While the Locust Slept. Peter Razor

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      “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, СКАЧАТЬ