by Peter Razor
I said nothing and we continued up the stairs, smirking from the safety of the bathroom.
Saturday, less than a month later, Mrs. Burt hovered, broom in hand, over Leo and me as we scrubbed the hall floors on hands and knees. I don’t remember now what Leo said to me, some whispered threat or slur. I whispered back, too loud, that he was a fat slob. Before I could move on to the next part of the soapy floor, Mrs. Burt whacked me again with her broom, breaking it over my shoulder. As usual, Mrs. Burt stomped down the hall with the broken pieces, leaving me to tend my severely bruised shoulder.
Boys could be selected to shower anytime they wrinkled an assistant’s nose, or vomited during a paddling. But after Saturday supper, it was three at a time in a single spray shower stall. Saving hot water for the war effort, staff had said.
Assistants sat on a chair outside the bathroom and checked boys, three at a time, into the bathroom. When three boys approached, Mrs. Burt might hold up her dime novel and, squinting one eye, speak as though quoting Proverbs, “Wait on the bench, only three in the shower.”
The evening after the second broken broom, my shoulder was sore and bruised deep blue, almost black when Don and I strolled up with another boy to be checked off for showers. Mrs. Burt avoided looking at me and talked mostly to Don, then thrust a clean towel and night gown at each of us.
The door opened and three freshly scrubbed boys in nightgowns came out. We entered, set our clean nightgowns on one bench, undressed to shorts, and waited on another bench while three boys finished in the shower.
“Burt’s never hit me like that,” Don murmured. He fingered my bruise. “Except that time…. Hey, that was a broom what broke, too, wasn’t it?”
“How’d you guess?” I replied, deadpan.
Don’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Worst Burt did was slap me.”
“Yeah, why did she slap a pet?” I asked with a wry smile.
“Can’t remember. Something I said, I think,” Don replied. “Besides, I ain’t no pet. Anyway, it didn’t hurt.”
“Probably just a love tap,” I said.
“Nope,” Don smiled. “You gotta watch her hand. And when she swings, snap yer head sideways. If it works, yer hair flies all over and you’re barely touched.”
“If it don’t work?” I asked.
Don grinned, “She makes you hold yer head still and gives you another one.”
“Smart ass,” I muttered.
“I’ll wash yer back,” Don offered as we showered. It was customary for boys to wash each other’s backs, but Don seemed too eager this time.
Don washed around the bruise, then suddenly pressed hard. “Ow!” I yelled, jerking away, banging into the glass door. “You did that on purpose.” I shoved Don against the other boy.
“Hey, I hardly touched you,” Don snorted.
The door suddenly flew open. Mrs. Burt leaned in, her nose nearly touching mine as she struggled to wipe fog from her glasses. Working through surprise, I joined the others with their backs to the door.
“What’d we do now?” Don muttered over his shoulder.
“What on earth is going on?” Mrs. Burt snapped. “It’s bath time, not play time.” It was decibels lower than her normal range, but scathing, nevertheless.
“We’re just showering,” Don complained.
“Someone bruised my shoulder … bad,” I said, trying hard not to snicker. “Lucky it wasn’t my head. Ever kill anybody like that?” Mrs. Burt wiped her glasses, staring harder, it seemed, than necessary to scold.
“Hey! Can we shower without people watchin’?” Don asked pointedly. Mrs. Burt puffed in disgust, shut the shower door, and left.
The threshing season was my favorite time at the Rushford farm, even though it was hard work. Each farm that shared the traveling thresher furnished a man for the crew. Too young that first summer to go threshing alone, I did chores while John threshed or, on occasion, we both went. The crew dinner included everything that was missing at Schaulses—smiling farmers, friendly talk, and food piled high.
Everyone there noticed I was different.
You must be Indian, Peter, some would say.
Others would ask, Do you come from Brownsville?—a town with an Indian community thirty miles away on the Mississippi River.
What tribe are you? everyone wanted to know. Once a farmer even asked, Do you talk Indian? But I didn’t mind. They didn’t ask these questions to be mean. They were just curious about what they didn’t know, and in return they taught me about threshing.
At the Bensons’, I watched the grain levels in the wagon and helped Lyle in the granary. John brought a load of grain and forked bundles into the thresher while Nels Benson fed the thresher from two sides. Lyle and I worked below Nels on the grain output when John threw a heavier then usual forkful—showing off—releasing bowel pressure just audible above thresher noise. Lyle snickered in my ear, I remained stone-faced, but winced slightly at Lyle.
John stiffly repeated something he had picked up years before, “A fartin’ horse will never tire; a fartin’ man is the one to hire.” He then threw another forkful, while Nels politely chuckled. No one knew John’s darker side. Even I didn’t know that while John and I threshed at the farm on the ridge, a social worker was paying a visit to the Schaulses’ farm.
Interview with Emma Schauls from the records of the State School:
Social worker: Is Peter about?
Emma: No, the men folks is threshin’ over the hill.
Social worker: Tell me, how is Peter getting along.
Emma: Just fine. He was on the honor roll a lot in ninth grade and little Mary loves him and Peter loves to play with her.
Social worker: Wonderful. Is Peter involved in school sports?
Emma: Oh, yes, goes out for football and things.
Social worker: I’d like to see him myself. When will they be home?
Emma: Oh … near milking time.
Social worker: Tell me how to get there? I’ll see Peter at work.
Emma: You couldn’t; they has to keep working.
Social worker: I believe such crews take breaks.
Emma: John wouldn’t like that. You should come another time.…
The social worker left without seeing me, reporting that she was impressed with Emma’s sincerity; that social services had made a successful placement. During the visit, neither Emma nor the social worker, apparently, mentioned my letter about quitting school. The state had, in fact, replied by sending a letter addressed to me. The letter suggested that I stay in school, and that a social worker would stop by to see me. I never got the letter, but a copy remained in my file.
That summer, Emma gave birth to a son, John, Jr., at home. I had to work even harder, but by August I had not been given one dollar of wages. I picked a day when I was sure John was sober and asked him why. According to John, contrary to what Miss Borsch had said, I had to pay for my own clothes, haircuts, school expenses, and bus fees. When John finished his accounting, I owed him money, payable by staying home more the following school year. I didn’t believe him, but disputing him was pointless—even dangerous. So I kept quiet, but I was determined to get something for summer work.
“Is there at least enough money from my wages to buy a used bike?” I asked. “It’d be easier to go to 4-H meetings and places.”
“I sees,” John said. Two weeks later he brought an old-looking bike with worn tires home. He never involved me in the purchase of secondhand clothes or anything I needed.
“How much was it?” I asked, as I ran my fingers along the roughly-painted frame.
“Twenty-five dollars,” John said.
The following Sunday, Ed looked over my bike. “Your tires are almost gone, and the bike’s been painted a couple times,” he said.
“Do I need new tires already?” I asked.
“Pretty soon,” he said. “But they’re cheap. “A new tire cost about the same as your bike.”
“Twenty-five dollars for tires?”
&nb
sp; “Hell, no,” Ed said, laughing. “Dollar or so. You paid twenty-five dollars for that?” He whistled, then frowned, “A brand new bike don’t cost twenty-five dollars.”
I stared at the bluff tops, realizing John had cheated me, but I had no idea what to do about it. “That’s what John said it cost,” I mumbled. John got my clothes and the bike at La Crosse, Wisconsin, twenty-odd miles east of the farm, the only city in the area with charity programs.
My working full-time for John over summer seemed to soothe him. Still, I needed to get away from him, and I was determined to go to school.
During a Sunday dinner in late summer, Emma said, “School to start in two weeks.” She glanced sideways at me.
“We not done with summer work,” John said.
I mumbled, “I have to go, though.”
“You not to start yet, maybe later if we gets work done.”
“Then, I have to tell the school and get my class schedule.”
“Emma call them,” John insisted.
I was beginning to feel desperate, “Rose thought Lyle and I could study together this year,” I said.
My stomach knotted and ached from the discussion. John did not reply.
“I’m going outside,” I said after I finished eating and walked up the bluff to watch the deep valley settle into darkness.
5
At mealtime we would line up outside the dining room waiting for the door to be opened. The door itself was glass and flanked by two full-length windows. Some kids would crowd close peering in, while the rest of us chatted and waited.
During line-up for breakfast one morning, Don froze, mid-sentence, and pointed over my shoulder. I heard the sound of smashing glass and spun in time to see Max suspended midair, halfway through the right window. Tiny shards of glass seemed to be splashing over him. He landed on his belly, head and shoulders in the dining room, legs in the hall. His T-shirt turned crimson, and streams of blood spread from his arms. He twitched on the floor.
Miss Crusely ran to him first. She held Max’s head in her lap and gently rubbed his cheeks. Miss Monson called the hospital. A man arrived with Miss Putter, and they carried him quickly away. Don and I swept up glass and mopped the blood from the floor before we were allowed to eat. I couldn’t stomach much.
The staff never said anything more about Max. Some of the kids said they heard Max died; some said he was sent away. Some called it suicide; others said he was pushed. Some said Miss Monson was chasing him to give him his licks, and he jumped through the glass to escape. It was nearly Christmas, and I was not quite twelve.
…
September approached, and John was off to town more than ever. I knew he didn’t like it but his sister and the threat of a visit from State Social Services forced him to let me begin school on time. Three days after agreeing to let me go to school, John missed early chores. Emma ate with me, after which I went out to the barn to begin milking. I had just finished my eighth cow, when John arrived home from town. I was milking one of his cows when he entered the barn. He stood over me, glaring down his nose.
“Why not to milk some of mine with yours?” he yelled.
I neither looked up nor acknowledged him. I hunched over my pail and milked faster, my forehead leaning near the cow’s flanks.
“You stupid ass!” John’s voice rasped louder. “You don’t knows to do chores right. School’s no good for you!” He settled to milking one of his cows. I stood to empty my pail, and he was suddenly there standing in my path, forcing me to brush a cow’s tail going around him. I emptied my pail and again he stood in my path. I had to step across the gutter to pass him. I sat and began milking another cow.
“You fucking bastard! I’s talks to you, no walks away!” he bellowed.
He grabbed my shoulders and pulled me off the stool. My empty pail clattered in the gutter and the cow shifted nervously. John pressed me against a barn support post, holding both of my wrists with one hand. Unable to defend myself, I pulled my head into my shoulders and tried to turn my head sideways to avoid the stench of his breath and the crazy fire in his eyes. Then, without saying anything further, he tossed me unhurt to the floor. He went back to milking his cow, and we finished chores without another word.
At C-15, during Christmas vacation, Allen and I had cleanup in a hot kitchen after supper. We dragged back to our beds, tired from work. Shortly after bedtime, I sat up, my mouth pasty with thirst.
“Gotta get a drink,” I whispered to Don. Walking in the halls after bedtime was forbidden, but some could, some couldn’t. The rules, it seemed, were used to punish certain boys more than others and some not at all.
“Take it easy,” Don whispered. “Monson’s on the warpath. Been a witch ever since Max dove through the glass door.”
“I know,” I whispered, looking at Don in the dimness. “Did he die?”
“Nobody knows.”
I had never seen so much blood, but my throat was burning from terrible thirst, so I slid out of bed and stepped softly to the door. I peered into the hall where nightlights dimly lit the tomb-like hall. Tiptoeing to the fountain, I drank deeply while eyeing the sliver of light under Miss Monson’s door. Sipping my fill, I stole back to bed, ready to sleep. I thought I had been quiet, but soon footsteps approached our dorm, hesitating at first, then in that harried gait we knew so well.
“Jiggers, Pete,” Don rasped.
I lay on my back, knees tight to my chest, staring at the door. Miss Monson paused in the doorway, then without a word, she stepped to my bedside and struck me with something small and solid. I jerked and she hit me again before the weapon glinted in the glow from the hall. A hammer. Held as a carpenter would. It thumped against my chest forcing a grunt out, but I couldn’t feel anything. I grabbed at the hammer and was almost jerked out of bed before it came loose. I doubled up, knees high to protect myself, but Miss Monson kept swinging. The hammer cracked against my right kneecap, strangely numbing my lower leg.
Miss Monson wheezed some garbled nonsense. Her voice echoed softly, weirdly in the dorm. She raised the hammer overhead. For a terrifying moment, I thought she would hit me in the head, but she turned suddenly and left muttering to herself. For a moment everything was quiet and black.
“You okay, Pete?” Don whispered, leaning across the bed aisle. “Where’d she hitcha?”
I faced Don, moving only my head. “Hurts all over,” I murmured, but we were very quiet so Miss Monson couldn’t hear. I dared not examine the bruises. Certain that Miss Monson would return to kill me, I cowered under my covers. Shivering from exhaustion and fear, I slept to shorten that terrible night.
There was no indication, when Mrs. Burt snapped the light on in the morning, that she knew what had happened the night before. I sat numbly on the edge of the bed while Leo and Don dressed. Don winced at my bruises.
“Your knee’s got a hole in it,” he said. “And what’s that stuff coming out? It ain’t blood exactly.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said bitterly. Pulling my denims on, I eased to standing. “Yeah, it’s sore.”
Don looked at my chest bruises. “God, she’s crazy,” he said. “Shouldn’t we tell someone?”
“Who? Monson’s the dictator,” I muttered.
“Dunno. We better get to washing’ or she’ll bring a gun in here next.”
“She has a gun?”
“Oh, I dunno,” Don said. “Mom and Dad had one in their bedroom.”
Leo slept across the dorm from Don and appeared unmoved by what had happened. He was usually decent in the dorm, though seldom joined Don and me in conversation. His attempts to bully me, and others about the campus, seemed spur-of-the-moment to impress others.
All that day I hunched over to favor rib bruises and walked with a noticeable limp, which Miss Monson and Mrs. Burt ignored. By the time Miss Crusely arrived on shift, my knee limbered enough for my lameness to be hidden among twenty-eight boys. Because of rough play or a fall, as well as the overzealous application of a radiator brush o
r broom, it was not uncommon to have one or two boys limping among so many. I managed to conceal my bruises, but my knee inflamed and walking became very painful.
To scrub floors, we rolled up our pant legs and worked on hands and knees. Miss Crusely noticed I was not only favoring my knee but was working slower than the other boys. She sent me to bathe and early to bed. Not long after I climbed into bed, Don and Leo entered the bedroom, followed by Miss Crusely.
“You have a fever, which by the looks of it, comes from your knee,” Miss Crusely said. “Scrubbing probably infected it or made it worse. You should have said something yesterday.”
“It was Miss Monson,” Don said.
Miss Crusely turned to him. “You boys can tell Mrs. Burt when you’re sick or hurt.”
“Mrs. Burt?” he asked.
It was clear that Miss Crusely didn’t understand, but I didn’t know what to say. Don looked at Miss Crusely a moment. He stared out the window, then blurted, “Monson pounded him with a hammer! Look at his ribs.”
Her face frozen in disbelief, Miss Crusely rolled the covers back to my waist and lifted my nightgown up, “Let’s have a look.” She whispered to herself while inspecting the bruises. Miss Crusely seemed to believe Don, but she was helpless, for fear of being fired, to say anything against Miss Monson. However, in the morning, she sent me off to the hospital with a note written by Miss Monson.
I was the only patient in a six-bed ward. Miss Pearl and Miss Putter entered, followed by an Owatonna surgeon contracted by State Social Services. Dr. McEnaney was a round man in impeccably proper attire with a smoldering cigar he seemed to carry, more than smoke. He had just arrived on the main floor for morning rounds.
He set his cigar down and examined my knee. He exchanged subdued comments with Miss Putter and Miss Pearl, then Dr. McEnaney probed deep into my knee. Pain surged through my leg—like all my teeth aching at once—but, when he was finished, his jolliness made everything better. The empty ward was eerily quiet after the doctor and hospital staff left, and light streaming through the windows shifted hypnotically.