by Andrea White
BUT SOMEHOW, I THINK WC STILL FELT THAT HAND ON HIS SHOULDER.
Sam begins tapping out his final sentence: I ADMIRE WC SO MUCH BECAUSE HE FELT THE HAND HIS WHOLE LIFE, AND I’VE NEVER EVEN FELT IT ONCE.
When Sam finishes, his finger is shaking. He has never worked it so hard. He looks up to find Mrs. Martin staring intently at him as though she’s never really seen him before. He appreciates the time she is spending with him, especially today when her daughter is ill, but he experiences that resentment that he always feels when someone is shocked by his abilities.
Even though I drool, I’m not stupid, he wants to say.
Just then, Miss Perkins walks through the door. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Martin, if I’m a bit late. You wouldn’t believe how confusing my life has been lately.”
“It’s fine,” Mrs. Martin says softly. “We’re about finished, aren’t we, Sam?”
His finger is so exhausted that it’s almost limp, but he can’t resist adding…
WC SAYS FREE WILL AND PREDESTINATION ARE IDENTICAL.23†I DON’T UNDERSTAND EXACTLY WHAT THESE WORDS MEAN, BUT AGAIN I WANT TO BELIEVE.
Mrs. Martin looks up at Miss Perkins. “He’s written an incredible essay.”
Sam feels proud. He also knows if it weren’t for his shaky finger, he’d have a lot more to say. He’s got twelve years worth of thoughts trapped inside.
“I’m not surprised,” Miss Perkins says.
“So what’s his complete diagnosis?” Mrs. Martin asks in a low voice as if this information were a secret, but Sam has heard Miss Perkins tell Sam’s whole story to Mr. Crowe, the baker, the newspaper man and anybody else who is curious.
“You know he has cerebral palsy,” Miss Perkins says.
Mrs. Martin nods.
“And on top of that, when he was born, the doctor did a bad job, and Sam’s left hand was damaged. Mrs. Davis won a lawsuit against the hospital, but the money’s all gone. The only things that we can do for him right now, like physical therapy, cost too much.”
“Well, he’s got a great mind,” Mrs. Martin says.
“He’s a genius,” Miss Perkins says proudly.
Mrs. Martin turns back to Sam. “I’ll type this up and submit it for you. I’ll explain to the judges how you dictated it to me. There’s a thousand-dollar prize for the winning essay.” She smiles a big smile. “Don’t tell anyone, but your essay is the best in our class.”
“TTThanks,” Sam croaks.
“I bet it’s the best in the school,” Mrs. Martin adds. She looks down at her watch. “Oh, I’m late! I really must go pick up my daughter.” She squeezes Sam’s hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow. O.K.?”
“We’ve done it!” Miss Perkins whispers as they watch Mrs. Martin leave.
___
† 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-Five
Miss Perkins pushes Sam home across the rutted field. In the distance, the trees are blazing red and orange.
Miss Perkins always claims that Sam is smart, but he has never really believed her. Now Mrs. Martin has said it. Two people think the same thing.
Me. Sam Davis. I’m smart.
Even while Sam is amazed, surprised, and even shocked by this thought, he knows that it is true. Although he often wishes that he could avoid the complicated process of speech by having his thoughts magically appear on a television screen attached to his head, for once he’s glad that he alone has access to them. He’s free to brag about himself, and no one can overhear him.
I’m smart, he shouts. Now, the cool air rushes over him and whistles in his ears, and he tries to believe that the wind feels just like it would if he were running.
“Well, Mrs. Martin’s a sweet lady, after all,” Miss Perkins chatters on.
The excitement stays with Sam until he arrives at the parking lot for the apartment. Mr. Crowe’s dark Oldsmobile parked in its slot and a beat-up van with the sign, Kotov Plumbers, vie for his attention. As he looks at Mr. Crowe’s dented black car, he tries to convince himself that he is having a nightmare. But he knows the difference between dream sobs and real ones. His mother had really been crying.
Miss Perkins turns Sam’s wheelchair around to face the empty court. She raises it over the curb and backs it onto the concrete lot. Since the Tomcats have an away game, he won’t be able to watch them play this afternoon. That’s too bad. Because he has a lot of things that he wants to forget about this full day. Like Principal Cullen’s threat.
He decides that no matter his promise to Miss Perkins, if his mother makes him go to Principal Cullen’s special school, he’ll stage the worst tantrum of his life.
But if Sam makes more noise, Mr. Crowe will be sure to kick them out.
That’s when he has an idea. If he has to, he’ll stage a quiet scene. He’ll thrash around on the floor, drool a lot and act weird. He bets that his mother will go crazy over a mute performance. He applauds himself. You are brilliant.
As they approach the building, Sam hears someone yelling.
Mr. Crowe is standing in the front parking lot ten yards or so away from them. “I’m not going to pay you— foreign scumbag,” he yells.
A short man holding a wrench in his hand is arguing with Sam’s landlord. The man’s overalls are stained and dirty. His face is lined with worry. “I feex problem. You pay!” the man shouts.
Immediately, Sam recognizes the voice from the basketball court—Mickey’s dad.
“Don’t listen, Sam,” Miss Perkins says as she opens the door to the lobby. “No telling what those crude men will say.”
***
She’s on time for once, Miss Perkins thinks, as Mrs. Davis enters the apartment at 6 p.m. As always, she is beautifully dressed in a lacy blouse, but today she looks nervous. Her face is drawn and her smart hat is cockeyed on her head.
When Mrs. Davis sets a new blue suitcase down by the hat stand, Miss Perkins can’t stop staring at it.
Mrs. Davis marches over to Sam, kisses him and says, hello. She is humming, “We can work it out. We can work it out…” When she returns, she leans over the counter. She reaches for the transistor radio and increases the volume until it’s so loud that Miss Perkins can’t even concentrate on stirring the crème of mushroom soup.
Mrs. Davis picks up the blue suitcase and catches Miss Perkins’ eye. She nods in the direction of her bedroom; Miss Perkins follows her.
Mrs. Davis’ bedspread is blue, and her one window is covered with green curtains. It would be a cheerful room but the clutter bothers Miss Perkins. Jewelry crowds her bureau. Mrs. Davis has so many shoes that she can’t close her closet door. A waterfall of silk, wool and cotton dresses pours over her chair.
In front of her closet, Mrs. Davis turns and faces Miss Perkins. “Friday afternoon,” she hisses.
“But that’s two days from now!” Miss Perkins protests.
“Mr. Jordache is very persuasive. He managed to get Sam admitted quickly,” Mrs. Davis brags.
Who is this Mr. Jordache? Miss Perkins thinks. What does he know about Sam? But before Miss Perkins can react, Mrs. Davis begins speaking, “You know what this means, right?”
Miss Perkins waits for Mrs. Davis to finish.
“I won’t be needing your services anymore.” When she looks away, Miss Perkins is surprised to spot tears in her gray eyes.
It’s not you who need my services anyway, Miss Perkins wants to tell her. It’s Sam. Still gazing into Mrs. Davis’ wet eyes, Miss Perkins surprises herself. She has to fight the temptation to hug her. But her mood changes swiftly when Mrs. Davis says, “I can use a short break from taking care of Sam.” She gives a little sigh as she slips off her high heels and begins to rub her calves. “I’m tired.”
Miss Perkins has to bite her tongue. She wants to ask her—no, she re
ally wants to scream—how do you think my poor boy feels stuck in his wheelchair all the time?
Mrs. Davis neatly stores her shoes in her closet before she stands and faces Miss Perkins again. “I really appreciate all you’ve done for Sam. I wish I could pay you a bonus.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Miss Perkins says, cheerfully, falsely. She must be careful not to let any of the horror that she feels show. If Mrs. Davis were to guess her thoughts, how angry she is at this selfish woman, Mrs. Davis might fire her right now.
“Where will you work?” Mrs. Davis asks as she takes off her earrings and places them on her bureau counter.
“I have a little savings. I’ll be all right,” Miss Perkins wrings her hands. She can’t stop a bit of her concern from leaking out. “But Sam….”
“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Davis interrupts. She smiles brightly at Miss Perkins. “I’m expecting good things to happen. Why, I might even marry and get a home of my own. One way or the other, I’ll take Sam back in a few months….That is, unless he really likes it.”
“This is too much!” Miss Perkins bursts out. “Sam cries when you stay out late. How can you convince yourself that he’s going to like living in an institution?”
“Why can’t you understand?” Mrs. Davis cries. “My family is hundreds of miles away. My husband left me. My son is all I have. I’m out of money.” She picks up the shiny blue suitcase and thrusts it into Miss Perkins’ hands.
Outside of necessities, Mrs. Davis rarely shops for Sam. As Miss Perkins grips the hard plastic handle, she understands: this decision is final.
***
From his spot by the window, Sam strains his ears, listening. Miss Perkins bustles into the kitchen and switches off the radio, throwing the apartment into abrupt silence. He hears a busy quiet, loaded with words not spoken, thoughts not expressed and feelings not shared.
Sam hates it when his mother and Miss Perkins turn up the radio so that he can’t eavesdrop. He wonders if their secret conversation had to do with Principal Cullen’s ‘special place’? He prays that he doesn’t have to go there. He doesn’t want to lose his Tomcats, his basketball team.
I don’t know why you like basketball so much, Winnie says to start a familiar argument. Polo is the emperor of sports.24
That’s because you didn’t grow up with basketball, Sam points out.
In sport, in courage and in the sight of Heaven, all men must meet on equal terms,25 Winnie answers.
One of the problems with having a friend from a book is that, sometimes, Winnie’s quotes don’t fit into their conversation, but Sam decides to answer him anyway.
Nonsense, Winnie, Sam responds. I can’t meet anyone on equal terms in sports.
You’d be a good coach, Winnie argues.
How can I be a coach when I’ve only touched a basketball with my shoe?
Well…maybe a good assistant coach, Winnie agrees, too quickly.
Sam still smarts from Principal Cullen’s assessment of him. Now, his best friend, a creation of his own mind, is refusing to believe in him. Winnie’s low expectations make him furious.
Winnie, Sam retorts, you were a sickly youth with a bad stutter, and you became a champion polo player and a great orator.
True, Winnie admits.
So I could become a basketball coach, Sam thinks.
When you leave off dreaming, the universe ceases to exist,26 Winnie responds.
I’m not dreaming, Sam thinks. Am I? Miss Perkins and Mrs. Martin both say I’m smart. I can be a coach.
Our future is in our hands. Our lives are what we choose to make of them.27
I choose to be a coach, not an assistant coach, Sam insists.
First, before you make your decision, I beg you, please, watch a polo game.
Because he’s at home, Sam laughs out loud. He, Sam Davis, a kid who can barely move, wants to be a basketball coach. At least, Sam has a basketball court in his backyard. As far as he knows, there are no polo fields in all of Stirling. If I wanted to be a polo coach, I might as well wish to fly to Mars, Sam thinks.
You would do well as an astronaut, because I suppose there would be long stretches in outer space where you have nothing to do, and you, my boy, have a rich inner life.
Sam laughs again. As usual, Winnie has found a way to sneak a compliment about himself into their conversation. Both he and Winnie know that Sam’s inner life is Winnie. He tries but can’t stifle a big yawn. Ever since he’s been going to school, he’s been so tired at night.
When you leave off dreaming, the universe ceases to exist28…Sam pictures his favorite sports team, the Tomcats. Charlie is playing at center, and Mickey is point guard. He tries to make out the small figure, watching from the sidelines.
It’s a boy in a wheelchair: Coach Sam.
Sensing his mood, Miss Perkins appears next to him. “Ready for bed?” she asks.
Sam looks up. If he holds onto this image as he falls asleep, maybe, just maybe, his dream will come true.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sitting in his regular place, Sam notices that the avocado seeds have sprouted tiny green shoots. A Life magazine photograph of the Pilgrims’ first Thanksgiving has replaced the poster of Zeus.
The bell rings. It’s time for recess.
Ann crams her books into her desk. But before she can head for Sam, Mickey Kotov taps her on the shoulder. Sam is surprised to see that they begin talking.
Sam strains to listen to their conversation, but he can’t make it out, only fragments. Mickey is bending towards Ann confidentially, trying to convince her of something. Mickey’s voice rises, and Sam hears, “I was in the principal’s office…I heard Principal Cullen say…”
Ann backs away, doubting him. Until finally the expression on Ann’s face changes, and she glances over at Sam. Her expression is soft, almost loving. Sam should be pleased, but he feels a stab of fear course through him.
“Now?” Ann says.
“Now!” Mickey exclaims.
“Are you sure?” Ann asks.
Mickey nods.
Ann shakes her head. “Thanks.” She starts walking over to Sam.
Sam is still puzzling over what Mickey Kotov had to say to anyone in the class, much less Ann Riley, when another strange thing happens. Mrs. Martin meets Ann halfway. “Not today,” she says.
“But…” Ann appears to be arguing with their teacher. Why won’t Mrs. Martin let Ann talk to Sam?
“I feel terrible. My mother complained,” Sam overhears Ann say.
“Several parents are upset. It wasn’t just your mother, Ann,” Mrs. Martin answers. “Now mind me and go outside for recess.”
What’s going on? Sam feels himself start to panic.
Ann stands with her hands at her side.
Mrs. Martin gives Ann a hug, before turning and walking purposely towards Sam and Miss Perkins. Even before she says a single word, Sam fears the worst. As he listens to Miss Perkins search her purse for Kleenex, he keeps his eyes fixed on Mrs. Martin’s face.
“Principal Cullen told me the bad news,” Mrs. Martin says quickly to Sam and Miss Perkins.
“Not more bad news. I don’t think that I can take more bad news…. I’m almost at my wit’s end. On top of everything, my rheumatism really is bothering me…” Miss Perkins rattles on.
“Miss Perkins,” Mrs. Martin interrupts. “Don’t make this conversation more difficult. I think you’ve guessed how fond I am of Sam.”
“Why, yes. I think you like my boy. You know how smart and sweet he is, and…”
Sam wants to scream: Be quiet. Let Mrs. Martin talk.
“I was glad to learn that Mrs. Davis has found a suitable place for Sam,” Mrs. Martin says.
Suitable place. The special school. The pain causes him to bend over.
“Oh, my goodness, Mrs. Martin,” Miss Perkins cries. “Mrs. Davis has decided to send Sam to Mannville Institution. I don’t know what to do.”
Sam pounds his head on his tray to say, This can’t be t
rue. An institution.
Miss Perkins strokes Sam on the back. “Dearie me. I never intended to break the bad news to my boy this way.”
How can you let this happen, Miss Perkins? Sam thinks.
“Some parents are upset that Stirling is overcrowded,” Mrs. Martin says.
“But that’s wrong, ma’am. You know that, don’t you?” Miss Perkins breaks in.
“They think that Sam’s needs are a burden to the system,” Mrs. Martin continues as if she has not heard Miss Perkins. “When Principal Cullen called Sam’s mother, he learned that Mrs. Davis had already decided to move Sam.”
Sam knocks his head against his tray, hard.
Miss Perkins reaches out and strokes his hair. “Sam, don’t! Remember your promise.”
Sam remembers. But his promise applied to things like a burned dinner or a broken radio. He never meant that he wouldn’t stage a tantrum if he couldn’t go to school.
“I’m sorry. I share your concern about Mannville. If it were up to me, Sam could stay at Stirling.” Mrs. Martin pauses. “But it’s not.”
Sam expects Miss Perkins to argue. But then he realizes, what’s the point? The real problem is his mother, not the school. He guesses that Miss Perkins must agree with him because all she says is, “Thank you. We do appreciate all you’ve done for us. I guess we’ll be leaving.”
“You may certainly stay until the end of the day,” Mrs. Martin offers.
End of the day. This is only his twentieth day of school, but it’s the last day of his life. Without school, Sam will be reduced to watching from a window forever.
Miss Perkins studies Sam. “We better leave now.”
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Martin repeats, listlessly.
Sam wants to speak, but out of all the hundreds of words spinning around in his head, he can’t possibly catch the right ones, place them in correct order and then work his mouth around each slippery one. Instead, he drops his head again.
“Sam,” Miss Perkins hisses. “Not here. Not now. You’ll just prove Principal Cullen and those parents right.” She puts her hand on his shoulder. “Mrs. Martin wants to say goodbye to you.”
