While the Locust Slept. Peter Razor

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      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.

      3

      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?” СКАЧАТЬ