Window Boy (6 page)

“You always say you want a plant.” His mother smiles. “This one isn’t much trouble.”

“Thannkssssss,” Sam says. He tries to get his mouth around the three syllables,
For the cactus,
but he is tired, and his mouth is stupid tonight.

His mother places the cactus on his bedside table and kisses his forehead. It is true that Sam has asked for a plant before. He likes being outdoors, and he had wanted some greenery in his room. But a cactus? Where did she get this idea?

She squeezes his shoulder more gently this time and starts for the door.

From experience, Sam knows that the spot where her fingers touched will stay warm for a long time.

His mother pauses with her hand on the light switch. Her skin looks even softer than the white silk of her robe. “Good night,” she calls.

Sam remembers Winnie’s description of his mother:
She shone… like the Evening Star. I loved her but at a distance.
^4
†

It’s an experience that Sam has had over and over again. Winnie always expresses Sam’s thoughts better than he can himself.

His mother flips the switch.

To put himself to sleep, Sam presses his face against the wall and listens to his mother. Through the thin walls, he hears her singing. “Yellow Submarine. Yellow Submarine.”

I wish I knew what was going on in that head of yours
, he tells her.

___
†
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 Eight

Saturday morning, Miss Perkins pushes Sam towards the barber shop. The day is beautiful, and Sam smiles at all the vendors: Mrs. Chang, who sells newspapers and magazines at the corner kiosk; Don, the aged man who shines shoes; the toothless woman who sells roasted chestnuts—“Chestnuts. Get your hot roasted chestnuts here.” Sam has lived on Elm Street for twelve years and, as always, memories flood out of the doors and the windows as he rolls by. In the distance, he sees the bench in front of Baskin-Robbins. As they pass the store, he watches the boy with the ponytail scoop a dip of chocolate ice cream.

One Saturday, two years after the divorce, his father picked Sam up at the apartment and pushed him down Elm Street. Although Sam’s memory of his father’s face is shadowy, he has a clear recollection of his father’s back. Standing in line to buy Sam a cup of chocolate ice cream, his father looked tall, much taller than anyone else in Baskin-Robbins. His dark hair was cut in a perfect straight line above his blue oxford shirt. Not knowing that Sam needed help eating, his father set the cup down on the plastic tray attached to his wheelchair. Sam wanted to please his father. If he was no trouble, maybe his father would come back for another visit. So he didn’t ask his father to spoon the ice cream into his mouth. On the way back to the apartment, the ice cream turned to milk.

His father never came back anyway.

Although Miss Perkins and he have already passed Baskin-Robbins, Sam keeps thinking about it. Once his cousins, three boys from California, took him there. Sam was 8 and his oldest cousin, Josh, was 12. Josh had quickly gotten lost. Sam had kept his finger pointed in the right direction until Josh had trusted Sam enough to follow his lead. His relationship with the three boys changed after that day. His cousins play baseball, not basketball, but Sam likes them anyway. He looks forward to their visits.

Helpful Dry Cleaners is the corner store with the blue and red awnings.

A few years ago, Gently-Used Books was torn down to make room for Helpful Dry Cleaners. But Sam can never pass the site of the old bookstore without hearing Mr. Vincent’s booming voice. “Come in. Come in. The only two Churchill fans on Elm Street.”

“Any more books about Churchill?” Miss Perkins had asked Mr. Vincent after they had devoured
My Early Life.

“Well, of course, there’s Winston Churchill’s book
Heroes of History.”
Through his bifocal glasses, Mr. Vincent had looked down at Sam with a doubtful expression on his face.

“We’ll take it,” Miss Perkins had said.

That purchase had started Mr. Vincent’s habit of quizzing Sam when he entered the shop. “Hitler was diabolical,” he would say. “What does that mean?”

Sam would struggle as hard as he could to pronounce a one-word definition, like “DDevilish.”

But no matter how simple Sam’s answer, Mr. Vincent would always say, “Sam, my boy, you are amazing.”

Miss Perkins passes a young mother pushing a stroller, and suddenly in front of Sam are three boys dressed in blue jeans. He recognizes them from the halls of Stirling Junior High. They are big: maybe eighth graders. All of them wear their hair below their ears; one has hair almost to his shoulders.

“Let’s go to the record store,” the boy with the longest hair says. His shirt has a black guitar on it. Sam guesses that the arrow-shaped object in his hand is a guitar pick.

“I can’t believe that girls like Paul,” the shortest boy says.

“Yeah,” the third says. “I like Ringo.” He is carrying drumsticks.

Sam is sorry when Miss Perkins stops to gaze in Corner Market, and he loses sight of the boys. A few pumpkins are already filling the store window—a hint of the holiday to come. Then, he sees the row of prickly cacti. Excess Inventory Sale. 50 cents. The mystery of his mother’s recent gift is solved. She loves sales.

“I’ll come back,” Miss Perkins mutters to herself as she starts pushing Sam again. Normally, Sam likes to go to the barber shop, but not this morning. He tries once more to communicate with Miss Perkins. “No MMMister John,” he says.

“For years, I’ve put up with your complaints about going to Dr. Adams,” Miss Perkins says.

Of course, Sam hates to go to Dr. Adams. He has to go often. Sometimes even every week or so. Dr. Adams has a great aquarium in his waiting room with lots of goldfish, but who likes to be prodded, stuck, twisted, given shots?

“Don’t tell me you’re going to start on Mister John,” Miss Perkins scolds him. “Mister John has been cutting your hair since you were born. Goodness knows, I was angry, too, when he made us wait for a whole hour. I could have used the time on my chores. Still, we don’t have a reason to boycott him.”

Sam doesn’t have a problem with Mister John. He doesn’t even remember the hour wait. Why should he? Sometimes he feels like his whole life is one long wait.

Elm Street Barbers. Next to the red and white pole, a man sits on a bench. He jumps up and holds open the door for Miss Perkins.

The bell tinkles as they enter.

“Noooo cut,” Sam tries again.

*
*
*

Miss Perkins pretends that she doesn’t hear Sam and pushes him through.

Of the three green barber chairs in the shop, only one is in use. Mister John smiles at Sam and calls, “Hey, Sammy boy. How’s it going today?” Mister John is a thin man with a small waist. His face is shaped like his hour-glass body—long with a curve below the wide cheekbones and full again at the jaw. His hair is oily and his mustache waxy. He has five grown sons and their photograph as small boys, faded now, is tucked into a crack in the mirror. A cream-filled shaving brush is lying on the counter next to a razor.

Miss Perkins waves.

The man sitting in the barber’s chair has a rounded stomach. A blue bib tucked under his double chin falls to the floor. His skin is clean and slightly pink; he’s just been shaved. As he turns towards Sam, his eyes bulge—as if a boy in a wheelchair is as strange as a flying teacup and biscuit. Miss Perkins has never gotten used to the rudeness of strangers. Hurriedly, she pushes Sam over to the far wall so Sam won’t catch the man’s gaze.

As she turns the wheelchair towards the small television mounted in the corner, Sam’s reflection appears in the paneled mirror behind the line of green barbers’ chairs. True. Sam’s body is twisted, and his neck is floppy. His smile is crooked and a tiny bit wet— although drool isn’t nearly as much of a problem for Sam as it was when he was a young child. Then, he was less in control of his body. Less able to communicate. More prone to rage. Now, except for minor details, Sam looks like any other boy his age should look. Why, he’s handsomer than most.

The fat man has no business staring at her Sam!

The television’s sound is turned off but on the screen, a group of long-haired hippies is sitting in front of a college building. They appear to be singing and chanting. A few are strumming guitars. A girl wears a lei around her neck. A small fire is burning in front of them.

One boy with hair down his back carelessly tosses a bundle into the fire.

The camera zooms closer, and Miss Perkins identifies a familiar red, white and blue pattern. Why, these kids have thrown a flag into the fire! An American flag, the symbol of her adopted country.

A commercial for Kodak cameras, advertising Instant Photos, comes on the screen, but Miss Perkins can’t shake off her anger towards these students. Don’t they understand that sometimes countries need to fight to stay safe?

She was twenty-two that horrible summer after France was defeated. When Hitler had started bombing London, she was only ten years older than Sam. America hadn’t entered World War II yet. Everyone thought that Hitler was going to invade and conquer England.

But the Royal Air Force had held Hitler off. They had bombed Hitler’s planes. Made it too costly for him to continue. She will never forget the night that she and her parents had listened to the wireless. Tears were streaming down her father’s face when Winston spoke of the brave pilots,
“Never…was so much owed by so many to so few.”
⁵

And it was true. After she finished her shift at the hospital as an aide, she volunteered until late into the night, cutting up sheets, rolling up bandages. She would have done anything for those pilots. After all, England won!

The view on the screen shifts back to the students strumming their guitars.

Instead of protesting and keeping the country safe, these college students should get down on their knees and thank the United States military, Miss Perkins thinks.

Mister John sweeps the bib off the man.

The customer presses a few bills into the barber’s hands. “See you again next week,” the man says. He trudges out but not without shooting one last curious glance at Sam, Miss Perkins notices bitterly.

Mister John turns to Sam and says, “Now for my favorite customer.”

Miss Perkins is horrified when she glances at Sam. Sam is usually full of smiles. But today his lips are pressed together, and he is staring stonily ahead. As a customer, Sam is more trouble than most, and she counts on his sunny personality to win over the vendors whom she frequents. “Mister John, I don’t know what’s wrong with Sam today,” she apologizes.

“Nooo cut,” Sam says loudly, rudely.

Miss Perkins’ mouth drops open. What has happened to her obedient boy?

But when she looks at Mister John, she’s surprised to find that the barber is grinning at her. “Didn’t you tell me that Sam was starting school?”

“Yes,” Miss Perkins says. “But he’s only been there a few days— not long enough to learn such bad manners.”

Mister John smiles. “None of the kids want haircuts these days. Their attitude is bad for my business.” He shrugs. “But what can I do? You’ve got to change with the times.”

On the screen, the police are dragging the protesters away and throwing them in a paddy wagon.

“Well, my goodness,” Miss Perkins says. “I never thought….”

“If you don’t mind me saying so, Abigail, you can’t have it both ways. You can’t put Sam into the world and ask him not to try to fit in it.”

Sam looks at her. His grin is more crooked than usual. “PPPlease…”

Slowly, Miss Perkins nods her head. “I suppose we can wait another week,” she says slowly.

Mister John holds the door for them. “I hate to say this, Abigail. But don’t come back too soon.”

Chapter Nine

It’s Monday, Sam’s second week of school. Although a few kids have smiled at him, besides Ann, no one has talked to him. Ann hasn’t spoken to him since last Wednesday when she had a conversation with Miss Perkins. “My mother’s in charge of the bake sale. She’s the president of the PTA. They’re trying to raise money for coaches. Even uniforms.” Afterwards, she had mumbled a few words to Sam along the lines of, “We got the meanest teacher in the Sixth Grade. I wish I had Mrs. Smith.”