes, jumped into the water and swam about in great delight.8†

  Sam understands this story about drowning. When he was no older than two or three, his mother was giving him a bath. She turned to go answer the telephone. The water was pouring out of the faucet, and the tub was filling.

  “Mmmom,” he called when the water was to his chin. But in speaking, he had accidentally inhaled some water and choked. He struggled to keep his head up, but he slipped. When he tried to breathe, he sucked in water instead. Everything had grown dark, and then he felt her hand in his hair, yanking him up.

  “Sam, why did you do that?” his mother scolded him. She was drenched from head to toe. “Tell me you’re all right.”

  Sam had vomited water. When he finally managed, “Mmmama,” she hugged him harder than she had in his life. Nearly drowning was almost worth it.

  A few weeks later, his mother had hired Miss Perkins. His mother had never bathed him again.

  The flow of Miss Perkins’ familiar voice begins working over Sam like a massage. After a while, he is able to listen to Winnie’s story.

  When we had had enough, the boat was perhaps 100 yards away. A breeze had begun to stir the waters. As we swam towards the boat, it drifted farther off.

  Sam imagines Winnie and his friend playing and laughing as the boat floated away.

  Up to this point no idea of danger had crossed my mind. The sun played upon the sparkling blue waters; …the gay hotels and villas still smiled.

  Before Miss Perkins reads the next words, a chill tickles Sam’s back.

  “But I now saw Death as near as I believe I have ever seen Him.”9†

  Just like Sam had felt when he almost drowned, grayness expands to fill every corner of his mind.

  “Death was swimming in the water at our side, whispering from time to time in the rising wind which continued to carry the boat away from us at about the same speed we could swim.”

  “No help was near. I was not only an easy, but a fast swimmer, having represented my House at Harrow, when our team defeated all comers. I now swam for life.”

  Sam believes that the Allies won World War II because of Winnie’s leadership. That’s why every time that Miss Perkins reads this part of Winnie’s story, Sam thinks about how much history would have been different if the breeze had been just a little stronger. Or if Winnie hadn’t been on a swim team.

  The hundreds of speeches that Winnie wouldn’t have written. Without Winnie, England would have probably surrendered to the Nazis. The Nazis would have killed every decent person on the whole island. Or so Sam believes. Sooner or later, the United States would have ended up fighting Hitler and Japan without its major ally.

  “Twice I reached within a yard of the boat and each time a gust carried it just beyond my reach; but by a supreme effort I caught hold of its side in the nick of time...”

  “I scrambled in, and rowed back for my companion who… had not apparently realized the dull yellow glare of mortal peril that had so suddenly played around us.”

  As a teenager, Winnie had already felt the dull yellow glare of mortal peril. Sam’s twelve, and he’s never felt it. Slipping in the tub doesn’t count. That’s one of the things that he hates most about life in a wheelchair. Winnie took risks. Sam will never face strong currents, land mines or enemy soldiers. Not even a rival basketball team.

  I understand, Sam, Winnie interrupts. You just want the right to be brave.

  ***

  On the bus home, Miss Perkins is hunting through her purse for a Kleenex when she spies a crumpled piece of paper. Her hands close on it, and she pulls it out. Imagine that. Her purse is so messy that she hasn’t seen this precious piece of paper for many months. It’s one of the first essays that Sam wrote. She was afraid that she had lost it. Unlike his later ones, it is unsigned and untitled, but she has named it. She calls it the Sam, I Am essay.

  She opens it and begins reading the hurried letters that she copied down that day as Sam pointed to them.

  MISS PERKINS SAYS THAT I AM A BOY OF MANY GIFTS AND THAT IT IS A GOOD THING THAT I HAVE CP OR OTHERWISE I’D BE VAIN AND PROUD.

  SHE SAYS THAT I WAS MEANT TO HAVE CP. WHICH IS GOOD BECAUSE SAM IS ALL I AM.

  Miss Perkins kisses the paper, coffee-stained and dirty at the edges. She hunts up her old brown wallet, unzips the slot for change and carefully folds it inside.

  ___

  † 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.

  ___

  † 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 Twelve

  This second week, school has slipped into a routine. Sam and Miss Perkins arrive on time each day. With Miss Perkins in a chair at his side, Sam sits in his spot next to the Science table.

  Before turning her attention to the other kids, Mrs. Martin greets Sam pleasantly. Although Miss Perkins has tried to tell Mrs. Martin about Sam’s skills, they’ve always been interrupted. Mrs. Martin has promised that she will find a time to meet with them one afternoon after school.

  The bell rings. Sam notices that as usual, Mickey is not in his seat. During class, Sam has been trying not to stare at Mickey. This is easy in the mornings, since Mickey is always late.

  After the pledge, Mrs. Martin writes on the blackboard, ‘National History Essay Contest.’

  For a reason that Sam doesn’t understand, he senses more excitement than usual today in the classroom.

  Bodies are squirming in chairs. Necks are craning. Students are whispering. Bobby passes Charlie a note.

  As if Mrs. Martin has eyes in her back, she whirls around.

  Sam guesses that the unlucky kid is going to be Bobby but instead, Mrs. Martin swoops down on Charlie. Mrs. Martin crumples the note and angrily tosses it into the trashcan.

  Under his teacher’s hostile stare, Charlie’s freckled face grows redder over his white button-down shirt.

  “They’re good kids,” Miss Perkins mutters.

  Although both Sam and Miss Perkins have stayed quiet in class, that hasn’t stopped Miss Perkins from giving Mrs. Martin plenty of advice under her breath.

&nbs
p; “What are you doing?” Mrs. Martin demands.

  “We’re just trying to work out the lineup for the game,” Charlie explains.

  “Don’t ever let me catch you passing a note again, all right?” Mrs. Martin says.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Charlie says. He is so tall that he barely fits behind his desk. Sam has overheard Charlie say that he is already thirteen.

  Mrs. Martin returns to the front of the class and clears her throat. “Boys, Mr. Fitzpatrick told me that there is a Tomcats game this afternoon.”

  The boys cheer.

  Sam wants to join in, but he’s too self-conscious about his voice.

  Mrs. Martin scowls at them. “But if I catch anyone else not paying attention, the whole class will have to stay inside during recess.”

  Bobby groans. Charlie presses his lips together as if to prevent a sound escaping from them.

  “Now, take out your notebooks,” Mrs. Martin orders. “In preparation for a national essay contest, we’re going to start a short unit on World War II.”

  Sam loves studying World War II. Even better, after school, he’s looking forward to watching the Tomcats play.

  Mrs. Martin writes on the blackboard: “Pearl Harbor.” She begins talking. “World War II started when Japan bombed the United States on December 7, 1941.”

  Sam can’t believe his ears.

  He knows that the United States entered the war on December 7, 1941. But he also knows that World War II began long before that. On September 1, 1939, Hitler invaded Poland. Soon afterwards, Churchill became the prime minister of England. After France was defeated, England, led by Churchill, battled the Nazis alone. What about the Battle of Britain, Mrs. Martin? Sam wants to cry. You’re leaving out many important events.

  “Churchill, Roosevelt, and Stalin were known during the war as the Big Three,” Sam hears Mrs. Martin continue. “All of these men were great leaders, but Roosevelt was the most powerful and important.”

  Roosevelt? Sam likes Roosevelt. After all, Roosevelt used a wheel-chair. But his teacher’s statement totally overlooks Winnie’s heroism as Britain fought on alone, waiting, hoping, and praying for the U.S. to enter the war. Sam wants to remind Mrs. Martin of the great speech Winnie made when England was so unprepared and under-equipped to fight Hitler. He hears Winnie’s gravelly voice: “I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat.”10

  How can Mrs. Martin be saying these things? When Sam has choked down enough outrage to be able to listen, he hears Mrs. Martin say, “Eisenhower chose June 6, 1944, as D-Day. D-Day took the Germans by surprise.”

  What about Winnie, Mrs. Martin? Sam thinks.

  Mrs. Martin picks up a piece of chalk and begins writing.

  “So now write down the names and dates on the blackboard:”

  December 7, 1941

  June 6, 1944

  September 2, 1945

  Franklin D. Roosevelt

  Dwight D. Eisenhower

  Pearl Harbor

  In her ten-minute lecture, Mrs. Martin has managed to com- pletely overlook Winnie. Sam must defend his hero. But what to say? He considers the words that he has practiced speaking out loud most often: Mother, window, school, food, fan, hello, sad…

  Then, some random words that Miss Perkins and he had worked on pronouncing: dictator, trapped, ocean, potato, Peter…None of the words fit. Mrs. Martin goes on to explain the Pacific theatre of the war.

  In the middle of her description of Hiroshima, Sam finally opens his mouth. He doesn’t even try to speak softly. He bursts forth with the only word that he has mastered that has even a slight application to her lecture:

  “NNNNo.” It sounds harsh, guttural, even to his own ears.

  Mrs. Martin jumps. The kids all stare at him, their eyes bugged in horror. Yet, he’s so intent on righting the wrong that he doesn’t even feel ashamed.

  Mrs. Martin puts her hands on her hips and turns toward Sam. “What did you say?”

  “NNNo,” Sam repeats.

  “I told you guys that he talks a lot,” Ann says. “But you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “He sounds Russian,” Sam overhears A.J. Douglas say. “Maybe he’s a Communist, too.”

  “Sam’s really seven years old. That’s why he talks so bad,” Bobby Sur announces.

  Such crazy stuff makes Sam want to both laugh and cry.

  When Mrs. Martin hurries over to Miss Perkins, the sight of his teacher’s raised eyebrows drives his classmates’ nonsense out of his mind. Miss Martin’s narrowed eyes target him before they shift to Miss Perkins.

  “I thought you said Sam couldn’t talk,” his teacher says to Miss Perkins.

  “He doesn’t like to talk very much,” Miss Perkins explains. She has a patient smile on her face.

  “I’ve told you that I have my hands full with thirty kids,” Mrs. Martin interrupts. She sounds as if she is close to tears. “Why is Sam disrupting my class?”

  “Beg your pardon, ma’am. Sam wasn’t trying to be noisy.” Miss Perkins stares thoughtfully into space. Sam can almost feel her thoughts probing his mind. “You see, we both are very fond of Winston Churchill,” she continues. “Me being from England and all. I think he was telling you something about Churchill, weren’t you, Sam?”

  Sam looks up.

  A.J. Douglas who is sitting next to Bobby reaches over and cuffs him.

  “Cut it out!” Bobby cries as A.J. laughs loudly.

  Mrs. Martin scolds the class. “Behave yourselves!” She turns back towards Sam. “As you can see, I can’t drop my guard for a minute,” she says.

  “They’re just kids excited about a basketball game,” Miss Perkins says softly.

  Mrs. Martin jerks away and returns to the front of the classroom. Her serious face quiets the uproar. She wipes her chalky hands on her dark plaid skirt, but then to Sam’s surprise, she stares blankly at the blackboard as if she’s forgotten all she knows. Finally, she says, “You have all been so unruly that I should cancel recess.”

  The class groans just as the bell rings.

  “But if you can prove to me for once that you can keep completely quiet,” Mrs. Martin says, “I’ll let you go.”

  Abruptly, the shuffling, rustling, tapping, creaking, sneezing and whispering stop. All Sam can hear is the sound of his own breathing. The silence continues for so long that he feels like it’s a wet glass that any minute is going to slip out of the kids’ hands and crash on the floor.

  Sitting alone in a wheelchair, Sam has learned to play games with time. By daydreaming, he can transform hours into minutes and minutes into seconds. But every once in a while, his magical formula for shortening time fails, and he becomes like a kid with a normal body.

  Sam notices Charlie squirming in his seat, and he feels sorry for him. Sam has sat for hours in his chair with an itch on the back of his neck that he can’t possibly scratch or a fly buzzing around his ear that he could never catch. Or a thirst that a single glass of water completely failed to quench. And he knows what it’s like to have a second last for a whole year.

  Mrs. Martin looks up at the clock. It’s three minutes past ten. “Good job.” She smiles. “Dismissed.”

  Charlie hoots. “Tomcats, let’s meet on the court.”

  Take me with you, Charlie, Sam thinks.

  The boys and girls hurry out of the classroom. As Mrs. Martin picks up the eraser and begins wiping the blackboard, Miss Perkins calls out to his teacher, “Mrs. Martin, please don’t be angry with Sam.”

  Mrs. Martin turns and takes a few steps toward them. She moves almost as slowly as Miss Perkins at the end of a hard day, and Sam guesses that she’s tired.

  “Sam just wanted you to know that we think Sir Winston is a great man,” Miss Perkins says.

  Sam looks up.

  Miss Perkins searches Sam’s eyes for more. “Sam also wanted to tell you that World War II began before the United States started fighting.”

  You knew she was wrong too, Sam thinks. Why didn’t you say something, Mis
s Perkins?

  Mrs. Martin sighs. “The United States declared war on December 7, 1941. Is that better?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We like that better, don’t we, Sam?” Miss Perkins says.

  Sam moves his chin upward in agreement.

  He’s sorry when the creak of a door interrupts them.

  The school secretary heads toward them. Her heels are even thinner than Sam’s mother’s. Although Sam has never been to a circus, he believes that balancing on such sharp little points ought to be a circus act.

  The secretary hands Mrs. Martin a piece of paper. “From Principal Cullen,” she says. Her voice is nasal, grating.

  “Thank you, Miss Rawles,” Mrs. Martin calls as the secretary exits the room.

  When his teacher unfolds the principal’s note and begins reading it, Sam can feel her attention leaving them and traveling down the hall to Principal Cullen’s office.

  “You see, in our spare time at night, we read about Winston Churchill. We’ve finished every book about him that there is….” Miss Perkins continues.

  Sam feels sorry for Miss Perkins. She never seems to know when to stop talking.

  “It’s a bond that Sam and I have….”

  Mrs. Martin slips the note into her pocket, and Sam notices that his teacher’s hands are trembling. Just like he fears being a bad student, he guesses that Mrs. Martin is afraid of being a bad teacher. His teacher’s gaze shifts to the door.

  Sam must speak to her before she leaves. He takes a deep breath. “Ssssorry.” The word comes out too loud. He knows that it’s wrong to shout and it’s worse to shout an apology. He feels his face start to grow red.

  Mrs. Martin looks at him, puzzled. “Did you say, ‘sorry’?”

  “SSorry,” Sam repeats his apology. This time he has more control over his volume, and his ‘sorry’ sounds only a little drawn out, more like sorrrrry.

  Mrs. Martin comes closer. Next to him, he senses Miss Perkins clenching her hands. He knows that she is thinking, “She better not be rude to my Sam.”