by Peter Razor
“Don’t remind me,” Gene said. He cast a wry glance aside at Terry then faced me. “Dad can’t wait ’til school’s out.”
“You got to work, right?” I asked.
“Yeah, but we snooze after dinner, and I go to town a lot with Mom.”
“I go to church Sundays, but we go right home after,” I said. “Last summer I went to town twice, besides church.”
“No kidding?” Gene said. “Didn’t you go to the fair?”
“Fair?” I said. “Guess not.” I felt even more out of place. “Anyway, if there’s dirty work—”
“You get it. Right?” Gene interrupted.
“Yeah.”
“I believe you,” Gene murmured. “The way Dad talks about Schauls.”
“He knows him?”
“Not exactly. Our neighbor knows him. Anyway, you guys are threshing with us, so I’ll see him soon enough. Not that I’m looking forward to it.”
“Don’t say anything to your parents,” I said. “If it gets back to John, I could be dead.”
“He beats on you?”
“Not much,” I said, talking low. “Bitches a lot, though. Keeps repeating things—like he could write a whole book with three sentences. I’m trying to get away from him.”
“Why don’t you just leave?”
Gene sounded puzzled.
“Don’t know,” I replied. “Where would I go? It’s a long story.”
Gene leaned his head near mine, “I got time.”
“If I don’t do what they say—him and the state—seems I’d be breaking some crazy law or something,” I said. “I mean, they have a paper that says Schauls and the state have to agree on it if I leave. He can beat the crap out of me, but I’d probably go to jail in Red Wing for leaving him. Whatcha gonna do?”
“That don’t make sense, the state telling you what to do here in Caledonia,” Gene whispered. “Besides, the court decides who goes to Red Wing.”
“I’m a state ward,” I said. “They’re the court. I’m in this mess because they couldn’t find a better place for me. If they can’t find a decent home for a state ward, they give him to a farmer. Good-looking white kids get decent homes.”
“Schauls got you because you’re Indian, right?”
I shrugged.
We studied biology until the end of the hour. As we got up to leave, my chair was knocked from behind and an elbow jabbed the back of my neck.
“Oh, so sorry, Injun,” the boy snarled. He moved on sneering over his shoulder at me.
I stared at the boy’s back.
“Know him?” Terry asked.
“No,” I replied. “Should I?”
“He knows you,” Gene said. “Biggest bully in school.”
“Don’t know how many times they kicked him out of school for drinking and bullying,” Terry said. He appeared disgusted as he watched the boy leave. “Mostly picks on small guys.”
I nodded.
“He pesters smaller guys into fighting then kills them,” Gene said. “Take you. He thinks there’s no one on your side. Ten to one, ’cause you’re skinny, he’ll make you fight him.”
“Why me?” I asked.
“He’s Bud Lange.”
“Our landlord’s son?” I said. “No wonder Schauls gets along with them. How old is he?”
“Eighteen and a lot of months,” Gene said. “Looked the same since grade school.”
Though a bully roamed the halls of Caledonia High, a teacher named Mr. Zuelke shared good thoughts when I needed them most. He stood in the hall as students moved between classes. One day, he stepped into my path and held his arm up, stopping me.
“Good afternoon, Peter,” he said. A toothpick flagged out of the right side of his mouth as he talked. “Think you could go out for track and football?” He then looked over my head and about the hall.
“I’d like to, but I have to work,” I said.
“Other farm boys take part in sports,” he insisted.
“I mean, my guardian won’t even let me go to games and things,” I said. “Besides, I couldn’t ask him.”
Mr. Zuelke sighed and removed the toothpick. “Well, if things change, let me know. I’d like to see you out for track.” He looked down at my feet. “I noticed that you have no tennis shoes for gym, and your gym shorts are small for you. Does your guardian—Schauls, isn’t it—plan to get those for you?”
“Maybe not. I don’t have any money.”
“See me at noon,” Mr. Zuelke said, matter-of-fact. “I might have shorts and shoes in your size.”
“I can’t pay for them,” I said.
“Not to worry. People outgrow and donate things and we give them to others,” Mr. Zuelke said, holding the toothpick near his mouth, then stuck it in his lips.
Fieldwork continued. Though I was no longer kept home from school that spring, bringing studies to the farm was like touching fire to gasoline so I did all homework in study hall. Final exams were only moderately difficult, though I worried that I had failed something. All exam scores but biology were posted on the hall bulletin board, and those students waited in study hall until Mr. Zuelke would post them.
Terry, Gene, others, and I whispered at one table in study hall.
“Wonder why biology scores aren’t posted,” I said.
Gene shrugged, “Who knows?”
“Shhhh, here comes Zuelke now,” a boy whispered.
“Good morning, people,” Mr. Zuelke said. “Would you like to know who passed my favorite subject?” He looked over our heads about the room while probing delicately with a toothpick through closed lips.
“You passed,” Mr. Zuelke said pointing to Gene, Terry, and others, then to girls at the next table. He made the rounds of the study hall, addressing all biology students but me. About to leave the room, he paused in the doorway looking out at the hall floor as though struggling through a quandary.
Gene leaned toward me. “He forgot you,” he whispered.
“Nope,” I whispered back. “I flunked and he didn’t want to say so in public.”
Mr. Zuelke spun around in the doorway and faced our table, the toothpick no longer in his mouth. His eyes smiled.
“Peter, you had the highest A in the class.” He spoke louder than he had to the other students, then left without another word.
I was thrilled but dared not show any emotion.
“Good going, Pete,” said Gene’s sister Kathy on her way to the door.
“Holy cow,” Terry said, “Sure you didn’t cheat?”
I flushed, “Don’t they keep State Board exams in Fort Knox until test time?” I said, smiling. “But it has to be wrong.”
“Zuelke never makes mistakes,” Gene said.
We went to find that biology scores were now posted and that I had, indeed, gotten the highest grade. Mr. Zuelke’s announcement, I learned, was a lesson to students whom he had overheard making snide remarks about my race and my threadbare clothes. The test moved my final biology grade from near failing to a C average. I was promoted to eleventh grade.
7
I had never seen Dr. Yager in the cottage until, one evening, he entered the day room of C-16 carrying a cloth bag. Boys were reading, playing cards, or listening to the radio. Dr. Yager looked right at me.
“Would you like to play checkers?” he asked. He slid the contents of the bag out onto an unused table.
“Checkers—with you?” I stammered.
“If you don’t mind,” Dr. Yager said. His smile firmed, but didn’t seem genuine. He set up the board.
“You may have the first move, Peter,” Dr. Yager offered. He extended an upturned palm generously over the board.
I shifted uneasily in my seat, wondering why the school psychologist wanted to play checkers with me. Dr. Yager never did anything without an ulterior motive, to read a boy’s body language or lull him long enough to trick him into revealing something secret. I moved a checker, watching Dr. Yager’s strategy more than planning my own. I didn’t like the other bo
ys watching and sat with my head leaning on one hand and let my hair hang over my face. Though my first moves might have seemed clever, I lost.
…
During a work-lull between haying and cultivating that summer, I thought John would give me an extra half-day off. Instead, he sent me to a neighboring farm where I worked two eight-hour days and still did all my chores at home. I didn’t like being hired out, but the farmer fed me well, and we talked about things other than farming. Two weeks later, the farmer, who attended our church, pulled me aside after Mass.
“Did you get the twenty bucks?” he asked. “I gave it to John.”
My surprise left me speechless, but I should have guessed. As with my summer wages, my trust fund and the money I saved for a bicycle, John had stolen the wages I was owed for those two days. I sensed the farmer knew that I would not get the money, but he wanted me to know who had robbed me. It didn’t do any good. I was afraid to argue with John, so I said nothing.
When threshing time came, I went to Gene’s farm while John was in town. With John along, I would have said little to anyone and only whispered to Gene. With him gone, however, the work seemed easier, and I talked and joked with Gene and another boy. Gene and I tended the granary until Paul, Gene’s father, brought in the last wagon of grain bundles before lunch. We stood there shirtless, our bodies covered with grain dust and streaked by sweat, when Gene’s mother, Florence, called from the house porch.
“Come and get it or go hungry!”
“Coming!” Paul yelled. He handed Gene the reins to his team of horses. “Time to eat, boys.” He pointed at us while smiling, “After you water and feed the horses, rinse off at the stock tank. Florence expects T-shirts and clean hands and faces at the table.” No sooner did Paul turn toward the house, than I was hit in the back with a stream of icy water.
“I’ll help you wash,” Gene yelled.
I grappled with Gene for the hose. We laughed and splashed with an abandon I would never have shown at the Schaulses’. If for only the moment, I was free from John’s glare. Another call came from the house.
“Boys! Are you eatin’ with us or not?” Florence called.
“Coming!” Gene yelled as we shook water from our hair. Our play had rinsed us off and we had only to don T-shirts as we headed to the house.
After dinner, Florence served desserts. Gene asked his father, “When’s the party at Thorsons’?”
“Couple weeks. Why?”
“Pete can, may come, can’t he?” Gene asked, glancing at me.
“Why not? It’s open house,” Florence interjected. She smiled to firm up the invitation. “You might like it. Give you a break from work.”
“That might be good,” I said. Such pleasures, commonplace to some, were almost more than I could hope for. “I’ll plan on it.”
I approached John during milking Thursday evening, “There’s a dance party at Thorson’s, Friday,” I said. “Maybe I’ll go…. After chores, I mean.”
“We’s to work Saturday,” John said. “If you tired, maybe you don’t to earn wages. It important we earns our way.”
“I’ll come home early; just wanted to see Gene again before sch—” I caught myself. “I wanted to see Gene again.”
John’s eyes flashed with his displeasure, but he hadn’t been drinking so he said little.
When Friday evening’s chores were finally done, I dressed in my threadbare school clothes and headed to the Thorson farm. The walk was over a mile in the dark, but I focused on the glow from the Thorson’s windows, and the thought of seeing friends urged me on.
My knock was answered by Mrs. Thorson, who ushered me into a roomful of smiles and warm conversation. I was more at ease than at my first 4-H meeting. Leaning against a wall of the large living room, I was mesmerized by a scene of red-faced farmers and their wives dancing and smiling. It was the first time since listening to a folk singer at the State School that I was so enthralled by live music.
Gene approached with two glasses of beer. “Pete, old boy,” he said, his broad grin enhanced by earlier consumption. He shoved a beer at me while holding the other near his mouth. “Have one.”
I shot a glance at Gene’s mother who sipped a red drink while talking with other women. “Your ma lets you drink beer?” I tried to hide surprise. “We’re not old enough.”
“We’re all seventeen, aren’t we?”
“Yeah, seventeen,” I agreed. “But we’re supposed to be twenty-one. Aren’t we?
“Who’s going to raid this place?” Gene said. He swigged his beer and waved it near me. “So we’re old enough! Anyway, I never get drunk.”
“Never been drunk, huh?” I said, cautiously sipping the beer.
Gene watched me closely, “Dad says one or two don’t hurt.”
I looked over at Paul drinking beer with other farmers. “Thanks,” I said, then gestured with the glass. “Good stuff.”
“Yeah, sure,” Gene teased. “You didn’t even know what it tasted like.”
“So what,” I said. “Knew the smell—John’s a walking beer glass.”
“Nah,” Gene said. “Talk is, he drinks whiskey.”
“Could be,” I agreed.
Kathy approached. “Oh, hello, Peter,” she said, smiling. She was an amazing sight—beautiful and sixteen.
“Hi, Kathy,” I said, blushing. I could have melted into the wall.
Kathy turned to Gene. “Mom wants you to run home, get some bread and that sandwich meat in the fridge.”
“Hey, that’s over a quarter mile,” Gene complained, “You do it.”
“Want me to tell Dad.” Her voice was vaguely threatening.
“I’ll go with you,” I said to Gene.
“No, you won’t,” a familiar voice called from behind me. A hand gripped my shoulder, turned me around, and I found myself poised to dance with Florence.
“Maybe I shouldn’t dance. My knee, you know,” I said, favoring it for emphasis.
“Wasn’t going to bother you running to our house,” she said smiling. “And I’d say you looked healthy enough threshing, too.”
“Well, you see, it’s all right for walking and running and that, but dancing … well, twists it.”
Florence pressed, “I suppose your knee would suddenly feel better if Katherine asked you to dance.”
“You know, I could try,” I said. “And it’s kind of you to ask, but I just can’t dance.”
“I’ll help you,” Florence said, and before I knew it, she had pulled my hand around her waist and shuffled with me to slow music. As we danced, I observed Gene heading out the door and Kathy helping with refreshments. Other women danced with me, then Kathy, but I was glad we stopped before I ruined all their shoes.
I returned home at midnight, flushed with excitement.
I only got haircuts during school noon-hour at Houston High, so my hair grew thick and long over summer. It was the same at Caledonia. Emma seldom concerned herself with my appearance unless it served another purpose. Summer was almost gone. John prepared to get feed in town, which meant—most certainly—that he would tie one on.
“Take Peter so he gets his hair cut,” Emma said. “I haint going to have folks say he lives here, lookin’ like that.”
It puzzled me then why Emma suddenly noticed my hair, but I now know that she wanted me along so John would have to come home for chores.
“He’s to works when I’s in town,” John began, then looked at my hair and relented. “You to help me with feed in town.” I turned toward the house to get my school clothes. “You wear those clothes,” John said. He motioned me to the passenger side as he settled into the driver’s seat. Having no pickup, John hauled everything in the back seat of the 1934 Ford, or had it delivered. After I helped John at the feed mill, he dropped me off at the barbershop. “Come to Shanty Bar when you hair done,” John said, pointing.
Finished with my trimming, I walked to the Shanty Bar. I saw John leaning over the bar, his back to the entrance. I slid against th
e wall near the door and looked around, waiting. Two men occupied stools at the bar, and a man and woman sat at a table. They were all either older than John or smaller.
John looked over his shoulder at me and his eyes flashed. I stiffened nervously as he tilted his head back and glared slowly around at the other patrons. “I can lick anyone in des house!” he called out.
I thought I was about to be caught in the crossfire of a bar fight, but one man just squinted at John, then calmly sipped his beer as though John weren’t there. No one else paid him any attention. I relaxed when no one accepted his challenge, but John was clearly pleased. He hoisted his glass with overdone flourishes and drank with his head cocked back, his nose high like royalty.
Days before school started, John came home with his hat pulled low. He said nothing during chores. While washing equipment after milking, John’s cap brushed back revealing a badly bruised face with one eye half closed and purple. I remained stone-faced and was careful to avoid him until bedtime, but I was secretly glad to know that someone had put him in his place.
He drank more after that night, and he was agitated all the time. Emma’s tension increased, and she became openly nervous. Monday after breakfast, I boarded the school bus to begin my junior year. There were no comments, good or bad, from the Schaulses, but I felt cold eyes follow me to the bus.
John said little against school the first week, but an eerie tension permeated the house at supper, Friday, the second week of school. John was not home, which worried me most. In stocking feet and T-shirt, I washed for supper after doing early chores alone. It seemed obvious that Emma, beset by fear, had tangled with John while I was in school.
Soon, a car stopped in the driveway and its door slammed shut. Emma fussed uselessly at the stove. I knew something was going on, but I didn’t know what. I suddenly had the fear that John might kill me. My stomach knotted.
The door opened and John entered. Unsteady, he moved to sit at the table. “Supper ready?” he yelled.
“It’s coming,” Emma said. She set a plate before me, one near John, then set food dishes on the table.
