Window Boy (11 page)

“Ann told me that I needed to come quickly because you almost got hit in the head.”

With the thump of the basketball sounding nearby, Sam is barely listening to Miss Perkins. At last, he’s graduated from his window. His wheelchair is resting on dirt. He almost got hit by a ball. He’s part of the action.

Sam goes over what he knows about the Tomcats. His team has some strengths. Charlie, A.J., Larry, Bobby and the others are big guys and decent shooters, but they are all clumsy dribblers. None of them is what the television announcers would call “a good ball handler.”

Charlie is not a bad shot, but he’s such a poor dribbler that he has to keep his eyes on the ball when he should be watching the court. A basketball game presents all players with chances to score. Some are planned, but many are random. A few are easy. Most are nearly impossible. A point guard has to analyze possibilities and feed the ball to the player who is—or will be—in the most likely position to score, sometimes before that player even understands his opportunity himself. Without that key player, the Tomcats are a car without an engine. An army without a general.

If only Charlie would come talk to him again. Sam could tell him about Mickey. With Mickey as point guard, Sam is convinced that the Tomcats could be a winning team.

Chapter Fifteen

It’s Wednesday afternoon, and Mrs. Martin has promised to stay after class to work with Sam.

For the last hour, Sam has listened with interest while different members of the class read stories from Greek mythology. He has always liked tales of escape—after all, what is basketball except a game about freeing oneself to shoot? And he had really enjoyed the story of Theseus trying to get out of the labyrinth. But now, Sam’s neck feels weak from trying to keep his head from nodding forward.

Mrs. Martin is collecting the Mythology books and piling them on her desk. “We’ll finish tomorrow.”

The final bell rings.

“I heard that Mrs. Ellsworth, the vice-principal, is about to return from maternity leave,” Miss Perkins whispers to him. “By the time she gets back, we’ve got to have Mrs. Martin on our side. Otherwise, Mrs. Ellsworth could make us attend a younger grade or even go to a different school.” She squeezes his arm. “So that’s a good boy. Do your best now, O.K.?”

This is Sam’s classroom. His school. Mrs. Martin is his teacher. The thought of leaving and starting all over again is frightening.

“OOO.K.,” Sam says. Even though he is so tired today, he is happy when he sees Ann heading over to him.

“Ann, have I ever showed you that Sam can read?” Miss Perkins says quickly. Her gaze is fixed on Mrs. Martin. “He can’t read small lettering,” she explains. “But I made this special alphabet for him.” From a side pocket in his wheelchair, she unfolds a cardboard sheet. The alphabet is written in large, black letters. She unfolds the plastic tray across his wheelchair and places the alphabet on it. “Think of a question.”

“What’s my name?” Ann asks.

Another silly question
, Sam thinks as he points to the letters that spell ‘Ann.’ He decides to keep going. Even though he is bored with Ann’s questions, he is grateful to her for spending so much time with him.

Miss Perkins is jotting down the letters.

Sam points to: “Ann is nice.” But he would love to say:
Take me to the basketball court every day, and I’ll be your friend forever.

“Does Sam like to read and write?” Ann asks Miss Perkins.

Before Miss Perkins can answer, Mrs. Martin joins them.

Sam wills his neck to stiffen. Miss Perkins is counting on him to impress his teacher.

Ann turns to leave.

Mrs. Martin stops her. “Ann, why don’t you stay a minute? I could use your help with Sam.”

“O.K.,” Ann says. As if Sam were her student, she moves closer to him. Sam feels the golden hairs of her arm brush against him.

Mrs. Martin shakes her head. “Sam,” she says. “Thank you for staying after school. It’s hard to talk during class. May Ann and I ask you a few questions?”

Sam starts to answer ‘yes,’ but Miss Perkins interrupts. “I think he could go to college, Mrs. Martin, if he had the chance. I never graduated from high school myself, but my boy could do anything that he wants to do.”

Ann holds up a sheet with the alphabet written on it in big letters. “I could ask him his favorite color, Mrs. Martin.”

“Sam, tell Mrs. Martin your favorite color,” Miss Perkins directs.

Obediently, Sam lifts his right finger and points at the ‘G’ on his alphabet chart, but he longs to say,
Ask me something hard
.

“He likes green, ma’am,” Miss Perkins explains. “I think it’s because he doesn’t get to go outside that much. Green is the color of the great outdoors. He likes the grass, the trees.”

“Would you mind?” Mrs. Martin interrupts. “Could Ann and I question the boy?”

Miss Perkins’ sweet face falls. Sam knows that her feelings are hurt.

“Please, ma’am. Go ahead,” she answers in her most dignified voice.

“You like Churchill?” Mrs. Martin asks.

“He knows everything there is to know about Sir Winnie, why he could…” Miss Perkins starts to detail his encyclopedic knowledge of Winnie, but Mrs. Martin touches Miss Perkins’ arm.

“Where was Churchill born, Sam?” Mrs. Martin asks. “Ann, write down his answer.”

Quickly so that Mrs. Martin won’t change her mind, Sam points to the letters for “Blenheim Palace.”

“How does he know that?” Ann asks no one.

“Sam’s correct, ma’am,” Miss Perkins breaks in.

“Shhh,” Mrs. Martin says. Behind her horn-rimmed glasses, his teacher’s eyes are sparkling. “Sam,” she begins cautiously, “When I asked you the question, ‘Where was Churchill born?’ and you answered, which of these did you hear in your head?

“Number one: Blenheim Palace, or Number two: Churchill was born in Blenheim Palace.” Mrs. Martin looks at Ann. “Ann, hold up the poster board so that Sam can choose.”

This is an unusual question. Sam starts to feel excited, too. He points at number two.

Mrs. Martin turns to Miss Perkins. “He hears sentences in his head,” she says. “Does he hear paragraphs, too?”

“YYes,” Sam says to Mrs. Martin. He wants to shout,
At last, someone at this school understands.

Ann stares quizzically at him, as if he is a Math problem she can’t solve.

“I’m sure that he has a whole book in his head. Why…” Miss Perkins begins to brag about Sam.

“Has this boy’s I.Q. ever been tested?” Mrs. Martin interrupts.

“I don’t know that we need to, ma’am,” Miss Perkins disagrees. “Sam’s smart. I tell him something once; he remembers. He knows so much. He just doesn’t know how to communicate all that he knows.”

Mrs. Martin takes a deep breath. “Miss Perkins, I can see that I need to spend a little time with Sam after school each day. I’ll ask my babysitter if she can stay later.”

“That’s a jolly good idea,” Miss Perkins says. “He’d like that. It would mean a lot to both of us, ma’am.”

“Will you talk to me again after school tomorrow?” Mrs. Martin asks.

Sam eagerly looks up. He would love to.

“He’s saying yes,” Miss Perkins interprets.

“I know what he’s saying,” Mrs. Martin says brusquely. “Ann, you may go now. Thank you for your help.”

Before Ann can leave, Sam begins pointing at some letters on his alphabet.

Sam’s finger moves so fast that Ann has to borrow Miss Perkins’ pencil again. Ann looks down and reads her notes, “Same time. Same place.” She smiles at Sam. “You’re funny!”

“You, Ann, are beginning to appreciate my dear Sam.” Miss Perkins directs her words to Ann, but she keeps her gaze fixed on Mrs. Martin.

“You’ve made your point, Miss Perkins,” Mrs. Martin says quietly. “I’m excited. I think Sam’s going to be a good student.”

Somehow, Sam finds the energy to grin at his teacher.

Chapter Sixteen

Sam and Miss Perkins roll home after another day of school. The bumps and jolts of the field which had seemed dangerous at first have become easy, leaving Sam’s mind free to review the day. He had a good conversation with Mrs. Martin. He got to spend recess parked next to the basketball court. Ann promised him that she would push him outside tomorrow. Although the air is crisp, the sun is shining. The leaves are starting to turn red and gold; and the wind is rushing through Sam’s hair.

Until he sees Mr. Crowe, Sam’s thinking that October 14, 1968, is one of the greatest days of his life.

When their landlord wants to talk to them, his mother is either behind in her rent or Sam has been too noisy. The sight of Mr. Crowe waiting for them is always bad news. Today, as Mr. Crowe watches their progress across the field, he shades his eyes from the sun. He is a skinny man with a face pocked like a moon. He wears a black suit, with a dark tie and a white shirt with a crumpled collar.

Miss Perkins reaches him. “Hello, Mr. Crowe. Beautiful day, isn’t it?” she says.

Sam is not fooled by her forced cheerfulness.

Mr. Crowe wags his long finger at them. “I’ve gone to your apartment several times. Where have you been?”

“Sam is going to school,” Miss Perkins brags. “He’s in the sixth grade.”

Sam’s grin bursts out, but his landlord ignores him.

“I have a letter for Mrs. Davis,” Mr. Crowe says.

“What is it, Mr. Crowe? A love note?” Although Miss Perkins laughs, Mr. Crowe’s disapproving expression doesn’t change.

The stern expression on the man’s face tells Sam that Mr. Crowe is aware of every spit bubble that Sam has ever blown in his whole life. Every tantrum that he has thrown. Every mean thought that he has had.

So Sam is not surprised when the white envelope that Mr. Crowe pulls out of his pocket has ‘Davis’ written on it in block letters.

The letter is about me, he thinks.

Although Miss Perkins’ hands are always helpful, Sam notices that they don’t reach for the note.

“This is a legal matter,” Mr. Crowe warns.

Reluctantly, Miss Perkins accepts the envelope. “I’ll give it to Mrs. Davis.”

Mr. Crowe nods and starts heading to his car. It’s the dark Oldsmobile parked in the almost empty parking lot.

In jumbled order, Sam remembers his last noisy tantrum, the shouts of his neighbors, and his mother’s new silver dress. He remembers his mother’s expression and imagines her thinking, “You are going to ruin me!”

His stomach feels as though he just took a big swig of sour milk.

They start to cross the parking lot. “Let’s just hope that your mother paid her rent on time this month. If not…” Sam’s worry blocks out the meaning but not the rhythm of Miss Perkins’ words.

As they wait for the elevator, Miss Perkins grows quiet. Finally, in her normal cheerful tone, she adds, “Well, we won’t think about Mr. Crowe. Another good day at school. We did it, Sam. Mrs. Martin likes you.”

Inside the apartment, Miss Perkins sets the envelope on the kitchen counter where his mother can’t miss it.

“Window or T.V.?” Miss Perkins asks.

Now that Sam has watched a basketball practice from the sidelines, he is even more impatient than usual for Charlie and the team to appear on the court.

“WWindow,” Sam chooses.

Miss Perkins parks Sam at the window.

Since Sam can’t turn his neck, he always has the nagging feeling that something important lies just beyond the range of his vision. Even if a letter from his cousins lay on the kitchen counter, he couldn’t swivel around to see it. Tonight, he’s glad that the kitchen counter is as inaccessible to him as China.

Miss Perkins kisses him on the head and then hurries off.

As soon as she leaves, Sam remembers that since the Tomcats have a game at another school, they’re unlikely to practice. So on a day when Sam really needs to be distracted, the court remains just a gray stretch of lined concrete.

Although he has no right to hope, his heart jumps when Charlie and Bobby approach the court. They set their schoolbooks down under the light post and start shooting. Bobby stands underneath the basket, and Charlie passes him the ball. Bobby shoots a layup. Sam tries not to grow too excited. They’re probably just warming up before the game.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, A.J. yells to the boys, “Let’s go!” Although Bobby stoops and picks up his books, Charlie doesn’t. They both run after A.J.