Window Boy (22 page)

On the alphabet sheet, Sam spells the sentence: “Give it to Perkins.”

“Who’s that?” the reporter asks.

Miss Perkins doesn’t tell them right away. When she does, Sam can see that her lips are trembling as if she is about to cry.

“Doesn’t the boy have parents?” the reporter says.

“His father and mother are divorced. He lives with his mother. I mean,” Miss Perkins corrects herself, “he used to live with his mother.”

Used to? What’s the point in having a beautiful mother when Sam can’t see her? When she is going to stay in Europe for three whole weeks?
At this last thought, he feels so discouraged that he slumps further into his chair.

The reporter is scribbling furiously. “Your name and address?”

Miss Perkins gives the man the information.

The cameraman returns from stubbing out his cigarette. “Well, let me get a photo of you and the kid,” the cameraman says. He motions for Miss Perkins to stand close to Sam.

Miss Perkins wipes Sam’s face with a tissue and straightens his robe. She angles his wheelchair towards the ward so that he faces the kids.

Ralph and the rest of the kids are staring blankly at him. After the flash goes off, the men hurry out, muttering their goodbyes. As suddenly as the news crew had arrived, they’re gone.

Miss Perkins beams at him. “My prizewinner!”

With his mother in Europe, Sam has a hard time caring.

Chapter Thirty-Four

In her apartment, Miss Perkins leans over the rotary phone. She sticks her fingers in the holes and pushes around the metal frame to dial the number of the London hotel. Mrs. Davis gave her the number in case of an emergency. Mrs. Davis picks up on the second ring. “Oh, it’s you.” From her sleepy voice, Miss Perkins guesses that Mrs. Davis is in bed. The connection is better than usual. She doesn’t sound so far away.

“I have some lovely news, ma’am,” Miss Perkins says.

“I could use some.”

Miss Perkins tells her about the national prize. Oddly, Mrs. Davis remains quiet.

“Are you all right?” Miss Perkins asks her.

“That’s a lot of money,” Mrs. Davis says.

Ever since she’s heard about the prize money, Miss Perkins has only been able to think about one thing. “Enough for a deposit and the first month’s rent on a new apartment.”

“Here you are lecturing me on what to do again,” Mrs. Davis says irritably.

“Sam is still weak, ma’am,” Miss Perkins pleads. “I have many duties and can’t be with him all the time. If only you’d return. You’d understand that Mannville is not a good place for a small quiet boy like Sam.”

“Thousands of kids live happily in institutions,” Mrs. Davis interrupts. “I don’t know anyone else who has as many problems as I do.”

“Sam has more problems than you do.”

“What do you know about my problems?” Mrs. Davis asks, her voice trailing off.

Miss Perkins sucks in her breath. The next few words are hard for her, but she thinks of her sweet boy, Sam, and how small he’s gotten. No good can come from angering Mrs. Davis. “I apologize, ma’am. I was just…”

“Miss Perkins,” Mrs. Davis interrupts. “Mr. Jordache was a fraud. A fraud. He stole about a hundred thousand dollars from my law firm. We were having dinner when he got word that Scotland Yard was after him, and he disappeared. He left me sitting alone in a pub. I don’t even have the money to buy a ticket home.

For once, Miss Perkins is speechless.

Mrs. Davis sobs. “It’s been awful.”

She sucks in her breath jaggedly. “Sam….I deserted my son. I quit my job. Because of that jerk.”

All of a sudden, Mrs. Davis’ long absence makes sense. “Whenever you return, Sam will be very glad to see you,” Miss Perkins says.

“I found out that Mr. Jordache is married, with five children.” Mrs. Davis breaks down in sobs again. “He was too good to be true,” she says. “Everyone at my law firm knows that I’ve made a fool of myself.”

After a few more attempts to comfort her, Miss Perkins remembers that this call is long distance. “I’ve got to go, when can I tell Sam that you’re coming?”

Mrs. Davis sniffs. “The lawyer that I used to work for is wiring me money for a ticket. I’ll be home soon. Name a day.”

“I’m so thankful,” Miss Perkins says. “How about next week end?”

“I’ll be there.” Mrs. Davis sighs.

“Now are you sure, ma’am? Because I’m going to tell Sam.”

“You can count on me,” Mrs. Davis says.

Miss Perkins hopes that she can count on Mrs. Davis.

Chapter Thirty-Five

A plate of mashed potatoes and ground chicken sits untouched on Sam’s plastic tray.

Beverly, the attendant, who loops the silver hairnet underneath her ears, is standing over Sam. Mr. Bentsen, Mannville’s director, has forbidden Miss Perkins to feed Sam all the time. It’s not fair to the other patients for Sam to have his own personal attendant. That’s why Beverly is holding the spoon.

Sam is too excited to eat. His mother was supposed to come Saturday, but she called and changed her visit to Sunday, this very afternoon. Sam’s been expecting her for several hours. Miss Perkins has explained the reason for her delayed return from Europe. His mother lost her plane ticket. As far as he’s concerned, it’s not a good excuse. When he sees her for the first time he plans to shout at her. He wants to yell,
You’re a bad mother
.

“I’m not leaving until you take a bite,” Beverly says. She holds a spoon loaded with mashed potatoes.

Sam opens his mouth but closes it when he hears footsteps. Sure enough, what he dreads is true. The feet belong to Ralph.

For the first few days that Sam lived in the ward, if Ralph found him alone by the window, he just touched his arm. But lately, Ralph has seemed to select Sam as a favorite friend. He likes to peer inquiringly into Sam’s face. Once, he even stuck a finger up Sam’s nose.

“Where is Arnetta, Ralph?” Beverly asks.

Arnetta is one of the other caretakers. Ralph is never supposed to be left unattended. But the ward is big. Sometimes Ralph wanders off.

Ralph just cocks his head and looks at her.

“Arnetta!” Beverly calls.

As the big woman lumbers over, a tattoo of a heart jiggles on her arm. “Sue Ann is sick today,” Arnetta tells Beverly. “So I’ve got the whole ward to take care of. I could use some help here.” Her tone is sharp and unfriendly. She takes Ralph’s hand and starts leading him away.

Beverly sighs. “I understand,” she says. “Let’s go, Sam,” she jabs the overloaded spoon at his teeth. “I don’t have all day.”

Grasping anything is hard for him, but Sam holds out his right hand.

Beverly leans over him. She smells like Jergen’s Lotion. “That’s good. I told Miss Perkins that she does too much for you. A big boy like you can feed himself.” She places the spoon in his outstretched hand.

Sam is barely able to curl his fingers around the spoon, but his aim is swift and sure. He drops the spoon inside his mouth and clamps his lips down on it. Feeding himself is so much work that he decides to be efficient. He lassoes the whole glob of potato with his tongue.

He spits the clean spoon onto the tray.

“Beverly,” Arnetta shouts, startling Sam. “I need help now!”

Sam is feeling relieved that Beverly has disappeared until he hears footsteps behind him. They are sloppy and heavy—not sharp and light like his mother’s, nor slow like Beverly’s.

Sam is still trying to nudge the potato glob—a whale beached on his tongue—towards his teeth, when Ralph bends over Sam and smiles curiously at him. The lower part of his face is wet with drool. Ralph draws closer until his face is just a few inches from Sam’s.

Your smile is crooked just like mine,
Sam thinks. Then, he coughs. The potato glob slides down his throat. Like he did the time he nearly drowned in the bathtub, he struggles to breathe. He feels as if someone is clutching his throat, squeezing it. His brain fills with panic, and Winnie’s words start racing through his mind:
I now saw death as near as I believe I have ever seen him. He was swimming in the water at our side, whispering from time to time.
^33
†

One minute. Two minutes before he passes out? Death whispers into his ear.

No! Not yet.
With all his strength, he shakes his fist in Ralph’s face.

Effortlessly, Ralph pushes Sam’s hand aside.

Sam butts at Ralph with his head. Ralph lets out a low growl. Now his dark eyes are flashing with anger. His large hand pulls back and slaps Sam’s cheek.

Sam bends over his tray and drops his face into the leftover mashed potatoes. Squishy. Ralph pounds the only available part of Sam—his back—so hard that he feels tears come to his eyes.

Sam coughs a great cough. Ralph hits him hard again, just as a noise sounds near the door—a familiar sharp tapping.

The glob of potato loosens and shoots out of his mouth onto the tray.

“Sam!” His mother screams. “That’s my son! Stop beating him, you bully!”

Sam hears Ralph run away.

“Nurse! Nurse! Help!” His mother yells. “Oh, my God!” his mother cries. “That kid could have killed you!”

Sam lifts his face from the tray and stares into her eyes. “Noooo,” he says. He wants to tell her,
Ralph helped me.

“Are you O.K.?” She picks up his napkin and cleans the bits of potato off his face.

Sam nods. Maybe he has died, because his mother looks like an angel. In her green dress and hat, she is so beautiful that he can’t bring himself to be mean to her. And like an angel, she floats away. As he listens to the familiar patter of his mother’s shoes, he sucks in great gulps of air. He promises himself that he’ll never take air for granted again. It’s wonderful, delicious stuff, better than ice cream or popsicles.

This time, two pairs of footsteps approach.

His mother is yelling, “A huge boy was hitting my son. If I hadn’t arrived when I did, I don’t know what would have happened. This is the kind of supervision that I pay you for?”

“I was feeding him just a minute ago, ma’am,” Beverly says.

His mother leans closer and stares into Sam’s eyes. “Tell me the truth. Are you all right?”

Sam looks up. “MMOOTHER!”

“Sam,” she grabs his hand. “Where is Miss Perkins?”

He shrugs.

His mother hauls herself up to her full height. Dramatically, she points in the direction that Ralph has gone. “Why was my son left unattended….”

“We got lots of kids. Not just your son,” Beverly says.

“So your standard practice is to leave my son alone!” his mother is screaming. “To be bullied and picked on.” She stamps her foot. “I want to talk to the director.”

Sam laughs inside. His mother is having a temper tantrum. About him. She has a lot to make up for, but he is feeling a little bit loved.

“Yes, ma’am,” Beverly says. “If you can find him, you can talk to him. He’s not here much.”

“Where is he then?” his mother demands.

Beverly rolls her eyes. “He’s one of those golfers, ma’am.”

His mother looks as angry as Sam has ever seen her. “I’ll be back in a minute, Sam,” she says.

Forget about the director
, Sam wants to tell her.
Come back and talk to me.
But her high heels patter rapidly down the hallway until they fade away.

___
†
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-Six