Holding Wonder

"My how learned we are," smiled Dorothea. "Where did you read that, Kit."
"I don't know that I did." Kit's face sharpened again. "I only know there's no sureness about people. They always change."
"Well, I'm going. I've got my hair to do tonight." Allison looked after her as she left "That sounded logical," she said. "But I don't like the sound of it."
"It's true in a sense, I guess," said Dorothea. "Only Kit's forgetting the fundamental person before pressures distort him. That determines largely how he'll react."
"Going to the store, anyone?"
"No, I have a book due at the library," said Cleo.
"And I have to go over to that dern office again," frowned Allison. " `Overtime, fellows and girls,"' her voice was a falsetto mimicry. " `Only about an hour."' Her voice dropped to its usual tone. "Or two or three or four. Why did they pick on me? Why not one of you instead?"
"I don't know," winced Cleo.
"Relax." Allison smiled mirthlessly. "Who's blaming you? Well, I'll get back to the Dorm and put my face back on."
I'm back again. We're all back in the Dorm. If I listen carefully I can hear the goings and comings and voices and a big blank silence where Greta used to be. But she's still here, too. The others may forget her, but I am remembering. And I hope someone else is, too. I'm remembering because I felt her death before she did. I'm only hoping someone else is remembering because they brought death to her. Unless after all she did die of the way she was living. I'd like to know more about this pharmacy thing, though. Of course that bare, temporary waiting room was practically her second home. What little happiness I ever saw on her face was when she was leaving there, her hands full of filled prescriptions. That is one joy I was never able to get inside of.
You know, if you look at it just right, that Pharmacist was pretty well tied up with our Dorm. We all called him Our Pharmacist because we teased one another about him until suddenly he wasn't a kidding matter any more. I suppose if you dug deep enough you'd find all of us yearned after him in some manner or other and all of us had some sort of contact with him. If only
through that little arched window of his-
Sound comes through little windows! They were talking! No one's supposed to go back there except authorized personnel. But she wasn't authorized. She went right back there and talked to him. Two of them did. I heard them! I heard them!
"-flitting from man to man like a butterfly from flower to flower. Some have it and some don't. You're the eighth on our boxscore!"
His voice then, deep-toned, but the words were light. "Well, flowers get as much pleasure as the butterflies. Someone's coming. You're not supposed to be in here."
And her fluttery, "Oh, I know. I'm sorry. I'll go-"
And later there was another voice.
"-tomorrow night?"
And his again, cold this time, flat and uninflected. "I'm sorry. I just found out that I'm busy twenty-six hours a day until the third Thursday of the first week in July. Someone's waiting-" And a door opened somewhere.
So that was Tuesday the 12th! I've pried open the honeycomb bell a little. Only whose voices were they? Was one mine? Did I go back in the unauthorized area? Did I babble that foolishness to Our Pharmacist? Sometimes, often when emotions are the strongest, we babble the awfullest things, things we don't mean-things that aren't so-things we'd give a lifetime to recall. We cut our own throats with our own tongues. I could have been one of those girl voices. It's possible.
But what has this all got to do with Greta? What possible importance could it have? Let's see now. It couldn't have been the one I met at the door because she was only coming in as I was leaving. Unless she went out a back door and came back in the front door, which sounds sort of silly. But then the Second Voice must have come in through the back door because she didn't come through the waiting room. But it could have been me! I lost that time. I don't know what I did. But where was Greta? And what does it mean anyway?
Ah, let me hold on! Let me hold on! She just came in with her eyes big with shock. "It's murder," she whispered, a shame-faced pleasurable excitement making her breathe faster. "The sheriff's coming tomorrow. She had some kind of poison in her stomach. Of course it could have been an accident. One of those one in a million." Disappointment tinged her voice. "But it was an unnatural death." Her tongue moistened her lips. "I've got to go tell the others:"
What pushed me away this time? I'm lost, I'm lost again, in the echoing corridors of this other world. I'm not me any more. I'm looking into the faces of all of us. Tuesday the 12th has surrounded me like a palisade fence. 12 12 12 12 all around me and I can't get out. She said, "We've been wondering how long you'd last with Kit with her flitting from man to man-" and Kit heard! Kit was just outside the door. She knew who was talking. She went away and came back again. She said, "I wanted to check on what clothes to wear for our date. Will it be a slacks-type date or a ruffles and fluffies type? Where are we going tomorrow night?"
I can't add! I can't add! Not without all my fingers and a machine that nibbles the numbers off my fingertips like a hungry rat. Don't ask me to put
two and two together and get me, murderess! I won't believe it. I'm going to hold on this time and not let the bell close. I'm going to find out where this lost self belongs. I'm not going to let it wander any more up and down the Dorm hall, hesitating at each door, wondering if that's home. It isn't fair! My un-lost self knows me. Why can't I know her? I can't add! Honest, I can't. Even in school I made marks on the paper. Little rows of three. Little squares of four. Little dominoes of fives-
Do you suppose I fainted when I heard about Greta? I hope so. I don't want any more bells to pry open. But twilight was on the edge of my window when I got the news and now the street light is smudged along the sill. I don't feel well. I have a queer tightness in my chest. I keep wanting to look over my shoulder. I feel-I feel afraid! I'm scared! I must have been lost! My lost self must have figured out something. Maybe I'm a murderess. But why should I kill Greta? She was a nonentity-annoying sometimes, infuriating sometimes, but what could she ever have done to me to make me want to kill her?
But if I did kill, my other self must be looking frantically for a way to get rid of any witness. At least three of us and maybe all four were at the pharmacy that day. On the other hand, if I'm not the murderess, then maybe I know who is. Maybe someone is crouching on her bed now, trying to figure out what to do about me. How to kill me! Am I going to have to walk around with fear and suspicion like a heavy lump in my stomach, wincing from every word, terrified at every movement? "We're having coffee. Too bad you're busy. I brought you this cup."
"No thanks. It might be poisoned."
"We're hiking up to Picture Rock. You like to hike. Come along."
"No, thanks, one of you might push me over." See? See what an impossible situation!
We're all gathered here in our usual after-supper coffee klatch. The sheriff didn't make it today. A flashflood in the Tortellas mountains took out Dead Horse bridge. He'll be out tomorrow. Meanwhile-I'm going to finish whatever needs finishing. I'm going to tie all the ends neatly. Please God one of the knots won't be around my own neck.
"I wish he'd got here today." Cleo's face was gaunt with fear. "If he had come today, it'd probably be all over with by now. We'd know by now-" Her voice broke off abruptly and one shaking hand crept over her mouth. Her eyes moved from one to another. Then her voice came faintly. "If she was murdered, someone killed her!"