Stormy, Misty's Foal

by Marguerite Henry

  “No, Grandpa.”

  “Suppose you and Grandma be like Red Cross angels and tote our suppers over here. We’d ruther not eat up to the big table with ever’body.”

  As Maureen and Grandma heaped the trays and carried them back, Maureen’s lip quivered. “Oh, Grandma, Paul didn’t even ask what I did today. He doesn’t even know I was at Doctor Finney’s, riding a famous trotter. Oh, Grandma, why was I born a girl?”

  “It’s God’s plan, Maureen. Oops! Take care. Ye’re spilling the soup.”

  • • •

  Friday. The fourth day of the storm. Gray skies over Chincoteague. Rain off and on. Temperature rising. Wind and tide slowly subsiding. The causeway in use again—red ambulances carrying off the sick, yellow school buses the well, dump trucks removing the dead chickens.

  Misty in the kitchen at Pony Ranch is growing restless. Her hay is gone. The water in the sink is gone. She is bored with the squeaky, squirmy kittens, and tired of looking out the window. Nothing seems to happen. No ponies frisking. No dog teasing her to come out and play. No birds flying. No friendly human creatures.

  The room is getting too warm. Her winter coat itches. Even the bony part of her tail itches. She looks for something to scratch against. The handle of the refrigerator! She backs up to it. To her surprise the door kicks right back at her! She wheels around, barely missing the mewing kittens. She pokes her head in the box, sniffing and nosing. She tries to fit her tongue into a pitcher of molasses. Crash! A dark dribble spills down on the kittens, on Wait-a-Minute too.

  At last Misty has something to do. Good sweet molasses to clean up. She licks Wait-a-Minute, and Wait-a-Minute licks her kittens. The steady strokes bring on nimbly purring sounds. Misty grows drowsy. She turns to lie down, but the kittens are in her way. At last she sleeps, standing over them.

  • • •

  Afternoon came, and with it strange happenings. Paul and Grandpa arrived at Pony Ranch. This time their concern over Misty was desperate.

  “A day or two at most,” Grandpa said gravely.

  “You been saying that!” Paul replied accusingly.

  “I know.” Grandpa looked crestfallen as if he’d failed in his duty. He made up his mind on the spot. “We’re carryin’ her over to Doc Finney’s today, to once!”

  They led Misty out of the house and into the old truck. They stowed a bundle of hay in its accustomed place, just as if she were going off to a school or a library story hour.

  “You wait, Misty, we’ll be right back,” Grandpa said. “Paul and me got to give the kitchen a quick lick.”

  “Oh, do we have to?” Paul was all impatience.

  “Yes, son. Some way I got a hunch yer Grandma’s coming home right soon.”

  Back in the kitchen Paul and Grandpa mucked out the old straw, and gave the floor a hasty cleaning.

  “Gives you a new regard for wimmenfolk, don’t it, Paul?” Grandpa asked, dipping the broom into a pail of suds.

  “Why?”

  “Well, how’d you like to get down on yer knees and scrub suds and dirt together and try to get a slick surface?”

  “I’d ruther muck out stalls.”

  “That’s what I mean. Misty is what I’d call a tidy pony. She uses one corner and keeps ever’thing mounded up real neat. But even so—!”

  When they had done the best they could, they turned to inspect their handiwork. The room looked better, they admitted, with the kittens in the laundry basket and the straw swept out and the molasses fairly well cleaned up, but somehow the pattern of the linoleum was gone.

  “Oh, well,” Grandpa sighed, “yer Grandma’ll say, ‘Clarence Beebe, this floor looks like a hurrah’s nest.’ And then she’ll get right down with her brush and pail, and she’ll begin purrin’ and hummin’ like Wait-a-Minute with her kittens. So let’s leave it to her and get on with Misty.”

  Driving the truck through town to the causeway took an hour instead of minutes. The streets were filled with men and machines. Huge bulldozers were pushing sand back into the bay and rubble into piles for burning.

  Every time the truck had to stop, Misty was recognized and men shouted questions.

  “Where ye taking Misty?”

  “To Doctor Finney’s!”

  “Clear to Pocomoke City?”

  “But why now, when the weather’s fairin’ off?”

  “’Cause she needs a doctor, that’s why,” Grandpa answered. “She’s way past her time.”

  “Shucks, you never done this with your other ponies.”

  “But they’re used to wild ways,” Paul broke in. “Misty’s more like folks.”

  “My grandchildren set a mighty store by her,” Grandpa said. “We just can’t chance it.”

  In front of his house the Mayor came out and flagged them down. “Beebe,” he said, looking heavy-eyed and discouraged, “we’re having a time getting those carcasses airlifted.”

  “How come?”

  “The government has approved sending ’copters to take fresh water to the ponies still alive on Assateague, but they have no orders yet to take out the dead ones.”

  Grandpa exploded. “Mayor! The live ones has got water. There’s allus water in the high-up pools in the White Hills. Them ponies know it.”

  “You and I know it too, Clarence. But sometimes outside people get sentimental in the wrong places. They mean well enough,” he added with a tired smile. “It’s the same old story about the evacuation. Even though the drinking water is piped to Chincoteague from the mainland, the Health Department still says no women or children can return yet.”

  Grandpa’s face went red. “Mayor, I guess you don’t need me to tell you the wimmenfolk is madder’n fire and sputterin’ like wrens. Less’n they get home soon and tote their soggy mattresses and chairs out in the air, ever’thing’ll be spoilt.”

  “Yes, I know. I know. I’m doing the best I can to get things cleared up. Right now I have a call in for our Senator in Washington. Perhaps he can get some action for us.”

  “But how about all the folk who didn’t evacuate?”

  “We can’t force them to leave their homes, Clarence. But those that are at Wallops Station just can’t come back until all the dead animals are removed. And Clarence,” he called as Grandpa shifted into gear, “when the order does come through, we’ll want you to help with the airlifting.”

  On the long trip to Pocomoke, Grandpa kept grumbling and muttering to himself.

  Paul couldn’t keep his eyes open. With Misty close by him, where he could reach back and touch her, he suddenly felt easy and relaxed, easier than he had since the storm began. He tried to stay awake. He tried to listen to Grandpa. He tried to watch the scenery. But his eyelids drooped. Finally he crawled in with Misty and slept on the floor beside her.

  When at last they turned into Dr. Finney’s place, Grandpa had to shake him awake.

  Chapter 15

  GRANDPA MAKES A DEAL

  DR. FINNEY was a big man, outwardly calm, but his face looked as if it knew patience and pain.

  “What do you think, sir?” Paul asked as they stood with Misty in the paddock.

  “Well, to be frank, she’s a little too heavy, Paul. That is, for one so fine-boned. And that’s never good at a time like this. But we’ll pull her through.”

  Misty shouldered her way into the center of the group, ears listening and questing, as if she were part of the conference instead of the cause.

  The doctor put a gentle hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Misty won’t be lonesome here,” he said. “In the next stall she can neighbor with Trineda, a well-bred trotter. And my boy David can comfort her and take your place—for the time being,” he added quickly.

  Just then Dr. Finney’s son came racing out of the house. Paul almost hated the boy on sight, for Misty trotted right up to him, sniffing curiously.

  “Doctor Finney,” Paul said urgently, “couldn’t I stay here? Please?”

  Grandpa answered before the doctor had finished clearing his throat. “If
ye could be of help, me and Doc’d both say yes. But ye’re needed over to Chincoteague. Lots o’ moppin’ up to be done, and ye volunteered as an able-bodied man. Recomember?”

  Still Paul could not bring himself to go. He slid his hand under Misty’s mane, scruffing his fingers along. “Doctor Finney,” he asked, “would it be a good idea for us to get a nanny goat just in case . . . ?”

  The doctor was about to say it wouldn’t be necessary. Then he saw the troubled look on the boy’s face. Better, he thought, to keep him busy instead of worrying. “It wouldn’t hurt at all, Paul. Many breeding stables keep a goat for that very purpose. By the way,” he turned now to Grandpa, “you must know Buck Jackson from Chincoteague.”

  Grandpa flinched. “Yup, I know him. Sells goat’s milk.”

  “Well, he’s delivering a flock of goats to Girdletree today, and I’m to give them a health certificate. If you’d like to buy a nanny, I’ll ask Buck if he can spare one. But you’d have to keep her at Pony Ranch, because I’m short of space.”

  Grandpa shrugged helplessly. “Allus it’s me against the world,” he said, half joking, half in earnest. Then he stared down the highway in amazement.

  A shining white truck was barreling along toward them. Now it was slowing, and in big black letters on its side Grandpa made out the words:

  BUCK JACKSON DELIVERY—GOAT’S MILK.

  With a screeching of tires the truck turned into the driveway and came to a stop. A big-shouldered man jumped down from the cab and opened the tailgate. “Hi, Paul and David,” he called. “Hi, Doc. Hi, Mr. Beebe. Hi, Misty. Heavens-to-Betsy, I didn’t expect a welcoming committee!”

  Misty and Paul and David were first to peer inside. The two boys were suddenly friends, buyers, judging an odd assortment of goats.

  Grandpa stuck his nose into the truck and sniffed noisily. “I jes’ don’t like ’em,” he insisted. “They smell from here to Kingdom Come. To me, a polecat smells purtier.”

  But Paul was ecstatic. “They can’t help it, Grandpa. And besides, Misty needs someone to play with, now that Skipper’s gone.”

  “She’ll have her colt,” Grandpa reminded.

  Paul was not listening. “I like that brown nanny with the little white kid.”

  “So do I,” David agreed. “And if I was your Grandpa, I’d let you have the whole truckload,” he offered generously.

  “Who says I want to sell any?” Buck Jackson asked.

  That did it. Grandpa was a born trader. “Buck,” he said, “there’s lots o’ goats over to Chincoteague. Some nicer’n yours. Cy Eustace has a hull flock, and Ben Sykes has . . . ”

  “Not any more they don’t. They’re drowned.”

  Grandpa ignored the interruption. “But since my grandson has took a fancy to that brown one and her kid, what’ll ye take for the pair?”

  Buck winked at Dr. Finney. “I’ll take Misty and her unborn.”

  Now Grandpa’s blood was up. “Quit yer jokin’!”

  “Who says I’m jokin’?”

  In the waiting silence Misty poked her head inside the truck and the brown goat gave her a friendly butt. Misty came right back, asking for more.

  “I give up!” Grandpa sighed. He pulled out his ancient leather purse and began fumbling inside, transferring bits of string and wire to a pocket. At last he held out a much-folded five-dollar bill. “This may seem mighty little to ye, but hosskeepin’ ain’t what ye’d call profitable. Here, take it.”

  Buck Jackson chewed on a toothpick, thinking. “If I didn’t say yes,” he said at last, “even Misty here’d hate me. It’s a deal, Clarence, and I’ll throw in a bale of hay besides.”

  The transaction was quickly completed. But even with the nanny and her kid in the pickup, Paul didn’t find it easier to say good-bye to Misty. “Don’t ride her,” he cautioned David. “She’s going to have a colt.”

  “I know she is,” David replied in disgust. “Everybody knows that.”

  Dr. Finney held onto Misty’s halter. “Don’t you worry, Paul. I’ll sleep in the stall next to her, and I’ll stay within sight and sound during her foaling period.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  • • •

  It was almost dark when Grandpa and Paul crossed the state line back into Virginia.

  “Tradin’ whets my appetite,” Grandpa confided to Paul. “What d’ye say we stop by Wallops Station and have some nice hot Red Cross food with Grandma and Maureen?”

  “What about our goats? Shouldn’t we hurry home and put them in the hay house with Billy Blaze and Watch Eyes? They got to get used to being with horses.”

  Grandpa wasn’t listening. A flicker of a smile crossed his face. “Don’t interrupt me, son. My mind’s turnin’ over important thoughts.”

  The refugee room looked much the same, except for more cots and more people. And it still smelled of old rubber and leather and steamy woolen socks.

  As the family sat down at the long table, Paul whispered to Maureen, “I like the smell of goats better’n people, and we got two—a nanny and a kid.”

  “Oh, Paul, how beautiful!”

  “They’re not beautiful; they’re really kind of funny-looking with their eyes so different from horses’.”

  “I know. They’re bluey-yellow, and they look glassy, like marbles.”

  Paul and Maureen could hardly eat for all they had to say to each other.

  “Misty’s at Doctor Finney’s, Maureen. She can’t keep on postponing forever and she can’t go on living in Grandma’s kitchen. Ain’t healthy and airy for her. And besides . . . ”

  “Besides what?”

  “I overheard the doctor say there could be complications.”

  Grandma and Grandpa were deep in conversation, too. Grandpa seemed to have forgotten he was hungry. “Idy,” he said, “Pony Ranch is now the owners of a nanny goat and her kid. A billy-kid, at that! It’s got whiskers as long as yer sea-captain pa.”

  “Clarence Beebe! Don’t you talk like that. I’ll not have ye comparin’ my father to a billy goat!”

  “Oh, come now, Idy. I’m jes’ bein’ jokey. Besides, yer father smelled real good—of tobaccy and things. By the way,” he asked, trying to appear casual, “you and Maureen had yer arms scratched against the typhoid?”

  Grandma nodded.

  “Good! I’m turribly glad.”

  “Why? Is the typhoid raging?”

  “No, but I need ye at home, Idy, to perten me up for what I got to do.”

  “What’s that?” Grandma asked in alarm.

  “I got to see that all my dead ponies is taken off’n Chincoteague, and the dead ones on Assateague, too.”

  “Oh . . . oh, how dreadful! But they say wimmenfolk can’t go home now. Regardless.”

  “I know they say so.” Grandpa’s eyes crinkled with his secret. “But I say the Lord helps them as helps theirselves.”

  Grandma looked at him questioningly.

  “Idy, how’d ye like to . . . ?”

  “Like to what?”

  Grandpa sopped up some tomato gravy with a chunk of bread and ate it slowly, enjoying Grandma’s impatience. Then he leaned close to her ear. “How’d ye and Maureen like to be smuggled back home? Right now!”

  Grandma beamed. “Be ye serious?”

  “Serious as a cow at milkin’ time.”

  “Why, mercy me, I’d feel young and chipper doin’ a thing like that.”

  “Ye would?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Even if ye had to hide in the back o’ a truck under a bundle o’ hay with goats eatin’ through to ye?”

  “Even if!” Grandma hurriedly left the table, motioning Maureen and Paul to follow. “Don’t ask any questions,” she said. “Just slip into your jackets and come along, and leave our blankets on the cots.”

  The people nearby looked up in surprise as the Beebe family put on their wraps.

  “My husband has got some goats down in the truck he wants us to see,” Grandma
explained.

  “But it’s raining, Mrs. Beebe.”

  “I know. That’s why we’re bundling up.” Grandma blushed. “Y’see, my husband’s like a little boy whenever he’s got a new pet to show me.”

  Chapter 16

  WELCOME HOME, PROGGER

  THE NIGHT was dark and broody with no moon or stars. Not a glimmer of light anywhere. A curtain of fine rain closed in the deserted parking lot.

  With a great heave Grandpa hoisted Grandma up into the back of the truck. “It’s easier loading Misty,” he panted.

  Grandma was too excited to answer. Feeling her way in the dark, she pushed the goats aside, took off her head scarf, and sat down on it. Then she opened a clean handkerchief for Maureen. But Maureen ignored it, lost in delight over the little white kid.

  The motor made a roar in the night as the truck pulled out of the lot and headed for the highway. Almost there, Grandpa turned down a gravel lane, dimmed the lights, and parked. He and Paul jumped out and ran to the back of the truck. Hastily they broke open the bale of hay, and began shaking it over the stowaways.

  Maureen sneezed.

  “Hay’s dusty,” Paul said.

  “Might of knowed it,” Grandpa snorted. “No wonder Buck Jackson give it away. Now whichever of ye sneezed, we can’t have no more o’ that. If yer nose feels tickly, jes’ clamp yer finger hard underneath it, and ’twon’t happen.”

  Before Paul and Grandpa got back into the cab, they looked around cautiously. No one was in sight.

  “I feel like the smugglers we read about in Berlin,” Paul said, “sneakin’ refugees to West Germany.”

  It was only a half-hour’s ride to Chincoteague, but with no one singing or laughing, it seemed more like half a day. In silence they rode past Rabbit Gnaw Road and through Horn-town and past Swan’s Gut Road and across the salt flats that led to the causeway.

  Almost at the end of the causeway their headlights showed up a temporary guardhouse. A soldier with a rifle came out and flagged them down. He shone his flashlight into the cab of the truck. “Hi there, Mr. Beebe,” he grinned in recognition. “Hi, Paul. How’s Misty?”