Зенна Гендерсон - Holding Wonder

"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 God 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 rimming 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 prick up at each question on the registration card.
Name-Vannie Powdang Parent's name-Vanseler Oovenry Powdang Sex-
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 rimming 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 Saturday."
"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. "Assault 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.
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