by Peter Razor
Miss Pearl returned with a packet. She washed my leg, put salve on my knee and wrapped it with a hot water bottle pack. She started for the door, then stopped facing me.
“It’s infected into a carbuncle, but Doctor thinks it began with an injury. How’d it happen?”
I shrugged and closed my eyes. Miss Pearl left.
The fever was sapping and I slept through the day, waking for dinner, temps, and hot-water-bottle changes. As night approached walking became very painful, but I needed only to visit the chamber pot at room center. A boy with a severe headache arrived in the ward that evening.
Miss Putter and Dr. McEnaney on ward rounds the following morning, lanced my knee, seeming unhappy with my progress.
“This blistering about the knee,” Dr. McEnaney clucked as he worked. “How hot was the water pack?”
“It itches,” I said. Stiff with pain, I missed much of their talk while trying not to squirm as he again dug into my knee.
“Peter can’t walk on zet leg,” Miss Putter said after they finished lancing.
“I’m not surprised,” Dr. McEnaney said. “The infection is quite deep.” His smile and knowing look comforted me. “He looks poorly. Perhaps supplements and UV therapy….”
Miss Pearl returned with dinner, complete with six pills, which I would have with every meal. Some were for the infection, some possibly food supplements. Sulfa was important then; penicillin had been developed, but the military used it all or perhaps, like painkillers, it hadn’t yet come to state institutions.
After dinner, Miss Pearl rolled an ultraviolet lamp into the ward. “Off with your gown,” she said, “I’ll be right back.” She dropped a washcloth on my bed.
At C-3, one spring, we boys, age six to ten, undressed to shorts in the basement and were given a towel as we filed out to the front lawn near the main building. We were told to lie on the towel and take our shorts off, and the matron walked around laying wash clothes or small hand towels on each of us.
“We’ll sun your fronts a half hour, and your backsides a half hour,” Mrs. Kruger said. I did not know whether we were sunned for vitamin D or to treat a different problem, but I was embarrassed lying naked on the main street not far from the girls’ cottages.
But I was too feverish now to be embarrassed; I pulled my gown off and laid the cloth in place. Miss Pearl returned to fit small dark goggles over my eyes.
“When was your last bath, young man?”
“Last night,” I said shivering. “It’s cold in here.”
“That’s your fever,” she said. I felt her remove the pack and wash my leg. Then everything went quiet. A fingertip touched a chest bruise, then one on my upper arm, finally a large one on my shoulder. “Thought it was dirt,” she said. “We play rough, don’t we?”
She smiled, but I shifted uneasily and didn’t answer.
“Miss Monson’s note doesn’t say whether you slipped or were pushed.”
I stayed silent.
“We’ll do your front for half an hour each day. Every other day, we’ll also do your backside.”
My knee deteriorated the following days and soon smelled rotten, forcing me to turn my head aside during lancing to avoid the stench. Fever and leg pain made using the chamber pot an excruciating exercise.
“Mmm, bad business,” Dr. McEnaney muttered one day. “Deep in the joint.… Certainly injury-based. Perhaps the medicine needs more time.” After the headache boy returned to his cottage, I was alone until Mickey arrived on my fourth or fifth day. Miss Pearl helped him into a gown and collected his clothes before leaving.
Mickey slept most of that day and moaned softly in his sleep. He had fallen off the top of pipes supporting the jungle gym, and he had compound fractures of both bones in his left forearm. Climbing on the pipes of the jungle gym was forbidden, but some children, including me, did it, anyway.
On his second day, Mickey sat up in bed, looked around, then at me. “Know you from school. You’re a grade behind me,” he said. He was pale and appeared weak.
“Seen you in school, too,” I said softly. “Wanta play cards when you’re better?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Mickey agreed, settling back down in his bed.
As he improved, Mickey played cards with me on my bed; we joked and played guessing games. Though still mildly feverish, it was wonderful to converse with another human being. Between meals and temps, the hospital ward was a lonely, desolate place. Staff were gentle, but their talk was restricted mostly to treatment.
Lancing stopped after the first week and the knee infection healed. A secondary infection, Dr. McEnaney called it, spread down my leg in the form of pus nodules—little white volcanoes a third of an inch across, which the doctor drained as they appeared. Strange doctors examined me one day, but nothing changed. Eighteen pills per day, ultraviolet after dinner, and my temperature was normal by the third week. Then the little pus nodules were gone and I began to think I would really get well.
After weeks of kind treatment by the staff, my flinch lessened, and, without realizing it, I began to relax when staff came near.
“I believe you’re filling out, Peter,” Miss Pearl said one day during the ultraviolet treatment. “And your bruises are gone too.”
“Ribs are still sore,” I said.
“That’ll pass.”
“Wish I could walk.”
“Yes, it’s been over three weeks, but you need your strength first.”
“How much longer?”
“Doctor will have to tell you that,” she said, “but pretty soon, I’d say.”
Sunday afternoon, beginning my fourth week in bed, the hospital was expectedly quiet between Sunday dinner and temps. Soft conversation down the hall was evidence of other patients. I was thumbing the pages of a National Geographic as footsteps approached the ward, and I stopped, staring at the doorway. Surprises at the cottage were often dreadful, but at the hospital, they made me curious.
Miss Pearl entered with a deck of cards. Nodding toward Mickey, she sat beside me on the bed. “Mick’s sleeping, I see,” she said.
I edged away from her, but could move only inches on the narrow bed. “Guess so,” I said.
“What’re you reading?” Miss Pearl asked, leaning to scan the magazine.
“About South America and that.” I was confused by Miss Pearl’s behavior, but didn’t sense anything to fear.
“Want to learn how to play solitaire?” she asked sliding the deck out and shuffling it.
“I know two kinds.”
“Well, I can teach you six games, then you can pass the time better,” she said. She showed me the games, watching me closely while talking about things no employee ever had. She discussed my schoolwork, her family. She asked me about my thoughts on a number of topics. Other staff began to linger, Miss Plum on night shift, too, chatting for half an hour at a time on weekends. They gave me The Book of Knowledge, a children’s encyclopedia, Indian books, and novels. No staff, including teachers, had shown interest in my thoughts before.
One morning, a shot of pain went through my knee while I used the chamber pot. I fell, spilling a night’s accumulation. Wrapped in one of my sheets, I was carried to the tub by two staff members while the floor was cleaned and freshened. After dinner, the same day, Miss Pearl returned after putting the ultraviolet lamp away. “We’re moving you upstairs now,” she said lightly.
“Because of the spill?”
“Not at all. We put patients there who are well on to recovery.” She wrapped a heavy towel about my knee as she talked.
“I feel better,” I said, “but my knee still hurts.”
“Even so, Doctor Mac and Miss Putter think you should be walking soon,” she said, smiling.
“Guess I can make it upstairs,” I said.
“We thought of that,” Miss Pearl said, seemingly preoccupied with her work. “Besides, you’ve been in bed just too long and your good leg is weak. A maintenance man has agreed to take you after he finishes repairs.”
> I stared out the window, suddenly very uncomfortable. Beaty? Kruger? “Maybe we shouldn’t bother him. He’s probably busy and all,” I said. “I think I could make it upstairs on my own.”
Miss Pearl smiled. “Miss Putter says you’re to be carried, and that’s that.”
A large man filled the doorway. “Where’s this kid who’s too lazy to walk?” the man asked. He was a young stranger to me and wore bib overalls.
I avoided looking at the man.
“Over here, Dan,” Miss Pearl said. “He’s not heavy, but awkward to carry. I appreciate your taking the time for this.”
“No trouble,” Dan said, approaching, extending his arms toward me. I must have trembled as the man slid one arm under my upper legs, wrapped the other around my back, and lifted.
“What’s his problem?” Dan said past my ear.
I panted and squirmed in anxiety.
“He’s stiff as a board; acts like I’m going to kill him.”
“Oh, Peter’s all right,” Miss Pearl said casually. “Hasn’t been held much. Take him to the northwest ward.” She patted my arm as Dan started through the door. “I’ll be right behind you.” She motioned toward Dan’s neck. “You’ll ride better if you put your arms around his neck and hold on.”
Miss Pearl’s eyebrows arched and I quickly circled Dan’s neck with my arms as we moved slowly down the hall.
“How ya doing, kid,” Dan said.
Peering anxiously over his elbow at the floor, I didn’t respond. Looking backward as we went up the stairway frightened me. I was forced to look forward so our faces nearly touched. As we rounded the landing going up, the corners of our eyes met.
“Good thing you’re light,” Dan murmured. “How’s the leg?”
“Good,” I mustered the courage to say.
In the new ward, Dan set me gently on the bed.
“Thanks for taking me, Dan,” I said.
“It’s okay. Get better, huh,” Dan said as he disappeared.
Teachers talked about the men we’d be when we grew up, about becoming fathers, soldiers, or inventors, but we never saw any of those people at our school. I couldn’t picture them. I had nothing but fear and hatred for Beaty, and Dr. Yager and Mr. Doleman were always trying to intimidate me. I waved to Dan as he turned to leave. It was the first time I was thankful to a man for anything.
The new ward overlooked the orchard, a winter scene of trees, snow, and the C-16 playground in the distance. The north border of the playground was a row of pines and a railroad. Boys came and went over the next week. Some stayed one day, some two to three days. Steve, with a broken leg, was wheeled in late one afternoon by Miss Pearl. After he recovered enough, we amused ourselves by tossing rag balls and playing guessing games.
In spite of not walking, I was at peace. Miss Pearl and others brought more books and chatted with me when they had time. After the fourth week, all treatments stopped, so I was more alert. I watched everything going on outside my window. Winter birds, C-16 boys playing in the snow, trains chugging past. I looked for the engine to emerge snorting and wheezing clouds of smoke from under the bridge. Long after the echoes faded and the last wisp of smoke melted into the pines, I thought where those trains were going.
By the end of the fifth week, I cautiously stood while holding onto the bed, feeling only a dull ache.
“Hey Steve, can I use your crutches?” I asked, one night just before dinner.
“Hey, I don’t know about that,” Steve hedged. “Ever use crutches?”
“Nope. Give you my dessert,” I promised.
“Whadaya mean? You’ll lose yours too, if we get caught.”
“Then I’ll give you the first one I get,” I insisted.
“You shouldn’t anyhow, might hurt yourself worse,” he said. “You know what happened when I was in the hall.”
Steve stole to the girls ward a week earlier. Seen by staff, he fell off his crutches rushing back to the ward.
“Well, I’m not going in the hall. You gonna let me?”
Steve relented. He reached over the side of his bed and slid the crutches across the ward. He then lay back with his hands behind his head, smirking.
It felt strange balancing on crutches, like learning to walk again, and I was weak, lightheaded. I leaned forward, moved the crutches one step before my good leg weakened. I shoved the crutches away and dropped to my hands and good knee. I was relieved when instead of a sharp pain, the bad knee only ached—like a ringing funny bone. I sat on the floor until the knee would stop buzzing. Too late. Miss Pearl entered with Steve’s dinner tray, set it on his bedside stand and gazed down at me on her way back into the hall. She brought my tray, set it on the bedside table and stood over me, hands on hips.
“I was going to use … use the chamber,” I said, higher than my normal range.
“See if I have this right,” Miss Pearl started, trying hard not to smile. “You normally use the chamber near your bed, now it’s in the center of the room. And there’s the matter of two crutches lying all over creation.” She reached down to me. “I’d almost bet,” she paused before she lifted. “That the pot has not been used.” She talked into my ear as she set me on the bed. “You’re not to use crutches until the doctor says so. If you needed help, you should have asked.” Her words were clipped with irritation, but she smiled on her way out of the ward.
That afternoon, before going off duty, Miss Pearl returned.
“So, you want to walk, do you?” she said. “The doctor thinks you’re ready.”
She held me about the waist and helped me walk about my bed.
The next afternoon, I was ordered to sit in a chair for an hour before the exercise. After more days, I walked alone with Miss Pearl watching, then for the smiling doctor one morning. I soon could walk continuously around the ward, finding it less perilous to use the chamber pot.
The nurses continued to show me things, talk with me, and bring more books. Before long I was able to walk on my own. My disability had been the result of damaged cartilage, both from the hammer attack itself and the infection from scrubbing floors on the open wound. In the end, it was enough to put me in the hospital for over three months, but it was a veiled blessing. In those months, I conversed more hours with staff outside their duties than I had in all my previous years. When my knee became firm enough to support me for long periods, I returned to C-15.
After two weeks of school, John kept me home on the Rushford farm for a full week.
“We’s to shock corn,” he said. I went to school the following week, after which I immediately lost another week of school. “We’s to get winter wood,” he said. I missed another week in October; then many single days throughout the fall, at least one per week.
With no provision in the contract for wages during the school year, my missing weeks of school meant that John got his work done, paid no lunch or bus fees, and still didn’t pay wages. Not that he would have paid me, but his bookkeeping was simplified and, if he played his cards right, I’d fail school. Fortunately for John, Social Services did not check his finances. Nor did they force him, as the placement contract stipulated, to put a fixed portion of my wages in a trust fund, which would have been returned to me at age eighteen.
My classes were not hard that fall, but missing so much school, as I had during ninth grade, I found it difficult to maintain passing grades. Most of my teachers were sympathetic—except my gym coach, Mr. Heiman. He wanted all boys dressed alike and always ridiculed my State School gym shorts and sleeveless T-shirt. Teachers at Houston couldn’t touch the students—unlike at the State School, where even teachers slapped students and whacked them with paddles and rulers. Mr. Heiman had to be more careful. Once he tried to get me a beating and make it appear the luck of the draw.
Our class entered the gymnasium Wednesday and lined up for roll call.
“What’re the mats for?” I whispered to Jorde, and pointed at four mats forming a square in the center of gym.
“Boxing,” Jo
rde said, nodding at the door.
Talk was that Jorde was a good boxer. I was glad for him so long as I didn’t have to box. I did not box at the State School, Owatonna High, nor during ninth grade at Houston High. Boxing at the State School was extracurricular or for the Golden Gloves. Hard work and a meager diet kept me leaner than most boys my weight.
Mr. Heiman entered holding two pair of boxing gloves by the ties. He pointed to the mats and said, “We’re going to box today, one match at a time.” He gazed down the line of boys as he sidled near Jorde. “Jorde’s a good boxer, I’ll have him start. The rest can take pointers.” He handed Jorde a pair of gloves, and casually scanned the class before returning his gaze to me.
“You look about Jorde’s weight. Step over to the scale with him.”
“I can’t box; don’t like to neither,” I said.
“Do you want a failure for the day?” Mr. Heiman snapped. His faced hardened.
“All right by me,” I replied, hoping that would end the matter.
“You’re not afraid, are you?” Mr. Heiman persisted, speaking loud enough so all could hear.
“That’s not it—”
He started to laugh.
I breathed deeply and reached for the gloves, “All right, I’ll do it.”
I did not expect to be ridiculed into boxing in a high school gym class. Boxing was fighting; fighting meant anger, and I certainly didn’t want to fight a friend.
Jorde’s smile failed to hide a flicker of discomfort on his face. “We’ll just spar, Pete,” he said as our gloves were tied on. “What is it, anyhow, couple minutes?”
Jorde weighed in heavier than me, but within the allowable weight spread. We were both five-foot eight.
Mr. Heiman blew his whistle; we touched gloves and began to spar. I shuffled with firmly planted feet while Jorde danced. Our gloves slapped and I swung halfhearted until Jorde snapped my head, almost making me fall. The jab hurt, and friends were not supposed to hurt each other, even in sport. I suddenly wanted to put boxing behind me—Jorde would have to pay for the teacher’s prejudice. Taking two deliberate steps forward—street fighting—ignoring Jorde, I waded through his guard and gave him two very hard blows to the head. I was still sore from the sow accident, and pain shot through my wrist. Jorde went flat on his back, stunned, then slowly propped on his elbows, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. If Jorde was surprised, I was even more so and Mr. Heiman, perhaps, the most. His plan had backfired.