Читать книгу While the Locust Slept - Peter Razor - Страница 12

Social worker: John and Emma Schauls are a plain farmer and wife, share-renter family. Fifth grade education for Mr., third grade for Mrs. No interests outside their farm.

Dr. Yager: Tested while in grade eight, Peter comprehended most subjects through grade twelve. He communicates intelligently, scores very high in science, art and mechanical intricacies, average in math. He is creative in areas that are difficult to assess. He has the potential to achieve whatever he chooses of education. Recommendation: No farm placement for this boy. It will end in failure and be just another unfortunate experience for him. His long term at the school has restricted his social and emotional development and, though bright, he would be at greater risk among the general population than other boys his age.

Social worker: Peter is very bright; he can take care of himself.

Mr. Vevle [superintendent]: I agree. In spite of Dr. Yager’s objections, this boy is cleared for farm placement.

…

Despite the placement contract, John was determined to force me out of school. In January, when I still had not agreed to quit, he began shouting about school, flailing arms near me, railing loudly. He always began with some fault he perceived in me, some flaw he could not understand or abide. These rants would continue until he reached what was really eating at him.

“Youse waste time in school,” he would shout, “while I works to puts food on table!”

Consequently, when I made the first honor roll, I didn’t make a big deal of it. John said nothing about my grades, but showed his displeasure by keeping me home more than needed for winter work. After that I seldom finished a full week of school, often only three days—Ees flunk and das school trow him out. It went on all winter.

By February, when he had still failed to bully me into quitting school, John suddenly became almost pleasant.

“You quit school, I pays wages,” John said. “If you stays in school … I don’t know.”

I worried what the state would say or do. Would I be on my own? Where would I go? John never gave me money for school or pocket change, so I doubted his honesty, but I felt helpless to do other than what he said.

“So I would just stay home now?” I asked.

“Writes letter to state,” John said. He motioned to Emma who held pencil and paper, which she then put before me on the table.

“Tell them you tired of school; want to work for wages. Best goes to school until we gets answer.”

John seemed pleased after Emma mailed my letter off the next day. The letter, which remained in my file, stated simply that I could not go to school after February. Work and school continued as we waited for a reply; John to have the state bless my letter, I hoped to have a social worker read between the lines and do something.

The Schaulses had a wood phone with a crank-ringer on the side. The six or eight families on the same line were each identified with a series of short and long rings, like Morse code. When the phone rang, Emma stopped what she was doing, lowered her head, and waited for the second series to confirm who was being called.

Mrs. Benson seemed to know that she would have to call Emma if John were to let me attend a 4-H meeting or go anyplace for recreation.

“Rose called,” Emma said during supper Wednesday. “They’s a 4-H meeting at Hansons’ Thursday. She thinks you should let Peter go.”

“Be all rights,” John said. “After chores is done.”

I was astonished and ecstatic. After chores, I set out for the Hansons’ house. A light dusting of snow made walking easy without a flashlight. Calm, so elusive at the Schaulses, now surrounded me as I walked between a gurgling creek and the dark sheltering bluffs. I stopped at the Hansons’ driveway, where Ed and I always paused before parting, and looked at the bend beyond which the house was hidden. I took a deep breath and headed briskly up the driveway.

Mrs. Hanson pushed the door open. “Come in. Come on in,” she said in boisterous, singsong voice. Passing her, I looked around at my laughing schoolmates and their parents, but I hesitated before stepping farther in. Mrs. Hanson leaned toward me. I sidled half a pace away from her—a reflex. She smiled and leaned toward my ear. “Ed’s in the kitchen,” she whispered, then pointed. “There he is.”

Ed entered the large living room with a platter and stopped near me. “You missed the meeting part,” he said. Then, with a mischievous grin, “Coffee?” I frowned.

“Don’t make fun of guests, Edwin. Let him pick what he wants.” I took a soda and sandwich. An older boy played the piano while almost everyone sang, There’s a blue moon over my shoulder.… I moved my mouth but didn’t sing.

That night, in my attic den, I stared at the candle through the breathing hole of my thick covers, then at the water glass nearby. Solid ice. The play of light and shadow flickered eerily on rafters and roof boards glistening with hoarfrost. I held my hands over the candle until they were almost hot then rubbed my feet with them under the covers. The candle was my only warmth, so I let it burn.

“Puts candle out,” John said from low in the stairwell. I had almost fallen asleep and did not hear the door open. Blowing the candle out, I snuggled deep in the covers to block the cold.

When the snow melted, we began fieldwork. I shivered on the John Deere steel-wheel tractor in cold weather; John drove the tractor in warm weather while I walked behind a four-horse team disking and dragging. It wasn’t just the cold. I was always hungry, more so than a normal teenager. Becoming lean, I moved slowly, without energy, which seemed to anger John even more. Restricted to one serving of food, I supplemented my diet with soybean meal and field corn. If I wanted more, Emma would always complain—Ya eats enough for two grown men. John gave his horses more feed during fieldwork, but refused to do the same for his working boy.

I hoarded any money John gave me and bought candy and nuts at noon hour in Houston; chocolate covered peanuts were my favorite. Munching from a bag on my lap, one day in history class, I didn’t hear the young teacher approach from the rear of the classroom. My peanuts were out of sight, but the smell gave me away.

“All right, mister,” she said, holding out her hand, “Let’s have it.” Though she was pleasant, I was angry with myself for losing food. I sheepishly handed her the full bag, and watched as she put it in her desk.

John let me go back to school on days he didn’t need me. I missed a total of one month of school in the ninth grade, did no studying at home after January, but somehow passed with a C average. Emmet also missed school for work, but he wasn’t in school Monday, the last week of classes. I was surprised, because most parents didn’t keep their kids out of school at the end of the year. I asked Jorde if Emmet was sick.

“You didn’t hear?” he asked. “Emmet drowned Saturday in the Root River, west of town … a whirlpool or something.”

I twisted instinctively to look at the empty seat behind me. I was in shock. “When’s the funeral?”

“Tomorrow,” Jorde said. “The class is going.” He thumbed through his text, trying to seem unaffected.

“I don’t like funerals,” I said. “But it would be proper to go. I would if—”.

“I know,” Jorde said, gently cutting me off.

But Jorde only knew half the story. Though I told him some about my life with the Schaulses, I never talked about the State School. I never told him about the children who died there, nor my constant fear that I might join them. News of Emmet’s death brought it all rushing back.

Silver-haired and immaculately attired in a white uniform, Miss Monson lived for her work at C-15. She was absent only once in five years, that I remember, but her diligence wasn’t for love of the boys. Miss Monson’s passion was punishment. Her assistant, Mrs. Burt, didn’t seem mean by nature, but she too had an uncontrollable temper. She assisted Miss Monson at punishment sessions, and, when a boy angered her, might assail them with a broom or radiator brush—whatever was handy.

The one bright spot at C-15 was assistant Miss Crusely, who worked the shift opposite Mrs. Burt. Miss Crusely never raised her voice or threatened children. She had little time to share with individuals, but every conversation with her was precious. I eagerly waited for her to arrive and dreaded her departure when she could no longer protect me from Miss Monson.

After each beating, I was gripped by a secret fear that one day Miss Monson would cripple or kill me, especially after my first funeral—for a boy at the school named Robert. Miss Crusely had us dress in Sunday suits and led us up the hill to the school building. We entered the auditorium amid a solemn hush. Miss Iodem, the principal, sat stiffly, eyes downcast, playing a sad hymn on the piano. In single file, we followed Miss Crusely down the center aisle, past the open casket, below the stage near the piano. Some children looked at their shoes or at the ceiling as they passed by, as though they didn’t understand.

I didn’t want to look but had to. It didn’t seem real. We were the same age, and he looked so alive, his cheeks pinked with rouge. For a moment I stared intently. Would he crack a smile, call the joke? I knew he wouldn’t. In that moment, I realized: by accident or neglect, illness or a sudden attack, I could be lying there myself with others passing by.

The sermon became a monotone. I glanced from time to time at Robert, saw again his rouged and puffy face. Afterward, we all walked to the little cemetery at the southwest corner of the campus where the service concluded. My fear deepened as I watched the casket lower into the ground.

I worked long, tiring days at the Rushford farm that summer. From well before sunup until well after sundown, regardless of the weather or how I felt, I worked each day, growing steadily stronger. Even John couldn’t complain, but he never followed through on my promised wages or new clothes, so one day I asked him about them.

“You earns keep. I pays twenty-five dollars a month,” John answered, visibly irritated. “I sees about clothes.” I wore nothing but baggy, secondhand clothes meant for men twice my size.

On one Saturday in early June, the Schaulses took me to an ice-cream social at the Bensons’. John’s older sister Rose insisted he bring me, and it was one of two times I accompanied the Schaulses anyplace other than to church. John’s older brother was at the ice cream social, too. He was single, gray, bald like John, though heavier with a personality more like John’s sister. Rose had a bright smile and, judging by the way the Busch brothers behaved, she must have treated them well. But I could not forgive her for co-signing my placement paper—giving me or any boy to her brother John. The social was pleasant, but I always felt out of place in crowds, so I stayed close to Lyle and Ed until I returned to the farm.

The Schaulses never hosted social events. John blew off steam by going to town and drinking, often returning home when I was half done with chores. The stronger I became and the better I took care of the farm work, the longer he lingered in town. As the summer wore on his tirades worsened. No matter how a horse got into the corn or how the cows lost themselves in the woods, it was my fault. If I ever dared to contradict him he would point upward and shout: I’s high-born German! Luxembourg! Da best!

One hot, sultry Sunday afternoon, late June, the phone rang after church. Emma paused while staring at the floor as the rings repeated.

“Yes, Peter’s here,” she said.

I was excited, but dared not show it.

Emma spoke aside to John. “That was the Hanson boy. Him and Lyle want Peter to walk the creek with them.”

Staring out the window, John spoke without turning, “Chores to begin at four. You be home then.”

I moved cautiously out of the house, lest John rescind his approval, then hurried the half-mile to the Hansons’. Mrs. Hanson ushered me inside where Ed was already talking with Lyle. They both waved a greeting to me.

“How is Emma?” Mrs. Hanson asked, handing me a slice of pie.

“All right, I guess,” I said, eating slowly so as not to not appear too hungry.

“I’d say youse are haying on the ridge,” Mrs. Hanson continued.

“Yup, the road going up’s bad, though we been fixing on it,” I said. “Saw a great big snake the other day. On the trail, I mean.”

“Be careful, lots of rattlers hereabouts,” Mrs. Hanson said. She handed me a glass of milk. “Shouldn’t have to worry none by the creek.”

Beginning below the Hansons’ house, Ed and Lyle took me along a trail used by trout fishermen. As we meandered with the creek toward the highway, the afternoon heat picked up.

“Want to cool off?” Ed asked. We sat at the edge of a large pool. It was two breaststrokes across and maybe chest deep.

“Yeah,” I said. “Why not?”

“Because we’d freeze,” Lyle said. “It’s spring fed.”

“You guys chicken?” Ed asked slipping out of his pants and shirt and wading in.

“Not me,” I said as I stripped. “I should rinse off, anyway.”

“You guys are crazy,” Lyle said, but he followed us in anyway. After getting myself completely wet, including my hair, I rinsed my clothes and hung them, shorts and all, on a bush. Ed and Lyle kept their shorts on, while we lay together in a sunny spot. A car whined down the distant hill, but we chattered on. Before we knew it, the car was too close for me to grab my shorts, and I lay face down while my friends sat back chuckling.

“Say Ed, do you think the Mort girl is in that car?” he asked, laughing.

“Can’t say,” Ed said. “Could be the Ladies Aide from the ridge.” He pretended to be horrified. “Mom’ll find out and I won’t hear the end of it. ‘Dear me,’ she’ll say, ‘talk is, you and them orphans was running stark nekkid around the creek.’ ”

“I’m only half naked,” I said. “I’m face down, I mean.”

The car slowed but didn’t stop and was gone in no time. We were still laughing as we dressed. Ed turned to me and pointed south. “Getting on to chore time,” he said. We waved Lyle off as though we were headed home from school, but in truth it was much harder to leave them that day.