by Andrea White
When Miss Perkins takes her head out of her hands and looks up, she sees the frilly white tablecloth covering Mrs. Davis’ table.
It’s already been nine years since she answered Mrs. Davis’ ad. When she walked into this room for the first time, Sam was facing her. His skin was pale, as if he never got out in the sun. His body was twisted in an uncomfortable angle and drool fell from his mouth.
Mrs. Davis was saying, “My son is very smart.”
When Miss Perkins met the boy’s gaze, he had smiled. All his features glowed, and she forgot his crooked body.
“Hello, Sam,” she said.
“He doesn’t like to talk to people who he doesn’t know,” Mrs. Davis said. “He’s got cerebral palsy….”
The smile slid off the boy’s face, and he stared off in the distance. Miss Perkins had remembered her last view of Emily, trapped in the concrete.
***
Sam hears the low murmur of voices in the entranceway. At last! His mother has returned. He waits anxiously for her to say good-night to Miss Perkins. What is taking you so long? he wants to shout.
Finally, outside of Sam’s room, the floor creaks. His mother’s coming. She’s nearer. He holds his smile ready, but something goes wrong.
Instead of stopping at his bedroom, her high heels pass his door and head straight for her own room. The spray of a shower, and then the slam of a drawer are the only sounds that Sam hears.
Distraught, Sam craves movement. He pretends to go outside to the rutted field. He lifts his right foot high and takes a step. Then, his left. After he’s warmed up, he pushes himself to begin running. Finally, he wills his arms to pump at the same time. After so many fast laps that he can’t count them all, he has to stop. He gasps for breath. Or maybe, he yawns.
Sam’s pillow is soft. His blue blanket is warm and shimmers with moonlight. He yawns again.
He hears his mother’s mattress groan.
“MMom! MMom!” he yells to greet her.
“Sam, hush,” she shouts from the other side of the wall. “I can’t stand another scene tonight.”
This isn’t a scene, he wants to explain. I love you, Mom. But he knows that he will have to shout for her to hear him, and he doubts whether she will understand.
Sam hears a jagged noise. Could his dainty mother be snoring? But in the next moment, he identifies the sound. His mother is crying.
He wants so much to be with her, but with the wall separating them, she might as well be sobbing on the moon. He inches his body close to the wall. But what to do with his thoughts? How to block out the crying? He holds his breath until Winnie’s voice fills his mind, drowning out his mother’s sobs, the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, everything.
In his escape from the Boers, Winnie had stumbled upon the only Englishman within twenty miles. His good luck had kept him from being hanged.
I felt like I had a purpose, so I never believed that I would go before my time, Winnie explains.
You’ve said this before, Winnie, but it doesn’t help me because I don’t have a purpose.
Oh, but you do, Winnie disagrees.
What?
Right now, you need to get Mickey Kotov on that basketball team, Winnie reminds him.
___
† 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 Twenty
In the morning, Miss Perkins lets herself into Mrs. Davis’ apartment.
Unusual for the hour, Mrs. Davis is awake and standing in the small kitchen. The blue and white speckled coffee pot is already on the stove.
Mrs. Davis turns toward Miss Perkins. Her eyes are red-rimmed. She has slept on her normally stylish hair, leaving it flat on one side and puffy on the other. Without makeup, her face is pale. At the sight of her employer so disheveled, Miss Perkins’ heart rises up and flutters against her rib cage. “What’s the matter? Is Sam all right?” she asks breathlessly.
“Sam,” Mrs. Davis emphasizes her son’s name, “is fine.”
Even though she doesn’t remember seeing Mrs. Davis shoeless before, Miss Perkins is not surprised that her employer’s toes are neatly manicured with bright coral polish. “Well, what is it?” she pleads.
Mrs. Davis looks over Miss Perkins’ shoulder. Her eyes seem to be searching a distant horizon. “I stayed up all night thinking. The way I see it, I don’t have a choice.” She begins talking faster. “I can stay with Celeste until I save enough money to rent another apartment. Of course, I can’t take Sam.”
“What do you mean?” Miss Perkins objects.
“Ever since he was born, everyone—my pediatrician, my husband, my neighbors, my coworkers— has advised me to send Sam away.” Mrs. Davis’ pale lips tremble as if she’s about to cry.
“Send him away!” Miss Perkins exclaims.
“That’s right,” Mrs. Davis nods. “There are special places for handicapped children.”
“What kind of places?” Miss Perkins asks, even though she knows that she will hate Mrs. Davis’ answer.
Mrs. Davis takes a deep breath and seems to regain her composure. “My friend, Mr. Jordache, knows someone on the board of the Mannville Institution for Boys. He’s offered to make arrangements for Sam to be admitted. I checked with the firm’s insurance. They’ll pay most of the cost.”
“What!” Miss Perkins hears herself cry out.
Mrs. Davis puts a finger to her lips. “Hush. Or you’ll wake him.”
An institution! Miss Perkins can’t take her eyes off this stranger with her white silk robe tied in a lopsided bow around her tiny waist.
“Mr. Crowe’s eviction notice is the last straw for me. I can’t afford to pay the deposit on a new apartment.” Mrs. Davis’ eyes are begging Miss Perkins now. Her fingers nervously tap the kitchen counter.
Miss Perkins can’t help it. She feels her expression harden into one of steely disapproval.
“It will only be until I can get back on my feet.” Mrs. Davis twists the cord on her robe. “I hate this as much as you do. But I don’t see any other way.”
“Let me take him, ma’am,” Miss Perkins begs. “He can come to live with me. My apartment is poor, but we would be happy.”
“And what would Mr. Jordache say if he found out that my son was living with my housekeeper?” Mrs. Davis shakes her head.
I could get a better job. I would have left a long time ago if it weren’t for Sam, Miss Perkins wants to tell her. But she manages to stay silent.
“Mannville Institution is a reputable place. I’m going to ask Mr. Jordache to make the arrangements today,” Mrs. Davis says.
“With due respect, I have to disagree, Mrs. Davis. A boy like Sam needs a home. Needs love. Why I…”
Mrs. Davis cuts her off. “I won’t have you implying that I’m not a good mother!” Tears well up in her eyes. “I’m doing this for Sam. So that someday we may be able to have a home together again.”
You, Sam and this Mr. Jordache—whoever he is? Miss Perkins thinks suspiciously. “When do you want the boy to leave?” she asks.
“As soon as possible,” Mrs. Davis answers.
“When are you going to tell Sam?” Miss Perkins asks.
“I’ve thought about that,” Mrs. Davis responds. “I don’t want to talk to Sam until the morning he leaves.” Her thin shoulders shudder.
Miss Perkins knows that Mrs. Davis is imagining the tantrum that Sam will throw when he learns about her plans. For once, she won’t scold the poor boy. “Have you seen the place?”
“The Mannville Institution?” Mrs. Davis asks indignantly.
Miss Perkins nods. What else would she be talking about?
“Our pediatrician has told me all about it. Why he says…” Mrs. Davis’ voice falters.
“You haven’t seen Mannville?” Miss Perkins insist
s.
“You and I can go with Sam when he’s admitted. I don’t need to visit the place beforehand.” She smooths back a lock of her hair. Then, she adds in a softer voice, “Miss Perkins, I told you. I stayed up all night thinking about this. I don’t have any other choice. If all goes well, he will only have to stay there a few months. …”
Miss Perkins works to keep her face calm.
“Now excuse me, but I can’t be late.” Mrs. Davis turns around and heads to her bedroom.
“What am I to do today?” Miss Perkins asks curtly.
“Go to school. Act normal,” Mrs. Davis calls from behind the closed door.
“Act normal?” Miss Perkins shouts. She picks up the frying pan, and her grip doesn’t slip; she purposefully bangs it down on the counter.
Mrs. Davis sticks her head out. “Stop your temper tantrum. You’re going to wake Sam.” She slams the door so hard that the windows rattle.
“PPerkins,” Sam calls. “MMiss PPerkins.”
It makes Miss Perkins angrier that she can’t blame Mrs. Davis for waking the boy. Both of them are guilty. She opens his bedroom door and sticks her head in. “Just a minute, dear.” She tries to control the trembles that she hears in her voice. “I’ll be right back after I cook your oatmeal.” But as she fills the pot with water, her mind is occupied with plans of rebellion. She’ll have to find some way to visit this Mannville Institution for Boys. She’ll tell Sam that her rheumatism has been acting up and that she has a doctor appointment. If she has to, she’ll ask Mrs. Martin if she can leave Sam alone at school this morning. Ann will be happy to push his chair to recess.
She has her morning laid out, but if the Mannville Institution is the prison that she expects it to be, what will she do then?
Fifty-six-year-old Abigail Perkins, who has never even had a traffic ticket, will have to become a kidnapper.
Chapter Twenty-One
Sam watches the clock over the blackboard. Although the bell for recess rang a few minutes ago, Mrs. Martin still hasn’t stopped talking.
“Finally, our school is participating in the League of Women Voters history contest.”
Mrs. Martin continues. “Each student will submit an essay on ‘My World War II Hero.’ The winner gets a nice prize and a trip to Washington, D.C. Wouldn’t it be great if someone in this class won?”
World War II. Sam sneaks a look around the classroom. Charlie has a bored expression on his face. He bets that he knows more than Charlie or anyone else in the entire classroom about World War II. He would love to enter the contest, but now that they are attending school, Miss Perkins is so busy. He knows that she won’t have time to help him.
“Your essay will count as a test grade and will conclude our unit on World War II. Any questions?” Mrs. Martin says.
How long does the essay have to be? Sam wants to ask.
When no one raises a hand, Mrs. Martin sighs. “Dismissed.”
The class stands and rushes out the door.
“Hey, Sam,” Ann says. She is wearing a gray and blue sweater over a gray dress.
Sam smiles a big smile. “AAAnn,” he answers.
“Ann, could you take good care of Sam during recess?” Miss Perkins says. “I’ve got… to….go to the doctor’s. I’ll be back by…. lunch. Mrs. Martin…. has agreed to look after Sam.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ann says. “Are you feeling O.K., Miss Perkins?”
“What?” Miss Perkins asks. Without waiting for an answer, she mutters, “My rheumatism...” In a bustle of activity, she slips on Sam’s coat and checks his seat belt. She collects her purse and starts toward the door. “Thank you so much, dearie,” she calls to Ann on her way out.
As Sam and Ann start for the playground, Mrs. Martin looks up. “Ann? I need to talk to Sam,” Mrs. Martin says.
Ann pushes Sam over to Mrs. Martin’s desk. The surface is clear except for her grade book and an empty rose vase.
“Sam, would you like me to help you submit an essay for the League of Women Voters Contest?” Mrs. Martin asks. She takes off her glasses and begins polishing the lenses.
“YYYes,” Sam crows.
“All right,” Mrs. Martin says.
Without the glasses, Mrs. Martin’s face is more open, and Sam can see her brown eyes without the frame’s black bars. He thinks that his teacher actually looks pretty.
“We’ll start this afternoon,” Mrs. Martin smiles.
As Ann pushes Sam to the basketball court, the autumn leaves gust around them. The October day is cold, and Ann’s brown coat is buttoned to the top. But Sam doesn’t want to bother Ann by asking her to get out his blanket. When they pass the empty tetherball court, Sam realizes that Mickey still hasn’t shown up for class this morning.
Ann puts the chair in park and whispers, “I’ll be back.” He watches her run down the path towards Marigold.
“O.K. team. Let’s go!” Charlie shouts. “We’ve got another game today. Another chance for an upset victory.”
Charlie misses a rebound.
As the basketball rolls off the court, Sam thinks, come towards me. The ball zigzags for a bit but, just as he had hoped, it stops next to his chair. He stretches his foot out to touch it. As the tip of his shoe rests for a brief moment on the ball, Sam thinks, anything is possible.
Charlie reaches down to pick it up. To get Charlie’s attention, Sam grunts. Holding the ball in his hand, Charlie’s eyes meet Sam’s for an instant. They match his reddish-brown freckles.
Sam is too cold to trust his tongue to talk, but the cards Ann made for him are laid out on his tray. With his finger, Sam taps, “Tomcats Score!”
Charlie wipes his dripping nose with his sleeve and smiles. When he says, “Thanks,” his breath comes out in a puff. He starts to back away but stops. “You’re our cheerleader, Sam.”
Sam can’t say, Make me your coach. The moment passes too fast.
Chapter Twenty-Two
After recess, Mrs. Martin starts writing the vocabulary words on the blackboard:
Interpretation.
Determination.
Character.
Sam is a whiz at vocabulary and memorizes their definitions even before she lifts the piece of chalk from the last word.
When the school secretary totters into the classroom with a note for Mrs. Martin, the class’ attention turns towards the door. Today, both her high heels and her tight skirt complicate walking.
The secretary hands Mrs. Martin a note. “Principal Cullen would like to see one of your students,” she says before leaving.
As Mrs. Martin reads the note, everyone’s gaze automatically turns to Mickey. But his seat is empty. Sam senses the confusion in the room. If Mickey is gone, who does the principal want?
Mrs. Martin puts down her piece of chalk and reads the note. “Ann, will you take Sam to Principal Cullen’s office?”
Me? Although Sam has seen Principal Cullen in the hallway, he has never met him. Why would the principal want him to come to his office? Even though he knows that he hasn’t done anything wrong, he wishes that Miss Perkins were here.
“Sure,” Ann says. She hurries to Sam and a few seconds later maneuvers him neatly through the doorway.
In the hallway, Ann points at one of the cards on Sam’s tray.
“Hope you have a good day,” it reads.
Sam points at the same card: “Hope you have a good day.”
Ann must be happy today because she starts laughing.
Suddenly, Sam feels like laughing, too. But he stops himself. He’s too embarrassed.
“You feel silly, too, don’t you, Sam?” Ann says.
Sam’s pent-up laughter bursts forth. He thinks that he sounds like a small dog barking or a kid whose hiccups have run away with him, but Ann doesn’t seem to notice anything unusual. She joins in until finally she stops to try to catch her breath. “I’m so glad that you can laugh.” She pauses. “Can you cry?” she says.
I’m not a rock, Sam thinks, but he doesn’t believe it’
s manly to admit to crying. “No,” he lies.
“Not even when something really bad happens to you?” When Ann bends down towards him, she looks so worried that Sam laughs again.
“I didn’t know,” Ann says.
Their carefree mood ends when they find themselves staring at the big wooden door to the principal’s office. Ann opens it with one hand and awkwardly pushes Sam through.
The secretary is busy typing. A nameplate on her desk reads, “Miss Valerie Rawles.”
“Principal Cullen is busy right now,” Miss Rawles says. “Leave the boy there.”
Ann parks his chair. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back for you,” she promises.
Miss Rawles returns to her typing, and Sam examines the room. Spare and plain. It looks like a doctor’s office, but with no hint that it has anything to do with kids.
Click. Click. Click. Sam likes the typewriter’s rhythm. He is still wondering why the principal wants to see him when he becomes aware of some odd sounds coming from behind the closed door.
He hears thuds, then whimpers, and occasionally a cry. Before he has time to figure out how to communicate to Miss Rawles that something is wrong, the door bursts open, and Mickey Kotov barrels out. His face is blotched. His eyes are teary, and his shirt hangs over his pants.
Principal Cullen stands at the door, holding an enormous paddle. It’s bigger than the Ping Pong paddles that Sam has seen on television, and one side is covered in worn sandpaper. “Tomorrow, if you’re late, I’m going to double the number of swats again.”
Mickey glares at Sam before running out of the room.
Why do you dislike me? Sam wants to call after him. I haven’t done anything to you.
After Principal Cullen hangs the oversize paddle on a hook on the wall, he steps out of his office doorway and faces Sam. Sam can’t help admiring Principal Cullen’s soldierly posture and crew cut. Sam wonders whether he fought in World War II.
Principal Cullen nods. He is wearing slacks and a button-down cotton shirt with a navy blue tie. His black eyes examine Sam for so long that he begins to feel embarrassed.