Window Boy (5 page)

“Thank you so much, Ann, for this tour,” Miss Perkins says.

“Sure.” Ann begins pushing Sam back toward the classroom. “My mother is a nurse.”

“Is that what you want to be when you grow up?,” Miss Perkins asks.

“Maybe a doctor,” Ann says shyly.

“GGGood ddoctor,” Sam agrees. He knows many doctors, and he can’t imagine Dr. Adams—when he was younger—spending his recess pushing around a strange boy in a wheelchair. Maybe if Ann becomes a doctor, the shots that she gives won’t hurt as much.

“What did he say?” Ann asks.

“Sam, what did you say?” Miss Perkins leans toward him.

Sam repeats his compliment.

“He’s saying that he thinks you’ll be a great doctor,” Miss Perkins explains.

“Thanks,” Ann says.

“WWWelcome,” Sam says. He would like to ask her to push him again, but her giggle stops the question from forming inside his throat. His tongue feels like a useless wet blob.

Ann giggles again.

Sam feels himself grow hot with embarrassment. He decides that Miss Perkins may be right. It’s probably better if he stays quiet. And yet…

Chapter Six

Elm Street Apartments is a dark six-story building. “Crumbling Georgian,” his mother likes to say. The windows are large, but the back, like the front, has no awnings. Off to the side, a drained pool, which is dry even in the summer, has begun cracking. When his parents moved into the apartments, they had been new, but according to his mother, the apartments have been going downhill even faster than the neighborhood. After detouring around a patch of uneven concrete, Miss Perkins pushes Sam up to the back entranceway.

Sam smells the apartment building even before he enters it. One couple from China cooks spicy food. Six kids live in an apartment on the first floor, and their mother keeps a pot of hot dogs on the stove all day and night. Wood is rotting in the corners of the window frames, and mildew freckles the halls.

Miss Perkins leans on the elevator button, and moments later, she angles his chair into the small metal space. They can hear the elevator creak and groan as it travels upward.

The elevator door opens onto the second floor. As Miss Perkins pushes him down the hallway, Sam realizes that he feels as worn out as the frayed carpet. He’s smiled more than he ever has in his life. His face muscles—from smiling—and neck muscles—from trying to hold his head upright—feel like Jello.

Apartment 207. Home. Paint peels off their brown door.

As usual, it takes Miss Perkins too long to find the key in her purse. It is so large. Sam jokingly thinks of it as “The Suitcase.” He hears the English mug that she carries everywhere bang against the jar of ointment for her rheumatism attacks. Sam wants to tell her to hurry up, but he reminds himself that either way, he’ll still be sitting in his chair. This thought—not much is going to change—gives him the patience that he needs to control himself.

“Now tell me, how am I going to make dinner and iron your mother’s frilly shirts exactly like she likes them?” Miss Perkins glances at her watch. “In two hours?” She looks around at the small but neat kitchen and living area, as if she expects the apartment to answer. It’s decorated in blue and green, his mother’s favorite colors. In a burst of energy one weekend, she had tie-dyed the pillows herself. To allow Sam to maneuver better, the linoleum floor is without carpet, and all of the furniture—a television, couch and card table—is pushed against one wall or the other.

Miss Perkins takes Sam’s schoolbooks out of The Suitcase and drops them on the counter.

Sam knows that setting books down is a normal act in so many households, yet the sight of the stack makes him sit straighter in his chair.
I went to school!

“Do you mind if we don’t work on math tonight?” she asks.

Sam looks down.

Miss Perkins stares at him. “I have to confess. I don’t know how to solve those problems.”

“MMe either,” Sam says, but he’s disappointed. How can Miss Perkins teach him how to do the problems if she doesn’t know herself? It’s only the first day, but he has a hunch that Mrs. Martin is going to be too busy to spend much time with him.

“Well, your mother told me that we don’t have to take tests until Mrs. Ellsworth returns and you’re properly placed, so I don’t think we should worry about a little homework. Besides, I’ve got a lot of ironing to do. I don’t want to fall behind and upset your mother. I better get busy. Where do you want to be?”

“Wwwwindow.”

Miss Perkins pushes him to his favorite spot in front of the window.

Below Sam, the whole Tomcats basketball team is positioned on the court. After years of watching different teams, Sam’s excited to finally know a team by name, even the gym teacher. Mr. Fitzpatrick who Sam met in the halls today is standing on the sidelines. He is wearing gray knit shorts and a T-shirt and holds a whistle in his mouth.

Charlie Simmons, the red-headed captain, is tall—maybe about 5’ 10’’. But he’s slow. Bobby Sur, the pimple-faced center is taller— maybe 6 feet—and even slower. In class, Mrs. Martin had called on some of the other boys. A.J. Douglas, a blubbery kid with big hands, is always tripping over his huge feet. He can palm the ball but he can’t dribble it. Larry Veselka, a pale boy with blonde hair, runs as if he is moving underwater.

Suddenly, Sam has a great idea. The Tomcats could use a fast boy like Mickey. He wonders, why isn’t Mickey on the team? Maybe the fact that Mickey is Russian has something to do with it. He remembers Mickey’s almost spooky accent today as he hissed at him. “Stop steering at me. Ve’re not friends.”

Or maybe, Mickey’s not on the team because he’s so mean. He might have even fought some of the kids. Sam reminds himself not to look at Mickey in class tomorrow. But what about here at the window?

Don’t worry. Sam tries to reassure himself: if Mickey looks up at the apartment, all he will see is a dark window. But not knowing, Sam shudders.

The lock clicks.

Sam’s neck won’t let him turn, but he doesn’t need to see his mother to know that her dark hair crowns pale skin and flashing gray eyes. He hears a familiar sound, his mother singing. A Beatles song. “Yellow Submarine. Yellow Submarine.” One of Sam’s favorites. “We all live in a yellow submarine.”

My wheelchair, Sam thinks, is my yellow submarine.

“Aren’t you happy tonight, ma’am?” Miss Perkins says.

“Hello, Miss Perkins.”

Sam is disappointed when instead of rushing towards him, his mother lingers in the entranceway. He strains and turns his neck as far as it will go. Because his chair is slightly angled, he can just glimpse his mother standing in the doorway with her blue coat still on. She is holding a small sack from Corner Market. Miss Perkins towers over her.

“I know that this will mean a late, late night for you, but a friend asked me to go dancing tomorrow night.”

Dancing? Sam is all for his mother having fun, but he doesn’t like thinking about his mother dancing. Mothers aren’t supposed to dance, are they?

“Could you? I mean, would you?” his mother continues.

“Sure. Sam and I will have a great time,” Miss Perkins agrees. Although her voice is hearty, Sam knows she’s not smiling.

His neck hurts too much, and Sam has to turn his head away from the scene at the door.

“Thank you,” his mother says. “Oh, how was school?”

“Lovely,” Miss Perkins answers.

“Good,” his mother says. “Did Sam make some friends?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Miss Perkins says. “A nice girl named Ann.”

“Do you like his teacher?” his mother asks.

“She’s brand-new and very nervous, but not a bad sort,” Miss Perkins agrees. “Not really.”

“SSSchool!” Sam bursts out enthusiastically.

The sharp points of his mother’s high heels announce her approach. Sam has never understood why his mother wears shoes that make walking harder than it already is. She is leaning over him now, and he longs to reach out and hug her. He doesn’t want to let her go until he has told her every detail of his day at school.

“I’m glad to hear you liked school,” his mother says softly into his ear.

Just once, Sam wishes that his mother would ask him a question. But tonight, she does the next best thing. She looks out his window.

“You’re always watching that basketball court.” His mother squeezes his shoulder too hard. He knows that she means it as a sign of affection, but this hurts. “Sometimes, I wonder what goes on in that head of yours.”

Her shoes tap, slide and glide as she heads toward her bedroom. Sam tries to decipher the unfamiliar pattern. Finally, he understands. His mother isn’t walking. She’s dancing.

“Time for dinner,” Miss Perkins says. She waves a plate of mashed potatoes and pureed green beans before his nose.

Sam hates green beans, but it’s hard not to eat them when Miss Perkins controls the spoon. As he swallows the disgusting green mash, he listens to his mother talk on the phone. She is pacing their small apartment, and her voice cuts in and out. “I’ve been really busy, lately, Celeste. The law firm has a new client, Mr. Jordache…”

Sam has only met Celeste McGregor once. She is a mousy woman who brought his mother a stack of movie magazines when she came to visit. His mother’s many friends come and go from his life like shadows.

“He’s promised to take me dancing…,” his mother says into the phone. “You’re always saying that I’m too young to give up on my life. Well, I’m starting to agree with you.”

While Sam keeps a watchful eye on the court, he pays attention to the rise and fall of his mother’s voice rather than to her words. He’s waiting for Mickey.

Maybe it’s because Sam saw Mickey up close today, but for the first time he imagines Mickey away from the basketball court. He imagines Mickey living in an apartment about the size of Sam’s. But Sam’s apartment is generally quiet. What would it feel like to live with an adult who shouted all the time? Nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. Sort of like being chained to a wheelchair.

Sam’s disappointed. The court stays empty. Mickey doesn’t come out tonight.

Chapter Seven

At nine p.m. that night, Sam is lying on his bed which is low to the floor. His body feels heavy like it always does when he is settled for the night and doesn’t need to make the effort to move for another eight hours. Higher than his bed, his table and chair are the only other pieces of furniture. Sam likes rooms which are nearly empty. It’s easier to get around in his chair.

The shuffle of house shoes stops, and Sam’s heart flip-flops when the light floods through the open door.

Although his mother is a small woman, the end of his bed sinks with her weight. Her dark hair, not yet rolled onto orange juice cans, falls to her shoulders in waves. His own curly hair and long dark eyelashes are the reason that people say, “You look just like your beautiful mother.”

“Hi, MMom,” Sam greets her.

“Hi, Sam,” she answers softly. She has her hand behind her back. “I just wanted to tell you that I am so happy that you had a good day at school.”

“GGGood,” Sam says, meaning: yes, today was a good day.

“I’m proud of you, more proud than you’ll ever know.”

Sam feels his chest expand.

“When I came home from school on my first day, my father gave me a pony,” his mother says.

This is a familiar story. As Sam repeats the pony’s name in his head:
Peter,
he experiences the sadness that he always does when he thinks of his grandparents who he rarely sees and hardly knows.

“Peter,” his mother says. “My mother braided Peter’s tail with a green ribbon. For a joke, my father put a Teddy bear on Peter’s back.”

Along with his mother, Sam laughs at this memory. Since he thinks that his laugh sounds like a dog’s bark, he refuses to let loose around anyone besides family.

“So,” his mother says slowly. “Even though we don’t have room for a pony…” her voice trails off.

Sam knows that his mother misses her childhood home in the country. His grandparents’ farm is far away, and he and his mother don’t have the money to visit.

“I still had to buy you something.”

She holds out a small, clay pot. The cactus is the size of his tongue, with prickles all over it.