by Peter Razor
Ed entered the large living room with a platter and stopped near me. “You missed the meeting part,” he said. Then, with a mischievous grin, “Coffee?” I frowned.
“Don’t make fun of guests, Edwin. Let him pick what he wants.” I took a soda and sandwich. An older boy played the piano while almost everyone sang, There’s a blue moon over my shoulder.… I moved my mouth but didn’t sing.
That night, in my attic den, I stared at the candle through the breathing hole of my thick covers, then at the water glass nearby. Solid ice. The play of light and shadow flickered eerily on rafters and roof boards glistening with hoarfrost. I held my hands over the candle until they were almost hot then rubbed my feet with them under the covers. The candle was my only warmth, so I let it burn.
“Puts candle out,” John said from low in the stairwell. I had almost fallen asleep and did not hear the door open. Blowing the candle out, I snuggled deep in the covers to block the cold.
When the snow melted, we began fieldwork. I shivered on the John Deere steel-wheel tractor in cold weather; John drove the tractor in warm weather while I walked behind a four-horse team disking and dragging. It wasn’t just the cold. I was always hungry, more so than a normal teenager. Becoming lean, I moved slowly, without energy, which seemed to anger John even more. Restricted to one serving of food, I supplemented my diet with soybean meal and field corn. If I wanted more, Emma would always complain—Ya eats enough for two grown men. John gave his horses more feed during fieldwork, but refused to do the same for his working boy.
I hoarded any money John gave me and bought candy and nuts at noon hour in Houston; chocolate covered peanuts were my favorite. Munching from a bag on my lap, one day in history class, I didn’t hear the young teacher approach from the rear of the classroom. My peanuts were out of sight, but the smell gave me away.
“All right, mister,” she said, holding out her hand, “Let’s have it.” Though she was pleasant, I was angry with myself for losing food. I sheepishly handed her the full bag, and watched as she put it in her desk.
John let me go back to school on days he didn’t need me. I missed a total of one month of school in the ninth grade, did no studying at home after January, but somehow passed with a C average. Emmet also missed school for work, but he wasn’t in school Monday, the last week of classes. I was surprised, because most parents didn’t keep their kids out of school at the end of the year. I asked Jorde if Emmet was sick.
“You didn’t hear?” he asked. “Emmet drowned Saturday in the Root River, west of town … a whirlpool or something.”
I twisted instinctively to look at the empty seat behind me. I was in shock. “When’s the funeral?”
“Tomorrow,” Jorde said. “The class is going.” He thumbed through his text, trying to seem unaffected.
“I don’t like funerals,” I said. “But it would be proper to go. I would if—”.
“I know,” Jorde said, gently cutting me off.
But Jorde only knew half the story. Though I told him some about my life with the Schaulses, I never talked about the State School. I never told him about the children who died there, nor my constant fear that I might join them. News of Emmet’s death brought it all rushing back.
Silver-haired and immaculately attired in a white uniform, Miss Monson lived for her work at C-15. She was absent only once in five years, that I remember, but her diligence wasn’t for love of the boys. Miss Monson’s passion was punishment. Her assistant, Mrs. Burt, didn’t seem mean by nature, but she too had an uncontrollable temper. She assisted Miss Monson at punishment sessions, and, when a boy angered her, might assail them with a broom or radiator brush—whatever was handy.
The one bright spot at C-15 was assistant Miss Crusely, who worked the shift opposite Mrs. Burt. Miss Crusely never raised her voice or threatened children. She had little time to share with individuals, but every conversation with her was precious. I eagerly waited for her to arrive and dreaded her departure when she could no longer protect me from Miss Monson.
After each beating, I was gripped by a secret fear that one day Miss Monson would cripple or kill me, especially after my first funeral—for a boy at the school named Robert. Miss Crusely had us dress in Sunday suits and led us up the hill to the school building. We entered the auditorium amid a solemn hush. Miss Iodem, the principal, sat stiffly, eyes downcast, playing a sad hymn on the piano. In single file, we followed Miss Crusely down the center aisle, past the open casket, below the stage near the piano. Some children looked at their shoes or at the ceiling as they passed by, as though they didn’t understand.
I didn’t want to look but had to. It didn’t seem real. We were the same age, and he looked so alive, his cheeks pinked with rouge. For a moment I stared intently. Would he crack a smile, call the joke? I knew he wouldn’t. In that moment, I realized: by accident or neglect, illness or a sudden attack, I could be lying there myself with others passing by.
The sermon became a monotone. I glanced from time to time at Robert, saw again his rouged and puffy face. Afterward, we all walked to the little cemetery at the southwest corner of the campus where the service concluded. My fear deepened as I watched the casket lower into the ground.
I worked long, tiring days at the Rushford farm that summer. From well before sunup until well after sundown, regardless of the weather or how I felt, I worked each day, growing steadily stronger. Even John couldn’t complain, but he never followed through on my promised wages or new clothes, so one day I asked him about them.
“You earns keep. I pays twenty-five dollars a month,” John answered, visibly irritated. “I sees about clothes.” I wore nothing but baggy, secondhand clothes meant for men twice my size.
On one Saturday in early June, the Schaulses took me to an ice-cream social at the Bensons’. John’s older sister Rose insisted he bring me, and it was one of two times I accompanied the Schaulses anyplace other than to church. John’s older brother was at the ice cream social, too. He was single, gray, bald like John, though heavier with a personality more like John’s sister. Rose had a bright smile and, judging by the way the Busch brothers behaved, she must have treated them well. But I could not forgive her for co-signing my placement paper—giving me or any boy to her brother John. The social was pleasant, but I always felt out of place in crowds, so I stayed close to Lyle and Ed until I returned to the farm.
The Schaulses never hosted social events. John blew off steam by going to town and drinking, often returning home when I was half done with chores. The stronger I became and the better I took care of the farm work, the longer he lingered in town. As the summer wore on his tirades worsened. No matter how a horse got into the corn or how the cows lost themselves in the woods, it was my fault. If I ever dared to contradict him he would point upward and shout: I’s high-born German! Luxembourg! Da best!
One hot, sultry Sunday afternoon, late June, the phone rang after church. Emma paused while staring at the floor as the rings repeated.
“Yes, Peter’s here,” she said.
I was excited, but dared not show it.
Emma spoke aside to John. “That was the Hanson boy. Him and Lyle want Peter to walk the creek with them.”
Staring out the window, John spoke without turning, “Chores to begin at four. You be home then.”
I moved cautiously out of the house, lest John rescind his approval, then hurried the half-mile to the Hansons’. Mrs. Hanson ushered me inside where Ed was already talking with Lyle. They both waved a greeting to me.
“How is Emma?” Mrs. Hanson asked, handing me a slice of pie.
“All right, I guess,” I said, eating slowly so as not to not appear too hungry.
“I’d say youse are haying on the ridge,” Mrs. Hanson continued.
“Yup, the road going up’s bad, though we been fixing on it,” I said. “Saw a great big snake the other day. On the trail, I mean.”
“Be careful, lots of rattlers hereabouts,” Mrs. Hanson said. She handed me a glass of milk. �
�Shouldn’t have to worry none by the creek.”
Beginning below the Hansons’ house, Ed and Lyle took me along a trail used by trout fishermen. As we meandered with the creek toward the highway, the afternoon heat picked up.
“Want to cool off?” Ed asked. We sat at the edge of a large pool. It was two breaststrokes across and maybe chest deep.
“Yeah,” I said. “Why not?”
“Because we’d freeze,” Lyle said. “It’s spring fed.”
“You guys chicken?” Ed asked slipping out of his pants and shirt and wading in.
“Not me,” I said as I stripped. “I should rinse off, anyway.”
“You guys are crazy,” Lyle said, but he followed us in anyway. After getting myself completely wet, including my hair, I rinsed my clothes and hung them, shorts and all, on a bush. Ed and Lyle kept their shorts on, while we lay together in a sunny spot. A car whined down the distant hill, but we chattered on. Before we knew it, the car was too close for me to grab my shorts, and I lay face down while my friends sat back chuckling.
“Say Ed, do you think the Mort girl is in that car?” he asked, laughing.
“Can’t say,” Ed said. “Could be the Ladies Aide from the ridge.” He pretended to be horrified. “Mom’ll find out and I won’t hear the end of it. ‘Dear me,’ she’ll say, ‘talk is, you and them orphans was running stark nekkid around the creek.’ ”
“I’m only half naked,” I said. “I’m face down, I mean.”
The car slowed but didn’t stop and was gone in no time. We were still laughing as we dressed. Ed turned to me and pointed south. “Getting on to chore time,” he said. We waved Lyle off as though we were headed home from school, but in truth it was much harder to leave them that day.
4
It was a Saturday morning after breakfast. Other boys had been dismissed while my friend Allen and me, at ten years old, were kept in the assembly room with Miss Monson, Mrs. Burt, and Mr. Beaty, the gardener and groundskeeper.
“Over here, touch your toes, knees straight!” Mr. Beaty hissed. He flourished the paddle near his feet. “How many?” he asked.
“Five for Peter, three for Allen,” Miss Monson said coldly. “Allen first.”
The paddle sounded like a whip cracking. I flinched. Allen grunted, rocking from the blow, but his fingers never left his toes. Had he cried out or lifted his fingers, that swat wouldn’t count.
“One,” Miss Monson said. She appeared more content witnessing the punishment of children than watching their play. Allen wobbled on the second swat, his mouth gurgled and he vomited over his shoes and spattered mine. He did not move or cry out. “Two,” said Miss Monson. Frowning at the mess and stench, Mr. Beaty stepped to the side and gave Allen, still drooling bile, the last swat. Allen reeled out of the room to the bathroom.
“Now Peter,” Miss Monson said, and Mr. Beaty moved into position.
…
The days grew hotter. We did field work in good weather. During bad weather, I shoveled manure while John was in town. Midsummer, a mother cat dropped a litter. The kittens were cute and, it seemed, we’d soon get a handle on the rat problem. Then, one night just before chores, John handed me a squirming gunnysack.
“You to drown kittens,” he said.
“Now?” I hedged. “I have to get the cows.”
His voice raised, “It take only minute.”
Taking the sack, I spun around and walked to the creek. Holding it momentarily over the water, listening to the pitiful squeaks, I contemplated my options. I could turn them loose in the woods or hide them. Only John would kill me if they came crawling back. I fixed my eyes between the bluff tops and the creek and held the sack under water until the bubbling stopped, then hurried to get the cows.
Weeks later, a new calf was in the cow yard. John had me help the calf with its first feeding and prepare a clean bed for it. The cow didn’t clean out by evening and, after milking, John led me to the cow’s haunches.
“S’needs to reaches inside and takes afterbirth out,” he said while mixing Lysol in water. “You arm smaller. Go way in, pull everything out.”
“Okay,” I said, not knowing what to expect.
John pointed to my T-shirt. “Take off shirt. Emma not like blood on it.”
I washed my arm to the shoulder and did as John said, wincing with closed eyes through it all. Later, John said I got the bad stuff out.
Chores and farm work continued through July, and the second cutting of hay had been completed by early August.
To keep the sows, some weighing more than the entire Schauls family, from rooting, John snapped rings in their snouts. In mid-August, while John snapped the rings, I held the sows against the wall inside the hog barn. One monstrous sow reared from the pain, bounced me over her back against the wall, then leaned on me. My chest was compressed and my left arm badly twisted against the rough oak boards. Squirming out, I bent over to catch my breath, and felt woozy when I saw blood oozing from gashes on my left wrist. Quickly, I clamped my right hand over the gash, but blood immediately seeped between my fingers.
John saw the blood and, as though nothing was wrong, he prepared to ring another sow.
“I’s ready for this’n,” he said, impatient.
Still gripping the injured wrist, I held my arms up to force John’s attention to it.
“Shouldn’t I put … put something on this?” I asked between gasps.
John shook his head no, so I leaned against the sow to steady her as John snapped the ring. By then mild shock had begun to set in. I sat down again. John stared at me for a few long seconds, at blood dripping through my fingers, then shook his head again.
“You goes to house, get rag,” he said.
Emma was baking bread as I entered the house. “Yes?” she asked, looking sideways at me.
“John said I should get a rag to cover my wrist,” I said.
“All right, if’n he says so. I’ll be checking to make sure,” Emma said. She avoided looking at me on her way to their bedroom. Returning shortly with old sheeting, she tore a strip off, handed it to me, and turned back to her work. She offered neither help nor antiseptic.
I walked to the barn wrapping my arm with one hand while holding the cloth with my teeth to tie a knot. The delay was but minutes. I returned to the barn, and we continued ringing sows. John never looked at my wrist, never asked if I was okay. The cloth darkened red, but the bleeding seemed to stop before we finished. The injury later became infected, but it cured itself over a period of weeks without medicine or even clean water. Even after the infection went down, my wrist and arm were sore for a long time.
After the sows’ snouts healed, fences were again ripped apart.
By the time I was nine years old, I considered myself kin to no one, so when a letter addressed to Grandson Peter arrived at the State School with a dollar bill in it, I was puzzled, but very excited. I hid the letter in my locker, reading it time and again, even after someone stole the money. The letter began my dreams of northern Minnesota, of other relatives I guessed were there. Nothing was said by staff, even when I received more letters, another dollar bill.
One Saturday afternoon within weeks of the first letter, I was told to dress in school clothes, and go to the Main Building. There, a social worker led me into the visitors’ lounge where an older woman, a young couple, and a boy sat.
“Your brother, Arnold,” the social worker said, motioning to the boy. She swept her hand past the others. “Your grandmother, uncle, and aunt on your mother’s side.”
I was stunned.
“We thought you might want to see your brother,” my aunt said. “He’s older than you.” I was so surprised that the remainder of the conversation is a blur in my memory. For about ten minutes they sat on the bench while I stood before them. They talked and I nodded. There was no touching other than initial and parting handshakes, no explanation for why I was left. Again, no counsel was offered by any staff, no effort was made to prepare me for meeting a brother and
relatives for the first time.
These were the relatives who, thinking that I would become hydrocephalic like Leonard, had left me in St. Paul when I was a baby. They wrote to the school superintendent asking whether I was of sound mind or not. Grandmother Sharlow, on my father’s side, sent me the money and, I learned later, had petitioned the state to take me into her home. She was denied.
When I was eleven, Don and I slept near each other in a four-bed dorm on the first floor near a bubbler, the mop closet, and Miss Monson’s apartment. Don had arrived months or a year earlier, was familiar with the outside world, and seemed adept at getting along with staff.
During evening and Saturday leisure we played in the first floor hall on the masonry floor. The living room was off limits except Sundays and holidays or when visitors were present. Miss Monson might let us listen to a Saturday football game on her little table radio. We played jacks, pickup straws, cards, or anything quiet while listening to the game. Often I settled with a book into a corner.
November, that year, Don and I joked as we left our play in the hall and headed upstairs to the bathroom. As we passed Mrs. Burt, who stood near the stairway holding a broom, I laughed at something off-color Don said.
“Deceitful Injun!” Mrs. Burt screamed. She stepped up the stairway, swinging the broom before I could flinch. The broom broke as it knocked me against the wall, its bristle end flew up the stairs and scratched Don. The blow stung my waist, but didn’t bruise. Don’s arm bled lightly, though he was more surprised than hurt, and he held it up in silent protest. Grunting without looking at us, Mrs. Burt slowly gathered the pieces and stomped muttering down the hall.