While the Locust Slept

by Peter Razor

  The mats were removed and Mr. Heiman ordered basketball relays while he gave Jorde first-aid. In spite of Mr. Heiman being there, I knelt beside Jorde offering my hand.

  Jorde’s permanent smile showed through a grimace while he shook my hand and said nasally, “You sure got a swing. You should hit John like that.”

  6

  One night when I was about three years old, staying in C-6, I awoke in the lap of the matron. She rocked me and caressed my back. I don’t know why she might have taken me from my bed, whether I was sick or maybe having a nightmare. All I remember is that she held me there, comforting me, until I slept. It stands alone in my memories of childhood. It was the only time I was ever held, and, because of that, it remains one of the strangest and happiest moments of my early life.

  …

  In early November, John tied a butcher steer to a post in the cow yard. I sat on the fence to distance myself from the slaughter, but John held up the sledgehammer and pointed to the animal’s forehead.

  “Come, you to hit there,” he said.

  I didn’t want to do it, but to avoid John’s anger, I stepped down, slowly made my way to John, and took the sledge. Biting my lower lip, I lifted the sledge and closed my eyes. I hit the steer on the head with a thud. The steer bellowed and sagged to its knees, its head swaying. I dropped the sledge and stared at the beast.

  “You to hit again. That not hard enough,” John said. He picked up the sledge and thrust it at me.

  “I’m not strong enough,” I cried. The steer was twitching and kicking.

  “Asshole,” John said.

  He took the sledge and hit the animal. I heard the sound of bones crushing. The steer kicked one last time and was dead. The meat was taken to Rushford and stored in a rented locker.

  I attended school regularly through the rest of November and until Christmas vacation. Early December, John began to leave the farm after morning chores and didn’t return until I had started evening chores. He was preparing to rent a small farm near Caledonia. He drank a lot at this time. I was used to his tirades when he drank, but now he openly berated Emma, too.

  I had little idea what went on privately between the Schaulses’. Emma knew that John could run a small farm without me, and she was pressing, though I didn’t know it then, to get rid of me. Whether John wanted the security of having his work done while he binged in town or he had to have someone to intimidate, he seemed intent on keeping me around. I knew we were going to Caledonia, but John would say nothing of a future school, and as far as Houston High was concerned, when I turned in my books, I was simply dropping out.

  Days before Christmas, the landlord paid us a visit. He was a stout man, well-dressed, in his thirties with a business-like demeanor, but kind. On a Sunday, weeks earlier, he had stopped by the farm and taken me squirrel hunting on a ridge farm he also owned. He seemed to have taken a liking to me.

  “Have a few things for the family,” he told Emma. “Can’t stay. Just wanted to wish you all a Merry Christmas.” He handed a sack to Emma, then turned to me. “Merry Christmas to you, too, Peter. Here’s a sweater for school and there’s another gift for you in the sack.”

  Inside the sack were socks and a billfold, which would hold nothing for some time to come. “Thanks,” I said.

  We began moving over Christmas vacation to the Lange farm, two miles northwest of Caledonia on a county road serviced by the school bus. The farm had been the Lange family home until they bought a tavern in Caledonia where they lived above the bar. Emma sent Mary and John, Jr., to the Bensons while we moved. Though the distance was only fourteen miles, hauling farm equipment and household goods was hard, cold work. We had to milk and do regular chores through it all and, thankfully, John drank little during the move. We often had others, including his brother, helping.

  On the last day, a truck arrived after morning chores. We moved the cows to the Caledonia farm and milked them that night under electric lights in a different barn. We were completely moved by the first of the year.

  Officially separated from Houston High during Christmas vacation, I looked forward to Caledonia High, but knew John had other plans. My move from Rushford to Caledonia became a loss, not only of friends, but of an important check on John’s behavior. Rose Benson could no longer help me.

  After my six weeks in the hospital, I feared that Miss Monson would attack me again, but I returned to a cottage with no more corporal punishment and no restrictions on walking in the halls after bedtime. Things seemed to improve. One evening that summer, the kids from all cottages were allowed to go to the gym and watch the older State School boys play basketball against the boys from the State School for the Deaf in Faribault. Another night, Miss Crusely organized a carnival in the C-15 basement giving us another evening of excitement, playing games of ring-toss and lobbing balls into cups, with popcorn balls as prizes. When summer arrived, there were picnics at Mineral Springs, just out of town, and bus rides to Clear Lake in Waseca, thirteen miles away. Swimming at the gravel pit and other trips into town were a chance to get near, but not yet talk to, girls our own age.

  The only activity I shared with girls was school. Puberty was upon us, but the staff never explained anything about relationships with girls. They quoted Scriptures or other authority, then left us to figure things out for ourselves. They didn’t even help us with the basics of conversation. The staff taught us to shake hands, say good morning and goodbye, but nothing of those rituals binding people to each other and society. But my dark years in C-15 were about to end.

  After breakfast one morning in the assembly room, Mrs. Burt pointed to me and said, “You’re going to C-16 this morning.”

  Mrs. Burt saw me out the back door of C-15 for the last time. “Give this to Mrs. Steele soon’s you get there, or you’ll miss dinner,” she said, thrusting a paper at me. She said no more and did not offer her hand, which seemed perfectly normal after five years with her. She had only touched me with brooms and radiator brushes—and to hold my lips shut while she squeezed my cheeks to make sure the soap foamed. My personal possessions in one hand, State School clothes over the other arm, I walked away without looking back.

  I was met at the door of C-16 by Matron Mrs. Steele and Mrs. Cory, an assistant. The matron was middle-aged or younger, and slightly overweight, with graying black hair.

  “Peter Razor, is it?” Mrs. Steele said. She pulled a folder from under her arm and scanned it. “It seems you have a knee problem. How is it?” She glanced at my torn denims.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “You’re hard on pants, too,” she said, then raised her voice. “Miss Monson thinks you trifle too much.”

  “What?”

  Dale Cole appeared in my side vision.

  “Well, keep your nose clean and you’ll get along,” she said. “Mrs. Cory will explain the rules.” She aimed her thumb toward Mrs. Cory.

  “There’ll be no chores today,” Mrs. Cory said, as Mrs. Steele headed for her apartment. “You can get acquainted with the grounds until dinner. Come Monday you’ll work in the gardens.”

  I frowned, thinking of Mr. Beaty.

  Mrs. Cory faced Dale, “You know each other?”

  “Yeah,” we both responded.

  “Good,” she said, turning to Dale. “Show Peter around, but get him back in time for dinner. And don’t leave the grounds just yet.”

  Miss Klein, on the other shift, was also decent to me. Still in her early thirties, she wore glasses and her brown hair had a neat perm. She was pleasantly uncomplicated, doing what the matron expected of her. A boy could argue with her, even talk her down, but she never veered from schedules. Little out of the ordinary happened my first months at C-16; working for Mr. Beaty in the gardens was tolerable and the dark discomfort of C-3 and C-15 seemed to fade.

  The thirty-two boys in C-16 ranged in age from twelve through high school. It was confusing at first, sleeping near and working with older boys. Their talk was strange, even dull at times—about girls, w
ork, errands in town, or athletics. Hierarchies seemed driven by hormones in one sense, age in another. But, with its variety of talents among scholars and athletes, C-16 became interesting. Some smoked, others had friends from the girls’ cottages. There were no individual lessons in music or dance, of which I was aware, nor counseling on making friends with girls. Boys who danced or played instruments, and those understanding boy-girl relationships, brought their skills from real homes.

  Mrs. Cory sent me to work occasionally for Mr. Distad, the storeroom supervisor whose office was amid the clutter of incoming and outgoing supplies in the basement of the Main Building. Peter is a good worker, converses intelligently … is a pleasure to have around, Mr. Distad wrote. Polio had left him paralyzed and confined to a wheelchair. He was the first male employee to talk about things outside our work, and give work instructions in a thoughtful, kindly manner. Few employees disputed the first assessment of a child, but Mr. Distad was willing to frame his own opinions.

  The Schaulses’ move from Rushford to Caledonia afforded us certain comforts. We had hot and cold running water in the house and barn and an inside bathroom, and I had a warm bedroom. With electricity, I no longer needed candles, which had all but prohibited reading in bed, the only place I could. My bedroom was spacious with hardwood flooring, a chair, table, and a heat grate opening down to the living room. A small domestic refrigerator, the likes of which I had never seen, dominated the kitchen.

  Chores became even easier when John bought a portable milker for two cows at a time. We were no sooner settled on the new farm, however, than John’s ranting began. I kept hoping they would send me away.

  We sat for supper on a cold day in January.

  “We don’t need Peter no more,” Emma said. “They’s electricity and a milker, and the fields is close to the buildings. He’s been nothing but trouble since we took him.”

  “Maybe he iss dumb. He do chores and help with work,” John said.

  “That’s what you says,” Emma said. “Who has to wash and mend his clothes? You give me barely enough money for food.”

  “Watch your mouth, woman. I puts food on the table and works the farm. I sees he earns keep.”

  I knew John would get his way. He always did. Excusing myself, I went to the barn to prepare for milking. No matter what they said, I wasn’t too young or dumb to escape life with the Schaulses. I was, by now, too numb.

  John could hide his violations of the contract in the matter of my wages, negligence, and outright abuse from overworked social workers who were more interested in checking off a visit to a client than in search for problems. By keeping me out of school against my wishes, however, John visibly stretched the placement contract to default. Four weeks had passed since Christmas vacation, and John still kept me home.

  He couldn’t ignore a letter from State Social Services in early February, however, which he and Emma discussed in the living room. Enough of their conversation drifted up through the heat grate for me to understand.

  “They wonder if we’re doing good on the new farm,” Emma said. “What do we tell them?”

  “Dat ever’tings good and Peter’s good,” John replied.

  “They wonder how he’s doing in school,” Emma said. She sounded nervous.

  “Maybe tink of something,” John said.

  “You tell them, I’m not saying he’s in school when he hain’t,” Emma said. “When’re you going to send him away, inahow?”

  After hushed talk, John spoke louder, “Maybe we let him go school for now.”

  That Friday, during a somber evening meal, I was told I could begin school the following Monday. The second Monday of February, wearing clean though shabby clothes, I caught the school bus for the first time at Caledonia. The smell of cow manure went with me and I couldn’t have walked too briskly. If I were shy that first day at Houston High, I had reason to be even more so on my first day at Caledonia High.

  Inside the school searching for the office, I edged along the wall away from student traffic. Locating the office, I waited at the counter as the secretary worked her way through first-comes. She approached me last.

  “Good morning, young man,” the secretary said. “What can I do for you?” She placed both hands on the counter, stiffened her arms, and smiled.

  “Uh. I’m supposed to register for school?” I said.

  “I’d say you’re in the right place,” she said, taking pencil and paper. Her smile brightened and I felt more at ease. “I’ll need your grade and former school so I can send for your transcript.”

  “Tenth grade,” I replied, watching her write. “Houston High. Biology, English, social studies. I missed … maybe two months of school this year, all told. Is that all right?”

  “It isn’t, but if you work extra hard, you might just make it,” she said. “I better write that down, Mr. Zuelke should know about that—help you catch up, that sort of thing.” She handed me the paper. “Room 205, Mr. Zuelke. That’ll be your homeroom; it’s also biology. Things may change when we get your transcript, but this’ll get you started. Mr. Zuelke is also our gym teacher and coach. Big man, hard to miss.”

  Knocking on the door of room 205, I waited, then stepped back as a large man filled the doorway, gazing down on me.

  “Yes?”

  “The office said to come … come here,” I stammered

  “Yes, of course.” Mr. Zuelke took the paper. “Come in.” He scanned the paper as I passed him and waited just inside the room. He murmured almost too low to hear, “Missed two months. Mmm. Could be a problem.” He pointed to an empty desk. “Sit there. I’ll assign someone to help you catch up.”

  After class, Mr. Zuelke stood alongside the door as students filed out. He reached past others and gently gripped my upper arm, pulling me alongside the door near another boy.

  “Peter, this is Terry. He has agreed to help you catch up,” Mr. Zuelke said. “I’ll ask Gene, who’s not here today, to help as well. Both are excellent students.”

  “Hi,” Terry said, smiling broadly. “I guess we have the same classes.”

  “Hi,” I said forcing a smile.

  Terry waved himself off, “Gotta run, Peter. Call you Pete?”

  “Sure, anything.”

  “See you in study hall, then.” Terry nodded to Mr. Zuelke and disappeared.

  Gene, who lived farther out on our rural route, also helped me in study hall. It was usually easy for me to catch up in the natural sciences, but biology involved more memory and research, and it seemed impossible that I could cram enough before final exams. Fortunately, John did not keep me home until fieldwork began in March, allowing me to catch up in most classes.

  The last Saturday of March, as John and I prepared field equipment near the silo, a car entered the driveway, stopped by the house, and a young woman, whom I had never met, stepped out.

  “Yoo-hoo,” the woman called, waving while stepping toward us.

  John straightened and strode over to meet her. After conversing low with her, he faced me.

  “You to come,” he said, motioning.

  I approached John and the woman in slow measured movement and stood aside as they faced each other.

  “This Miss Angier,” John said.

  Looking at the ground, I glanced from John’s boots to Miss Angier’s shoes.

  “Hello, Peter. I’m from State Social Services,” she said, offering her hand.

  “Hello,” I said and shook her hand.

  “How have you been? Miss Borsch wondered how you’re making out in your new school.”

  “Okay, I guess,” I said, staring at the ground.

  “Are you sure there isn’t something you want to tell me?” Miss Angier asked. A concerned look wrinkled her face and she leaned forward as though a whisper would do.

  I couldn’t look her in the face and wanted to scream about John and that crazy farm. Instead I just stared and mumbled at the ground. “Guess not.”

  She turned to John. “May I speak to Peter in m
y car?”

  “What’s he say to you, he say to me,” John snapped. I didn’t look, but his voice said he stared wide-eyed down the bridge of his nose at her.

  “Well …” Miss Angier said, and paused. “Well, I see there’s little to be done at this time.” She extended her hand to me. “Be sure to contact me if you have any questions.” She slowly got into her car, sat a moment staring through the windshield, then started the engine and drove off.

  I felt depressed for days after. I did not know that Emma had been writing letters asking State Social Services to remove me immediately. Supposedly, the letters had John’s blessing, but during the social worker’s visit, nothing was mentioned by either Miss Angier or John. Emma remained out of sight in the house. But the visit seemed to have meant something, for John was quieter and I missed no more school before summer vacation.

  Gene took biology and English with me. When Mr. Zuelke asked him to help me catch up, he did, reluctantly at first. I did not realize that my sullenness and dress would cause even the friendliest of kids to keep their distance. In the beginning, Gene and I talked on the bus, mostly about our classes. Soon, we talked about farming and our homes.

  “Only a week to exams,” Terry muttered. We were in study hall, Terry, Gene, and I, whispering the latest news.