Window Boy

by Andrea White

  This is Sam’s classroom. His school. Mrs. Martin is his teacher. The thought of leaving and starting all over again is frightening.

  “OOO.K.,” Sam says. Even though he is so tired today, he is happy when he sees Ann heading over to him.

  “Ann, have I ever showed you that Sam can read?” Miss Perkins says quickly. Her gaze is fixed on Mrs. Martin. “He can’t read small lettering,” she explains. “But I made this special alphabet for him.” From a side pocket in his wheelchair, she unfolds a cardboard sheet. The alphabet is written in large, black letters. She unfolds the plastic tray across his wheelchair and places the alphabet on it. “Think of a question.”

  “What’s my name?” Ann asks.

  Another silly question, Sam thinks as he points to the letters that spell ‘Ann.’ He decides to keep going. Even though he is bored with Ann’s questions, he is grateful to her for spending so much time with him.

  Miss Perkins is jotting down the letters.

  Sam points to: “Ann is nice.” But he would love to say: Take me to the basketball court every day, and I’ll be your friend forever.

  “Does Sam like to read and write?” Ann asks Miss Perkins.

  Before Miss Perkins can answer, Mrs. Martin joins them.

  Sam wills his neck to stiffen. Miss Perkins is counting on him to impress his teacher.

  Ann turns to leave.

  Mrs. Martin stops her. “Ann, why don’t you stay a minute? I could use your help with Sam.”

  “O.K.,” Ann says. As if Sam were her student, she moves closer to him. Sam feels the golden hairs of her arm brush against him.

  Mrs. Martin shakes her head. “Sam,” she says. “Thank you for staying after school. It’s hard to talk during class. May Ann and I ask you a few questions?”

  Sam starts to answer ‘yes,’ but Miss Perkins interrupts. “I think he could go to college, Mrs. Martin, if he had the chance. I never graduated from high school myself, but my boy could do anything that he wants to do.”

  Ann holds up a sheet with the alphabet written on it in big letters. “I could ask him his favorite color, Mrs. Martin.”

  “Sam, tell Mrs. Martin your favorite color,” Miss Perkins directs.

  Obediently, Sam lifts his right finger and points at the ‘G’ on his alphabet chart, but he longs to say, Ask me something hard.

  “He likes green, ma’am,” Miss Perkins explains. “I think it’s because he doesn’t get to go outside that much. Green is the color of the great outdoors. He likes the grass, the trees.”

  “Would you mind?” Mrs. Martin interrupts. “Could Ann and I question the boy?”

  Miss Perkins’ sweet face falls. Sam knows that her feelings are hurt.

  “Please, ma’am. Go ahead,” she answers in her most dignified voice.

  “You like Churchill?” Mrs. Martin asks.

  “He knows everything there is to know about Sir Winnie, why he could…” Miss Perkins starts to detail his encyclopedic knowledge of Winnie, but Mrs. Martin touches Miss Perkins’ arm.

  “Where was Churchill born, Sam?” Mrs. Martin asks. “Ann, write down his answer.”

  Quickly so that Mrs. Martin won’t change her mind, Sam points to the letters for “Blenheim Palace.”

  “How does he know that?” Ann asks no one.

  “Sam’s correct, ma’am,” Miss Perkins breaks in.

  “Shhh,” Mrs. Martin says. Behind her horn-rimmed glasses, his teacher’s eyes are sparkling. “Sam,” she begins cautiously, “When I asked you the question, ‘Where was Churchill born?’ and you answered, which of these did you hear in your head?

  “Number one: Blenheim Palace, or Number two: Churchill was born in Blenheim Palace.” Mrs. Martin looks at Ann. “Ann, hold up the poster board so that Sam can choose.”

  This is an unusual question. Sam starts to feel excited, too. He points at number two.

  Mrs. Martin turns to Miss Perkins. “He hears sentences in his head,” she says. “Does he hear paragraphs, too?”

  “YYes,” Sam says to Mrs. Martin. He wants to shout, At last, someone at this school understands.

  Ann stares quizzically at him, as if he is a Math problem she can’t solve.

  “I’m sure that he has a whole book in his head. Why…” Miss Perkins begins to brag about Sam.

  “Has this boy’s I.Q. ever been tested?” Mrs. Martin interrupts.

  “I don’t know that we need to, ma’am,” Miss Perkins disagrees. “Sam’s smart. I tell him something once; he remembers. He knows so much. He just doesn’t know how to communicate all that he knows.”

  Mrs. Martin takes a deep breath. “Miss Perkins, I can see that I need to spend a little time with Sam after school each day. I’ll ask my babysitter if she can stay later.”

  “That’s a jolly good idea,” Miss Perkins says. “He’d like that. It would mean a lot to both of us, ma’am.”

  “Will you talk to me again after school tomorrow?” Mrs. Martin asks.

  Sam eagerly looks up. He would love to.

  “He’s saying yes,” Miss Perkins interprets.

  “I know what he’s saying,” Mrs. Martin says brusquely. “Ann, you may go now. Thank you for your help.”

  Before Ann can leave, Sam begins pointing at some letters on his alphabet.

  Sam’s finger moves so fast that Ann has to borrow Miss Perkins’ pencil again. Ann looks down and reads her notes, “Same time. Same place.” She smiles at Sam. “You’re funny!”

  “You, Ann, are beginning to appreciate my dear Sam.” Miss Perkins directs her words to Ann, but she keeps her gaze fixed on Mrs. Martin.

  “You’ve made your point, Miss Perkins,” Mrs. Martin says quietly. “I’m excited. I think Sam’s going to be a good student.”

  Somehow, Sam finds the energy to grin at his teacher.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sam and Miss Perkins roll home after another day of school. The bumps and jolts of the field which had seemed dangerous at first have become easy, leaving Sam’s mind free to review the day. He had a good conversation with Mrs. Martin. He got to spend recess parked next to the basketball court. Ann promised him that she would push him outside tomorrow. Although the air is crisp, the sun is shining. The leaves are starting to turn red and gold; and the wind is rushing through Sam’s hair.

  Until he sees Mr. Crowe, Sam’s thinking that October 14, 1968, is one of the greatest days of his life.

  When their landlord wants to talk to them, his mother is either behind in her rent or Sam has been too noisy. The sight of Mr. Crowe waiting for them is always bad news. Today, as Mr. Crowe watches their progress across the field, he shades his eyes from the sun. He is a skinny man with a face pocked like a moon. He wears a black suit, with a dark tie and a white shirt with a crumpled collar.

  Miss Perkins reaches him. “Hello, Mr. Crowe. Beautiful day, isn’t it?” she says.

  Sam is not fooled by her forced cheerfulness.

  Mr. Crowe wags his long finger at them. “I’ve gone to your apartment several times. Where have you been?”

  “Sam is going to school,” Miss Perkins brags. “He’s in the sixth grade.”

  Sam’s grin bursts out, but his landlord ignores him.

  “I have a letter for Mrs. Davis,” Mr. Crowe says.

  “What is it, Mr. Crowe? A love note?” Although Miss Perkins laughs, Mr. Crowe’s disapproving expression doesn’t change.

  The stern expression on the man’s face tells Sam that Mr. Crowe is aware of every spit bubble that Sam has ever blown in his whole life. Every tantrum that he has thrown. Every mean thought that he has had.

  So Sam is not surprised when the white envelope that Mr. Crowe pulls out of his pocket has ‘Davis’ written on it in block letters.

  The letter is about me, he thinks.

  Although Miss Perkins’ hands are always helpful, Sam notices that they don’t reach for the note.

  “This is a legal matter,” Mr. Crowe warns.

  Reluctantly, Miss Perkins accepts the en
velope. “I’ll give it to Mrs. Davis.”

  Mr. Crowe nods and starts heading to his car. It’s the dark Oldsmobile parked in the almost empty parking lot.

  In jumbled order, Sam remembers his last noisy tantrum, the shouts of his neighbors, and his mother’s new silver dress. He remembers his mother’s expression and imagines her thinking, “You are going to ruin me!”

  His stomach feels as though he just took a big swig of sour milk.

  They start to cross the parking lot. “Let’s just hope that your mother paid her rent on time this month. If not…” Sam’s worry blocks out the meaning but not the rhythm of Miss Perkins’ words.

  As they wait for the elevator, Miss Perkins grows quiet. Finally, in her normal cheerful tone, she adds, “Well, we won’t think about Mr. Crowe. Another good day at school. We did it, Sam. Mrs. Martin likes you.”

  Inside the apartment, Miss Perkins sets the envelope on the kitchen counter where his mother can’t miss it.

  “Window or T.V.?” Miss Perkins asks.

  Now that Sam has watched a basketball practice from the sidelines, he is even more impatient than usual for Charlie and the team to appear on the court.

  “WWindow,” Sam chooses.

  Miss Perkins parks Sam at the window.

  Since Sam can’t turn his neck, he always has the nagging feeling that something important lies just beyond the range of his vision. Even if a letter from his cousins lay on the kitchen counter, he couldn’t swivel around to see it. Tonight, he’s glad that the kitchen counter is as inaccessible to him as China.

  Miss Perkins kisses him on the head and then hurries off.

  As soon as she leaves, Sam remembers that since the Tomcats have a game at another school, they’re unlikely to practice. So on a day when Sam really needs to be distracted, the court remains just a gray stretch of lined concrete.

  Although he has no right to hope, his heart jumps when Charlie and Bobby approach the court. They set their schoolbooks down under the light post and start shooting. Bobby stands underneath the basket, and Charlie passes him the ball. Bobby shoots a layup. Sam tries not to grow too excited. They’re probably just warming up before the game.

  Sure enough, a few minutes later, A.J. yells to the boys, “Let’s go!” Although Bobby stoops and picks up his books, Charlie doesn’t. They both run after A.J.

  Sam is worried for Charlie. Did he forget his books on the court? If they’re still there in the morning, Sam will tell Miss Perkins.

  Another older team wanders out and begins practicing. Sadly, Sam realizes that watching nameless kids is no longer satisfying. But what can he do? He doesn’t want to listen to the radio or watch television. After the excitement of the last few weeks, his old routine is beginning to bore him.

  For homework, Sam repeats a list of prepositions. Mrs. Martin wants the class to memorize them in an exact order. ‘To From Under Down.’ Is ‘Under’ supposed to be before or after ‘Down’? he had wanted to ask. Why does the order matter? For that matter, why is grammar important? Mrs. Martin must have explained these mysteries to the class in September before Sam started school.

  Oh, no, school is often pointless, Winnie pipes up. Now that Sam goes to school, Winnie usually waits until nighttime to speak. I remember my first disastrous Latin lesson too well. My teacher wanted me to memorize the Latin word for ‘O, table.’

  Although Sam isn’t in the mood for this story, he lets Winnie drone on.

  ‘What does ‘O table’ mean?’ 11† I asked.

  ‘O table,’ my teacher explained. You would use that in addressing a table. And then seeing that he was not carrying me with him, he added: you would use that in speaking to a table. But I never do, I blurted out in honest amazement.

  If you are impertinent, you will be punished severely, my teacher said.

  I don’t care about your awful teachers, Winnie, Sam interrupts. I like my school. In order to drown Winnie out, he repeats to himself the list of prepositions: to, from, down, under…”

  You are a better student than I was, Winnie says. Where my reason, imagination or interest were not engaged, I would not or I could not learn.12†

  Despite himself, Sam is touched. He is a better student than one of the greatest men who’s ever lived. Thanks, Winnie.

  It’s true, Sam. In all the twelve years I was at school no one succeeded in making me write a Latin verse or learn any Greek except the alphabet.

  Sam doesn’t want to admit his lack of enthusiasm to Winnie. But the truth is that he is tiring of his grammar lessons. To keep his mind occupied, he plays Tic-Tac-Toe in his head. Then, he plays another game with himself. He thinks of an important moment in Winnie’s life and recites a speech or a remark that goes with it. When he was thirty-two and couldn’t find a wife, Winnie was trying to impress a lady, and he said, We’re all worms, but I do believe I am a glowworm.13 When the war was still going badly for England, Winnie said: This is the lesson: never give in. Never, never, never, never…14 Sam thinks about how much he hates Adolf Hitler. About the millions of people who the dictator trapped and killed. And how glad he is that the Allies won. He thinks about anything that takes his attention away from Mr. Crowe’s envelope.

  The last rays of twilight have disappeared, and the crooked lamp lights an empty circle around the basketball hoop. When the smell of meatloaf fills the apartment, he hears a key in the lock.

  His mother walks straight to Sam and kisses him on the top of his head. “Good to see you, son. I bet you had another good day at school.” When she starts towards her bedroom, Miss Perkins says, “Mr. Crowe wrote you a letter.”

  “Please, no problems,” his mother mumbles. “I’ve had a rough week.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Miss Perkins says.

  Yet, her high heels hesitate for only an instant before they tap their way directly to the kitchen counter.

  The paper rips as she tears the envelope. Sam tries to decipher the letter’s contents from the rhythm of his mother’s walk, but her sharp steps to the bedroom aren’t fast or slow, soft or loud. They’re ordinary. Later, when his mother sinks onto the couch, he uses his keenest hearing, but his mother doesn’t ask Miss Perkins about their day. Miss Perkins doesn’t tell his mother about Mrs. Martin’s class. His mother doesn’t say, “I’m tired.”

  It’s as if none of the three of them can talk.

  “I have dinner ready,” Miss Perkins says, breaking the silence.

  “I’m not hungry,” his mother answers.

  “Oh, Mrs. Davis,” Miss Perkins pleads. “Things can’t be so bad that you can’t eat.”

  What things are you talking about? Sam wants to ask them. Do the things have to do with Mr. Crowe? Miss Perkins and Mrs. Martin don’t feel the need to share their adult lives with him. It’s frustrating to catch only bits and pieces of meaning from overheard conversations. To stare out of a window at an empty basketball court.

  Miss Perkins sets his mother’s plate on the table. “Let me know when you’ve tried the meatloaf, Mrs. Davis,” she calls to her. “I cooked my mother’s recipe.”

  Eventually, his mother wanders over to the table. Her chair scrapes the floor as she pushes it back. “It looks delicious,” she says.

  Sam waits but he doesn’t hear the ice tinkling in her glass or the silverware clanking against her plate. Against this background of unnatural quiet, Miss Perkins arrives with dinner. As she feeds Sam ground-up meatloaf, mashed carrots and milk-soaked bread, he counts the stars.

  “Good,” Sam says. He means the meatloaf is good. Miss Perkins is good. Everything would be good, if Mr. Crowe’s threat weren’t playing over and over in his head like a broken record. A legal matter.

  Sam’s counted 147 stars when Miss Perkins asks: “Are you ready to go to your room?”

  Sam starts to look up to say ‘yes,’ but he notices a moving shadow on the court. At first, he thinks it’s a big dog, but when the figure steps nearer the light, he sees that the hopping, weaving and jumping shape is Mickey. “OOp
en wwindow?” he asks.

  “It may be a little cool,” Miss Perkins comments. But she cranks the window open and lets Sam keep watching.

  Mickey Kotov is alone. He balances the ball on his right hand and steadies it with his left. Unlike in the classroom, Mickey looks at home on the court.

  When Mickey shoots, Sam listens to the sweet sound of the ball slicing cleanly through the hoop and thumping on the concrete. One. Two. Three hoops.

  Unexpectedly, another shadow bobs and weaves onto the court. The next moment, Sam makes out the tall captain of Stirling’s basketball team. He’s standing underneath the crooked light post. Charlie Simmons is never on the court this late at night. Then, Sam remembers Charlie’s forgotten books. He must have come back for them.

  Although Sam has never seen Charlie try to trip Mickey or heard Charlie call Mickey a ‘foreigner,’ he’s not surprised when Mickey ignores Charlie and keeps playing basketball alone.

  Sam scoots to the edge of the wheelchair. Now, Charlie will see for himself that Mickey is a great basketball player. For a few minutes, Mickey hits baskets as if he were a scoring machine. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Yeah, Mickey, Sam cheers him on.

  Charlie approaches, and soon Charlie and Mickey are standing together underneath the basket. One figure is tall; the other short and slight. Sam can see their mouths moving, but until they begin raising their voices, he can’t make out their words.

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” Charlie calls out.

  Mickey backs away. “Oh, yeah, well, you have a terrivle team!” he shouts.

  “Well, we wouldn’t let you play anyway,” Charlie answers. He picks up his books.

  “Vecause I’m Russian, right? Vecause I have an accent. And vecause on the first day of skool, I didn’t know to put me hand over me heart for your stupid pledge.”

  “You said those things. I didn’t,” Charlie shouts before turning his back on Mickey.

  No. Don’t go, Charlie, Sam wants to cry out. Mickey’s just the player you need. But Sam’s dreams can’t stop Charlie from fading away into the darkness.

  Mickey tries for a few more baskets. Unusual for him, every single one pings the bent rim. He bangs the ball down hard on the court before he runs away.