Зенна Гендерсон - Holding Wonder

Isolation, yeah, and plenty of it-it takes plenty of acres like ours to raise a few head of cattle-but Saturdays and Sundays we're pretty busy. Dusty rivers pour themselves out of canyons and arroyos and out of the folds of the hills and solidify into dustcovered pickups and station wagons and cars in front of the store or Community Center. And, during the week, the station wagon school buses rattle out and in and out again and the fourteen kids spread themselves pretty good and fill the whole place with their clatter.
But sometimes in the evening, when the sun is spinning every blade of grass to gold or-along the black slope kindling it to a fine spun-glass snowiness, I listen to the wind, thin and minor, keening through the gold and glass and wonder why anyone would want to live in such a dot under such wideness of sky with such a tawny tide of grass lapping up to such hills.
But things do happen out here-things to talk about, things to remember, things to wonder about. Like the time when we were the closest school-so naturally they came here to register their child. Mrs. Quinlan, the teacher, came fluttering over to the store early that morning before school. Mrs. Quinlan fluttering is a sight in itself. She's usually so self-contained and sort of unflutterable.
"Bent," she said, "you're on the school board. What shall I do about this new student?"
"New student?" I squinted out the window of the store. "I didn't hear anyone drive up."
"They didn't come by road," she said uncomfortably. "They cut across."
"From where?" I asked.
"From the Nuevas," she said.
"Cut across from the Nuevas!" The two of us silently reviewed the terrain between us and the Nuevas. "Maybe I'd better come see them." I flipped the card on the front door so it said, "Come In. Back Soon." and followed her across the hollow square that separates the four buildings.
Well! When I caught sight of them, I nearly fluttered, myself. Then I got tickled and started my subterranean laughter that plagues me at the worst
possible times and that is almost inextinguishable.
"Bent!" Mrs. Quinlan flashed at me out of the corner of her eyes.
"I'm not laughing at them," I choked in a whisper. "It's Stringler! Wait'll he sees them!" I ironed out my face-hers began to crinkle-as best I could and gravely acknowledged her introduction.
"Mr. and Mrs. Powdang and Vannie. This is Mr. Brentwood, one of our school board members." I wondered a little about how appropriate it was, but I held out my hand anyway and felt warmth and friendliness in their firm clasps though they did tickle my palm.
"Pleased to meet you," I said. "This is an unexpected pleasure."
"Thank you."
I don't know why I should have been so startled at the English. We get a fair number of transients through here and most of them are bilingual to the point of no accent. Why shouldn't the Powdangs be so also?
"What's the problem?" I asked. "Haven't you any registration blanks?"
"Of course," said Mrs. Quinlan. "It's a matter of what to put in the blanks. Equivalents, sort of." But we both knew it wasn't that. She'd needed someone to be with her-someone-well, just someone.
"Well," I picked up the registration card. "Name, Vannie Powdang. Parent's name. Mr.-?" I lifted my eyebrows at Mr. Powdang-I think. "Your first name?" Mr. and Mrs. Powdang exchanged glances and I almost dropped my pen. No valid reason why I should have been startled. Two eyes aren't necessarily standard equipment just because I count that many on myself. But coming that way, unexpectedly like that from the fluff– "First name?" asked a deep voice.
"Like Vannie," said Mrs. Quinlan, crinkling secretly at me, now.
"Oosh!" Mr. Powdang's eyes lit with a turquoise comprehension and he reeled off a string of syllables that stopped my pen in mid-air. "One or two will do," I said. "Spell them, please."
Mrs. Quinlan said quickly, "I think we had figured out Vanseler Oovenry. It shrinks somewhat in translation."
I was afraid to meet her eyes since my mirthbox had been upset already and so I just quaked quietly as she spelled it out to me. I had just tailed the y when we were all startled by the ungodly screech of brakes that announced the fact that Stringler was trying to bring his pickup truck to a roaring stop from a blistering thirty-five miles an hour.
"Oh, oh!" I said, sliding away from the desk. "We might as well get it over with now. I'll go drop a few preparatory hints."
I ducked into the store through the back door. Stringler was tromping up and down the room, gouging his heels into the planks at every step, dust dancing out of the cracks of the floor and flouring off his faded Levis. For the skinny little old half-pint he is, he's the world's most unquiet man. Since he is the school board president, we have some pretty loud meetings from time to time.
I leaned into his first blast of speech. "If yer gonna keep a store, Bent,
keep one! Don't go gallivanting off to see the school marm all the time!"
I think Stringler's mother was marked by reading a western before his birth. He always sounds like it, anyway.
"What can I do you for today?" I asked.
"Outa color film," he said. "Frost's hit our upper ranch. Color like crazy, up Sycamore Canyon. Missed it last year on account of that gol-dang rain we had. Gonna get it this year or bust!"
"This is a fresh shipment," I said, fishing his account pad out of the drawer next to the cash register. "How many?"
"Half a dozen, I reckon." He pushed his battered hat back on his head. "Oughta last me a spell."
"We have a problem, this morning," I grunted as I made out the sales slip. "School business. There's a new kid-" "Why bother me?" Stringier stacked the film. "That's Mrs. Quinlan's business."
"Might be school board business 'fore it's through," I said. "Public opinion-" I settled myself for his roar.
"Public opinion! We got rules and regulations to run our school by. That there public opinion put us in office to see that they're stuck to. Anything come inside them rules and regulations thur ain't no question about. Stick to the rules and regulations!"
"But this is different. These foreigners-"
"Since when are you a foreigner hater!" It's incredible the volume that could come from such a scrawny old frame. "I thought you had a little sense!" He roared twice as loud because he knew and I knew that he resented "foreigners" 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 passionately. 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 fled
outdoors. 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!"
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