While the Locust Slept. Peter Razor

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ