Window Boy (21 page)

“Can I talk to him….?” Mrs. Davis asks eagerly.

Miss Perkins puts her hand over the receiver. “Nurse Beck, would you do me a favor and bring Sam in here to talk to his mother?”

“Sure,” Nurse Beck answers. She rushes off.

“When are you coming back?” Miss Perkins says into the phone. She works to keep her tone polite.

“I’ll be there in ten days,” Mrs. Davis pauses. “With big news.”

“I see,” Miss Perkins says.

“I don’t know if you can understand this, but I’ve never gotten to travel before. I’ve seen palaces. Museums. We’re going to London next week. I’m having the best time,” Mrs. Davis says.

Miss Perkins feels herself losing her patience.

“Now, can I say hello to Sam?” Mrs. Davis asks. “I’ve bought him a football. It’s the French sport.”

Nurse Beck pushes Sam into the office. He has a big grin on his face.

“Sam will like your gift,” Miss Perkins lies. His mother’s return, she knows, is the only thing Sam wants.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The instant Miss Perkins pushes Sam through the door of the infirmary, the smell changes. He no longer breathes in Nurse Beck’s flowery perfume but fried food with a hint of pee.

Sam understands why when he sees the inmates. Inmates? Is that what he and the other prisoners are called?

The room where he finds himself has three separate seating areas and several blue flowered rugs. In the background, more than one radio is playing.

A few of the boys are teenagers. Some are in wheelchairs. One of the boys is perhaps nine or ten. He is wearing only a T-shirt and a huge diaper.

A boy about his age walks up to him. Even though his hair is combed and his face is clean, the way his eyes are sunk into his pudgy face makes him look lost.

“Daddy?” the boy asks.

Sam resents his stiff neck which won’t allow him to turn away.

A few boys in wheelchairs are scattered around the room. Miss Perkins pushes Sam past a group of boys who are piecing together puzzles on a circular rug. A big burly attendant, wearing a hairnet which covers her ears, is helping them.

Sam can’t take his eyes off the large, bright puzzle pieces. The bears, cakes and houses look like they’re designed for three-year-olds.

Miss Perkins stops in front of some purple drapes. “Your new window.” She pulls back the curtains, and sunlight floods the room.

At first, all Sam notices is the dust cloud glittering in the light.

Miss Perkins pushes him closer.

Sam gazes out on a circular drive, green grass, stone benches and a big oak tree. Without a basketball court, it isn’t as interesting as his old view. But he knows instinctively that he will be able to stare at that oak tree for years and still find a new twist in its branches or a new stain on its bark.

He might have to. He has gotten used to his body holding him prisoner. For the first time, he feels like the place where he lives is a prison, too.

I certainly hated every minute of my imprisonment more than I have ever hated any other period of my life,
^31
†
Winnie breaks in. He’s talking about when he was captured by the Boers.

I’m glad that you agree with me,
Sam answers. But Winnie’s confession isn’t exactly comforting. Sam realizes it makes him uncomfortable to realize that being a prisoner was hard even for Winnie, who makes everything seem easy.

“Past that fence,” Miss Perkins is saying, “you can spot a horse.”

Sam is searching the horizon when an adult voice screams, “Ralph, no!”

Behind him, Sam listens to the footsteps. The thumps sound broad as if made by large tennis shoes.

“Ralph, put that puzzle down,” Miss Perkins scolds.

Miss Perkins probably has the kid under control, but Sam slumps anyway to protect himself.

“That’s a good boy, Ralph,” Miss Perkins says. “Let me introduce you to Sam.”

Miss Perkins pulls the big boy over to him.

Ralph cocks his head and grins. His front tooth is half gone. He wears a short-sleeved T-shirt and baggy pants without a belt. His biceps are huge, as if he lifts weights.

Sam drools, so he shouldn’t criticize, but Ralph’s mouth is like a water fountain.

Except for a few thank-yous in the clinic, Sam has not spoken to anyone for over a week. “HHHii!” he croaks.

Ralph cocks his head one way, then the other, all the while studying Sam curiously.

“Ralph is like a big, strong, four-year-old,” Miss Perkins says. “It’s going to be really…important that you make…friends with Ralph, Sam.”

Miss Perkins’ nervousness is a warning. Sam tries to smile at Ralph.

Ralph reaches over and pats his cheek.

Sam smiles harder.

Ralph pinches his cheek.

“Ralph, no,” Miss Perkins says firmly.

“Ralph, come here,” the attendant calls from the floor.

Ralph’s gaze lingers on Sam and then he turns. Sam hears the thud of his tennis shoes as he walks away.

“He’s not a bad kid,” Miss Perkins whispers. “He just doesn’t know his own strength. Now, I’ll be right back.”

Miss Perkins walks away.

Sam stares at the tree and listens. He can’t follow the background conversation. It’s a din of voices, footsteps, and radio songs.

Although he usually doesn’t have to call to him, Sam finally asks,
Winnie, are you there?

No answer.

Panicked, Sam cries,
Winnie? Where are you?

___
†
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 Thirty-Three

Out the new window, Sam stares at the morning rain streaming down. Since it’s chilly, Miss Perkins has draped a blanket over his legs. The day is so gray that he can barely make out the horse. The horse’s mottled coat is dingy, and it never kicks up its heels or acts happy like horses are supposed to do. He’s named the horse after his mother’s pony, Peter.

Until she went to college, his mother took care of Peter. After she got married, his mother visited California only a few times, but she still keeps a photograph of Peter in her bathroom.

“Won’t you
please
eat some macaroni and cheese?” Miss Perkins begs him for the fourth or fifth time.

Sam looks down again, orange noodles pooled in melted margarine, the color of urine.

“Oh, Sam, what am I going to do with you?” She removes the cold food.

Sam knows that he’s growing smaller. After almost two weeks at the institution, his wheelchair feels too big for him now.

His mother and Winnie don’t like this place, either. Winnie hardly ever talks anymore. His mother is traveling in Europe with a friend. No one has mentioned the friend’s name, but Sam suspects that Mr. Jordache, the man with the diamond rings, is in Europe with her. When his mother called, she said that she wasn’t coming back from Europe for another week.

Sam’s starting to believe that, unlike Winnie whose purpose was to save the free world, his purpose was really small. He changed a basketball team. Now, his purpose is over.

Sam hopes that, at least, Mickey is still playing with the Tomcats.

I’m still here,
Winnie says.

Where have you been?
Sam answers.

I came to tell you that famous men are usually the product of an unhappy childhood.
³²

Is that supposed to make me feel better? I’m not famous,
Sam reminds him.

You will be one day
, Winnie answers.

That he, Sam Davis, will some day be famous is such a crazy idea that Sam chuckles.
Famous for what? For sitting in a wheelchair?

In the distance, Peter paws the ground. Although Sam doesn’t even like the horse, he reaches for the window anyway. The pane is freezing cold. As if his finger were a warm blanket, he covers the image of Peter with his thumb.

Sam’s wheelchair is facing the window. It is mid-day, but he struggles to wake up. He remembers his old self as a kind of fond dream about a boy who used to have the energy to have tantrums, to go to school, to and to care about a basketball team.

Through half-closed eyes, he sees a Channel 2 News truck parked on the circular drive.

Draped in blankets, his wheelchair feels so cozy that when Sam hears people yelling, his eyes are already closed again.

“You can’t come in here with that camera,” a man bellows. Sam recognizes the voice of Director Bentsen, the head of Mannville.

“Wait a minute, Director Bentsen,” a male voice answers.

“I’m a reporter,” the unknown voice continues. “But we’re not going to do a story on your place. We’re just trying to talk to one of your residents.”

“Who is it that you want to speak to?” Miss Perkins takes charge in her calm, determined way.

“Sam Davis,” the stranger answers.

Sam’s eyes open wide for the first time that day.
Sam Davis?

“Why do you want to talk to my Sam?” Miss Perkins asks.

“His essay about Winston Churchill won a national contest,” the reporter answers.

Maybe Winnie was right. I am going to be famous
, Sam thinks.

“We want to congratulate him,” the reporter continues. “And ask him what he intends to do with his prize.

“Oh my goodness! That’s great news.” Miss Perkins says. “It’s all right, Director Bentsen, don’t you see? They just want to talk to Sam.”

Then, before Sam can even try to straighten his head, he’s surrounded.

Both men are wearing khaki pants and rumpled shirts. The one who holds a notepad has a double chin which matches his stomach, a round mound above his belt. A camera nearly the size of a phone book hangs around the other man’s neck. A lit cigarette sticks out of one side of his mouth.

Miss Perkins introduces Sam.

“Can he talk?” the cameraman asks doubtfully, as an ash from his cigarette falls onto the floor.

“He hasn’t said much lately.” Sam hears the sadness in Miss Perkins’ voice. “But he can.” She puts a hand on his shoulder. “Sam, where’s your alphabet?”

Ralph had stolen it….Sam can’t remember how many days ago. “GGGone.”

“Let me see if I can find it.” Miss Perkins turns her back to them.

“Are you sure there’s not some mistake?” the cameraman murmurs to the reporter.

As the man looks down at his notepad, his chins ripple. “The winner is Sam Davis at Mannville Institution. Did you read the kid’s essay?”

The cameraman blows out a ring of smoke. “The first paragraph,” he says.

“It was good,” the reporter remarks.

“So it’s impossible….” the cameraman says.

Miss Perkins returns and interrupts the men’s rude conversation.

I’m not a stick of furniture,
Sam wants to tell them.

“Here it is.” Miss Perkins opens Sam’s alphabet and lays it out on his tray. “Sam, you’re going to be in the newspaper.”

Like the rest of him, Sam’s finger is weak, but the men’s treatment of him has made him angry. He feels a little bit of his old determination returning.

The reporter holds his pencil ready. “Did you write the essay on Winston Churchill and fate?” the reporter asks.

Sam looks up.

“That means ‘yes,’” Miss Perkins explains. “If he looks down, that means ‘no’.”

The reporter jots down a note. “So you really like Winston Churchill?” the newsman asks.

“YYes,” Sam croaks, tired of Miss Perkins’ constantly answering for him.

The cameraman whispers something to the reporter. Sam overhears the word ‘test.’ As he readies himself, he remembers Ann’s questions about the number of potted plants, and he misses school so much that he shudders. The reporter looks at Sam out of the corner of his eye. “What was Winston Churchill’s wife’s name?”

Sam spells out ‘Clementine.’ The reporter says each letter out loud.

When Sam finishes, the men look surprised. The cameraman nods at the reporter.

The reporter throws up his hands. The cameraman shrugs.

“One thousand dollars is a lot of money for a boy like you,” the reporter says. “What are you going to do with it?”