Window Boy

by Andrea White

  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?”

  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.