While the Locust Slept

by Peter Razor

  Weather data: St. Paul, July 31, 1943 : 94 degrees, 78 percent humidity under clear skies.

  Later, without fully awakening us, our car was sidetracked at a small town south of St. Paul. It was quiet when I awoke dripping sweat near midday. A scorcher, Cory would have called it. I remember thinking, It’s dinnertime at the school. Dale and Billy stood in the doorway and, seeing me awake, pointed at a boy who walked along the street that crossed the track.

  “Ask him about water and food?” Billy asked.

  “Be all right, I guess,” I said. Dale and Billy stepped to the ground and sauntered toward the boy who seemed ready to run, but stood a safe distance as my friends questioned him. Back in the boxcar, Dale nodded toward the boy who had turned and headed back into town glancing once over his shoulder at us.

  “No trains on weekends,” Dale said. “Water up the street, though.” We were very hungry, but needed water most. We located the well, drank to nearly bloating, as though we drank to satisfy our hunger too. We rested on a bench near the fountain and argued what next to do. It seemed risky being around people, which had been our downfall in Waseca, and, with options limited by our naïveté, we decided to walk the rails.

  The railroad right-of-way became an oven in the brilliant, unrelenting sun. Not one wisp of cloud marked the sky, even the occasional breezes were stifling, and the extreme humidity sent sweat running off us. Leaves hung motionless from trees along the track. The tree line was shimmering illusions dancing with heat in the distance. I can’t say why we didn’t see heat, thirst, and hunger as adversaries before we struck off. I just wanted more distance between the school and us.

  We dragged along, Dale and I falling back by turns to be with Billy who lagged constantly. A nod of the head, a finger twitch, or subtle arm movement was talk enough when each knew what needed doing. The track was an endless ribbon, the town never quite disappearing behind us, but when I looked back once, suddenly it was gone. Everything moved in slow motion, appearing, becoming familiar then tiresome, before fading slowly behind.

  The sun had moved just west of high noon when we stopped at a gravel road crossing the track. We stared at a farm on its dead end.

  “They might give water,” Dale said.

  “Maybe food,” Billy added.

  “Nobody gives food,” Dale said.

  I shrugged in resignation, pointing at the farmhouse. “We hafta ask for water anyhow. Don’t we?”

  “Sure, why not?” Dale said.

  “Cause we’ll die if we don’t,” I snapped.

  “You don’t have to get huffy,” Dale said. He headed toward the farm, with Billy and me behind.

  A woman stepped out of the house as we wandered into the farmyard. Middle-aged, she wore a wrinkled apron over a print dress, her hair was in a bun and her glasses sat low on her nose. She looked like a younger Miss Monson or that strict teacher whose name I can’t recall.

  “Good afternoon, boys,” the woman said with unmistakable chill.

  Dale and I looked bashfully at the ground.

  “Can we have some water?” Billy asked, his fingers nervously twined together, and the corners of his mouth sagged like his shoulders. He looked worse than unhappy, but was best at talking to outsiders.

  The woman carefully watched us and, without uncrossing her arms, she pointed with one finger toward a tin cup hanging on the pump. “Help yourself,” she said, her voice crisp, cautious.

  We drank ourselves full again then thanked her almost in unison.

  As Dale and I turned toward the road, Billy paused and shyly stepped toward her, asking, “Do you have bread and ja—?”

  “You boys have a good day, now,” the woman interrupted, her tone flat. Her arms still crossed, she waved us off with one palm, after which she turned toward the house.

  Billy stepped back, snapping his head to gaze blankly at Dale as if he had been slapped hard. The rebuff was expected, but I wanted to scream as I watched her disappear behind the screen door. Trudging back toward the tracks, I looked back once to see a curtain pulled aside and a figure looking out.

  The heat was unbearable as we started down the rails, my mouth again becoming parched. I weakened faster than before and moved slowly after sitting for a time to avoid the dizziness with blurred vision and dancing spots. And that distant shimmering, was it just heat waves?

  Billy collapsed near a swamp. Dale and I, too young and fatigued to realize the seriousness of his weakness—or our own—doused him and ourselves with brackish water until he improved. After resting, Billy agreed to keep moving.

  Farther on, we spotted a cement stock tank nestled in a shady pasture. Artesian water, sparkling as it flowed from a pipe, lured us to drink and rest, then drink again. We rested a very long time, and I imagined sleeping forever in that shady haven, but I knew we couldn’t.

  “We got to keep going or we just ain’t going to make it,” I said.

  Dale muttered, “Unless we plan to die here.”

  I felt better, though still listless, as we climbed the grade and started down the track. Dale and I slowly walked beside Billy.

  We had all but outgrown old T-shirts, the sleeves shrunk nearly to the shoulders and the lower hem pulled up from our waists. By late afternoon, before realizing it, we were all severely sunburned. Dale’s blistered bright cherry, Billy turned almost maroon, and I was a deep auburn. Not realizing our sunburns would more than sting, we plodded on in the intense sunshine.

  The track aggregate burned our feet, forcing us to walk the cooler north grade, which caused my troublesome knee to ache. We all complained of sore ankles, walking there just long enough to cool our tennis shoes, which were all but falling off by now. We found twine to wrap our shoes, extending their usefulness for a while. Soon, a large opening appeared to our right, which sloped down to a lake.

  “Mississippi River widens and goes kinda slow,” Billy murmured, almost to himself. The obvious needed no debate and we shuffled down to the water.

  My sunburn stung sharply as water touched it, but I eased into the water, clothes and all, squatting to immerse completely. We all undressed while soaking, and rinsed our clothes. Then, driven by that eternal thirst, I let water run into my mouth and swallowed. I can’t say whether Dale or Billy drank. Having eaten nothing since supper the previous day and with little energy to warm us, we soon cooled to almost shivering and crawled out on hands and knees. We hung our clothes on bushes to dry then stretched out and slept.

  I awoke in deeper shade to see Dale awake. He had donned his pants and, without a T-shirt, appeared haggard with a white chest and sunburn blisters on his arms, neck, and face. Billy looked the least gaunt though his sunburn was beginning to blister too. Pants and T-shirts on, belts buckled loosely in the last holes, we continued north. Our struggle must have taken us over ten miles by evening. We walked in welcome shade, but my sunburn felt as though the sun still scorched.

  Stopping beneath a concrete bridge over the tracks, we climbed high on the bank beneath it where we each found a level spot and lay down. Billy slept almost instantly while Dale and I whispered. I was exhausted but ached terribly, and my sunburn kept me from sleeping other than on my back. To keep my arms from rubbing the ground, I tied my wrists with twine to my belt in front.

  In the morning, numb and weak, I stared at the concrete underside of the bridge. One arm remained fastened, but the sunburn felt no worse on the other. Unwilling to move, I faced my head east and stared at the track below until the first rays of sunshine glinted on the rails.

  Dale sat on one foot and leaned forward, his temple resting on the other leg while he stared at the brightening world. Still sleeping, Billy seemed more at peace than the day before. Sleep smoothed his forehead, and the anxiety-purse of his mouth was gone, but he still looked awful. He soon groaned and sat bleary eyed, his forehead wrinkling again. The tip of his tongue squeezed through tight lips and he gazed at me, misery creeping into his eyes.

  “Used to hate hash, now I’d eat three helpin
gs,” Dale said, steadying himself against the bridge. Little more was said as we descended to the track and straggled north, no longer searching for anything but water.

  High, scattered clouds streaked the west, but clear skies threatened another day of searing heat. No one spoke more than necessary through the morning, and we spent long periods sitting on the track breathing heavily.

  We slept in a shady pasture near midday, mostly in cat naps, too tired and achy for sound sleep. Each time I awoke, I felt less like pushing on. Clouds formed while we rested, but the temperature remained in the nineties. Their shade above the railroad grade made it feel tolerably cooler, easing our trek as we pushed the rest of the afternoon toward the city.

  The city had seemed elusive during two days of walking but, suddenly, we were in South St. Paul, then downtown St. Paul. We found shelter near the river under a concrete roadway, the earthwork of which sloped down to the railroad tracks. Hunger continued to gnaw at us again, and with time left before sunset, we decide to climb up the hill looking for food.

  Billy seemed to have built a wall between himself and us. His trip was already done; he needed only circumstance through which to exit. A small green with a fountain and benches was near the rim of the hill, where we drank, then flopped on the grass. Sighing endlessly, I thought how easy it would be to stop breathing.

  Billy stood and pointed at an alley across the street.

  “Got to pee,” he mumbled, gazing along his arm as he talked.

  There was something strange in his voice and manner, but too exhausted to figure it out, Dale and I waved him on. Billy went down the alley without once looking back and disappeared behind buildings. After some time, Dale and I decided that he must have turned himself in. We were somber as we returned to our nest under the overpass.

  There had been no weekend trains from Owatonna to the Twin Cities. In the wee hours after midnight, a monster thundered below us. Smoke and cinders billowed up, collecting under the overpass, nearly smothering us before we rolled down beside the rumbling boxcars. It was still dark after the train passed so we climbed back up to sleep longer.

  We awoke at dawn and followed the track around a jutting of the hill.

  “Wow,” Dale whispered, as a railroad yard appeared. “Whole trains, looks like.” Hoping to find a boxcar with food, we shuffled furtively across an open space to the greatest concentration of cars. I felt vulnerable in full view of railroad men seen at the far end of the yard.

  “What would happen if someone caught us here?” I asked.

  “Dunno,” Dale said. “Better be careful though, the railroad cops have gats.”

  “Guns?” I said, my voice sounding more like a whisper. “They wouldn’t use them on us, would they?”

  “Dincha hear about those two guys who ran away couple years ago?” Dale said. “Talk is they was gunned down in Mankato.”

  I caught the tired glint in Dale’s eyes.

  “Dontcha know,” I grumbled, “it’s bad luck wrong to tell stories right when it could happen?”

  After strolling about the yard, we were convinced the boxcars contained only steel, lumber, or were empty. A man from the other side of the yard saw us and started our way.

  “Looks like we’re headed back to the State School,” I said.

  “Follow me,” Dale said. He walked away from the railroad car, but we were forced to walk near the man.

  “Hello, boys,” the man said. “Better not let the super catch you out here.”

  We were surprised that the man did not try to catch us, and we sat to plan our next move.

  “Hey,” Dale said and pointed under a boxcar. Following his finger I saw water drip from a car one row over. “Refrigerator,” I whispered. We shuffled to the next row.

  The refrigerator cars had insulated double doors that swung outward, which were easier to open than the sliding doors of boxcars. Dale found a scrap-iron rod, broke the seal, and we desperately pried at the door. My hands trembled with the prospect of finding food and the dread of an empty car. The door creaked open.

  “Holy Cow,” I said softly.

  Crates of fresh fruit were stacked to the ceiling. Our eyes opened wider then they had in days. Adrenaline flowed through us, and we burned the last of our energy tearing crates apart. With closed eyes, I ate handfuls of pears and apricots. Juice ran from the corners of our mouths and fruit pits dribbled near our feet. We had eaten our fill and, at midday, it was no longer hot as Dale and I sat with four crates of fruit in the corner of a boxcar. Planning to stay awake to watch for railroad workers, I don’t remember when I slipped into a deep stupor.

  Jarred awake by a giant sledgehammer, I awoke huddled to myself. My first clear awareness was of boxcar wheels squealing on curving yard rails. Listless after what seemed a very long sleep, I crawled on hands and knees to the door where Dale already sat, and peered through soiled locks ruffling over my face.

  “Wonder what time it is?” he said.

  “Before dawn,” I said, sighing tiredly.

  “Maybe it’s night again. We coulda slept a whole day, you know.”

  “If you say so,” I muttered.

  It puzzled me how we fell asleep in a boxcar headed north. We sat in the doorway, legs dangling out, watching city lights while eating fruit, my first midnight snack. With food and rest, we discussed things too sensitive for thirsty, sunburned minds.

  “The watchman wouldn’t check beds at C-16, would he?” I asked into the dimness. “Leastways, I never saw him.”

  “Nah, the assistants do that,” Dale replied. “He just woke bed wetters. Took them to the pot an’ that.”

  “Pee your bed?” I asked.

  “What’s it to ya,” Dale said. We could see each other, but in little detail. I frowned peering into the dark haze outside. The train wound slowly through the city into the countryside. It was a gentle ride, free of cinder ash and smoke. Rail clicks and the steady laboring of the engine were assurances that our quest was not over. Soon, the glitter of city lights faded in the distance.

  We had been awake and on our way less than an hour before dawn brightened the horizon. Our door faced west. The countryside emerged, first in shades of black and white, then in color as the gold sunrise lit the tops of wooded knobs. The sun was still yellow when the train slowed to a wheezing stop at a small town. We scanned the village for green apples, grapes, or anything to supplement our stores of fruit.

  “Looks to be a big garden over there,” I said, pointing. “What do you think’d happen if they caught us?”

  “Dunno,” Dale drawled. A hay stem seemed to sag off his lips. “Just run like hell.”

  “Can’t outrun bullets,” I said. “Right now, I couldn’t even outrun Fatso.”

  But I was too hungry to be cautious. We left the boxcar and headed into the village where a side lane led to the large garden. With my T-shirt tied into a sack, we dug up and snapped off a variety of vegetables. It was early enough for the owner to be in bed and, though we were not chased, we were hastened by fear.

  On the way to the train, Dale found a two-quart bottle. He took it to the depot for water while I, sack in hand, went to the boxcar. I approached the train from behind a tree surrounded by low bushes. I remained hidden while eyeing a trainman who leaned against our boxcar.

  I stepped forward for a better look, when my foot caught on a root. I fell out in full view of the man, my T-shirt sack falling without spilling beside me. The man spun around and started toward me. Recovering, I sat, leaning forward, fiddling with frayed shoelaces and pretended not to notice him. I had learned at the State School not to acknowledge approaching staff until they spoke.

  “You okay, boy?” the man said. He didn’t sound mean. “Injun, huh?”

  I looked up. He was big, wore bib overalls, like Mr. Kruger, and held a wrench in a large hand. Standing, I nervously faced the man and slowly lifted the sack to my shoulder.

  The man seemed surprised, “Sure you’re all right, boy?” he asked.

&nb
sp; Without thinking, I stepped back staring at the wrench.

  He stopped. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.

  I realized suddenly how terrible I must have looked, the same as Dale appeared to me. Scrawny, filthy, and sunburned, we could be suffering terminal something-or-other.

  “I’m fine,” I said hoarsely. “Just stopped to rest.” I shifted the sack for emphasis. “Getting heavy, better get home.”

  “You don’t look good,” the man persisted. He sounded sincere, but I remained wary. I thought he might be trying to get close enough to grab me, but the man made no sudden movement, so I turned toward the bushes. That seemed to satisfy him. I heard him slowly, then in a normal pace, head on toward the caboose.

  Dale approached, I waved him toward my bush, and we both watched through parted bushes as the man went inside the caboose. With no more signs of railroad workers, we went to the boxcar, settling down just as the sun rose above the trees. Scraping new carrots with a tin we ate raw vegetables with the greatest relish ever. At the school, we were forced to eat vegetables, which was usually all right, but I despised fried green tomatoes, fried egg plant and raw onion. Now, the weather was just right, our boxcar was comfortable, and our burgeoning larder made me feel like we were doing all right.

  It was comfortable, riding inside as the train continued north, but the hours dragged. To pass the time, we tossed things at telephone poles and tried to joke. By late afternoon, the sun no longer warmed. It would be a cold, miserable night. Hunching over crossed arms, we stared at the passing countryside and talked little. The train slowed on its approach to a small collection of buildings on an up-slope west of the tracks. Not much of a town, I thought. The train bumped softly to a stop.

  Gazing out as the engine softly chugged again, we watched the ground move the other way. We were being sidetracked. It concerned me that our boxcar would be disconnected as it had been south of St Paul, but the engine wheezed and vented comfortably and I knew we would sit a while.

  I scanned out at the village and backed in. “A man just went around the front of the engine,” I said. “Looks clear now, though. Wonder how long to sunset.” I shivered the words into fragments and hugged myself with goose-bumped arms. They were still too sore to rub warm.