Window Boy

by Andrea White

  A faint smile appears on Mrs. Martin’s thin lips. “That’s O.K., Sam,” she says to him. “I understand that you were just trying to defend Churchill.”

  Sam tries to grin back at his teacher.

  Mrs. Martin leans so close that Sam can see the smudge on her glasses. As they gaze at each other, suddenly, her eyes flash with decision. “I’ve been meaning to ask you…. Can you stay after school this Wednesday? We can get to know each other a little better,” she says.

  “Yess,” Sam says.

  “That would be great,” Miss Perkins says. “We would…”

  Mrs. Martin straightens up. “Now, you’ll have to excuse me,” she interrupts. “Principal Cullen wants to see me.” As if to herself, she adds, “I hope my class wasn’t too loud.” She turns and walks briskly out the door.

  Sam confronts the empty desks. He hates being the only kid in the whole classroom. It’s one of the loneliest feelings in the whole world. He feels much lonelier in the empty, quiet classroom than he ever does in his spot at the window.

  He worries that by speaking out in class, he has scared Ann away. Just when Sam is about to give up on her, Ann wanders in. Although some of the girls wear pants, Ann always has on a dress. Today hers is blue— the color of her eyes.

  “Hhhi, Ann,” Sam says.

  “Hi!” Ann said. “You’re sure talking a lot today.”

  Miss Perkins blows her nose in her handkerchief. She finishes by dabbing it with quick little pats. “He’s just shy. Now that he knows you, he’ll start talking all the time.”

  “Nnnot all,” Sam says happily.

  Ann laughs. She takes the brake off the wheelchair. “Let’s go.”

  ***

  After school, Miss Perkins pushes Sam down the aisle of baked goods in the cafeteria— the PTA’s bake sale. Flat and layered chocolate cakes. Lemon cookies dusted with white sugar. Thick packages of brownies. “I want to buy some brownies for us,” she says to Sam. “Besides, this bake sale will be a good opportunity for us to meet people. Ironing will just have to wait.”

  In the room crowded with students and parents, Miss Perkins spots Marigold and Ann, but she doesn’t see any boys from Mrs. Martin’s class. She looks around at the clusters of chatting mothers. They seem to be a nice working-class group. She guesses that she’ll find some friends. She always does. But she knows from experience that she needs to approach them in stages. Let them get used to us first, she thinks. Then, we’ll introduce ourselves.

  Miss Perkins begins examining the brownies. She wants to find some without nuts.

  “Excuse me,” Miss Perkins hears someone say. When she looks up, she finds a woman with faded blonde hair and blue eyes standing behind the counter. She has a strong jaw, wide shoulders and thick arms. Miss Perkins smiles at the woman, but she doesn’t smile back.

  “I’m Kathy Riley, president of Stirling’s PTA.”

  So this is Ann’s mother, Miss Perkins thinks.

  Mrs. Riley nods her knobby chin in Sam’s direction. “That can’t be the boy in Mrs. Martin’s class.”

  Miss Perkins corrects Mrs. Riley and introduces Sam and herself. Although she instinctively doesn’t like the woman, she decides to give her a break because of Ann. “Ann has been so kind to Sam. She’s such a sweet girl,” she says.

  “Ann mentioned…,” Mrs. Riley sputters.

  Mrs. Riley holds herself as if life hasn’t gone exactly as she’d planned. As if she’s had to fight for what’s hers. “I had no idea…,” the woman continues. “Why, there are thirty kids in that class.”

  “I’m sorry,” Miss Perkins says. “I don’t understand what you mean.” But she knows exactly what Mrs. Riley means, and she feels worried.

  “May I help you?” Mrs. Riley asks quickly.

  Miss Perkins points at a pack of brownies. She pulls out her wallet—for once, she finds it right away. When she unzips it, she sees Sam’s essay. She has the impulse to wave the Sam, I Am essay in the self-satisfied woman’s face. To say, you don’t have any idea what my boy is capable of thinking or feeling. But she merely plucks out a few quarters and puts them on the counter.

  As Mrs. Riley turns to make change, Miss Perkins glances over her shoulder in time to see Mrs. Martin come through the cafeteria door. She is holding the hands of a girl and a boy. Twins. Probably no older than two.

  The girl has short brown hair and the boy, black. The boy is clutching a Teddy bear; a long stream of snot is running down the girl’s nose.

  “Here’s your change,” Mrs. Riley says.

  “Thank you,” Miss Perkins says. She notices the direction of Mrs. Riley’s gaze.

  Unlike the man in the barber shop, she’s not staring at Sam as though he’s a curiosity. Her eyebrows are knit together and her lips are pursed in anger, as if Sam were a threat. “If you don’t mind me asking,” Mrs. Riley says. “Who admitted Sam? Mrs. Ellsworth is out. Did Principal Cullen talk to him?”

  Miss Perkins pretends not to hear Mrs. Riley. “Enough socializing for today, Sam. We better get home so I can do the ironing.” She pushes Sam as fast as she can towards the door.

  On her way out, Miss Perkins waves at Mrs. Martin but the teacher doesn’t see her. Both the twins are crying. At the door, she turns. Mrs. Martin is bent over, trying to comfort one, then the other crying child without success.

  Miss Perkins knows just how she feels. Not enough hands. Not enough arms. Not even endless love is enough.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Around 6 p.m., Sam is sitting at the window when he hears the door burst open.

  “Miss Perkins, there are some rat droppings by the coatrack,” his mother complains a few moments later.

  Once, Miss Perkins set a rattrap by the trashcan in the kitchen. When they returned home from an errand, Sam spotted an animal caught in the metal wire trap. The poor rat’s body was twisted. Just as he had had to turn away from the sight, now he tries to shut out the sad memory.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Miss Perkins says. “I’ll sweep up after dinner.”

  “Hey, Sam,” his mother calls.

  “I thought you were going out tonight, Mrs. Davis?” Miss Perkins says.

  “My plans got canceled,” Mrs. Davis explains.

  “Well, that’s great news for Sam,” Miss Perkins says.

  His mother sighs.

  To cheer her up, Sam calls out, “BBBasketbball.” The Tomcats are playing on the school court. Because the game was scheduled after the Bake Sale, many of the parents are watching from the sidelines tonight.

  His mother’s footsteps pause at the coatrack. Then, he’s happy to hear her pattering towards him. As she kisses him, he notices that her cheeks are flushed—with the cold weather or pink makeup, he can never tell. Together, he and his mother look out the window. Sam doesn’t know the exact score, but the Tomcats are losing badly.

  He wants to tell his mother, These are the Tomcats. I’d give anything to be able to help my Sixth Grade team. But sometimes, his enthusiasm drives her away.

  In the silence between them, Sam thinks about how hard his mother’s life is.

  How badly she feels that the money that she won from the lawsuit is already gone. How difficult it is to type and take dictation long hours every day. How much her back hurts and her feet ache. How she misses her parents and her childhood on a farm, riding horses. How she’d like to be able to buy a new dress every week. How much he loves her when she laughs.

  His mother takes a deep breath.

  Sam waits for her to speak, but she doesn’t.

  He thinks about one of the best conversations he ever had with his mother. She told him that his father had gone to college on a basketball scholarship. During one game, his father claimed, he had picked out his mother in the stand. She was wearing a green dress. Later, a friend introduced them. After a brief courtship, Sam was born. Although the story has a lot of holes, Sam has never been able to get his mother to tell him more.

  His mother points at the court. “Look at that
boy.”

  Sam has no idea which boy his mother is talking about.

  As if his mother can read Sam’s mind, she describes him: “The one with the sandy hair and freckles. The tall guy. He’s wide open.”

  Charlie Simmons is holding up his hands.

  Almost as soon his mother stops speaking, Larry Veselka passes Charlie the ball. Charlie catches it in front of his chest.

  “There he goes!”

  Despite dribbling the ball on his foot, Charlie darts inside for a perfect layup.

  “That boy got a break,” his mother says dreamily. “I can imagine what it must feel like. All of sudden, nothing matters except that the player can shoot.”

  Yes, Sam longs to say, I think so, too. Trapped by all those sharp elbows and stretched arms, a clear shot must feel almost as good as being able to run with twisted legs.

  “Of course, basketball’s just a game,” his mother says softly. “In real life, you don’t get breaks.”

  Are you sure? A few months ago, everything had seemed weighted against Sam, but now that he’s attending school, he is starting to feel like he has a chance.

  The phone rings, and his mother hurries away to answer it.

  Sam’s gaze remains fixed on Charlie Simmons. Does Charlie still feel the wonder of that basket inside himself? The glory of that ball arcing and finding its way to the one spot where it is supposed to be. Sam would give anything to know. Already, Charlie’s holding his arms out, asking Bobby Sur to pass him another ball.

  Sam listens with one ear while his mother chats on the phone to Celeste. “Joe—Mr. Jordache—had to go out of town. It was going so well.” Her voice peters out.

  As far as Sam is concerned, Mr. Jordache can stay out of town.

  Mr. Fitzgerald blows his whistle, and the two teams line up in one wavy line. Then, the line breaks in two, and the players start passing by each other rapidly and shaking hands.

  The Tomcats trudge off the court. Although Sam’s team has more height and talent, they have still managed to lose the game.

  Chapter Fourteen

  At recess the next day, Sam waits for Ann to unlock the brake on his chair.

  “Can I push him outside today? I really want to,” Ann says to Miss Perkins.

  Usually Ann just pushes him down the hall and around the cafeteria and back. Sam can’t believe his good luck.

  “I don’t see why not,” Miss Perkins answers.

  Does Sam dare ask Ann to take him to watch basketball? Can he convey the question with one word, basketball? He’s never tried the word with anyone but his family before. Still, it’s worth the risk. The closest that he has ever been to a basketball is his view from his window.

  What does one feel like?

  Sam would love to be so close to the court that he could see the expression on Charlie’s face as he makes a basket. As he blocks a shot.

  From a courtside seat, he’d love to hear the team’s feet as the boys race up and down, and the thump of the ball when it bounces off the metal backboard. He can’t think of anything except the word ‘basket-ball.’ He breaks the word “basket” down into three sounds and practices them over and over in his head. BBas Kit Bol.

  As Ann pushes him down the hall, he makes up his mind that he won’t let an opportunity pass him by. If Ann gets close to the court, he will point and shout, “BBas…Kit …Bol.”

  If Ann doesn’t understand him, Miss Perkins will translate.

  Sam is determined to get near that court.

  The sun is shining as they travel down the concrete path to the playground. Ann pushes Sam faster than Miss Perkins does. Normally, his safety belt is annoying, but today he’s grateful that it’s strapped tightly around his waist.

  On the field, some girls and boys are playing kickball. Mickey is alone on the tetherball court. Mickey hits the ball so hard that Sam can’t count all the times that it wraps the pole.

  Ann and Sam stop near Marigold and the other girls, who are practicing dance steps. Twenty yards away, the whole basketball team is stationed on the court.

  When Marigold notices Sam, her shoulders slump, and her face falls. “Are you going to play with that cripple again, instead of me?” she shouts.

  “I’ll be right there,” Ann calls.

  Lots of people have called Sam a cripple or a spaz. Miss Perkins tells him that they don’t mean anything by it. Marigold just doesn’t know any better, Sam reminds himself.

  But still he feels sorry that Marigold doesn’t like him.

  “What should I do with you?” Ann asks herself. Then as if she has had a brand-new idea, she says. “Is there something you want to do, Sam?”

  Sam lifts his finger and points at the basketball court. The word that has been waiting on his tongue for so long pops out. “BBas…Kit …Bol.”

  “Did you say, basketball?” Ann asks.

  “YYYes,” Sam says eagerly.

  “Of course,” Ann says. “You’re like my little brother. You like sports.” She starts pushing him over to the court.

  When Ann had driven him in the halls, she had been cautious, but today hurrying to return to Marigold, she begins pushing him even faster. With his belt tight across his waist, Sam likes her speed.

  As they come within range of the court, A.J. Douglas misses a pass, and the basketball whizzes toward Sam. If Sam doesn’t act quickly, he’s going to touch a basketball for the very first time—with his head. He doesn’t want to get hurt, but worse, he doesn’t want to be embarrassed. He decides to do one of the things that he does best and slumps down in his seat.

  Ann turns Sam away from the path of the speeding ball, and it bounces harmlessly against the side of the chair.

  “Watch out!” Ann shouts at the basketball players.

  Charlie runs over and collects the ball.

  With her hands on her hips, Ann does not seem the least bit intimidated by Charlie—despite his height. She seems to think that not only does she have a right to be courtside, but Sam does, too.

  “You’re not our boss,” Charlie says. “What are you doing so close to the court anyway?”

  “Sam wanted to watch,” Ann tells him.

  One of the things that Sam hates about his wheelchair is that people have to look down at him. At least, Charlie meets his eyes when he asks, “You like basketball?” He bounces the ball.

  Ever since Sam began watching the court from his window, he has been waiting for this moment. “YYYYes,” he bursts out.

  Charlie’s grin widens. He tries a fancy dribble behind his back but misses. The ball rolls away.

  “YYYes, I dddo,” Sam repeats himself.

  Charlie points at a spot about five feet away next to the crooked light post. “Wheel him there so he won’t get bopped,” he orders Ann before he runs after the ball. Obediently, Ann pushes Sam over to the spot. She leans close to Sam, and her blue eyes intently search his. “I’ve got to go, O.K.? Marigold will be angry with me unless we work on our dance routine today.”

  Sam looks up. His heart is so full that the word spills out: “TTThanks.”

  “O.K.,” Ann says.

  As Ann rushes away, Sam is sure that she has no idea how happy she has made him. For once, he can’t blame his inability to tell her on his stubborn tongue. Even if he could talk easily, he wouldn’t know what to say. How could he describe the thousands of hours that he has spent with his eyes fixed on the court and dreaming?

  I’m the only one to whom you tell your dreams, Winnie boasts.

  Hush, Sam tells him.

  Miss Perkins joins him. “I leave you alone for five minutes, and you decide to join the basketball team, Sam. What am I going to do with you?”

  He knows Miss Perkins isn’t really scolding him.

  “Ann told me that I needed to come quickly because you almost got hit in the head.”

  With the thump of the basketball sounding nearby, Sam is barely listening to Miss Perkins. At last, he’s graduated from his window. His wheelchair is resting on dirt. He a
lmost got hit by a ball. He’s part of the action.

  Sam goes over what he knows about the Tomcats. His team has some strengths. Charlie, A.J., Larry, Bobby and the others are big guys and decent shooters, but they are all clumsy dribblers. None of them is what the television announcers would call “a good ball handler.”

  Charlie is not a bad shot, but he’s such a poor dribbler that he has to keep his eyes on the ball when he should be watching the court. A basketball game presents all players with chances to score. Some are planned, but many are random. A few are easy. Most are nearly impossible. A point guard has to analyze possibilities and feed the ball to the player who is—or will be—in the most likely position to score, sometimes before that player even understands his opportunity himself. Without that key player, the Tomcats are a car without an engine. An army without a general.

  If only Charlie would come talk to him again. Sam could tell him about Mickey. With Mickey as point guard, Sam is convinced that the Tomcats could be a winning team.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It’s Wednesday afternoon, and Mrs. Martin has promised to stay after class to work with Sam.

  For the last hour, Sam has listened with interest while different members of the class read stories from Greek mythology. He has always liked tales of escape—after all, what is basketball except a game about freeing oneself to shoot? And he had really enjoyed the story of Theseus trying to get out of the labyrinth. But now, Sam’s neck feels weak from trying to keep his head from nodding forward.

  Mrs. Martin is collecting the Mythology books and piling them on her desk. “We’ll finish tomorrow.”

  The final bell rings.

  “I heard that Mrs. Ellsworth, the vice-principal, is about to return from maternity leave,” Miss Perkins whispers to him. “By the time she gets back, we’ve got to have Mrs. Martin on our side. Otherwise, Mrs. Ellsworth could make us attend a younger grade or even go to a different school.” She squeezes his arm. “So that’s a good boy. Do your best now, O.K.?”