Window Boy (14 page)

Strangely on that terrible day, her parents’ house was untouched. A gray brick miracle. When she walked up the back steps and opened the door, she found that someone had left the radio on, a bit of normalcy in the midst of the wreckage. As her family and neighbors gathered in the kitchen, bewildered and frightened, they heard Winston Churchill’s voice:
We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.
¹⁷
Miss Perkins has never told Sam about Emily; she’s kept her secret all these years. Instead, she’s poured all the ferocity of this memory into the love of Winston that she passes to Sam.
We shall never surrender.
¹⁸

When Miss Perkins takes her head out of her hands and looks up, she sees the frilly white tablecloth covering Mrs. Davis’ table.

It’s already been nine years since she answered Mrs. Davis’ ad. When she walked into this room for the first time, Sam was facing her. His skin was pale, as if he never got out in the sun. His body was twisted in an uncomfortable angle and drool fell from his mouth.

Mrs. Davis was saying, “My son is very smart.”

When Miss Perkins met the boy’s gaze, he had smiled. All his features glowed, and she forgot his crooked body.

“Hello, Sam,” she said.

“He doesn’t like to talk to people who he doesn’t know,” Mrs. Davis said. “He’s got cerebral palsy….”

The smile slid off the boy’s face, and he stared off in the distance. Miss Perkins had remembered her last view of Emily, trapped in the concrete.

*
*
*

Sam hears the low murmur of voices in the entranceway. At last! His mother has returned. He waits anxiously for her to say good-night to Miss Perkins.
What is taking you so long?
he wants to shout.

Finally, outside of Sam’s room, the floor creaks. His mother’s coming. She’s nearer. He holds his smile ready, but something goes wrong.

Instead of stopping at his bedroom, her high heels pass his door and head straight for her own room. The spray of a shower, and then the slam of a drawer are the only sounds that Sam hears.

Distraught, Sam craves movement. He pretends to go outside to the rutted field. He lifts his right foot high and takes a step. Then, his left. After he’s warmed up, he pushes himself to begin running. Finally, he wills his arms to pump at the same time. After so many fast laps that he can’t count them all, he has to stop. He gasps for breath. Or maybe, he yawns.

Sam’s pillow is soft. His blue blanket is warm and shimmers with moonlight. He yawns again.

He hears his mother’s mattress groan.

“MMom! MMom!” he yells to greet her.

“Sam, hush,” she shouts from the other side of the wall. “I can’t stand another scene tonight.”

This isn’t a scene,
he wants to explain.
I love you, Mom.
But he knows that he will have to shout for her to hear him, and he doubts whether she will understand.

Sam hears a jagged noise. Could his dainty mother be snoring? But in the next moment, he identifies the sound. His mother is crying.

He wants so much to be with her, but with the wall separating them, she might as well be sobbing on the moon. He inches his body close to the wall. But what to do with his thoughts? How to block out the crying? He holds his breath until Winnie’s voice fills his mind, drowning out his mother’s sobs, the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, everything.

In his escape from the Boers, Winnie had stumbled upon the only Englishman within twenty miles. His good luck had kept him from being hanged.

I felt like I had a purpose, so I never believed that I would go before my time,
Winnie explains.

You’ve said this before, Winnie, but it doesn’t help me because I don’t have a purpose.

Oh, but you do,
Winnie disagrees.

What?

Right now, you need to get Mickey Kotov on that basketball team
, Winnie reminds him.

___
†
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

In the morning, Miss Perkins lets herself into Mrs. Davis’ apartment.

Unusual for the hour, Mrs. Davis is awake and standing in the small kitchen. The blue and white speckled coffee pot is already on the stove.

Mrs. Davis turns toward Miss Perkins. Her eyes are red-rimmed. She has slept on her normally stylish hair, leaving it flat on one side and puffy on the other. Without makeup, her face is pale. At the sight of her employer so disheveled, Miss Perkins’ heart rises up and flutters against her rib cage. “What’s the matter? Is Sam all right?” she asks breathlessly.

“Sam,” Mrs. Davis emphasizes her son’s name, “is fine.”

Even though she doesn’t remember seeing Mrs. Davis shoeless before, Miss Perkins is not surprised that her employer’s toes are neatly manicured with bright coral polish. “Well, what is it?” she pleads.

Mrs. Davis looks over Miss Perkins’ shoulder. Her eyes seem to be searching a distant horizon. “I stayed up all night thinking. The way I see it, I don’t have a choice.” She begins talking faster. “I can stay with Celeste until I save enough money to rent another apartment. Of course, I can’t take Sam.”

“What do you mean?” Miss Perkins objects.

“Ever since he was born, everyone—my pediatrician, my husband, my neighbors, my coworkers— has advised me to send Sam away.” Mrs. Davis’ pale lips tremble as if she’s about to cry.

“Send him away!” Miss Perkins exclaims.

“That’s right,” Mrs. Davis nods. “There are special places for handicapped children.”

“What kind of places?” Miss Perkins asks, even though she knows that she will hate Mrs. Davis’ answer.

Mrs. Davis takes a deep breath and seems to regain her composure. “My friend, Mr. Jordache, knows someone on the board of the Mannville Institution for Boys. He’s offered to make arrangements for Sam to be admitted. I checked with the firm’s insurance. They’ll pay most of the cost.”

“What!” Miss Perkins hears herself cry out.

Mrs. Davis puts a finger to her lips. “Hush. Or you’ll wake him.”

An institution! Miss Perkins can’t take her eyes off this stranger with her white silk robe tied in a lopsided bow around her tiny waist.

“Mr. Crowe’s eviction notice is the last straw for me. I can’t afford to pay the deposit on a new apartment.” Mrs. Davis’ eyes are begging Miss Perkins now. Her fingers nervously tap the kitchen counter.

Miss Perkins can’t help it. She feels her expression harden into one of steely disapproval.

“It will only be until I can get back on my feet.” Mrs. Davis twists the cord on her robe. “I hate this as much as you do. But I don’t see any other way.”

“Let me take him, ma’am,” Miss Perkins begs. “He can come to live with me. My apartment is poor, but we would be happy.”

“And what would Mr. Jordache say if he found out that my son was living with my housekeeper?” Mrs. Davis shakes her head.

I could get a better job. I would have left a long time ago if it weren’t for Sam, Miss Perkins wants to tell her. But she manages to stay silent.

“Mannville Institution is a reputable place. I’m going to ask Mr. Jordache to make the arrangements today,” Mrs. Davis says.

“With due respect, I have to disagree, Mrs. Davis. A boy like Sam needs a home. Needs love. Why I…”

Mrs. Davis cuts her off. “I won’t have you implying that I’m not a good mother!” Tears well up in her eyes. “I’m doing this for Sam. So that someday we may be able to have a home together again.”

You, Sam and this Mr. Jordache—whoever he is? Miss Perkins thinks suspiciously. “When do you want the boy to leave?” she asks.

“As soon as possible,” Mrs. Davis answers.

“When are you going to tell Sam?” Miss Perkins asks.

“I’ve thought about that,” Mrs. Davis responds. “I don’t want to talk to Sam until the morning he leaves.” Her thin shoulders shudder.

Miss Perkins knows that Mrs. Davis is imagining the tantrum that Sam will throw when he learns about her plans. For once, she won’t scold the poor boy. “Have you seen the place?”

“The Mannville Institution?” Mrs. Davis asks indignantly.

Miss Perkins nods. What else would she be talking about?

“Our pediatrician has told me all about it. Why he says…” Mrs. Davis’ voice falters.

“You haven’t seen Mannville?” Miss Perkins insists.

“You and I can go with Sam when he’s admitted. I don’t need to visit the place beforehand.” She smooths back a lock of her hair. Then, she adds in a softer voice, “Miss Perkins, I told you. I stayed up all night thinking about this. I don’t have any other choice. If all goes well, he will only have to stay there a few months. …”

Miss Perkins works to keep her face calm.

“Now excuse me, but I can’t be late.” Mrs. Davis turns around and heads to her bedroom.

“What am I to do today?” Miss Perkins asks curtly.

“Go to school. Act normal,” Mrs. Davis calls from behind the closed door.

“Act normal?” Miss Perkins shouts. She picks up the frying pan, and her grip doesn’t slip; she purposefully bangs it down on the counter.

Mrs. Davis sticks her head out. “Stop your temper tantrum. You’re going to wake Sam.” She slams the door so hard that the windows rattle.

“PPerkins,” Sam calls. “MMiss PPerkins.”

It makes Miss Perkins angrier that she can’t blame Mrs. Davis for waking the boy. Both of them are guilty. She opens his bedroom door and sticks her head in. “Just a minute, dear.” She tries to control the trembles that she hears in her voice. “I’ll be right back after I cook your oatmeal.” But as she fills the pot with water, her mind is occupied with plans of rebellion. She’ll have to find some way to visit this Mannville Institution for Boys. She’ll tell Sam that her rheumatism has been acting up and that she has a doctor appointment. If she has to, she’ll ask Mrs. Martin if she can leave Sam alone at school this morning. Ann will be happy to push his chair to recess.

She has her morning laid out, but if the Mannville Institution is the prison that she expects it to be, what will she do then?

Fifty-six-year-old Abigail Perkins, who has never even had a traffic ticket, will have to become a kidnapper.

Chapter Twenty-One

Sam watches the clock over the blackboard. Although the bell for recess rang a few minutes ago, Mrs. Martin still hasn’t stopped talking.

“Finally, our school is participating in the League of Women Voters history contest.”

Mrs. Martin continues. “Each student will submit an essay on ‘My World War II Hero.’ The winner gets a nice prize and a trip to Washington, D.C. Wouldn’t it be great if someone in this class won?”

World War II. Sam sneaks a look around the classroom. Charlie has a bored expression on his face. He bets that he knows more than Charlie or anyone else in the entire classroom about World War II. He would love to enter the contest, but now that they are attending school, Miss Perkins is so busy. He knows that she won’t have time to help him.

“Your essay will count as a test grade and will conclude our unit on World War II. Any questions?” Mrs. Martin says.

How long does the essay have to be?
Sam wants to ask.

When no one raises a hand, Mrs. Martin sighs. “Dismissed.”

The class stands and rushes out the door.

“Hey, Sam,” Ann says. She is wearing a gray and blue sweater over a gray dress.

Sam smiles a big smile. “AAAnn,” he answers.

“Ann, could you take good care of Sam during recess?” Miss Perkins says. “I’ve got… to….go to the doctor’s. I’ll be back by…. lunch. Mrs. Martin…. has agreed to look after Sam.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ann says. “Are you feeling O.K., Miss Perkins?”

“What?” Miss Perkins asks. Without waiting for an answer, she mutters, “My rheumatism...” In a bustle of activity, she slips on Sam’s coat and checks his seat belt. She collects her purse and starts toward the door. “Thank you so much, dearie,” she calls to Ann on her way out.