Holding Wonder Part 11

fiercely-so fiercely that he was always compelled to defend them.

I ventured one dangerous phrase closer. I had to forewarn him, at least a little.

"But their color-" And dodged. Three minutes later I shook my ringing head and tried to gouge a little of the noise out of my left ear with my little finger.

I had heard it all before, but never so pa.s.sionately. He must have had another letter from his brother who still lives back where color matters so much that it breeds a sickness.

"Well, come and see them," I said, putting his account pad away. "Then no one can accuse me of abrogating the duties of the president of the board."

He yanked the makin's from his pocket and yanked the tobacco sack shut with his teeth as he glared at me. He began to thum down from his monumental wrath to the lesser grievance of my big words.

"Abrogating!" he muttered as he let the back door slam behind him.

It was a dirty trick, I know, but I let him walk in cold. After all, I had tried! He lapsed into a state of horrified petrifaction during Mrs. Quinlan's introduction and automatically put out an answering hand. He suddenly became conscious of the fact that he still held his cigarette in that hand-and they did look quite combustible. He waved the cigarette wordlessly and fledoutdoors. I followed him, sincerely worried for fear he might have a stroke.

"Gaw-dang-amighty, Bent!" he gasped, leaning against the porch post. "We can't let nothing like that into our school! What'll people say! Purple!" he gasped.

"Purple and fuzzy!"

"We have to," I said, feeling my mirth-quake beginning again. "Rules and regulations. Closest school. Color doesn't count. Residents, school age-"

"Art you sure! Are you sure!" He clutched me with shaking hands. He was shook to the core of his being by this extreme testing of his stand on color.

"Lessee that registration card."

"We haven't finished it yet," I said. "We had just started it when you got here."

"There'll be something," he prayed. "There's gotta be something. You know me, Bent. Not a prejudiced bone in my body. Why, I bend over backward-"

Yes, I knew. Bent over backward, impelled by the heavy hand of conscience that forced him to accept what he had been taught to mistrust and abhor. And all his loud championing was loud to try to cover up the unadmitted fact that he had never managed to erase that same mistrust and abhorrence.

"But this is different," he pleaded. "This ain't the same at all! You've got to admit it! There's a difference between-between that and any other-"

"A child is a child," I said. "All of one blood. No respecter of persons.

Neither East nor West, bond nor free-" I meanly set all his familiar rallying quotes out in a little line across his conscience and his conscience stiffened itself-I thought it would-and his sleeve wiped his forehead. Thank G.o.d for people who are willing to be uncomfortable for what is right.

"Rules and regulations," he said, starting back indoors. "If they meet with the rules and regulations then that's all there is-" He sat, his forearms on his knees, his battered Stetson r.i.m.m.i.n.g around and around his fingers. He tried to keep from looking, but his eyes kept straying until he jerked them back to his hat. You could almost see his ears p.r.i.c.k up at each question on the registration card.

Name-Vannie Powdang Parent's name-Vanseler Oovenry Powdang s.e.x- Mrs. Quinlan colored briefly across her forehead. "Put it down F," she said.

"Put it down? Ain't it so?" snapped Stringier.

"Vannie hasn't decided yet," she said a bit primly. "She has until she's of age to decide."

"But-" Stringler's jaw dropped.

"F," I said. "Though there's nothing that says they have to be either one."

"Birthdate?" There was a hurried consultation between the parents and a quick glance through a pocket chart of some kind.

"Month?" I asked."Doshug-October," said Mrs. Powdang.

"What date in October and what year?"

"The twelfth," she answered, "1360."

"1360!" Stringler's mouth was getting ready for an explosion.

"Yes," sighed Mrs. Powdang fondly. "Just think! Vannie's 599 years old. They grow up so fast!" Vannie hid herself out of sight against her mother.

"Now Vannie!" said her mother, emitting her again, "Don't be so shy!"

"It says right there!" cried Stringier, his finger stabbing at the Rules and Regulations. "It says six years old by December 31!"

"To start school," I said. "And there's nothing about any maximum-" I wrote it down, October 12, 1360.

"And anyway, the equivalent comes out only five years old," said Mrs. Quinlan.

"It's a sort of 100 to one ratio:"

"There!" cried Stringler. "Not six yet!"

"Birthday in October," I said serenely. "Nationality?"

The parents looked at one another then swung their marbleround eyes-all eight of them-back to me.

"American," they said in smiling chorus, "Vannie's American."

"American!" Stringier got up and started tramping the floor. He couldn't bear sitting any longer. The crampedness of the area hampered him so that he seemed more to whirl distractedly instead of pacing as he dug down deep into his despised big words. "That's pure and unadulterated misrepresentation!"

"No," said Mrs. Powdang, her eyes ranging themselves earnestly at Stringier.

"She was born in the Nuevas in 1360. That makes her an American."

"But there wasn't even an America then!" snapped Stringler. "She can't be!"

"No regulation says she has to be," I countered. "Race?"

"We're Klaferoones," said Mrs. Powdang very proudly. "Members of Expedition Tronseese." I quirked an eyebrow at Stringier. He just breathed heavily and, sitting down, began r.i.m.m.i.n.g his hat again.

"Yes," Mrs. Powdang went on eagerly, no different from any parents anywhere.

"Our craft was disabled at a most inopportune time. It was just a week before Vannie hatched, but we-"

"Hatched!" groaned Stringler.

"-managed all right because only the motive was damaged. The incubator was on a different circuit. Of course, we won't be here long, but we thought Vannie should utilize the opportunity to absorb as much of the foreign culture-"

"Foreign!" groaned Stringler.

"-as she could, even if only for a little while." I made idle marks on the blotter with my pen. A little while? How long is that to a child who is 599 years old?

"No previous schooling?" I enquired.

"No, only what we have given her at home," said Mrs. Powdang. "But she can trawer to kestic and creve almost all the tonreach and-" Her voice trailed off questioningly as her husband fluffed sharply against her arm.

"No," said Mrs. Quinlan. "That's not included in our curriculum. Can she count Earth style-English?"

"Of course!-" Mrs. Powdang was indignant. "Why before she was two hundred-"

"Umm, yes," murmured Mrs. Quinlan. "And our alphabet?"

"Yes." Mrs. Powdang bit back more indignation. "Vannie-"

Vannie began to sing, "A B C D, E F G-" in a high clear voice as she slowly rotated in time to her tune, fluffing up more and more until the fine pale lavender thistle-like down that was her outer covering, swept papers from the desk.

"That's fine," said Mrs. Quinlan, clutching. "We'll find her level without too much trouble. I wonder a little though about our desks. Her size presents somewhat of a problem. Does she always-"

"Vannie," said Mrs. Powdang.

Vannie collapsed in on herself like a flower folding, the thistle-down effect slicking in until she wavered in the slight breeze that came through the window, a slender, delicate slip of a child whose brilliant eyes were shy and anxious and very, very blue.

Mrs. Quinlan hugged the fragile form to her side. "She'll fit," she smiled.

"She'll fit all around." And Vannie made two slender arms to return the hug.

"Vannie's so eager for school," said Mrs. Powdang. "After all, animals can only be adequate companionship for so long a time, their vocabulary is so limited. Don't you find it so? We're sure you won't have any trouble with Vannie. She has looked forward so long to school. We're sorry she's missed the first few weeks, but we were on a field expedition. I'm sure she can catch up and if there is anything we can help with-"

"I'm sure there won't be any trouble," said Mrs. Quinlan. "What about her lunch?" Mrs. Powdang frowned and murmured to Mr. Powdang. Then she smiled.

"Oh, Vannie isn't a very heavy eater. She can wait until our usual meal next Sat.u.r.day."

"Then I guess that's it," said Mrs. Quinlan. "Unless Mr. Stringler-?"

"Do it again," he said, poking a fascinated finger at Vannie's slicked-down fluff, not even hearing Mrs. Quinlan. "Do it again. Be a thistle."

Vannie glanced at her parents and then slowly fluffed out wider and wider until she seemed to fill the small office, then she began the slow rotation dance again to her own high trilling that had no words this time. About the fifth time around, she scooped Stringier up and rotated with him. Dumb with astonishment, he semi-sat among her lovely amethyst fluffiness, his craggy face and clumsy boots a comical contrast to her delicacy. Then-"Lemme down!" he yelled, suddenly struggling, "Lemme down!" Vannie did.

Panic-stricken, she collapsed in one brief swoosh. Strangler thudded bone-jarringly to the floor as she hid herself in her mother.

"You frightened her!" cried Mrs. Quinlan.

"I frightened her!" yelled Strangler.

"Stringler," I said, "the child-"

"Child!" he muttered, dusting at his Levis. "a.s.sault and battery!" Mrs.

Powdang had been murmuring to Vannie. Vannie peered out, apprehensively, then eased slowly forward. She drifted over to Strangler and shyly touched his arm.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I forgot. I like you and-and-I forgot."

"Forgot-" snorted Strangler, a rusty attempt at a blush sc.r.a.ping its way across his thin cheeks. "Okay, no harm." He rescued his hat from the floor and slapped it against his leg. "But if one kid in this school gets scared by this-this-" The Powdangs straightened slowly. The ceiling began to look awfully low. "-this child," Strangler went on. "Out it goes." And he stomped out of the office.

Mr. and Mrs. Powdang had hardly left, drifting like sedate tumbleweeds across the malapai toward the Nuevas before Mrs. Quinlan hurried to the door.

"Here comes the first bus!" She dithered on the threshold, wetting her lips nervously. The station wagon swirled up in a cloud of dust and erupted in several directions, spilling kids out like sh.e.l.ling peas.

Vannie stepped out of the door and stood there waiting-all fluffy, all blue-eyed, all eager and shy. The thundering herd plowed to a stop a few feet from the porch.

"Hey! Lookit! What's that?" Beegun Andresen's voice could have been heard back of the Nuevas. The kids all bunched together, wary of the unknown. There was a sharp, waiting moment, and Vannie drooped a little. Then Ingrid Andresen backed out of the station wagon, ra.s.sling with her own lunch pail and those of her three brothers always left to her. She turned around to see the silence and the pails clattered to the ground.

"Ooo!" she said. "Who is it?"

"Ingrid," said Mrs. Quinlan, her hand on Vannie's shoulder. "This is our new girl, Vannie. Would you like to take care of her this first day?"

"A girl!" bugled Beegun. "Looks more like a-"

"Charles!" Mrs. Quinlan didn't have to lift her voice. It cut him off in mid-speech.

"h.e.l.lo," said Vannie, fluffing up a little more.

"You're pretty," said Ingrid, moving closer. "Is that your dress?"

"No," said Vannie, "it's me."

"It's like your hair, Ingrid," said Mrs. Quinlan. "Isn't it lovely?"

"Can I touch it?" asked Ingrid.

"Sure," said Vannie, and Ingrid gingerly patted the softness. The boys crowdedaround then, to see, to touch. Beegun tried a little yanking, too, but recoiled with a yell, and a nettle-stung palm.

"Thorns to that rose, Beegun," I laughed. He made a friendly face at me and the boys ran in to get the b.a.l.l.s and bats.

Ingrid moved closer to Vannie. "Why have you got so many eyes?" she asked.

"I don't know," said Vannie. "Why have you only got two?"

"G.o.d made me this way," said Ingrid.

"He made me this way, too," said Vannie.

"G.o.d's bigger than the sky," confided Ingrid.

"I know it," said Vannie, "cause we came from clear across to the other side of it and He's there, too, Mommie says"

"And He's littler than a tear-of-sorrow, too," said Ingrid.