by Peter Razor
I stood and said, “See you tonight.” There was no reply. I shut the door behind me, walked swiftly to the gravel road and, breathing easier, began the mile walk to the highway.
The bluffs broke as I rounded the last bend and the road thrust into the Root River valley on its last two hundred yards to the highway junction.
A call came from behind. I twisted without stopping to see a tall, yellow-topped boy hurrying to catch me.
“Hi, there,” he repeated.
“Hi,” I replied, looking up at him, and a smile warmed my face. Walking backward until the boy came abreast, we walked together toward the highway.
“I’m Ed … Hanson,” the boy said, offering his hand.
“Pete … Razor,” I said, eagerly shaking his hand. “I’m staying at—”
“Schaulses’,” Ed interrupted, “I know. You just got there. How’s it going, anyhow?”
“Can’t say. They don’t talk much except farm stuff. Got to get used to it all, I guess.”
“We live on the table across the creek,” Ed said.
“Farm?” I murmured.
“Yeah,” Ed said, looking me over. “Just enough to get by. How old are you? I’m sixteen.”
“Fifteen,” I said.
Ed pointed at two boys arriving from a farm, which could be seen on the highway not far from the junction. “Hey, the Busch boys,” he said, pointing. “I’ll introduce you in the Cracker Box.”
“Cracker box?”
“Made out of plywood and junk,” Ed said.
The bus appeared. It really was plywood and looked like a large cracker box, with windows and a small cracker box attached to the front.
“Sure rattles,” I said. “Is it safe?”
“Guess so,” Ed said. He pointed as the bus approached. “Lots of horses under the hood. Gets us to school every day.”
Horsepower, I thought. “How many, four, maybe six or so?” I imagined teams of State School draft horses pulling the bus.
“Maybe 150. Dunno for sure,” he said. “It’s a Ford V-8 and Sam really gives it the gas.”
The bus slowed, turned onto the gravel road, backed up, pointed toward Houston and opened its door.
Sam had a broad smile. I couldn’t help myself and smiled at the ground. Sam greeted everyone as they entered, but held his arm out to stop me.
“Good morning. You must be the new boy I was told to look for,” he said. “I’m Sam. I’ll wait five minutes for those walking from the hills, ten minutes during bad weather.”
Sam clearly meant business, but his talk wasn’t threatening, and his smile never faded.
Most students hardly noticed me as they entered the bus that first day, and I ignored the few stares as Ed introduced me to the Busch brothers. Lyle, also a freshman, was a muscular boy, shorter than me with brown hair. Tom was in seventh grade, thin with dark brown hair, and looked to be growing taller than Lyle. They wore good clothes and sported healthy smiles.
“We’re from an orphanage, too,” Lyle said. “East of here. I’m fifteen, Tom’s thirteen. We live with the Bensons.”
“Hey, we’re the same age,” I said. “What kind of orphanage were you at?”
“Big church orphanage.”
“Must be a lot of orphans around,” I said.
“We had thirty to forty kids,” Lyle said.
“Mine has about 250 now, but used to have 500 or so,” I said, suddenly realizing the State School was a very large place.
“Wow!” Lyle said. “That’s an army. How’d things go with so many kids?”
“With paddles and radiator brushes for starters,” I said.
Ed whistled, then let the subject drop.
“Mrs. Benson is John’s sister, isn’t she?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Lyle agreed. “She signed so John could get you. I guess his two sisters from Caledonia signed, too.”
I looked out the window as the bus pulled up to a newer school building. So that’s how they got me.
Ed walked with me into the school and pointed at a door. “That’s the office,” he said. “Just walk up to the counter like you own the place and you’ll get faster service.” We waved each other off as I entered the office, where I waited until the secretary approached the counter.
“Good morning, young man,” the secretary said. “Haven’t seen you before. Coming to school or just visiting?”
“Supposed to register for school,” I mumbled, leaning on the counter.
She smiled, “I might guess the same. Name and grade?”
“Peter Razor, ninth grade … “
“Oh, darn, I hate when things are too easy,” she said with a sly smile while reaching under the counter. “Looks like you’re already registered.”
I frowned, chewing my lower lip.
“Yes, sir! We’re expecting you,” she said. “Your transcript from the State School and Owatonna High arrived last week.” She studied the papers. “Seems you’re supposed to get better grades then you do. Well, you can fix that by studying harder.”
I hoped Houston High didn’t have any teachers that hated Indians.
“Anyway, here’s your schedule,” she continued. “You can still make it before the bell. Room 212, Mr. Johnson.” She pushed a paper at me. “Good luck and welcome to Houston High.”
I never found out if my labels from the State School—mentally lazy or day dreamer—made it to Houston, but my old millstone, bright, did. That made teachers expect more and gave prejudiced teachers something to disprove with ridicule and sarcasm.
Inside Room 212, I waited while Mr. Johnson talked with students. He didn’t seem to notice me, until suddenly he had taken the paper from me.
“Let’s see … Peter,” Mr. Johnson said, scanning the schedule. “Come with me.” He gave me a textbook and walked me to an empty desk. “Sit here.” He tapped the shoulder of the boy at the desk ahead and introduced us. “Jorde. Peter, here, has your classes. Would you kindly take him in tow for a few days? If he became lost, he might starve to death in the corridors. I wouldn’t mind, but others might.” He turned to me with a half smile. “Jorde will show you around.” He returned to his desk.
Jorde twisted to face me. “Hey, Pete. You good at algebra?”
“Not my best subject,” I said.
“Darn! Thought I’d have help,” Jorde said feigning a grimace, but it couldn’t cover his smile. He pointed behind me, “That’s Emmet, he lives on a farm.” I shook hands with Emmet, then turned back to Jorde.
“Don’t you? Live on a farm, I mean?”
“Nah. Wouldn’t know which end to milk. Besides, I work in our garage.”
The bell rang. “Come on, Meester Razeer,” Jorde said, smirking. “Have to load our brains.”
“Where to first?” I asked.
“Algebra. The more I learn, the dumber I get.” Jorde smiled again. It was his trademark, a natural, permanent smile plastered there even when he felt bad about something.
Jorde pointed as we passed large double doors in the hall.
“Gym,” he said. “Wednesday and Friday after lunch.”
My first day in school went well, considering it was not entirely spent on studies. Jorde helped me in algebra, with Emmet observing, and I helped them in science.
Ed was a sophomore, and I seldom saw him during school hours, but we developed a habit of walking together from the bus to his driveway, then gossiping briefly before parting. Wednesday, my second week on the farm, we stopped, as usual, at Ed’s driveway.
“Come to the 4-H meeting tonight,” Ed said. “It’s at our house. Mom told me to tell you.”
“What’s 4-H?” I asked, then glanced quickly at the bluff tops. “I mean, what do you do there?”
“It’s a club where you learn about modern farm things and take a project each year to the fair,” Ed explained. “It’s fun.”
“I’m just John’s worker, he wouldn’t go for that,” I said.
“Heck, you wouldn’t need a project,” he said. “Just
come have a good time.”
“I’ll see, but maybe not,” I said.
John’s car was gone when I arrived home. Emma tended little Mary as I entered the house, and it was the second time I’d seen the girl. Little Mary seemed always to be in the Schaulses’ bedroom.
Emma didn’t look up when I entered, just mumbled a greeting as I passed her on my way to the attic, and ignored me again on my way out to work.
Early chores were nearly done when I heard the car enter the driveway. Peering through the barn window, I watched John step from the car, testing the ground with each step as he aimed himself at the house. Wondering about his tardiness, I backed into the barn to finish chores.
Having observed how Mrs. Steele acted after drinking, which seemed harmless, I was not alarmed. Mrs. Steele, matron of C-16, was quiet, never abusive to me, appearing comical at times, especially upon emerging, unsteadily, from extended seclusion in her apartment.
John entered the barn to prepare milking equipment.
I called out a greeting.
John grunted.
I persisted, “Ed said his mother and them invited me to a 4-H meeting tonight at his house.”
“We’s work to do. It be late after chores,” John said.
“Can I get off early?”
“You here to works. You in school all day, don’t work to pay you keep.”
“Six hours a day’s not enough for my keep?” I questioned. “And all day Saturday?” My stomach ached.
“Not your age. Dat school’s no good for you! If you quit school and works on farm, den you earns keep,” John said, his voice growing loud, raspy.
“Okay, I won’t go,” I said, starting past him. “I’ll get the cows in.”
John stepped in my path and put his face close to mine. “No man’s walks away when I talks to him.”
I jerked my arms defensively up and quickly stepped away from John—a flinch honed at the State School. He stepped forward.
“I tell you everything. You so stupid, you still do nothing right,” John yelled so loud Emma could have heard him in the house. “You don’t to needs high school. I’ve five grades myself; I’s highborn German, da best!” His face was rigid and his right arm waved close to me. I didn’t move. My submissive pose seemed to placate John and he waved me through the door. “Now gets cows in.”
That incident began my understanding of what angered John most—my desire to have friends, to attend school, anything that allowed me to escape him for a time, anything other than working for him.
Still shaken by John’s diatribe, I was inattentive during milking. A cow, suddenly though gently, lifted her leg and stood on it inside my pail. Little milk was spilled as I worked her leg out, but greenish streaks of manure swirled in the brimming pail.
“Should I give it to the pigs?” I asked.
Saying nothing, John put an extra filter in the strainer and poured the milk in the can. It struck me as wrong, but unwilling to trigger another violent outburst, I said nothing. Days later, the milk hauler returned the can of milk. Instead of giving one pail of milk to the pigs, John had to give a full can.
Two more weeks passed. John was tolerably quiet, but seemed to be smoldering inside.
I walked with Ed from the school bus. “Think you could go to a 4-H meeting tonight?” Ed asked. “Mrs. Benson is a leader and makes the Busches go. Ma told me to ask you. She says you need to get out, and I think you should come.”
“I’ll try, but don’t expect me,” I said.
“Hell, if you can, come to my house and go with us. It’s at the Martens’.” Ed went up his driveway and I continued home.
The sedating babble of the creek soon lured me to sit and listen. A squirrel scampered up a nearby oak. When the squirrel disappeared on the hidden side of the trunk, I tossed a stick and the squirrel flicked off.
Suddenly realizing I had lingered, I hurried on to the farm.
Turning into the driveway, I stiffened with fear. John stood near the house staring at me with his head cocked. I moved to step around John on my way to the house, but John’s arm shot out stopping me.
“Yer late!”
His eyes burned from a stony face.
I tried to move around his arm toward the house. “I have to change clothes for chores.” He grabbed me by the shoulders, spun me violently to face him, then pulled me into his chest in a tight bear hug.
I grunted as John squeezed me nearly breathless. I tried to scream, but John squeezed harder.
“When I talks,” John screamed. “Don’t to ever turn your backs on me. Bastard!”
I managed to bring one arm over John’s arm to shield my face. For a frightening moment, he squeezed even harder as though to crush me. Then the world spun as John threw me like a sack of feed. Landing on hands and knees, I scrunched on my belly. The mauling more terrorized than hurt me, and, though able to move, I didn’t, at first. Abusive staff at the State School seemed satisfied if I appeared weak or injured after their attacks. Watching from side vision I waited until John’s shoes backed off.
Scraped on hands and knees, I stood and exaggerated a limp as I shuffled to the house. At the door of the house, I was forced to stop, but did not look back.
“You to come right home!” John yelled.
In spite of reassurances from smiling social workers, I now knew the truth of farm placement. Social workers, apparently, felt it unnecessary to tell farmers how to treat orphans, or to tell orphans how to live with guardians.
Emma looked up from near the stove as I entered. “Your pants is torn!” she hissed off the side of her mouth. “And you’re mighty dirty for sittin’, doin’ nothin’ in school all day. Not enough I cooks for you and wash your clothes, I have to mend after your foolishness, too.”
“John did that,” I said, pointing to a hole in my pant knee.
“If’n you’d work harder and not be traipsin’ off to school, he wouldn’t do that,” she said, turning her back to me.
My life seemed darker than it had since the night Mr. Kruger tore me from my bed and I had first learned the meaning of terror.
3
Social worker: John and Emma Schauls are a plain farmer and wife, share-renter family. Fifth grade education for Mr., third grade for Mrs. No interests outside their farm.
Dr. Yager: Tested while in grade eight, Peter comprehended most subjects through grade twelve. He communicates intelligently, scores very high in science, art and mechanical intricacies, average in math. He is creative in areas that are difficult to assess. He has the potential to achieve whatever he chooses of education. Recommendation: No farm placement for this boy. It will end in failure and be just another unfortunate experience for him. His long term at the school has restricted his social and emotional development and, though bright, he would be at greater risk among the general population than other boys his age.
Social worker: Peter is very bright; he can take care of himself.
Mr. Vevle [superintendent]: I agree. In spite of Dr. Yager’s objections, this boy is cleared for farm placement.
…
Despite the placement contract, John was determined to force me out of school. In January, when I still had not agreed to quit, he began shouting about school, flailing arms near me, railing loudly. He always began with some fault he perceived in me, some flaw he could not understand or abide. These rants would continue until he reached what was really eating at him.
“Youse waste time in school,” he would shout, “while I works to puts food on table!”
Consequently, when I made the first honor roll, I didn’t make a big deal of it. John said nothing about my grades, but showed his displeasure by keeping me home more than needed for winter work. After that I seldom finished a full week of school, often only three days—Ees flunk and das school trow him out. It went on all winter.
By February, when he had still failed to bully me into quitting school, John suddenly became almost pleasant.
“You quit school, I pays wage
s,” John said. “If you stays in school … I don’t know.”
I worried what the state would say or do. Would I be on my own? Where would I go? John never gave me money for school or pocket change, so I doubted his honesty, but I felt helpless to do other than what he said.
“So I would just stay home now?” I asked.
“Writes letter to state,” John said. He motioned to Emma who held pencil and paper, which she then put before me on the table.
“Tell them you tired of school; want to work for wages. Best goes to school until we gets answer.”
John seemed pleased after Emma mailed my letter off the next day. The letter, which remained in my file, stated simply that I could not go to school after February. Work and school continued as we waited for a reply; John to have the state bless my letter, I hoped to have a social worker read between the lines and do something.
The Schaulses had a wood phone with a crank-ringer on the side. The six or eight families on the same line were each identified with a series of short and long rings, like Morse code. When the phone rang, Emma stopped what she was doing, lowered her head, and waited for the second series to confirm who was being called.
Mrs. Benson seemed to know that she would have to call Emma if John were to let me attend a 4-H meeting or go anyplace for recreation.
“Rose called,” Emma said during supper Wednesday. “They’s a 4-H meeting at Hansons’ Thursday. She thinks you should let Peter go.”
“Be all rights,” John said. “After chores is done.”
I was astonished and ecstatic. After chores, I set out for the Hansons’ house. A light dusting of snow made walking easy without a flashlight. Calm, so elusive at the Schaulses, now surrounded me as I walked between a gurgling creek and the dark sheltering bluffs. I stopped at the Hansons’ driveway, where Ed and I always paused before parting, and looked at the bend beyond which the house was hidden. I took a deep breath and headed briskly up the driveway.
Mrs. Hanson pushed the door open. “Come in. Come on in,” she said in boisterous, singsong voice. Passing her, I looked around at my laughing schoolmates and their parents, but I hesitated before stepping farther in. Mrs. Hanson leaned toward me. I sidled half a pace away from her—a reflex. She smiled and leaned toward my ear. “Ed’s in the kitchen,” she whispered, then pointed. “There he is.”