by Andrea White
“Ann,” Miss Perkins calls. “Do you mind watching Sam while I go to the restroom?”
“Sure,” Ann answers. She hurries over to the science table and sits down in Miss Perkins’ chair. She turns and looks eagerly at him. Sam has seen this same expression many times before, sort of curious and a little malicious. When Sam’s cousins came for their first visit, Josh, the oldest one, had looked at him like this, too. When Miss Perkins left them alone, Josh had begun firing questions at him. At first, Sam didn’t understand why. Then, he realized that Josh was trying to figure out if he was retarded.
“How many potted plants do we have?” Ann asks.
Of course, eleven potted plants sit on the table next to Sam. It’s easier to sign numbers than to try to get his tongue wrapped around them, and Sam is often lazy in the morning. After a good night’s sleep, it takes him a while to get used to the limitations of his body again. As Sam slaps one finger then another on his tray, he feels like he’s a trained dog.
“Are you saying eleven?” Ann asks.
Sam looks up.
“So you can count?” Ann asks.
He looks up again.
Ann places her finger on the side of her cheek. “Let me think of a harder question. How many desks are there in the room?”
Sam says “thirty,” and for extra measure, he holds up three fingers and then makes the best zero that he can. Ann points to each desk, counting.
“You’re right,” she murmurs.
Sam’s glad that she seems to have run out of questions. To try to put an end to the game, he breaks the silence, “WWhenn’s your bbirthday?”
“In May,” Ann says.
“MMMee too,” Sam says. “MMMine is May 10th.”
“Mine is May 17th,” Ann says.
Sam points at himself. “LLLLike sharing May bbbbirthdays.”
Ann giggles.
Miss Perkins ambles back in the room.
“I’m starting to understand him a little better. He said that we were both born in the same month,” Ann announces.
Sam hates when people talk about him as if he weren’t in the room. If his mother or Miss Perkins commits this offense, he puckers his lips just right and tries to form spit bubbles. When they are nice and juicy, he lets them loose on his lips. But since he’s new at school, he decides to let Ann’s crime pass unpunished.
Marigold Green pokes her head into the room. Like Ann, she has blonde hair, but she wears hers in a ponytail. She’s shaped like a torpedo, and her blue corduroy dress is tight around the waist. “Ann?” she calls out. Since Sam senses that Marigold is afraid of him, he doesn’t like her.
“Come on in,” Ann calls to her.
Marigold shakes her head before disappearing.
“Why won’t your friend come in?” Miss Perkins asks. “We don’t bite.”
“She’s shy,” Ann explains. “Miss Perkins, I need to go to recess with Marigold. We’re practicing a dance routine.”
“I understand, Ann,” Miss Perkins says.
“But tell Sam,” Ann says to her as if Sam weren’t in the room. You already told me, Sam thinks.
“That I’ll come again soon.” Ann pauses. “Maybe not tomorrow.” She shakes her head. “But sometime.”
“That will be nice,” Miss Perkins says.
“I’ll think up some more questions for him,” Ann says.
Like what’s two plus two? Sam can’t help but feel grouchy.
“That will be wonderful, dear,” Miss Perkins says.
Ann runs out the room.
I had a hard time with girls, also, Winnie admits.
Girls didn’t ask you baby questions to find out if you were retarded, Sam points out.
True, Winnie answers. But once a lady told me that she hated my mustache and my politics. I told her that there was absolutely no reason that she should touch either.6
I just wish that the inside of me was outside so everyone could know me, Sam says.
We all do, Sam.
Chapter Ten
For Miss Perkins’ day off—Sunday—Sam and his mother have a routine. If it’s not raining, they go to Paul Revere park and sit outside while his mother reads her newspaper. Sam enjoys the sun on his face and the smell of fresh grass while he listens to his mother comment on the news.
“This Vietnam War is horrible, Sam. Over 500 men died this month. Not just kids. But men as old as me. And no halt to the bombings.” After she tells him the latest news, she always pauses, contemplating. “That’s why I can’t meet any nice men. They’re all dying in Vietnam.”
If it’s raining, they watch cartoons on television. His mother enjoys Bugs Bunny more than he does. Or they listen to music on the radio. His mother’s favorite Beatle is Paul McCartney. She likes him because of his soft eyes. She sings along with all their songs, but her favorite is “All You Need Is Love.”
Sam and his mother have their own secret which they keep from Miss Perkins: jelly donuts. Miss Perkins scolds his mother. “Jelly donuts aren’t nutritious. Just fix the boy a bowl of cereal.”
But this Sunday morning feels a little different. His mother wets his hair and combs it for the second or third time. She buttons the top button on his shirt and insists that he wear his blue jacket even though it is small and uncomfortable.
His mother steps back and takes a hard look at him. “Ready,” she says finally.
I was ready a long time ago, Sam thinks resentfully as she pushes him out the door onto Elm Street. They are headed for the Corner Market where she buys her paper.
Neither of them are morning people, and usually they enjoy the Sunday quiet. But this morning his mother is talking, and her constant stream of advice is giving him a headache. “People, especially men, like polite boys, Sam. I hope that you will always do your best to be polite…”
The spire of their church appears in the distance. It’s the tallest building on the block with a stained glass window of the disciple Paul. His mother chose this church because it’s the only one in their neighborhood with an entrance ramp.
“We should go back to Sunday school. How long has it been since we’ve been there? Two months?” his mother continues.
Sam isn’t sorry that his mother hasn’t taken him to church lately. Too many old ladies like to pat his cheek and call him a “brave boy.”
She pushes him through the front door of Corner Market.
A man standing at the magazine rack whips around when they enter. Like Sam’s father, he is tall. But while his father had an athletic build, this man is stocky. A crop of dark hair sits on top of his head. His cheeks are the color of strawberries; his eyes, stern and his mouth, unsmiling. But what catches Sam’s interest are the rings on his fingers. Two of them. One has a big diamond in it.
“Why, Mr. Jordache!” his mother exclaims. Her lovely eyes are wide. “What are you doing here?”
“Hello, Mrs. Davis.” Mr. Jordache makes a half-bow but keeps his eyes fixed on her. “Just buying a paper,” he says. The man’s voice is low and gravelly.
“This is my son, Sam,” his mother says quietly, and for a reason that Sam doesn’t understand, he senses that she is afraid. “Sam, Mr. Jordache is a new client at the law firm.”
For an instant, Sam wonders if his mother planned to meet Mr. Jordache this morning. She never makes him wear his blue coat to the park. But then he realizes that this can’t be true. His mother had acted surprised to see Mr. Jordache, hadn’t she? Still, Sam understands that Mr. Jordache is important to his mother in a way that he can’t interpret. “HHello,” he says in as friendly a tone as he can muster.
“Hello, young man,” Mr. Jordache says. “Your mother has told me quite a bit about you. She’s very proud of you.”
“TThanks,” Sam says.
There’s a long pause while Mr. Jordache and his mother stare at each other.
“Well,” his mother says. “I hope to see you next week, Mr. Jordache.”
“Perhaps, Mrs. Davis. Perhaps…” Mr. Jordache sa
ys.
“Oh,” his mother says in a small voice.
“Nice to meet you, Sam,” Mr. Jordache says. When he walks out the door, Sam notices that he has forgotten to buy his paper.
His mother turns towards the counter.
“What can I get you?” the Indian grocer says in his lilting voice.
His mother doesn’t seem to hear him.
Both his mother and Mr. Jordache appear to have forgotten their purchases. “PPaper,” Sam says, trying to be helpful. But he is thinking hard.
“What’s that?” the grocer says.
“PPaper,” Sam repeats.
His mother seems to wake up. “We’ll take a newspaper,” she says. She turns to Sam. “And how about some jelly donuts?”
To say yes, Sam looks up, but he’s not fooled by her bright smile. His blue coat. The extra care she took to wash off his face. Her end- less lecture about politeness. When Mr. Jordache left the store without buying anything, Sam had decided that his hunch must be correct. His mother and Mr. Jordache had planned to meet at Corner Market. But why? He worries that Mr. Jordache may be the man that his mother’s been going dancing with. He hopes not. He doesn’t like to think about that man’s fat fingers with their big rings holding his mother’s hands.
Sam hates secrets. Of course, he keeps a lot of them himself, but with his uncoordinated tongue, he doesn’t have any choice. As his mother sets the bag of jelly donuts on his tray, he thinks: You shouldn’t keep secrets from your son. Not a single one.
Chapter Eleven
On Wednesday night, Sam is sitting at the window when he sees his mother’s old station wagon cross the parking lot. Although she’s gone out every night this week, tonight, she’s promised to stay home. He’ll watch Bonanza or Bewitched with her, whichever one she wants. Or if she’d rather, they’ll play Hangman or Tic-Tac-Toe. His mother refuses to play checkers with him anymore. She claims that Sam’s too good.
He sees her lock her car like she always does and then stare up at the dark sky. Why is she moving so slowly? She’s already late. She ought to be hurrying to join him.
He hears his mother’s key in the lock. Again, the sound is a grudging noise, without excitement or joy.
The door opens. Instead of rushing towards him, she lingers at the entranceway to talk to Miss Perkins. Monday and Tuesday night, she went out with her friends. Is one of her friends Mr. Jordache?
This evening is his turn. The delay is not fair!
“Are you ready to watch a little television with Sam?” Miss Perkins is saying. “He’s been waiting for you.”
“I’m sorry that I’m late, Miss Perkins,” his mother says. “And I’m afraid that I need another favor.”
Sam’s head droops.
“Is something wrong?” Miss Perkins asks.
“Could you stay late one more night?” his mother pleads. “It would mean so much.”
Sam can’t hear Miss Perkin’s answer, only his mother’s heels finally rushing toward him. They sound like a Morse code signaling all that is wrong with Sam.
She is standing a few feet away from him. She has on a simple blue skirt and a red silk shirt. Her hands are pressed together almost as if she were praying for his forgiveness. “I promise, Sam. I’ll watch television with you tomorrow night. It’s just that tonight’s important…” His mother’s voice trails off in a mute plea for his forgiveness.
Sam drops his head back as far as he can—which is not far enough to allow a view of the ceiling. He lets it fall like a hammer on the tray. I don’t want to wait one more day. Not one more minute. Not one more second.
Sensing his mood, his mother says, “Sammy, you need to be a good boy while Miss Perkins gets you dinner. O.K.?”
“TTTonight,” Sam barks defiantly.
“Don’t be angry with me.” His mother rumples his hair. “You know I love you. I’m trying to make a life for both of us. Not just me.”
“Noowww,” Sam demands.
“One day won’t make any difference,” his mother says. She kisses him on the forehead and hurries off to her bedroom.
“A day can seem like a long time to a child,” Miss Perkins chides her.
Good old Miss Perkins. At least she understands, Sam thinks as he readies himself to make his views known. He can feel the familiar stiffness in his legs. His back begins to arch.
“Of course, it’s not my place to tell you how to run your life,” Miss Perkins says. In a friendlier voice, she adds. “Do you want a bite of dinner before you go out, Mrs. Davis?”
“My friends are waiting for me. I don’t have time,” his mother says.
When Sam was younger he couldn’t control the next stage, but now, he opens his mouth on purpose. The scream pours out of him. “NNNNooo!”
He slumps and slouches until he is able to flop out of his chair. His back lands on the floor with a loud thud. His legs are akimbo from his body. He opens his mouth so the spit will pour out. He knows that he makes a disgusting sight. But he doesn’t care. He shifts his weight and orders his legs to stomp. They decide to obey.
Thump. Thump. It sounds as if he is kicking loose the pipes in the apartment walls.
He feels his mother and Miss Perkins rushing toward him.
A baby wails, and he hears a series of thuds coming from the apartment above. Probably, an upstairs neighbor is pounding on the floor with a broomstick.
He experiences a vague sense of unease when he realizes that, once again, he has bothered the other tenants. But nothing really matters except that his mother promised that she would stay home tonight. “NNoo!” he yells.
“Stop him,” Sam hears his mother cry. “I can’t stand it. He’s too old to act this way.”
“Shut up down there!” a muffled voice shouts from upstairs.
Miss Perkins kneels next to him. “Oh, Sam,” she whispers in his ear. “Please…please…be quiet. I understand why you’re upset, but we don’t want Mr. Crowe to get angry with us again.”
The mention of their landlord actually makes Sam pause. But it’s too late. The phone has already started ringing. Unfortunately, Mr. Crowe’s elderly mother lives next door.
“Mr. Crowe’s calling. We’re going to get kicked out of our apartment. We’re going to be beggars like Ronald predicted,” his mother cries.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Davis,” Miss Perkins says. She kneels and grabs his ankles. She presses his feet to the floor.
“Hush,” Miss Perkins whispers. “We’ve spoiled you…Hush… You’re going to get us in serious trouble.”
From the apartment above, the baby’s wail grows louder. The phone rings and rings. It sounds like someone is calling to report an emergency like a fire.
“Please, Miss Perkins, make him stop,” his mother begs. She is wringing her hands.
The phone stops ringing, and Sam hears his mother’s anxious voice.
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir. No, it won’t happen again. Yes, sir. But, sir, I promise….”
Lying on the ground, Sam’s hands and feet feel cold. He is moaning and rocking from side to side. Miss Perkins starts massaging his neck. Her fingers are warm and strong, and he feels the cold stiffness of his body start to melt.
With her hands on her hips, his mother stands over them. Sam tries not to care that a few months ago, he had overheard Mr. Crowe threaten his mother. “If you cause any more trouble,” he had warned, “you’ll have to move..”
“Is Mr. Crowe O.K.?” Miss Perkins asks his mother.
Sam doesn’t like hearing the anxiety in Miss Perkins’ voice. Or seeing the panic in his mother’s gray eyes. He stops squirming.
“I did my best,” his mother answers her. “If I wasn’t afraid that Sam would make another scene, I would tell him how angry I am…”
“He’s better, ma’am,” Miss Perkins says. “You can talk to him now.”
His mother leans over him. “Sam. Oh, Sam. Why do you make my life harder than it is?”
His mother’s hair falls down on his chest. She is
so close to him that he can smell her breath. So sweet, like flowers. Her gray eyes are turned on him, giving him her full attention. “MMMom,” he cries affectionately.
His mother shakes her beautiful dark curls. “What am I going to do with you?”
Give me what I want. Stay home with me tonight, he thinks. “HHome,” he says.
As she often does when Sam tries to start a conversation, his mother frowns.
“If you’ll take his right side, Mrs. Davis,” Miss Perkins says. “I’ll take his left.”
Miss Perkins and his mother help him climb back into the wheel-chair. As soon as Sam is settled again next to the television, his mother hurries away. The screen of the television is blank, which is how Sam feels. Drained. Exhausted.
Miss Perkins bends down and begins whispering in his ear. “I wish you hadn’t made a scene. You’re too old for those, and Mr. Crowe is too cross. Promise me, my dear boy, that you won’t have another one.” She stares into Sam’s eyes.
Sam looks up. He doesn’t like to remember how many times he’s given her this same promise. By his count, twenty-two.
“That’s my good boy,” Miss Perkins smiles at him. “We’ll have lots of fun tonight. Just you and me. Tomorrow night, your mum will stay home. I’m sure of it.” She wheels him over to the kitchen and bends towards him until their noses are inches apart. Her blue eyes bore into his. “Are you thirsty? Do you want some water?”
“No,” Sam says.
“I’m going to finish dinner. Please, dear boy, remember your promise.”
Sam looks up.
A few minutes later, his mother comes out of her bedroom.
“Another new dress, Mrs. Davis,” Miss Perkins remarks.
Since Miss Perkins hasn’t asked a question, Sam’s eyes fly to his mother’s face. Often, she gets angry when Miss Perkins scolds her.
“Now, now, Miss Perkins,” his mother retorts. “A girl’s entitled to a new dress every once in a while.”
Sam’s relieved when he hears his mother’s joking tone.
In the small entranceway, his mother whirls around, causing her dress to glitter and sparkle. It’s the color and texture of moonlight with tiny black straps crossing her thin shoulders. She carries a gold purse in one hand. Her spiked high heel shoes are what make him feel sure that she’s going dancing. They are so high and glittering, that he can only imagine them floating across a dance floor.
