Window Boy

by Andrea White

  Sam butts at Ralph with his head. Ralph lets out a low growl. Now his dark eyes are flashing with anger. His large hand pulls back and slaps Sam’s cheek.

  Sam bends over his tray and drops his face into the leftover mashed potatoes. Squishy. Ralph pounds the only available part of Sam—his back—so hard that he feels tears come to his eyes.

  Sam coughs a great cough. Ralph hits him hard again, just as a noise sounds near the door—a familiar sharp tapping.

  The glob of potato loosens and shoots out of his mouth onto the tray.

  “Sam!” His mother screams. “That’s my son! Stop beating him, you bully!”

  Sam hears Ralph run away.

  “Nurse! Nurse! Help!” His mother yells. “Oh, my God!” his mother cries. “That kid could have killed you!”

  Sam lifts his face from the tray and stares into her eyes. “Noooo,” he says. He wants to tell her, Ralph helped me.

  “Are you O.K.?” She picks up his napkin and cleans the bits of potato off his face.

  Sam nods. Maybe he has died, because his mother looks like an angel. In her green dress and hat, she is so beautiful that he can’t bring himself to be mean to her. And like an angel, she floats away. As he listens to the familiar patter of his mother’s shoes, he sucks in great gulps of air. He promises himself that he’ll never take air for granted again. It’s wonderful, delicious stuff, better than ice cream or popsicles.

  This time, two pairs of footsteps approach.

  His mother is yelling, “A huge boy was hitting my son. If I hadn’t arrived when I did, I don’t know what would have happened. This is the kind of supervision that I pay you for?”

  “I was feeding him just a minute ago, ma’am,” Beverly says.

  His mother leans closer and stares into Sam’s eyes. “Tell me the truth. Are you all right?”

  Sam looks up. “MMOOTHER!”

  “Sam,” she grabs his hand. “Where is Miss Perkins?”

  He shrugs.

  His mother hauls herself up to her full height. Dramatically, she points in the direction that Ralph has gone. “Why was my son left unattended….”

  “We got lots of kids. Not just your son,” Beverly says.

  “So your standard practice is to leave my son alone!” his mother is screaming. “To be bullied and picked on.” She stamps her foot. “I want to talk to the director.”

  Sam laughs inside. His mother is having a temper tantrum. About him. She has a lot to make up for, but he is feeling a little bit loved.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Beverly says. “If you can find him, you can talk to him. He’s not here much.”

  “Where is he then?” his mother demands.

  Beverly rolls her eyes. “He’s one of those golfers, ma’am.”

  His mother looks as angry as Sam has ever seen her. “I’ll be back in a minute, Sam,” she says.

  Forget about the director, Sam wants to tell her. Come back and talk to me. But her high heels patter rapidly down the hallway until they fade away.

  ___

  † 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-Six

  “Miss Perkins,” Beverly says.

  Miss Perkins looks up and sees the aide standing in the doorway to the small library. Miss Perkins is teaching a boy named Calvin his letters. As a baby, Calvin had polio but he is very bright.

  “What’s wrong? Is Sam all right?” Miss Perkins asks.

  “Yes,” Beverly says. “But Sam’s mother is here. She’s pretty upset.” She explains that Sam and Ralph were left alone together. “But only for a minute, Miss Perkins. I swear it.”

  “Can you watch Calvin for me, Beverly?” Miss Perkins asks.

  Miss Perkins can hear Mrs. Davis’ angry voice from the front room. As she gets closer, she can smell her sweet perfume. Through the open door of the director’s office, she catches a glimpse of Mrs. Davis’ bright green wool dress.

  Miss Perkins is surprised to see Director Bentsen at work on a Sunday. Then, she notices the golf bag on his shoulder. The aging director is wearing white pants and an orange golf sweater. Mrs. Davis blocks the door. It looks as if her former employer has ambushed the director on what he had hoped would be a quick stop to pick up his golf bag.

  “I may not have much money,” Mrs. Davis is wagging her finger in his face. “But I used to work for a major law firm. When I tell lawyers how my son is being treated, they will be very upset.”

  “We are so sorry, Mrs. Davis,” Director Bentsen tries to reassure her. Mrs. Davis is half the director’s size, but he seems to be cowering. “However, we can’t give any resident special treatment.”

  “Special treatment,” Mrs. Davis scoffs. “Sam had no supervision.”

  “We do the best that we can with our limited resources,” Director Bentsen answers calmly, but his beefy face is growing red.

  “Sam was left alone with a bully. The aide told me that you are frequently absent.” Mrs. Davis says.

  Director Bentsen sucks in his flabby stomach. “Madam, I’m here on a Sunday.”

  “To collect your golf clubs,” Mrs. Davis responds.

  Director Bentsen drops the golf bag. “I resent that.”

  “I want to know if you are going to take care of my son!” Mrs. Davis shouts.

  “Mannville Institution is a fine place,” Director Bentsen says. “If you don’t like it, I suggest that you look elsewhere for care.”

  “That’s just what I’ll do,” Mrs. Davis says before she sweeps out the door.

  If Miss Perkins were the type, she would faint from happiness.

  “When will your son be leaving?” the director calls after her.

  “As soon as I can rent a new apartment,” Mrs. Davis answers. “Until then, I demand that you take care of Sam.”

  “We’ll do our best for your son, Mrs. Davis,” Director Bentsen says.

  Mrs. Davis shoots the director a steely look, but he is hoisting his bag of clubs onto his shoulder.

  “Director Bentsen, no child deserves to be mistreated,” Mrs. Davis calls over her shoulder.

  Miss Perkins follows her into the dark hallway. “I’m so happy, Mrs. Davis. This is a great idea that you have to take Sam home,” she says. “I can’t wait to tell the dear boy the good news.”

  “I feel terrible. Since you were with him, Miss Perkins, I thought that he was safe,” Mrs. Davis says.

  “I tried to tell you, ma’am.” Miss Perkins says.

  “I know. You’re always right,” Mrs. Davis snaps. “You think that I’m a rotten person for going to Europe. You just can’t seem to understand that I used to be full of such hope.”

  “I didn’t mean that. Why I…” A terrible thought stops Miss Perkins mid-sentence. What if Mrs. Davis doesn’t rehire her? What will she do then?

  “I am so angry at that fat director.” Mrs. Davis mutters.

  “I’m glad that we’re leaving,” Miss Perkins says. “But where will Sam go to school?”

  “Oh, I never told you. Before I left, the new principal of Sam’s school called.” Mrs. Davis says.

  “New principal?” Miss Perkins says.

  “It seems Principal Cullen was fired for paddling too hard. He paddled some boy and broke his rib,” Mrs. Davis says.

  “I’m not surprised,” Miss Perkins says. Then she realizes that once again she has acted the part of the know-it-all.

  “Mrs. Ellsworth—that’s the new principal,” Mrs. Davis says. “She wants Sam to return to Stirling.”

  “This is wonderful news,” Miss Perkins says, pushing down her frustration that Mrs. Davis didn’t tell her this before. “Why, we can start when he gets back.” She waits, but Mrs. Davis doesn’t say anything. In the silence between them, Miss Perkins thinks about all the times that she’s lectured Mrs. Davis a
nd tried to make her feel guilty. Why would an employer choose to rehire a caretaker who is an almost constant reminder of her faults as a person and as a mother?

  Together, they enter the front room and see Sam at the window. He’s asleep again. Ever since his illness, he sleeps a lot.

  “Sam.” Mrs. Davis kisses him.

  His eyelids barely flutter.

  “We’re going home,” Mrs. Davis says.

  “Did you hear your mother, Sam?” Miss Perkins says. “Home.”

  Sam keeps his eyes squeezed shut.

  Miss Perkins crosses her fingers and makes a wish. Let the sweet word ‘home’ include me.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Sam is waiting in the dingy hallway inside Mannville Institution. It took his mother only nine days to rent and move into a new apartment. In a few minutes, she’ll arrive in a taxi-van to pick him up.

  The only bench is next to a furnace and waves of heat roll over him.

  Miss Perkins leans closer and fans Sam. “I know you’re feeling discouraged, but your mother ought to be here soon.”

  For once, Miss Perkins can’t read his mind. Sam’s not worried about the wait.

  “Sam,” his mother is hurrying down the hall towards him. She is wearing a blue raincoat and carrying an umbrella.

  Since Sam’s lost the habit, speaking is hard. As a warm-up, he touches the roof of his mouth and swings his tongue around, touching his teeth. To get rid of any extra spit, he swallows. “MMom,” he answers.

  “Off we go,” Miss Perkins says as she steps behind his wheelchair. “Home!”

  But Sam knows that they’re not going home. They’re going to a new apartment. Sam’s place by the window is gone. Who will he be without his view from the window? Most important, he wonders, how long will he be able to stay with his mother this time? In the new apartment, he’ll try his best to act better, but he’s not perfect. He might have one or two scenes. What if his new landlord objects to the noise? If his mother decides to travel to Europe with Mr. Jordache again, will she send him away? One night will he go to bed and the next morning wake up in some new institution?

  Now he knows what an institution is.

  When the taxi-van halts in front of Colonial Apartments on Elm Street, it’s stopped raining. The sun is shining on a red brick building. Unlike his old apartments, these windows are covered with blue awnings. Bright red Santa Clauses, leaping reindeer, shiny Menorahs and other holiday decorations grace many of the balconies. The sight of so much holiday cheer makes Sam hope that his mother will be able to afford a tree this year.

  “The apartments are almost brand-new,” Sam’s mother is saying.

  While his mother pays the driver, Miss Perkins helps Sam out of the car and into his wheelchair. Miss Perkins begins to push him.

  “I want to take him, Miss Perkins,” his mother breaks in. She grips the handles of the chair. “I got an apartment on the first floor so we don’t need an elevator....” Uncharacteristically, his mother chatters away.

  Sam thinks of how lonely he feels when she doesn’t share his excitement. He longs to share hers.

  His mother guides him through the parking lot and down a hallway. She stops in front of a strange brown door. After unlocking it, she flings it open. Together, they go inside. He smells soap, fruit and coffee.

  Sam’s old furniture has been rearranged to fit a smaller apartment. The familiar blue and green couch takes up one wall. The television sits across the room. There’s no carpet, but the tile shines, and the appliances in the kitchen sparkle. A large bowl on the counter is filled with apples and bananas.

  The biggest surprise is the large picture window that spans one whole wall.

  The view is of Elm Street, but not the part of the street that he knows. On their errands, he and Miss Perkins rarely travel this far south. Throngs of people—wearing jackets and coats, mittens and gloves, and hats of all colors and sizes—pass by carrying packages and briefcases. Across the street is the Elm Street Bowling Alley. Despite his sour mood, the sight of the bowling alley interests him. Who bowls? When do they bowl? Is bowling a sport, he can’t help wondering?

  His mother is beaming at him. “What do you think about our new home.”

  Sam feels too sad to smile. A home is a place you can count on. Not a place that you might have to leave.

  “What’s wrong with you, child?” Miss Perkins scolds him.

  “LLLLike it,” Sam answers quickly.

  “I’m so glad,” his mother answers. She steps behind the wheel-chair. “Now let me show you your room.”

  After Miss Perkins has gone home, his mother sits on the end of Sam’s bed. On his bedside table, the cactus hides behind a glass of water. The walls and ceiling of his new room are light blue and blend with the gray carpet.

  His mother is wearing her silk robe, and her dark hair is tied back in a green ribbon. Why do people who can easily talk, refuse to? Sam wants to ask her.

  Sam has many questions. Yet he knows that if he asks for his alphabet sheet, she won’t be able to find it, and he will waste his opportunity for a conversation to talk to her in a fruitless search. He’s also certain that if he fails to ask his most important question tonight, he may not have the courage to ask it at all. He draws on all his strength. “MMMister JJordache gggone?”

  His mother’s blue eyes widen. She starts as if Sam had slapped her. Her beautiful dark eyes grow wide. Sam senses that she has understood all the questions that he hasn’t asked. Why did you send me away? Why do you want me back? Will you ever send me away again?

  “Yes.” His mother says firmly. “He’s gone. Now, goodnight.” She leans over and kisses him.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Miss Perkins lets herself into the new apartment.

  Wearing her white silk robe and slippers, Mrs. Davis is already drinking a cup of coffee at the breakfast table. Miss Perkins has never understood why a person would wear a garment to bed that needs ironing, but she has to admit that Mrs. Davis looks lovely.

  As they exchange greetings, Miss Perkins relaxes. The morning feels like old times, she thinks. She pours herself a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove. She prefers tea, but over the years she’s drifted into this American morning habit. She’s settled at the kitchen counter, when Mrs. Davis surprises her by picking up her cup and saucer and walking across the room. She sits down on the stool next to Miss Perkins.

  In all the years of Miss Perkins’ employment, Mrs. Davis has never once joined her for coffee. If she can change, I can change, Miss Perkins promises herself. I will try to keep my opinions more to myself. I won’t say anything when she buys a new dress. I…

  Mrs. Davis trains her clear eyes on Miss Perkins. “We’ve had our differences.”

  Expecting the worst, Miss Perkins sets down her coffee cup. What will she do if she can’t be with Sam?

  “But I want you to promise me that you’ll help me raise Sam.”

  Miss Perkins lets out a sigh of relief. “Gladly.” This is the most wonderful request that Mrs. Davis could have made. Miss Perkins feels honored and included. Why, it’s almost as if Mrs. Davis has decided not to resent her anymore. “I think Sam’ll go to college and...”

  “It’s not going to be easy,” Mrs. Davis cuts her off.

  Miss Perkins reminds herself that for once she needs to listen.

  “Last night, Sam asked me a funny question.” She looks sharply at Miss Perkins. “What did you tell him about Mr. Jordache?”

  “Why, nothing,” Miss Perkins protests.

  Mrs. Davis continues to train her gray eyes suspiciously on Miss Perkins.

  “You have my word,” Miss Perkins says.

  Mrs. Davis sighs. “Sam always knows more about my business than I think he does.”

  “You’re right about that, ma’am,” Miss Perkins says.

  Tears collect in Mrs. Davis’ eyes. “Mr. Jordache promised that when we got married, Sam could have all the tutors that we wanted. That he could go to college
. I wish Sam could forget Mannville ever happened.” She pauses. “That awful director and his golf.”

  Mrs. Davis made a mistake, all right. She underestimated Sam, her own son. Shut him up in a place that she refused to visit. She put her own life ahead of Sam’s. And now Mrs. Davis needs to apologize. But if Miss Perkins tells her this, she’ll just make Mrs. Davis angry.

  “I need to talk to him,” Mrs. Davis finally says. “I should tell him that I’m sorry.”

  Miss Perkins studies her coffee to hide her smile.

  Mrs. Davis takes one last sip, dabs at her lips with her napkin, and sighs heavily. “Even when I was going to expensive restaurants in London, I missed Sam. I wished he were there. He’s all the family I have.”

  ***

  Sam has caught only snatches of the conversation between his mother and Miss Perkins. But one thing he did hear—his mother missed him!

  His heart is so full that it feels like it’s going to burst. His mother missed him. As far as he knows, no one has ever missed him before.

  His mother is standing in the doorway in her white robe.

  As beautiful as an evening star,34† Winnie says.

  “MMom,” he calls.

  Her house shoes shuffle towards his bed. “Someday, you’ll understand that even adults can make big mistakes.”

  Sam nods.

  “But right now,” his mother continues, “I just want to tell you that when I saw that big bully hurting you, I realized that if anything happened to you, I would die.” She leans over the bed and stares into his eyes. “From now on, I promise that I am going to protect you. You can stay with me always.” His mother clears her throat. “Now, do you have any questions?”

  Sam, who is an expert on how much words cost, knows that she has paid dearly for this question. It’s the first that she’s asked in months and months. “No, MMom,” he says.

  ___

  † 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.