Window Boy (19 page)
Yesterday, she was unable to figure out a bus route to Mannville. After wasting a lot of time, she ended up going to the bank and withdrawing the money for a cab. Today, she intends to visit the place. “I have to go back… to the doctor… this afternoon. I was going to ask Mrs. Martin if you could stay with her, but now I can’t. You know I don’t like to leave you alone.”
“I’ll be…back in plenty of time for dinner. Then, we can…..talk.” She pauses. “I promise. I know you’ve got lots of questions. I do, too. I’m working on the answers. I really am. Tonight… I’ll have some.”
She hopes.
*
*
*
The door slams, signaling Miss Perkins’ departure.
Sam faces the window. Almost immediately, Sam’s seat belt catches as his chair begins to drift backward toward a dip in the floor.
Before Miss Perkins bustled out in such a hurry, Sam had detected the hitches in her voice that told him that she was nervous. She must be as worried as he is and had forgotten to set the brake. Why couldn’t she have picked any other afternoon to go to the doctor’s?
And then the wheelchair starts to slowly roll. When it reaches the dip, the chair slowly rotates. Now Sam faces the couch and the back of the television. He considers wheeling himself back over to the window, but what’s the point? Since he can’t set the brake, he’ll just end up in the dip again.
On top of everything, Miss Perkins has forgotten to give him water. Or maybe she didn’t forget. Sam honestly can’t remember. All he knows is that he’s thirsty.
Usually, his mouth is a spit factory. It manufactures extra spit twenty-four hours a day, more than he can use, sometimes so much it’s a nuisance. Now his tongue and mouth are dry.
Drip. Drip. Drip. A leak in the kitchen faucet? As if the sight of water would quench his thirst, he tries to turn his head toward the sink.
But his neck won’t carry his eyes that far.
Although it’s freezing outside, the sun streams through the window and warms his shoulders and his face. He hasn’t been home for a while during midday, and he’s forgotten how hot it gets in the apartment even in late October. He touches his head. It feels hot, too. He wonders if it’s better or worse that Miss Perkins forgot to turn on the television. Sometimes, he enjoys his own thoughts more than the constant stream of programs and commercials. But today the loss of school is a dull ache all over his body, and entertainment might help. Why did Miss Perkins have to go to the doctor today of all days?
Sam has had to visit the doctor too often. So often, that he does his best not to think about Dr. Adams in between appointments. Dr. Adam’s office—even with its huge goldfish—is not Sam’s favorite place. He’s had too many shots and X-rays there. His body has been twisted and turned into too many awkward positions. Too many experts have stared at him naked with frowns on their serious faces.
There’s one memory of the doctor’s office that Sam works harder not to think about than any other. He was about five or six, lying on the examining table. Dr. Adams and his mother were outside the door, talking. He heard Dr. Adams say as casually as if he were prescribing an aspirin, “This boy may need to be institutionalized one day.”
For all these years, that word has haunted him. What kind of place is an institution? Will an institution have other kids?
If Sam goes to live in an institution, he might never see Ann Riley or Charlie Simmons again. He might never be able to tell Mrs. Martin all that he knows about Winnie. With Mickey as their point guard, Sam is sure that the Tomcats will start winning. He longs to see his team play. To cheer for Mickey. To see him score points.
Why, he’ll even miss the eleven potted plants.
Institoooshen.
No matter how much he practices, he will never be able to say the word, but when Miss Perkins gets back, he promises himself that he will try.
From his Churchill books, Sam’s heard the phrase, “the institution of government.” He thinks that the word means a government building. But why would he, a boy with CP, be housed in a building with the government?
He checks the clock on the wall again to be sure. It’s only 12:19. For him it’s rare, but this afternoon, he’s living in slow time.
For one thing, his brain feels incapable of a story. He is staring stupidly at the blank television when out of the corner of his eye, he becomes aware of something. A gray object darts across the floor.
A cat? One hot summer, Miss Perkins had left the door open, and a stray had slipped inside. He can’t twist his neck far enough to be sure. Then, the confusion that has filled his mind like a gray fog lifts, and he remembers that it’s not summer, but fall, almost winter. Besides, the blur of fur was too slick to be a cat’s.
The gray animal scurries out from the couch’s shadows. A rat. As if sizing him up, the rat stares at him. Then, it disappears.
Luckily for me, I have no horror of rats
,
29
†
Winnie brags.
When Winnie was twenty-five, he was taken prisoner in South Africa. Eventually, he escaped. He knocked on a random door, and the Englishman who answered helped Winnie by hiding him in a mine for three days. The mine was infested with rats.
Once I awoke from a doze by one actually galloping across me,
Winnie reminds Sam.
They seemed rather nice little beasts.
But you were a grown man and strong, and I just have my pointer finger
, Sam tells Winnie.
That’s not exactly true,
Winnie says.
What about your legs?
Sam starts to concentrate on his legs, on making them kick.
But wait a minute. Why is he considering this unreliable weapon? Surely Sam is dreaming. There’s no large rat in this empty apartment craving him for its delicious dinner.
Just as Sam feels himself start to accept this conclusion as the only logical one, he spots the creature again. This time, he is sure. It’s a rat that he sees.
From beneath the couch, a pair of beady eyes are fixed on Sam. The rat appears to be the same size as Sam’s foot.
After three days in the mine, Winnie’s new friends decided to smuggle him out of South Africa. They packed wool tightly in a train car and hid him in a small space in the center of the bales.
The rat has crept out from underneath the couch and continues to watch him, curiously.
You were in great danger, weren’t you, Winnie?
Sam asks.
I had a revolver with me, two roast chickens, some slices of meat, a loaf of bread, a melon and three bottles of cold tea. The journey was going to take sixteen hours. To check the progress of the journey, I had learnt by heart beforehand the names of all the stations on the route. I can remember many of them today. Witbank…
Sam can’t recall the rest of Winnie’s train stops, but he knows the bus stops on the way to Miss Perkins’ doctor. He’s never been there, but she’s told him: Evergreen, 34
th
, Harvard Street, and Glade Avenue.
He looks again at the clock. The hands have actually moved surprisingly fast, all the way to 1:30.
He pictures Miss Perkins. Right now, she’s talking to the receptionist. Any minute, she will look at her watch and say, “Oops. I’ve got to go. I can’t be late. I have to get back to my Sam.” Still talking, she’ll head for the door. The bus will start back with her on it. Soon, he’ll hear her footsteps in the hallway and her key in the front door.
Not soon enough. But Miss Perkins never runs. She always moves at the same steady pace.
Run, Miss Perkins. Run.
The rat scurries across the field of carpet and stops only a few paces in front of Sam.
But what would I do with the pistol, if I were caught?
Winnie is still talking about the train trip that he took hidden in the wool car.
Shoot the whole Boer army?
Winnie asks.
I was at the mercy of events, and I knew it.
Hush,
Sam orders Winnie.
I don’t care about your adventures.
Except for the rat’s breathing, the apartment is completely quiet.
Is Sam losing his mind? The loud exhalations are not the rat’s but his own. Because of the heat and his thirst, Sam’s breathing is raspy, like an animal’s. When he meets the rat’s serious gaze, he understands the reason the rat is completely silent. The rat is getting ready to jump him.
Sam remembers the rat’s body that he saw twisted by the steel bar. Now, in revenge, this rat has trapped Sam. The hair rises on the back of his neck, and he tenses, readying for battle. He focuses all his energy into his legs, hoping to produce the wildest and jerkiest of his kicks. Of course, his legs have minds of their own. When they respond with little more than twitches, Sam despairs.
Winnie continues to drone on about events that took place over fifty years ago.
I squinted through my peephole
…
Be quiet,
Sam shouts.
I’m in a real-life predicament.
Winnie ignores him:
I saw that we had reached safety, I was so carried away by thankfulness and delight that I fired my revolver two or three times...
30
†
Wait a minute!
Sam has been trying to shut Winnie out, and now Winnie has given him a great idea.
The rat lopes towards him. Sam braces for the animal to attack.
No time to lose. ACT,
Winnie orders.
Sam cocks his finger. He takes a deep breath. “BBBBAMMM,” he shouts. The blast is so loud that it hurts his ears.
Even as his arm drops, he understands too well that his gun is fake, ineffective. Just a finger, after all.
He shuts his eyes and waits to feel the creature’s claws tear through the cloth of his pants leg.
Nothing happens.
He opens his eyes. How long have they been closed he wonders. He searches the carpet and finds the rat is gone. His head droops. He can’t feel glad about the fact that his gun has worked.
After all, his whole body aches; he’s so thirsty; and it’s only 1:48 p.m.
___
†
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.
___
†
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-Nine
Sam hears footsteps in the entranceway.
In a very remote corner of his brain Sam realizes, at last, she’s home.
“What are you doing in the middle of the room?” Miss Perkins asks. “Hello,” she calls out. “Are you here, Mrs. Davis?”
The ticktock of the clock in the kitchen and the hum of the refrigerator are her only replies.
“I must have forgotten to set your brake,” Miss Perkins decides.
“YYes,” Sam squeaks. His mouth is so dry.
“What’s the matter?” Miss Perkins peers down at him. “How can you look so hot? It’s chilly in here.” She leans closer and presses her freezing hand against his forehead.
“Why, you’re burning up with fever! Mrs. Martin told me that a bad virus is going around the school. You must have caught something from one of the kids.
“Oh, my poor Sam. I was gone, and you needed me. What good is someone you love if they’re not there when you really need them? I’m so sorry that I stayed away so long. I’ll explain everything someday, darling. I had to go. I’ll wash you down with a cool cloth and get you to bed. You’re probably thirsty, too.”
Sam listens to the soft pat of nurse’s shoes heading to the kitchen. With Miss Perkins here, the rat won’t bother him. Finally, he can relax.
*
*
*
Miss Perkins feels sorry for her poor boy, but she can’t help but be happy. Surely, since Sam has a high fever, Mrs. Davis won’t send him away tomorrow.
His illness will buy her a few more days to think and plan.
Mannville Institution. A three-storied gray building in the country surrounded by farmland. Cleaner than a public institution but not a loving, caring place by any means. Better than she had feared. But still impossible. The staff seems kind, but few attendants watch over many boys whose parents don’t want them. Some residents have been institutionalized since birth and have no visitors. Not all of them are small, sweet boys; many have large muscles and small IQ’s. Miss Perkins is sure that the attendants will have no time for a smart but quiet boy like Sam.
From the next room, Sam cries out in delirium, “Rat. Get the rat.”
Miss Perkins hurries to bring Sam a glass of water. Frantically, she thinks, what else can I do to make my poor boy more comfortable?
A few minutes later in the kitchen, Miss Perkins opens cans of tuna and cream of mushroom soup. Mannville doesn’t even offer a school for its charges. She pours the tuna and soup over the noodles and tosses the mixture together. Only informal tutoring.
Sam will never achieve her dream for him and attend college if he’s parked at Mannville.