While the Locust Slept. Peter Razor

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ