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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.
    “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