The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(18)

“Well, doesn’t it seem odd that she would bring Ernie with her to the office to clear up what happened on the playground?”

“Odd? How?”

“I don’t know. There’s something more to this, Max. I felt as though Sister Kathleen wanted to tell me something to explain the situation, but couldn’t. She seemed to know more than she was letting on.”

“What about this boy who started the fight?”

“David Bateman. He’s twice as big as the other boys. But I doubt he’ll be expelled. His mother sits on the parish board. And she is quite the piece of work.”

“Perhaps I should give his father a call.”

“If he’s anything like the mother, I wouldn’t bother.”

My father hesitated. “Do you think this boy is capable of more violence? Is Sam in any danger?”

Up until that moment, I hadn’t considered that possibility, but now that I did, David Bateman did not strike me as the kind of kid to let bygones be bygones, and I wasn’t likely to surprise him a second time. In a fair fight, he would surely pummel me. I felt sick to my stomach and started to slide out from under the bed.

“Sister Kathleen said she initially thought Sam might be slow.”

“Slow?” my father asked.

I stopped my retreat. I’d heard my mother use that word once to describe a retarded boy.

“Well, what else would she think if he hadn’t said a word in class for a week?”

“Samuel is not slow,” my father said.

“Of course not,” my mother said. “I have something else to show you, something Sister Kathleen gave to me.”

Another extended pause followed. I heard my mother’s footsteps grow faint, then become more pronounced, indicating she had left the room to retrieve something and returned.

“What’s this?” my father asked.

“They gave each student a test at the beginning of the year to get a sense of where the students are in each subject.”

I remembered the test. I’d finished it early, and Sister Kathleen told me to put my head on the desk and take a nap while the other students completed it.

“So, what do these numbers mean? Ninety-six, ninety-eight, ninety-seven.”

“Samuel tested off the charts in every subject,” my mother said. “Sam is not slow, Max. He’s gifted.”





20

The next morning, my mother drove me to school with the top down on the Falcon. She pulled to the curb and started to get out, but I stopped her. “I can walk in by myself,” I said, having noticed that my classmates’ mothers did not walk them up the steps after the first day.

“Are you still capable of kissing your mother goodbye?” she asked.

I pecked her cheek and shouted my goodbye as I slid from the seat.

“Samuel,” my mother said. I turned back. My mother smiled, but it had a sad quality to it. Then she brightened. “Have a good day, son,” she said.

At that precise moment Ernie Cantwell shut the door to an old Volkswagen Beetle and ran down the block toward me.

“Cool car,” Ernie said.

“My dad built it,” I said, though that was not entirely accurate.

The Falcon was a used car. When my father brought it home, my mother said it looked “worse for the wear” with rust stains on the hood and bumpers. She wasn’t thrilled to have it sitting in the driveway for the neighbors to see, though she definitely liked that it was a convertible and metallic blue—her favorite color. She called it “a muscle car.” My sense was my father hadn’t really bought the car for my mother, but he’d said so hoping she would decline it in favor of the Plymouth station wagon. His mistake was taking us out for a drive with the top down. I knew from my mother’s beaming smile that she had made her choice. My dad drove the Plymouth to work, though my mother allowed him to drive the Falcon on Saturdays.

The bell sounded as Ernie and I raced up the steps, lunch boxes jiggling. I said goodbye to Ernie in the courtyard and pivoted toward my classroom, only to hit what felt like the stucco wall. The jolt knocked my lunch box from my hand, the top sprang open, and my lunch scattered on the ground. David Bateman towered above me, smacking a fist against his palm. Then he lifted his foot and stepped on my peanut butter and jelly sandwich before walking away.





PART TWO

THE BIKE ACCIDENT





1





1989


Burlingame, California

Dr. Fukomara’s eyes widened at the sight of me sitting on the examination table fully dressed and clearly having decided against the vasectomy.

“I know this is an inconvenience, and I’m happy to pay for a clinical visit,” I said. As an ophthalmologist, I knew I had taken a spot he could have filled with another patient. Money from his pocket.

“Absolutely not,” he said. “Professional courtesy.”

“I’m sorry I—”

He waved off my apology. “You have nothing to be sorry for; you’ve made the right decision.”

“I have?”

“This is your decision, which means it is absolutely the right decision. There’s no rush. Think it over.” He raised his two fingers, imitating a pair of scissors. “Dr. Snip It will still be here.” He laughed and patted my shoulder as he departed.