Window Boy (2 page)

Tomorrow, Sam thinks. Tomorrow is my first day of school. Why I might even meet Mickey!

*
*
*

On the bus heading home to her apartment, Miss Perkins sits down next to a man wearing an army shirt and camouflage pants. A patch covers one of his eyes, making the other appear especially dark and fierce. The
Stirling Sun
newspaper rests on his lap, with the date facing her: October 3, 1968.

Miss Perkins was born in 1918. It’s hard for her to believe it’s already 1968. “I’m only 50, but I’ve seen so much in my life,” she muses out loud.

The soldier says, “I know what you mean.”

“I was born in England. But I came to America after the Second War. Lived here for almost twenty years. I work for a woman who has a crippled child,” Miss Perkins tells the soldier.

The soldier nods.

“Sam’s got cerebral palsy,” Miss Perkins continues. “He’s stuck in the wheelchair all day long. But he’s a beautiful boy.” She sighs, thinking of Sam tonight, lying in bed, his dark hair against the white pillow and a crooked grin on his face

“I’m sure,” the soldier says.

“His mum loves him. I know she does. Her husband left her when she refused to give up the boy. She won a lot of money from the lawsuit. Enough to pay me all these years, yet she seems to have run through most of it. My grocery budget is half of what it used to be.”

“Lots of people got their troubles, but they don’t talk about them,” the man says.

“I’ve taught Sam to say about two hundred and fifty words. He’s learned to write, too… Well, really I write, Sam just points at letters. But he can read. That’s why I insisted that he has to go to school. His mum argued with me. She said, ‘Miss Perkins, I’m afraid that a tough kid, one of those neighborhood boys, will hurt Sam.’”

In the midst of her musings, Miss Perkins’ gaze falls on the black patch covering the man’s eye. She wonders if he’s in pain. “So how were you injured?”

“Vietnam,” the soldier answers gruffly.

“I was a Londoner during World War II,” Miss Perkins tells him. “I saw a lot that I don’t want to remember. We used to sit in the kitchen next to our old wooden wireless. In those days, we never knew when a bomb was going to fall. Our wireless made Churchill’s voice sound sort of scratchy, but he got his message across. He never gave up, and neither did we.”

“Please,” the soldier interrupts. “I would like…”

But Miss Perkins is wound up. “I’m no coward.” She straightens her shoulders. “We British know how to fight. I don’t understand these kids who are protesting the Vietnam War.”

“Ma’am, excuse me.” The soldier signals towards the aisle. “Long day.” He mumbles something about a headache.

Miss Perkins angles her knees to allow the soldier room to hurry out. He dares to plop down in an empty seat in front of her.

She stares at the back of the soldier’s head. Despite all this talk in the ’60s about peace and love, people used to be friendlier, Miss Perkins thinks.

The bus stops at Chestnut Street and 14
^th
, and the door opens. Several long-haired hippies wearing ragged T-shirts jump on. The last person to enter is a woman holding a baby.

Miss Perkins moves to the window to leave an aisle seat open. As she had hoped, the woman sits down next to her. Her tiny mouth completes the triangle of her high cheekbones. She holds an infant who is wearing an adorable smocked pink dress.

“How do you do?” Miss Perkins asks hopefully.

Chapter Two

The next morning, Sam finds himself facing the narrow field. He barely notices the tin cans rusting in the sun, or the newspaper pages lying half-embedded in the dirt. On the other side lies his dream: Stirling Junior High.

Miss Perkins stands behind him, gripping his wheelchair. Even though his chair is good and steady, Miss Perkins and Sam have never crossed a field like this before. Sometimes, even sidewalks are hard for them—like the patch of rotten concrete in front of the barber’s shop. Although the field’s grassy edges and dirt center look treacherous, this is their only route. By road, Stirling has to be almost a mile away.

“We can do this,” Miss Perkins mutters to herself.

Sam keeps his eyes fixed on the school’s green, wooden double doors. Most public buildings have stairs that bar his entrance. But the doors of this one-storied school appear to welcome him.

“Let’s go,” Miss Perkins mutters as she starts across the grass.

Sam begins bouncing up and down. His insides feel like he’s swallowed one of those Mexican jumping beans that a man on the corner of Third Avenue and Elm Street sells along with spicy peanuts.

Sam tries to distract himself from the creeping nausea. He thinks of Winnie.
Stiff upper lip, old chap.
Sam hears Winnie’s cheerful voice in his mind.
You don’t want to get sick on your first day of school
.

Winnie’s words remind Sam of the purpose of this choppy ride. Sam is going to have a teacher, Mrs. Martin. And be with other kids. Not just kids on television, real kids who play basketball, chew gum and eat ice cream cones. He is going to have schoolbooks.

At this moment, Miss Perkins hits a big bump. Sam’s wheelchair rears, and his teeth chomp down on his tongue. He won’t say “Ouch,” because Miss Perkins might stop. He doesn’t want to be late for his first day of school. Tears spring to his eyes, and his mouth tastes faintly metallic, and sweet at the same time. He puzzles over the taste, and then he realizes that it’s blood. He’s never swallowed his own blood before and finds the act alarming.

You can’t spend all your life wishing for the experiences that other kids have and then complaining when you have them,
Winnie says. Sam imagines his friend’s voice often as a lecture.

My tongue doesn’t work that well as it is
, Sam tells Winnie.

Well, you didn’t bite it off, did you?
Winnie retorts.

Before Sam can answer, the wheelchair jolts again, and Sam looks up. To his surprise, he notices that while he’s been arguing with Winnie, they’ve made progress.

We’ve almost reached the dirt
, Winnie points out. His tone is one of proud accomplishment, as if he himself is responsible.

Sam reminds himself that although Winnie can be a pest, he can also be a good friend.

When the wheelchair clears the grass, something wonderful happens. The journey becomes easier. Not as smooth as carpet, but the baked dirt is less bumpy than Sam’s least favorite surface: rotten concrete.

“I told you we could do it,” Miss Perkins says, after she catches her breath, and Sam knows that she has been worried, too. “Now, if only school will go as well. I wonder if you’re on the sixth grade level.”

Sam can’t wait to find out either. Miss Perkins has been teaching him since he was three, and Sam’s afraid that he is hopelessly behind.

“Your mother promised Principal Cullen that I would stay with you,” Miss Perkins continues.

Public schools aren’t required to accept kids in wheelchairs. Sam’s mother had to meet with the principal many times before he agreed that Sam could attend. This is why school has already begun.

“I couldn’t bear to be apart from you anyway. So Abigail Perkins is going back to school, too!”

Miss Perkins has told Sam all this and more several times already. He knows that talking is just her way of comforting herself. He guesses that, like him, she has an uneasy stomach and sweaty palms.

“Maybe, you shouldn’t talk that much at first. Give the kids a chance to get used to you.” Miss Perkins laughs. “Come to think of it, I should button my lips, too.”

Sam smiles at the idea of a quiet Miss Perkins.

Sam doesn’t wear a watch, but the swarm of kids on the school grounds lets him know that the opening bell has not yet rung. His cousins from California have warned him about the bells, and he is prepared for a sharp sound to pierce the air at exactly 8:00 a.m.

The school is built on top of a small rise, and Miss Perkins groans from the effort of pushing him uphill. Sam feels for his caretaker and wants to help her, but he can’t concentrate on Miss Perkins’ predicament. Soon, they will reach the concrete sidewalk that winds past the basketball court. He longs to see the bent basketball rim and the crooked light post up close.

Yet when Miss Perkins reaches the top, he barely notices the geography of the playground. As if a television and radio were blaring at the same time, Sam is met by a jumble of laughter, conversation, footsteps, shouts and cries. This noisy confusion is the vibrant life that he has always imagined happening outside his apartment. Almost as exciting as the State Fair that he and his mother visited once with its cotton candy and clowns.

Kids in all sizes and shapes and with different hair colors race around him. They smell of sweat, hair oil, tennis shoes and gum. Except for the rare occasions when his San Diego cousins visit, Sam is seldom in the presence of other kids. Now he is surrounded by them and enthralled by their perfect strides.

Like Sam, a few of the boys sport white T-shirts under their button-down cotton shirts. Yet, while many of the boys are dressed in blue jeans and tennis shoes, Sam is wearing khakis and loafers. Most boys’ hair touches their collars.

I’ve got to let my hair grow, Sam thinks. What for? He asks himself. To fit in, I’ll need more than long hair.

A girl passes so close to Sam’s wheelchair that he could reach out and touch her. Sam is afraid that this girl is taller than he’ll ever be, even when he grows up. Her long blonde hair is pulled back with a red bandanna. He winces when he notices the silver braces railroading her teeth. Miss Perkins says that he’s lucky that he has perfect teeth because braces hurt.

As the girl rushes confidently past him, he remembers another one of Miss Perkins’ favorite sayings: “You were meant to be exactly like you are.”

Sam tries to make himself believe.

“Stirling has never admitted a handicapped student before,” Miss Perkins is saying. “Sam, you are the very first. We’re both going to have to be patient.”

The double green doors. Sam is almost within spitting distance of Stirling Junior High, and he is no longer listening to Miss Perkins. In his imagination, he feels like the doors are magic. Once he passes through them he will become a different boy, with a more active life.

But you won’t find a better friend than you already have
, Winnie says.

Hush
, Sam thinks, scolding him.
I don’t want to listen to your bragging.

A student with reddish-brown hair opens one of the doors for Miss Perkins. Sam recognizes him from the playground as a fanatical basketball player. Sam envies the boy’s freckles—his mother tells him that freckles are caused by too much sun— and the boy’s long arms and big hands, so useful in basketball.

Miss Perkins smiles at him. “Why, thank you, young man.”

Instead of answering, the boy continues to stare at Miss Perkins.

Sam takes in Miss Perkins’ frizzy gray hair and white nurse’s shoes. For the first time, it occurs to Sam that having Miss Perkins as a companion is going to make it harder for him to make friends, and he is embarrassed by her.

Then, he remembers a scene from
My Early Life.
Once Winnie’s housekeeper had gone to visit him at boarding school. Winnie kissed her on the cheek in front of all the boys. One of Winnie’s classmates called it the “bravest act” he had ever seen.

As Sam and Miss Perkins pass into the halls of Stirling Junior High, Sam promises himself, I won’t let the boys’ opinion of Miss Perkins bother me. I’ll be brave like Winnie.

Chapter Three

Room 114. Sam reads the big numbers above the wooden door.

A woman wearing a nubby blue skirt that falls above her knees and a tailored white shirt is standing near the entrance. She is petite like his mother but the resemblance stops with size. Although the woman’s brown hair is shiny, her dark eyes don’t sparkle. Sam decides that the woman’s face looks strict.

“May I help you?” she greets them.

This must be his new teacher, Mrs. Martin. He’s sorry to hear that her voice matches her eyes.

“This is Sam Davis, and I’m Abigail Perkins,” Miss Perkins answers cheerfully.