While the Locust Slept

by Peter Razor

  I lay in bed that first night swimming in thought. It all seemed too good to be true. Images of my first months with John loomed in the darkness and his voice, his icy stare, haunted my sleep. Awakening, I sat straight up in bed and stared out the window.

  12

  My dreams were haunted by memories. Not only of the blow John had landed against me, but also the frozen image of him striking Emma, and the hammer Miss Monson swung from over her head. Each time I woke, I had to remind myself where I was. I was far now from the tiny attic room warmed only by a candle, far from the hospital ward where I listened to the train whistle, far from the cottage bed where I first heard the name locust, and listened to the sound of its singing.

  …

  At breakfast, the day after I arrived at the Klug farm, Pat seemed concerned.

  “Did you sleep well, Peter?” she asked.

  “Guess so.”

  “Just wondering,” she said. “You screamed last night. Must have been a nightmare.”

  “Can’t remember,” I said.

  “Just as well, the way it sounded,” Lee added, smiling.

  My first Saturday with them, Lee took me to repair fences. I fully expected him to leave me there and return to the house or go to town, but he worked with me until dinnertime. I was allowed to relax with them in the house, that afternoon, until chore time. We went to Mass Sunday and visited Pat’s parents on another farm close by. Missing no school for work, I was allowed to participate in one sport and had every other Sunday off, including chores. Lee took the other Sunday off. Every day after school, Pat had a sandwich and glass of milk waiting for me. “Something to hold you over ’til supper,” she always said.

  In the two weeks after arriving at the Klugs, I began to feel better in a family setting, though still, on occasion, beset by sudden anxiety. Making friends with the neighbors, I discovered that three boys within a mile radius of the Klugs were from church or county orphanages, but none had abusive guardians. The Palen family had a number of boys, their own, two near my age, with whom I spent time during my Sunday off. Though it was exciting moving so fast into a normal world, I found it nearly overwhelming trying to adjust.

  It was Friday, overcast and dreary my second week at Klugs. Lee was gone when I returned home from school, but he was often gone to town on farm business, and I wasn’t concerned.

  “When’s Lee coming home?” I asked while eating my snack.

  “It’s chore time. Soon, I ’spect,” Pat replied. “It drizzled on and off, today, and he’s been in town all afternoon playing cards. Probably hanging one on.”

  “In the bar?” I asked.

  “Yep. The guys get together like that on rainy days.

  “I’ll check the furnace,” I said, becoming nervous, heading for the basement.

  I sat on a fruit crate near the furnace mulling the approaching confrontation, which I was certain could only end with Lee beating me. A car slowed for the driveway, and I stood on the fruit crate watching as it passed the window. Stepping off the crate, I stood staring at the floor. I couldn’t hold it and released urine just as the exterior door opened upstairs.

  But I heard strange sounds upstairs—laughter, joking. Then the basement door opened and Pat, still laughing, called down, “Peter, you didn’t finish your sandwich. Lee’s home and he’ll need your help doing chores tonight. Especially tonight!”

  I climbed the stairs, still afraid. Lee smiled as I entered the kitchen, reached to put his arms around my shoulder, but I pulled away. He looked down and caught sight of my wet pants.

  “Hey, no one’s going to hurt you, Petie,” Lee said, his smile still frozen while he cast a questioning look to Pat.

  Another Friday, Lee let me off chores early so I could bathe and dress, and two Palen boys picked me up for an outing at the Avalon Ballroom in LaCrosse, Wisconsin, just across the Mississippi river. More students from Caledonia were at the Avalon, which seemed to be a hangout for teens who could drink near-beer in Wisconsin at age eighteen.

  My friends drank beer and wine, but I drank sodas, until I was grabbed, held in a chair while a boy held wine to my mouth. At first, I struggled, then swallowed the sweet wine. I felt no different and let them cajole me into a second glass. After two more, the boys let me go, and I stood, immediately falling to hands and knees, then lay on my back staring up into smirking faces. One of the boys realized what they had done and I was helped outside where they walked with me around the building until I could walk unaided.

  I learned more about alcohol that night and, the next morning, as Pat and Lee smiled, about hangovers. I understood at last that alcohol did not necessarily make people violent. As the weeks passed, I grew stronger and, as I came to terms with one new experience after another, I began to understand the workings of a normal world. Those new experiences gave me confidence in myself. I still tried to avoid trouble, but would no longer give way to bullies.

  The windows of the chemistry classroom overlooked the athletic field. The field was crisscrossed, after a December thaw, with muddy walking trails and widely scattered patches of snow. It was the end of chemistry hour.

  “I want your names on the upper right-hand corner of your work booklets,” Mrs. Hefty said. “Bud, would you collect them, please?” As I hunched over to sign my booklet, it was violently jerked from me, and my pencil coursed a scraggly line across the cover.

  “Have to collect yer booklet, Injun,” Bud sneered, waving the booklet once in my face.

  “Hey, what’cha doing, Lange!” I hissed, jerking upright and snatching it back. My back to the bully, I bent over my writing platform again, muttering almost to myself, “I have to write my name on it so’s Hefty knows whose it is.”

  From side vision, I saw Gene and another boy frantically motion at something behind me, but I responded too slowly. Shoved hard in my back, I fell horizontally atop my own chair-desk, which tipped, carrying me into Gene and the other boy. We tumbled first into each other, then into the wall before sprawling on the floor. Gene was at the bottom of the pile. I was on top, only ruffled, and quickly rolled off as Bud aimed a kick at me.

  “Son of a bitch,” I shouted, ducking the kick.

  “Bud Lange! That was uncalled for,” Mrs. Hefty shouted. “I see it’s time for you to visit Mr. Collins again.”

  Our principal was a fair woman and strict, but Bud sassed her terribly, it was said. When misbehaving, he was referred immediately to Mr. Collins, superintendent of schools, with an office in the high school building. He might have played college football, was tall enough to have played basketball, and he walked light-footed with long arm swings. Talking softly during disciplinary sessions, he had the full attention of those brought to his office.

  As we filed out of the classroom, Bud sidled alongside and jostled me roughly into the door frame, hissing, “I’ll see you behind the school at lunch hour, squirt, unless yer yaller!” At noon, I ignored the threat, going as usual to study hall where friends and I talked about Bud.

  “He thinks no one will help you,” Gene reminded me. “Especially since you left the Schaulses’. Take you being Indian and all, he thinks someone will give him a medal or something for putting you in the hospital.”

  “But you said he bullies other kids, too.”

  “He takes his points where he can. He thinks everyone hates Indians, which ain’t true, and that others’ll praise him for beating you. That kind of thing.”

  “I know, but I wish he’d pick on the football players,” I muttered.

  “He’s not that stupid,” Gene said. “He knows enough to protect his own skin.”

  “Suppose, I could carry a knife or something,” I said scanning the study hall. A dozen boys and girls studied quietly and a teacher sat at the monitor’s desk. I frowned as Bud suddenly appeared in the doorway glowing with anticipation.

  “You ready?” Bud hissed. His manner said he wanted to do me proper. Others looked up and the study monitor seemed annoyed.

  “You can’t make
me fight,” I said, loud enough so the others could hear.

  “Then yer yaller?” Bud yelled. By now, it seemed, everyone stared.

  Glancing around at expectant faces, I closed my books and stood.

  “I’m coming,” I said half under my breath.

  “He’ll kill you,” Gene said, tugging at my sweater sleeve.

  “Maybe,” I said and shrugged. “Would you fight him? You’re stronger than me.”

  “Tell Klugs,” Terry whispered across the table. “Maybe they’ll talk to Bud’s pa.”

  I took fifty cents from my pocket. “Could you watch my books and hold my money?”

  “Okay, but I’m coming, too,” Gene said.

  I didn’t know how to avoid such confrontations, so I just followed Bud, as I had followed Miss Monson or Mr. Beaty during punishment sessions. Others followed me, creating an unusual entourage making its way behind the school building. Swaggering in the lead, Bud was pumped with confidence, sure that the beating he was about to deliver would have admiring witnesses. It didn’t matter to him that he was older, stouter and much heavier than me—that two of me could all but hide in his shadow.

  I squared off to Bud and squinted aside at Gene, Terry, and other students I knew, then Kathy. Strangely, I assumed a State School slapping posture, arms by my side staring at Bud’s shoulder.

  “You can call this off any time you want!” Bud said. “If yer yaller!”

  “I’m not calling it off,” I replied without lifting my arms. Suddenly I was struck on the side of my face and knocked, stunned, to the ground. Propping on my elbows, I tried to understand what got me into that crazy mess in the first place. I had done nothing to Bud since arriving at Caledonia High except avoid him. Lying there a moment also gave me time to decide whether a fight with Bud was worth anything. He had a powerful jab and I wasn’t eager for another. Glancing again at Kathy only yards away, I surged with disgust for allowing Bud to humiliate me. She leaned forward, a hand on her mouth and an “oh-my-God” look on her face. I wanted to change that look.

  Bud stood over me—like Mr. Beaty in the garden—legs apart in a stance of victory. His sneer said it was easier than he hoped. I charged and swung, but was thrown down and kicked. Bud was just too heavy to manhandle. I would have to find a way around his bulk. He grabbed my sweater, tearing it to shreds as I twisted in his grasp. Grabbing his shirt, I kept much of it in my grasp as I was thrown to the ground. Bud kicked my ribs, nearly knocking the wind out of me. In a fluke, I bounced on my back, thrusting desperately upward with my legs. My shoe struck something hard that gave way with a crunch. Bud squealed in pain, reeling backward. My shoe had violently snapped his head back, splitting his lip and bloodying his nose. After further exchange of fists and shoes, during which he hung back more, I used my legs and feet more than fists. Bud suddenly became more cautious, and I had more time to plan and execute moves. Swiftly and accurately, l lashed out with my feet, hitting his shins, arms, and chest. All that walking to the school bus and hiking the bluffs at Rushford had done it. Bud feinted, backed off, feinted again, mostly for the benefit of onlookers. I stood, followed him until he feinted, then quickly fell backward, lashing a shoe square in his chest that sent him reeling back. If Bud’s arms were stronger than mine, my legs were stronger than his, and with good extension.

  Suddenly, a voice called from an office window, “You two! In my office, immediately!” It was Mr. Collins. The spectators scattered. Bud was bent, bleeding from his nose and spitting blood. I was flushed from fighting, my ribs were sore, my face had a bruise and my nose dripped slowly. I walked alongside Bud toward the school. Later, I would learn that Bud had lost at least one of his teeth.

  “Yer lucky he stopped us,” Bud wheezed.

  I paused. “Wanta continue?” Though I was tiring, my confidence had been given another boost.

  “We’d be expelled,” Bud said. He didn’t look at me, and his voice had lost its superior tone.

  Mrs. Hefty came out as we entered Mr. Collins’ office. Standing before Mr. Collins’ desk, I was shirtless with a shred of sweater draped over my shoulder. Bud’s shoulder-strap underwear was intact but covered with muddy shoe prints.

  “The rules are clear. No fighting on school property!” Mr. Collins said. “If I hear of more fighting from either of you, I will have no choice but to expel you. Is that clear?” He looked from Bud to me, then back to Bud. I nodded agreement, though Bud looked out the window.

  “Bud! Mrs. Hefty tells me you provoked the fight in chemistry class. Is that right?” Bud did not reply, but grunted something noncommittal.

  Mr. Collins looked at me.

  “Even if you didn’t start it, you can’t fight on school property. You have also violated rules. If Bud bothered you, you should have walked away or told someone.”

  He sighed, stood, and walked around the desk towering over us. Bud stepped back, but I had nothing to fear from Mr. Collins, so I stood my ground. “You can’t attend school looking like that. You’re both excused for the afternoon.” Bud left immediately, and I waited in the office for Pat to pick me up.

  I felt awkward the day after the fight and quietly read at my desk before opening bell.

  A girl entered, approached my desk from behind and whispered in my ear, “Good going, Pete!” Her hand touched my shoulder as she passed. Then Kathy came in from her classroom just to say something. I blushed and was further embarrassed when boys entered, patted my shoulder, and said good things before moving on. It seemed everyone knew about the fight. There was little time between praises to relax, but I began to understand the depth of Bud’s bullying. A State School boy, too naive to run from punishment or misery, had finally been pushed until he fought back.

  Making my way down the hall after lunch, I saw Mr. Collins approach from the opposite direction. As when staff approached at the State School, I dropped to one knee and pretended to be tying my shoelaces, but he was heading for me anyway. The boys’ room was nearby and, with attempted nonchalance, I stood and entered going to the urinals along the far wall. The door opened, long strides approached, and a large man stood at the urinal next to me.

  “You’re a hard boy to catch, Peter,” Mr. Collins said. We both stared straight ahead.

  “Oh?”

  “I wanted to tell you privately, not that I condone fighting, that you did a wonderful thing for the school, and for Bud, too, perhaps. Hopefully he’ll stop to think now when he bullies smaller boys.” After Mr. Collins left, even after the door closed, I stood wondering why my fight with Bud had brought so much positive attention to me.

  Months after the fight, I arrived home from school to find Pat unusually solemn. “Bad news,” Pat said, handing me a sandwich and pointing to a glass of milk on the table. “Mrs. Schauls died. The funeral is tomorrow.”

  “He killed her, didn’t he?” I said.

  “Natural causes, they say. Internal bleeding,” Pat said.

  “How can internal bleeding be natural?” I asked. “Would I have died from natural causes? Bleeding in my head?”

  Pat tried to calm me. “Every situation is different,” she said. “We don’t know the circumstances. Do you want to go to the funeral?”

  “Do you think I should?” I asked, unsure whether it was proper.

  “If you don’t go, it might not be wrong, but if you go, it could never be wrong.”

  “It would be best to go, I guess,” I said. “John wouldn’t try anything. Would he?”

  “Lee and I talked about that. We don’t think so, but Lee would go with you just in case. And you wouldn’t be waiting around afterward to be picked up.”

  Lee took me to the funeral and we sat in the back of the virtually empty church. John’s and Emma’s relatives occupied the first pew on both sides of the center aisle.

  I had not seen John since leaving him, and I wouldn’t walk past the open casket now. I felt sorry for Emma, but I could hardly pay attention to the service. I kept thinking that this was no accident. Staring at
the back of John’s neck, I heard little of the sermon, sure that any moment he would turn around and glare down the bridge of his nose at me. But he never did. Lee and I shuffled out as the service ended. It was the last time I saw John.

  EPILOGUE

  After the funeral, Emma’s family took her body back to Eastman, Wisconsin, for burial. She had just turned thirty-nine years old. It wasn’t until years later that I found out her official cause of death was complications from childbirth. It came as a total surprise to me, since I hadn’t even known she was pregnant. John was left with the two-week-old baby girl, as well as the other three children, now six, three, and two, but he did not shoulder that burden alone for long. On September 2, little more than seven months after Emma’s funeral, John married a widow with three sons and a daughter. They moved to Hokah, just a few miles northeast of Caledonia, but, as easy as that, any memory of what John had done was wiped away. He had a new farm, a new family, and no one knew who, or what, he was.

  It was harder for me, and had I not met the Klugs, my view of life would have been much worse. I suffered recurring bouts of anxiety and depression, the first before the age of nineteen. I was on my own by then but still legally a ward of the state, so I was sent to the university hospital in the Twin Cities, where the doctors recorded:

  Peter is hyper-anxious and makes himself physically ill. This is confusing considering that his entire childhood at the State Public School was such a stable and well-regulated environment.

  Not long after, I was drafted into the army, a different kind of regimen than the State School. I rejected an offer to attend Officer Candidate School and an appointment to counterintelligence school. Before I knew anything tangible about the electrical industry, at the age of 21, I was made the electrical supervisor of twenty Korean electricians and five GI s. I received three bronze stars—though I’m not sure what they were for—before rotating back to the States one month after an armistice stopped the fighting.