Читать книгу While the Locust Slept - Peter Razor - Страница 11

Mr. Kruger, husband of Matron Kruger, was the first man to attack me. I was seven years old and in a deep sleep when a nightmare flashed—my arms were bound tightly and I was being torn from bed. I moaned, then froze when I recognized Mr. Kruger and went mute. Holding me by the left armpit, Mr. Kruger lugged me out of the dorm. My feet slopped the treads going downstairs and banged the doorframe as he carried me into his apartment. A newspaper hiding Mrs. Kruger’s face lowered and I glimpsed her frozen smile. Mr. Kruger flipped me in the air and, when he caught me again, he gripped my left ankle in one hand, my left wrist with the other. Suddenly, I was flying in wide flying arcs, and the room became an insane kaleidoscope. I could only grunt as everything started to gray and I urinated. I must have sprayed Mrs. Kruger as I flew past, but I was unconscious by then.

I awoke, dizzy and cross-eyed, in the infirmary and was told I had been there two days. Hospital records describe treatment only, not cause, and I have no further memories of that day or the following weeks. Sleep and dark, after that, were frightening. My memory of the next three years is nothing more than flashes—like a lantern blinking in the night.

…

John sat erect in the front seat looking straight ahead. His shoulders were broad, his head unmoving except to speak—which was seldom. Even when he did speak, he seemed stiff, his comments awkward. He glanced around once, laughing, it seemed. “Sa weather look rainy, like cat’n dogs,” he said, followed by a long silence. It was soon clear that he couldn’t smile. He was stiff-jawed, and when he tried to smile he instead bared his teeth like a cornered animal.

I was glad when we stopped in a café where we each ate a hot beef sandwich. I sat on one side of the booth, John and Emma on the other. Emma talked little, mostly nodding and murmuring assent to what John said. Though I felt uneasy listening to them, how they talked and acted seemed normal. Neither of the Schaulses asked questions of me. I understood that, too. Hospital staff were the only employees at the State School who asked me how I felt.

John seemed incapable of small talk. After minutes of silence, he said, as though suddenly inspired, “You to learn farming.” When I glanced at his face, he stiffened with his head tilted back, aiming his eyes along his nose at me.

We first traveled the flatland of south-central Minnesota, then through forested hills with scattered farms. Valleys deepened and, as we traveled farther into the Mississippi River drainage, hills became bluffs. By late afternoon we descended a long, curvy hill into the Root River valley, then went through the village of Rushford. The road between Rushford and Houston twisted past farms and cropland along a wide river corridor. Short of halfway to Houston, John turned south onto a narrow gravel road, which meandered alongside a creek around high crowding bluffs. A mile from the highway, we crossed two small bridges within sight of each other, turning left into a driveway just across the second bridge.

“’S chore time,” John said, stepping out of the car.

My new home was closest to the road and the other buildings stretched farther into the valley. The creek entered the farm under the second bridge, flowed along the driveway, and turned north to exit the farm under the bridge we first crossed, all within a few acres.

The tiny house sat on wood posts. It had a small kitchen, living room, and bedroom. The outside was white wood siding, the inside walls were covered with drab sheeting. Electricity had not reached the farms between Rushford and Houston. Many had windmills and 32-volt wind-charged battery systems for electric lights. At the Schaulses, candles on the kitchen table flickered on windy days as if from someone breathing nearby. A water pail sat alongside a washbasin on a small stand near the door.

John pointed to a door in the living room. Motioning me to follow, he started up a narrow stairway that had two bends without landings—like sneaking between walls. Both of his elbows touched the walls as he climbed.

John motioned to an old bed pushed against a collection of household goods. After sleeping fifteen years in spotless bedrooms, I would now sleep in an unheated shamble. The gable ends were open vertical studs. John couldn’t quite stand erect in the center of the attic below the apex of rafters, which disappeared behind the bed to the floor. There was space only for the bed and a fruit crate on which a candle sat.

“I go to barn, you to change, come quick,” John said.

Anxiety burned as I watched him disappear down the stairs. I sighed and sank onto the bed. I wasn’t worried about the farm, the house, or thoughts of work, but something gnawed at me. I tried to push that feeling aside as I thought of three weeks at Owatonna high.

John lost no time as I entered the barn, “You to pump water for the pigs,” he said. He led me into the milk-house and pointed to a hand pump.

“I know about those,” I began. “We were on this trip—”

“This is how it done,” John interrupted, his face rigid. I watched while he carefully described how to pump water, but I could feel that gnawing again in the pit of my stomach.

My task was to carry twenty gallons of water around buildings and over a wood fence to the pigs. Chickens took one pail and two pails went to the house. My arm was numb before the pumping and carrying was done. At least the horses and cows watered themselves at the creek.

Supper was simple, but filling, after which we milked sixteen cows by hand.

It had been a long day since I awoke at C-8 that morning. Taking it all in drained me to near exhaustion. Instead of slowing the pace, John glared, turning brusque. What seemed like an eternity ended, finally, when we finished chores by nine o’clock.

John pointed to the washbasin, then the attic door.

“S’early in the mornin’. Best to wash your hands, then sleep,” he said and nothing more.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my feet inches from the stairway. I blew the candle out, lay back, and was instantly asleep.

“S’time to gets in barn,” the voice said. It was before daybreak, Sunday morning. For a moment, I didn’t know where I was. I sat up.

“Bring lantern when you come.” John set a lantern on a tread low in the stairwell.

Sitting, hunched sleepily on the edge of the bed, I stared down at the glow diffusing around the bend in the stairway. Slowly, I dressed, then creaked tiptoe downstairs, walked through the quiet house with the lantern, and pulled the outside door shut behind me. Emma remained in bed.

Swinging from my right hand, the lantern cast a swaying glow, flickering eerily through my legs onto the granary and the chicken coop.

John was milking beneath a lantern when I entered the barn. After hanging my lantern from a beam farther along the milking aisle, I faced John waiting for his instructions.

John pointed to the same cows I’d milked the night before. “Those be your cows,” he snapped. His boy had taken too long dressing.

I sat and started milking on a three-leg stool. I took a deep yawn and looked up to see John staring wide-eyed at me. The long shadows hanging over his face made him look sinister. With my head against the cow’s flank, I tried not to meet his eyes.

Most employees at the State School glanced at children, staring only at favorites or troublemakers. The first four terrors of my childhood—Miss Monson, the two Krugers, and Mr. Beaty—honed their loathing with hateful stares at certain children. Adults in Owatonna stared at State School youth at church or in movie lines. Their cold looks had always chilled me, but John’s stare seemed different, even more troubling.

Emma didn’t stare, she always looked from side glances toward whomever she spoke. It was a look of submission for John, but seething defensiveness to me. John had bought the horse, but she had to feed it and wash its clothes. It was clear already that she wanted no part of me, that I was John’s to take care of.

After the morning milking, I was taken along with them to attend Mass in Rushford. The placement agreement stipulated my inclusion in family affairs. After Mass, I wandered outside until dinner, which included farm-pasteurized milk and homemade bread. After dinner, John pulled out his watch, “You to have Sunday afternoon off,” he said. “Chores in four hours.” Weekly leisure for me, however brief, was another requirement of the contract.

Climbing the high bluff north of the buildings, I perched on the steepest part overlooking the valley. The farm was over 300 acres, ten tillable in the valley, 100 acres of work land on the ridge, the balance in bluff-side woods. The valley was beautiful and serene through a thin afternoon haze.

With electricity and modern equipment, one man could work a 110-acre farm. At the Rushford farm, John needed a hired man to chase after cows hunkered in the ridges, search for lost calves in the woods, milk half the cows by hand, pump water, and perform other chores. When he couldn’t afford a hired man or labor-saving equipment, a smiling benefactor—the State of Minnesota—answered his prayers.

I had completed eight grades plus kindergarten at the State School and three weeks at Owatonna High. Tomorrow, I would go to Houston High—maybe. Already, I was beginning to expect nothing until it happened.

It hadn’t been quite three days, but it seemed an eternity. We finished milking and were in the house by seven Monday morning. I washed at the basin, went upstairs, and changed into school clothes. I would attend school without a bath since C-8.

“Youse to wash once a month in a tub in center of the kitchen floor,” Emma had said.

“S’hard heating water on a wood fire,” John had said.

Emma set a bowl of oatmeal and glass of milk on the table for me. “Be quiet so’s you don’t wake baby Mary after school,” Emma warned. “She’s at the Bensons’. She be home tonight.”

“Okay,” I said, trying not to seem confused. A baby girl? “Is there someone I have to see at Houston High?” I asked, standing, ready to leave for school. I raised a cautious glance into John’s face.

“Be home fifteen minutes after you leaves bus,” John said, his voice matter-of-fact, and that ended talk of school.

I stood and said, “See you tonight.” There was no reply. I shut the door behind me, walked swiftly to the gravel road and, breathing easier, began the mile walk to the highway.

The bluffs broke as I rounded the last bend and the road thrust into the Root River valley on its last two hundred yards to the highway junction.

A call came from behind. I twisted without stopping to see a tall, yellow-topped boy hurrying to catch me.

“Hi, there,” he repeated.

“Hi,” I replied, looking up at him, and a smile warmed my face. Walking backward until the boy came abreast, we walked together toward the highway.

“I’m Ed … Hanson,” the boy said, offering his hand.

“Pete … Razor,” I said, eagerly shaking his hand. “I’m staying at—”

“Schaulses’,” Ed interrupted, “I know. You just got there. How’s it going, anyhow?”

“Can’t say. They don’t talk much except farm stuff. Got to get used to it all, I guess.”

“We live on the table across the creek,” Ed said.

“Farm?” I murmured.

“Yeah,” Ed said, looking me over. “Just enough to get by. How old are you? I’m sixteen.”

“Fifteen,” I said.

Ed pointed at two boys arriving from a farm, which could be seen on the highway not far from the junction. “Hey, the Busch boys,” he said, pointing. “I’ll introduce you in the Cracker Box.”

“Cracker box?”

“Made out of plywood and junk,” Ed said.

The bus appeared. It really was plywood and looked like a large cracker box, with windows and a small cracker box attached to the front.

“Sure rattles,” I said. “Is it safe?”

“Guess so,” Ed said. He pointed as the bus approached. “Lots of horses under the hood. Gets us to school every day.”

Horsepower, I thought. “How many, four, maybe six or so?” I imagined teams of State School draft horses pulling the bus.

“Maybe 150. Dunno for sure,” he said. “It’s a Ford V-8 and Sam really gives it the gas.”

The bus slowed, turned onto the gravel road, backed up, pointed toward Houston and opened its door.

Sam had a broad smile. I couldn’t help myself and smiled at the ground. Sam greeted everyone as they entered, but held his arm out to stop me.

“Good morning. You must be the new boy I was told to look for,” he said. “I’m Sam. I’ll wait five minutes for those walking from the hills, ten minutes during bad weather.”

Sam clearly meant business, but his talk wasn’t threatening, and his smile never faded.

Most students hardly noticed me as they entered the bus that first day, and I ignored the few stares as Ed introduced me to the Busch brothers. Lyle, also a freshman, was a muscular boy, shorter than me with brown hair. Tom was in seventh grade, thin with dark brown hair, and looked to be growing taller than Lyle. They wore good clothes and sported healthy smiles.

“We’re from an orphanage, too,” Lyle said. “East of here. I’m fifteen, Tom’s thirteen. We live with the Bensons.”

“Hey, we’re the same age,” I said. “What kind of orphanage were you at?”

“Big church orphanage.”

“Must be a lot of orphans around,” I said.

“We had thirty to forty kids,” Lyle said.

“Mine has about 250 now, but used to have 500 or so,” I said, suddenly realizing the State School was a very large place.

“Wow!” Lyle said. “That’s an army. How’d things go with so many kids?”

“With paddles and radiator brushes for starters,” I said.

Ed whistled, then let the subject drop.

“Mrs. Benson is John’s sister, isn’t she?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Lyle agreed. “She signed so John could get you. I guess his two sisters from Caledonia signed, too.”

I looked out the window as the bus pulled up to a newer school building. So that’s how they got me.

Ed walked with me into the school and pointed at a door. “That’s the office,” he said. “Just walk up to the counter like you own the place and you’ll get faster service.” We waved each other off as I entered the office, where I waited until the secretary approached the counter.

“Good morning, young man,” the secretary said. “Haven’t seen you before. Coming to school or just visiting?”

“Supposed to register for school,” I mumbled, leaning on the counter.

She smiled, “I might guess the same. Name and grade?”

“Peter Razor, ninth grade … “

“Oh, darn, I hate when things are too easy,” she said with a sly smile while reaching under the counter. “Looks like you’re already registered.”

I frowned, chewing my lower lip.

“Yes, sir! We’re expecting you,” she said. “Your transcript from the State School and Owatonna High arrived last week.” She studied the papers. “Seems you’re supposed to get better grades then you do. Well, you can fix that by studying harder.”

I hoped Houston High didn’t have any teachers that hated Indians.

“Anyway, here’s your schedule,” she continued. “You can still make it before the bell. Room 212, Mr. Johnson.” She pushed a paper at me. “Good luck and welcome to Houston High.”

I never found out if my labels from the State School—mentally lazy or day dreamer—made it to Houston, but my old millstone, bright, did. That made teachers expect more and gave prejudiced teachers something to disprove with ridicule and sarcasm.

Inside Room 212, I waited while Mr. Johnson talked with students. He didn’t seem to notice me, until suddenly he had taken the paper from me.

“Let’s see … Peter,” Mr. Johnson said, scanning the schedule. “Come with me.” He gave me a textbook and walked me to an empty desk. “Sit here.” He tapped the shoulder of the boy at the desk ahead and introduced us. “Jorde. Peter, here, has your classes. Would you kindly take him in tow for a few days? If he became lost, he might starve to death in the corridors. I wouldn’t mind, but others might.” He turned to me with a half smile. “Jorde will show you around.” He returned to his desk.

Jorde twisted to face me. “Hey, Pete. You good at algebra?”

“Not my best subject,” I said.

“Darn! Thought I’d have help,” Jorde said feigning a grimace, but it couldn’t cover his smile. He pointed behind me, “That’s Emmet, he lives on a farm.” I shook hands with Emmet, then turned back to Jorde.

“Don’t you? Live on a farm, I mean?”

“Nah. Wouldn’t know which end to milk. Besides, I work in our garage.”

The bell rang. “Come on, Meester Razeer,” Jorde said, smirking. “Have to load our brains.”

“Where to first?” I asked.

“Algebra. The more I learn, the dumber I get.” Jorde smiled again. It was his trademark, a natural, permanent smile plastered there even when he felt bad about something.

Jorde pointed as we passed large double doors in the hall.

“Gym,” he said. “Wednesday and Friday after lunch.”

My first day in school went well, considering it was not entirely spent on studies. Jorde helped me in algebra, with Emmet observing, and I helped them in science.

Ed was a sophomore, and I seldom saw him during school hours, but we developed a habit of walking together from the bus to his driveway, then gossiping briefly before parting. Wednesday, my second week on the farm, we stopped, as usual, at Ed’s driveway.

“Come to the 4-H meeting tonight,” Ed said. “It’s at our house. Mom told me to tell you.”

“What’s 4-H?” I asked, then glanced quickly at the bluff tops. “I mean, what do you do there?”

“It’s a club where you learn about modern farm things and take a project each year to the fair,” Ed explained. “It’s fun.”

“I’m just John’s worker, he wouldn’t go for that,” I said.

“Heck, you wouldn’t need a project,” he said. “Just come have a good time.”

“I’ll see, but maybe not,” I said.

John’s car was gone when I arrived home. Emma tended little Mary as I entered the house, and it was the second time I’d seen the girl. Little Mary seemed always to be in the Schaulses’ bedroom.

Emma didn’t look up when I entered, just mumbled a greeting as I passed her on my way to the attic, and ignored me again on my way out to work.

Early chores were nearly done when I heard the car enter the driveway. Peering through the barn window, I watched John step from the car, testing the ground with each step as he aimed himself at the house. Wondering about his tardiness, I backed into the barn to finish chores.

Having observed how Mrs. Steele acted after drinking, which seemed harmless, I was not alarmed. Mrs. Steele, matron of C-16, was quiet, never abusive to me, appearing comical at times, especially upon emerging, unsteadily, from extended seclusion in her apartment.

John entered the barn to prepare milking equipment.

I called out a greeting.

John grunted.

I persisted, “Ed said his mother and them invited me to a 4-H meeting tonight at his house.”

“We’s work to do. It be late after chores,” John said.

“Can I get off early?”

“You here to works. You in school all day, don’t work to pay you keep.”

“Six hours a day’s not enough for my keep?” I questioned. “And all day Saturday?” My stomach ached.

“Not your age. Dat school’s no good for you! If you quit school and works on farm, den you earns keep,” John said, his voice growing loud, raspy.

“Okay, I won’t go,” I said, starting past him. “I’ll get the cows in.”

John stepped in my path and put his face close to mine. “No man’s walks away when I talks to him.”

I jerked my arms defensively up and quickly stepped away from John—a flinch honed at the State School. He stepped forward.

“I tell you everything. You so stupid, you still do nothing right,” John yelled so loud Emma could have heard him in the house. “You don’t to needs high school. I’ve five grades myself; I’s highborn German, da best!” His face was rigid and his right arm waved close to me. I didn’t move. My submissive pose seemed to placate John and he waved me through the door. “Now gets cows in.”

That incident began my understanding of what angered John most—my desire to have friends, to attend school, anything that allowed me to escape him for a time, anything other than working for him.

Still shaken by John’s diatribe, I was inattentive during milking. A cow, suddenly though gently, lifted her leg and stood on it inside my pail. Little milk was spilled as I worked her leg out, but greenish streaks of manure swirled in the brimming pail.

“Should I give it to the pigs?” I asked.

Saying nothing, John put an extra filter in the strainer and poured the milk in the can. It struck me as wrong, but unwilling to trigger another violent outburst, I said nothing. Days later, the milk hauler returned the can of milk. Instead of giving one pail of milk to the pigs, John had to give a full can.

Two more weeks passed. John was tolerably quiet, but seemed to be smoldering inside.

I walked with Ed from the school bus. “Think you could go to a 4-H meeting tonight?” Ed asked. “Mrs. Benson is a leader and makes the Busches go. Ma told me to ask you. She says you need to get out, and I think you should come.”

“I’ll try, but don’t expect me,” I said.

“Hell, if you can, come to my house and go with us. It’s at the Martens’.” Ed went up his driveway and I continued home.

The sedating babble of the creek soon lured me to sit and listen. A squirrel scampered up a nearby oak. When the squirrel disappeared on the hidden side of the trunk, I tossed a stick and the squirrel flicked off.

Suddenly realizing I had lingered, I hurried on to the farm.

Turning into the driveway, I stiffened with fear. John stood near the house staring at me with his head cocked. I moved to step around John on my way to the house, but John’s arm shot out stopping me.

“Yer late!”

His eyes burned from a stony face.

I tried to move around his arm toward the house. “I have to change clothes for chores.” He grabbed me by the shoulders, spun me violently to face him, then pulled me into his chest in a tight bear hug.

I grunted as John squeezed me nearly breathless. I tried to scream, but John squeezed harder.

“When I talks,” John screamed. “Don’t to ever turn your backs on me. Bastard!”

I managed to bring one arm over John’s arm to shield my face. For a frightening moment, he squeezed even harder as though to crush me. Then the world spun as John threw me like a sack of feed. Landing on hands and knees, I scrunched on my belly. The mauling more terrorized than hurt me, and, though able to move, I didn’t, at first. Abusive staff at the State School seemed satisfied if I appeared weak or injured after their attacks. Watching from side vision I waited until John’s shoes backed off.

Scraped on hands and knees, I stood and exaggerated a limp as I shuffled to the house. At the door of the house, I was forced to stop, but did not look back.

“You to come right home!” John yelled.

In spite of reassurances from smiling social workers, I now knew the truth of farm placement. Social workers, apparently, felt it unnecessary to tell farmers how to treat orphans, or to tell orphans how to live with guardians.

Emma looked up from near the stove as I entered. “Your pants is torn!” she hissed off the side of her mouth. “And you’re mighty dirty for sittin’, doin’ nothin’ in school all day. Not enough I cooks for you and wash your clothes, I have to mend after your foolishness, too.”

“John did that,” I said, pointing to a hole in my pant knee.

“If’n you’d work harder and not be traipsin’ off to school, he wouldn’t do that,” she said, turning her back to me.

My life seemed darker than it had since the night Mr. Kruger tore me from my bed and I had first learned the meaning of terror.