by Peter Razor
“Not at all,” the doctor said. “Looks like he brought you here for good reason.” He pointed to a treatment table. “Sit there and tell me about it. I’m Dr. Steins. Your name and age, please.”
“Peter Razor,” I said. “Seventeen. I feel better, but got a bad headache.”
“I see. Tell me what happened,” Dr. Steins insisted.
“All I remember is, he hit my head,” I said. “Then that man gave me a ride here.”
“Of course,” Dr. Steins murmured, as he wrote. “Who hit you? What did he hit you with? Was it an accident or intentional?”
“Don’t know,” I replied. “I mean, I don’t know what he hit me with, but he did it on purpose.”
“I see,” Dr. Steins said as he began to examine me. Satisfied that I was in no apparent danger, he motioned at an interior door. “It’s well before office hours, and I must do a few things. You’re stable, so just relax on the table. I’ll be back shortly.” He smiled and entered his living quarters.
The wall clock showed 8 a.m., eleven hours since the beating. When Dr. Steins returned fifteen minutes later, he was dressed in a white professional garment and asked me to undress so he could examine me.
“You may get dressed,” he said when he was done. My head was still thundering.
He talked and wrote at his desk, while I buttoned my shirt. “When it comes to head injuries,” he said, “we can’t always tell right away. You have severe bruising and a contused skull. Fortunately, nothing appears fractured, and your upper arm is only sprained. It could have been caused by the fall. Damned idiot!”
Dr. Steins’ outburst startled me. “I … I’m sorry about bothering you before hours,” I said.
“Not you,” he said, walking toward me with a tray full of bandages. “The S.O.B. who did this. Anyway, you’re coming out of a bad concussion quite well, considering. You have symptoms of exposure, but lying outside in the cold might have helped your head.”
He began wrapping my head. “These bandages will need to be replaced a couple times a day.” He handed me a glass of water and two pills. “This will help your headache and control bleeding.” He handed me a bottle. “Take two tonight and I’ll see you tomorrow. I called Mr. Miller at county juvenile services. He’ll be here shortly.”
“Well, so you’re Peter,” Mr. Miller said. He had just entered and greeted Dr. Steins. “Looks like, what’s his name, Schauls, worked you over pretty good.”
“Beats his wife, too,” I said.
“One thing at a time, Peter,” Mr. Miller said. “We’ll take care of you first, and talk about John later.” He was a portly man, almost bald with a businesslike demeanor, but seemed concerned.
Dr. Steins handed Mr. Miller a paper. “He’ll need rest. We normally hospitalize someone with this type of injury,” he said, “especially after an extended period of unconsciousness, but he’s already pulled through the worst part. It’s already been over twelve hours, so if he can be quiet for a few days, I think he’ll be fine.”
He chuckled and put his hand on my shoulder. “And I have nothing against manure, but Peter might feel better if he could bathe and have some clean clothes. Lukewarm water only until the swelling goes down.”
“Certainly,” Mr. Miller said. “He looks like a strong young man. We can put him in with Mrs. Murray until we find a permanent home.”
Mrs. Murray was a retired nurse with a spacious house, a large and secure place. In the bathroom I looked in the mirror and began to realize the extent of my injuries. My head was bloody and bruised from the right cheek and temple to the top of my head and swollen from the top of my head down to my jaw. I had a mark above my right ear and scrapes on my forehead and left cheek. My left arm and ribs were sore and bruised.
While I bathed, Mrs. Murray discarded all my clothes and laid out clean pajamas for me. She applied clean dressings and, after a light breakfast, showed me to my room. I lay in bed wondering what would happen to me until my headache vanished in sleep.
Mrs. Murray woke me for supper in bed and, the next morning, for breakfast in bed, talking as she fixed my head and took my vital signs.
“Did you know you slept eighteen hours? I brought you supper, but you looked so peaceful, I decided you need sleep more than food. How do you feel?”
“I feel better,” I said. “The medicine’s helping.”
I felt uneasy wondering why I should be treated so well. The chill had left me weak, almost feverish, but my mind kept churning over the same question—what’s to happen now?
Days passed. I listened to the radio, read newspapers with less difficulty, and walked around the block in good second-hand clothes that Mr. Miller sent over. My headaches would take longer to subside. My right temple hurt and my vision problems persisted—like sleepwalking or groping through a thin mist.
Dressed in good secondhand clothes that Mr. Miller sent over, I walked with Mrs. Murray to Dr. Steins’ office. We passed buildings that seemed to sway.
“You’re doing remarkably well, Peter,” Dr. Steins said, then turned to Mrs. Murray. “His responses are slow, but he can return to school tomorrow.” As we left, Mrs. Murray told me that Mr. Miller had picked another farm family for me. In spite of concern about moving to a new farm, I felt there were no other options and agreed.
The next day I walked the short distance to the high school, wondering what the other students would say.
It seemed everyone knew everything that transpired in or out of town.
Students and teachers alike were accustomed to me being unwashed and dressed in shabby clothes. Suddenly, I was well-dressed with a clean look. My head injury was scabbed over, and my hair was neatly combed. A freshly scrubbed look, a teacher said with a smile. My first day of school away from the Schaulses meant getting reacquainted with classmates who seemed surprised at my new persona.
Few students were present in my homeroom when the teacher entered, pausing near her desk. “Goodness, Peter,” the teacher exclaimed softly. “You’re back.”
I looked up and smiled self-consciously. “Good morning,” I mumbled.
“You look well this morning,” she added. “I heard.” She sat at her desk then looked up. “If you’ll stop by during your study period, I’ll fill you in on missed lessons.”
Gene entered, stopped at the front of the room, stared at me in feigned amazement, then faced the teacher. “Do you know when Pete’s coming back?” he asked with a straight face, his lips quivering toward humor.
“Take your seat or leave the room until class time, Eugene,” the teacher said.
Gene approached, sat at the desk across from me, his feet in the aisle, elbows on his knees.
“How’re ya doing?” he whispered, “I heard you beat the shit out of John.”
“Very funny,” I said, but I couldn’t help grinning. “How the heck did you know?”
“Some guy called Miller came around asking questions about you and Schauls.”
The room began filling.
Gene stood and said, “Better get to my seat. See you at noon or study hall.”
The morning went well, but during chemistry class, Bud Lange paused in front of me. His face was ruddy with loathing, his fists clenched. “Dirty Injun,” he whispered through his tight lips. He continued on to his seat, leaving behind the odor of tobacco.
The rest of the morning was spent halfheartedly fending curious looks and pleasant smiles. In study hall, Gene sat down next to me.
“What’d your dad tell Miller?” I asked.
“You mean, what did I tell him,” Gene said.
“Okay, then, what did you tell him?”
“Remember when we threshed at your place? Well, I told Miller how John bitched and punched you in the back when you was both behind the barn.”
“How’d you know that?” I asked.
“I was taking a leak around the corner of the barn,” Gene said.
“What’d Miller say?”
“Not much,” Gene said. “Just that he wa
s finding a place for you. How is it where you’re at now?”
“I’m moving to a different farm, Miller says. Don’t know where, yet.”
Heading toward my homeroom after study hall, I met Mr. Zuelke in the hall. It wasn’t always obvious, but casual meetings of students with Mr. Zuelke were almost always orchestrated.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Razor,” Mr. Zuelke said. “Well, well. New clothes, I see, and you look rested. How does it feel to be clean and well-dressed?” Then, as though to casually listen, he looked past my shoulder down the hall.
“Feels real good,” I said.
Mr. Zuelke turned serious. “I talked with Mr. Miller. He tells me you were lucky.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“You really were, though unlucky to be with that … that character in the first place. Perhaps you can go out for football and other sports now. If it’s all right with you we can work something out.”
“I’m not big enough for football, am I?” I asked. “Not heavy enough, I mean.”
“When you have a school our size, every sturdy boy is big enough. How much do you weigh now?”
“Dr. Steins said I was five-ten, 135 pounds or so.”
“Yes, that’s what he said,” Mr. Zuelke agreed. “He said you should weigh 150.” He chuckled. “Something tells me you’ll start gaining weight right soon. Miller will find a good place for you.” I smiled almost to myself.
Two, perhaps three days later, in gym class, Mr. Zuelke was called out and returned with a rare bright smile. Beckoning, he led me into the hall, where Mr. Miller waited.
“Good morning, Peter,” Mr. Miller said. “Sorry about interrupting your class.”
“Must get back to the class,” Mr. Zuelke said. He smiled at me with a knowing look. “Hope you like your new home.” He nodded at Mr. Miller and left.
“We’ve found a place for you, but you don’t have to go,” Mr. Miller continued. “After what you’ve been through, no one can blame you if you refuse, but you will need a home for at least two more years, and a farm is the best we can do.” We started down the hall.
“If I can pull my weight, it should be all right,” I said staring at the floor ahead as we walked toward the exit. “Did you tell them that I’m … I’m an Indian?” I hated meeting people for the first time—the twitch of surprise, the stuttered nonsense as they tried to talk off their astonishment.
“I don’t think it was all that necessary with this family, but, yes, I mentioned it.”
“John doesn’t know where I went, does he? Did he call or anything?” I asked as I opened the door for Mr. Miller.
“I wanted to keep this quiet until we checked everything out,” Mr. Miller said as he passed me going through the doorway. He stopped just outside the building and reached to put his hand on my shoulder. I flinched, stepping back, and Mr. Miller withdrew his hand. “We contacted State Social Services couple of days ago, and John had not mentioned your leaving them. Nor had he called the sheriff or my office. My secretary called the Schaulses just yesterday, and it appears they had no intention of telling anyone of your disappearance. Also, in talking to your former neighbors, I learned John is mean to his wife, just like you said.” We had walked to the car and he motioned to the passenger seat. “You’re sure you want to try another farm?”
“If I can earn my way, sure. If you checked them out, they maybe aren’t like John,” I said.
“No, siree,” Mr. Miller said. “Not this family. When I explained what happened, three farm families offered to take you. I know all three personally. Fine people. We selected a family expecting a child. They will need the most help. They’re fair, you will miss no school for work, and will have days off. And, unlike at the Schaulses, you will be paid for summer work.”
“Is anyone going to see Emma? I mean, to see if she needs help.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Mr. Miller murmured. “Maybe I should mention it to the sheriff.”
He sat in the driver’s seat, looking out the windshield as he spoke. “We could go after John and Emma both, you know, for neglect, at least, but the law is funny about family things. The fact that you’re seventeen, in good physical condition, according to Dr. Steins, makes it hard to nail John down. And John’s relatives say he is a good man, that maybe you fell instead of being hit. They must know what he is, but he’s flesh and blood, you see.”
“He’s got the shit scared out of Emma, too,” I said angrily. Mr. Miller glanced sharply at me, but did not comment.
We turned onto the road to the Schaulses’ farm. I stiffened. He lied, I thought. He’s taking me back.
“I don’t want to go back to Schaulses’,” I blurted. “If he sees me … no telling what he’ll do.” My head pounded.
“We’re only getting your things,” Mr. Miller said calmly.
“All I have is old clothes,” I insisted.
“That’s it?”
“Well … a rosary and pocket Bible. Nothing else,” I said. “I leave my books at school.” My headache became excruciating as we approached and entered the Schaulses’ driveway. Lowering my head, I avoided looking out the window.
“Stay in the car, let me handle this,” Mr. Miller said, but I glanced up and was relieved to see that John’s car was gone.
Mr. Miller talked through the screen door with Emma. Her anxiety seeped through the screening, and she seemed confused about what was happening. She disappeared into the house and returned moments later with a bundle of clothes and a pair of old work shoes. Cracking the screen door just enough, she handed them to Mr. Miller.
As we traveled south toward Caledonia, I could breathe easier, though I was still anxious about living with another family. A mile from town, we turned west.
“Mrs. Schauls couldn’t find your rosary or pocket Bible,” Mr. Miller said.
“That’s all right. Didn’t work for me,” I muttered.
“How’s that?” Mr. Miller said.
“Well, John prayed with the rosary …” I trailed off.
“Emma said John had trouble getting chores done the last few days,” Mr. Miller said. “You were supposed to shred corn at the neighbor’s.” Smiling, he lit his pipe while steadying the wheel with one hand. “Serves him right.”
“They’re Gene’s folks,” I said.
Mr. Miller smiled calmly, “You’re right, they’re good people.” He thoughtfully puffed his pipe, then said. “Say, Mrs. Schauls didn’t give me your school clothes.”
“Yeah, she did,” I said, pointing my thumb at the back seat. “The ones on top.”
“You went to school in those?”
As we approached a township road two miles west of town, Mr. Miller pointed through the windshield. “Your new home,” he said. I stared at the farm a quarter mile away, studying it without blinking as we entered the farmyard. It was neatly arranged with a silo, dairy barn, hog barn, and a large, white house, surrounded on the north and west by a sheltering pine grove. Mr. Miller pulled up near the house, stepped out of the car, stretched, and walked around to my side. I rolled the window down.
“Come on, Peter, and meet the Klugs,” he said.
Mr. Miller and I were halfway to the house when a young woman in her early twenties came out to meet us.
“Good morning, Leo,” she said with a bright smile. “So this is Peter.” She offered her hand. “I’m Pat Klug. Hope you like it here.”
“How do you do,” I said, shaking her hand.
Patricia Klug was mature for her age, brown hair, trim, and beautiful. Her pleasant manner threw me off balance.
“Come in,” Pat said. Leading us, she motioned to the house, twisting to face me. “Lee, my husband, is out someplace. He’ll be in shortly.” Inside, Pat motioned to chairs, then to pastries on the table. “Have a seat, help yourself.” She reached for a coffeepot and held it towards Mr. Miller. “Coffee?”
“Yes, thanks,” Mr. Miller said. “No sweets, though.” He patted his belly. Pat set a glass before me.
“
Milk?” she asked.
“Yes, thanks.”
The conversation was low, soft-spoken, intelligent, the likes of which were never heard in the Schaulses’ house. I listened carefully, wary, but soon relaxed thinking back to when I last heard such talk—from Miss Crusely and Mrs. Cory. I didn’t have a voice in my placement with the Schaulses, but now I had a choice, more important, the right, to choose where I lived.
Lee entered. He was tall, slender with brown hair and a mild manner. Lee and Pat had taken over the Klug family farm. One of Lee’s brothers was a pharmacist in a city farther north, another was a part owner of the Caledonia Implement Company. Lee proudly spoke German, as did John Schauls, but Lee didn’t seem to have the same prejudices.
“Well, Peter, I must get to chores. If you would, change clothes, meet me in the barn to see how we do things here.” Lee talked quietly with an easy smile. I changed clothes and joined him in the barn.
“Well, here we are,” Lee said. He smiled and motioned about the milking aisle, “The Klug milk factory.” I smiled awkwardly and lowered my head to keep it private. A three-unit surge milker system was used for milking thirty milking short-horn cows, give or take, as some freshened or dried. We talked, both of us, during chores that first night.
The Klugs discussed things in a manner I had never heard at the State School or the Schaulses’—How were things at the Schaulses’? How’s your head and arm? We hope you like it here. Be sure to let us know if you have a question about anything.
Still, I could not talk about the State School or my life at the Schaulses. The Klugs had been given sketchy information about why I left Schaulses’. And when the state approved my new placement, there was no reference to foul play. A note from the Klugs in my records requests more information from Miller about the Schaulses’ treatment of me. There is no reply.
Early chores went quickly, and supper was a grand affair.
“Sure you’ve had enough?” Pat asked.
“Stuffed,” I said.
As at the Schaulses’, early chores meant feeding the cows and other stock, then preparing milking equipment. After supper, we milked from about six-thirty to after eight o’clock. After milking, we bedded the cows and made sure the young stock, hogs, and the hen house had water and feed. After we talked in the living room that evening, Pat took me upstairs to a beautiful bedroom with curtains, a polished floor, a dresser with mirror, and a cushioned chair.
