“She’s still all right,” Paul replied.
The guard flicked off his flashlight and leaned one arm on the lowered window. He seemed hungry for talk. “Funny thing,” he said, “about the telephone calls comin’ in from all over the countryside. Mostly they’re from children. It’s not folks they’re worried about. It’s the ponies. ’Specially Misty. Yeah,” he laughed, “she’s their prime concern.”
“Mine, too!” Paul said.
Unmindful of the drizzle, the guard went on. “By the way, how’s everybody over at Wallops?”
Grandpa coughed. “They’re all hankerin’ fer home.”
“Wal, maybe it won’t be long now. The Mayor got through to Washington, and they’re sending four big ’copters tomorrow to work with you and Tom on liftin’ the dead ponies.” In a routine manner he went around to the back of the truck and flashed his light inside. “Any stowaways?” he asked jokingly.
Grandpa matched the joking tone. “Yup, we got two.”
After an interminable silence the soldier’s laughter filled the night. “Wal, I’ll be a billy goat’s whiskers if ye ’ain’t got a nanny and her kid! How’s the missus going to like that?”
“I figger she’s going to feel mighty close to ’em,” Grandpa chuckled.
“Why? How’s that?”
Suddenly Grandpa panicked. The sweat came cold on his forehead. He cut off the dashlight so his face would be in the dark. He couldn’t speak.
Paul came to the rescue. “We bought them for Misty’s colt,” he explained. “Sup-pli-ament-ary feeding, you know.”
The guard snapped off his light and tweaked Paul’s ear. “Ye got a bright boy here, Mr. Beebe. G’night, folks. Ye can move on now.”
• • •
Home was clammy cold, and it had a stench of fish, and the bedroom rug with the roses was wet as a sponge. But it was Home! And Wait-a-Minute was there with a wild welcome, turning somersaults, then flying round and round like a whirling dervish.
“This floor is like walkin’ on mucilage,” Grandma said, “but no matter how messy, there’s jes’ no place like Pony Ranch.”
Maureen sighed in agreement. Then she added soberly, “Even without the ponies.”
“You forget,” Paul corrected, “we still have Watch Eyes and Billy Blaze, and the mares in the hay house.”
“And,” Grandpa added with a crooked smile, “Wings’ herd up to Tom’s Place . . . and with Misty expectin’ . . . and two goats and five cats, we got the beginnin’s again.”
“Grandma!” Maureen cried. “What’s happened to the back of your dress?”
Grandma swished her skirt around. Her eyes widened. The whole back from the waist down was gone. “Why, whatever in the world!” she gasped.
Paul and Maureen began to shriek in laughter. “The nanny goat!”
“Like I said,” Grandpa roared, “Missus Beebe’ll allus feel mighty close to that nanny.”
Grandma flounced to the drawer where she kept her aprons. In pretended anger she took out two. “I’ll just wear ’em both,” she said. “One fore and one aft.”
There was much to be done before bedtime—the ponies in the hay house to be grained and watered, the nanny and her kid to be tended to, kindling to be brought in. And late as it was, Grandma got down on her hands and knees and scrubbed the floor with vigor and strong naphtha soap.
When she had almost finished, Maureen, muddy but radiant, sloshed into the back hall. “Guess what, Grandma!”
“What now?” Grandma asked without looking up. Her lips were set in a thin line as she carefully pushed the basket of kittens back under the stove. “Now what you so tickled about?”
“Feel in my pocket!”
“Mice?”
“No, Grandma. Guess again.”
“Probably some toady-frog or lizard.”
“No! No! Feel!”
Grandma wiped her hands on her apron and poked a cautious fingertip into Maureen’s pocket. She touched something smooth and curved. Smiling, she reached in and brought out two tiny brown-flecked eggs.
“And there’s two in my other pocket! I found ’em high and dry in Misty’s manger.”
Grandpa and Paul came stomping into the back hall with armfuls of wood. “What’s to eat?” Grandpa shouted. “I could swaller a whale.”
Grandma shook her head. “Bread’s mouldy. Milk’s sour. Only thing we got is four little bitty banty eggs.”
“Why, they’re good,” Maureen said in a hurt tone.
“’Course they are, honey.” Grandma placed them on the table. “Paul, you still got your boots on. Run out to the smokehouse for some bacon. We’ll have a tiny fried egg apiece and plenty o’ crispy bacon. I’ll put the skillet on and have it spittin’ hot.”
When Paul had gone out, Grandma turned to Maureen and Grandpa. “Now you two wash up so’s I can tell who’s who. And for pity’s sake, use that naphtha soap. If’n I had any sense at all, I’d go around this house with a clothespin twigged onto my nose.”
Grandpa’s face broadened into a grin. “Humpf! A sea-captain’s daughter complainin’ ’bout a little bilge water.”
Suddenly Maureen shushed Grandpa and held up a warning finger. “Listen!”
Faint and far off, like something in a dream, came a sound like a dog’s barking. Then it faded away and stopped. They all stood still—waiting, listening. For long seconds they heard nothing. Only the clock hammering and the fire crackling in the stove.
But there! It came again. Louder this time. Nearer! A gruff, rusty bark, then three short yaps, familiar, beloved.
In one stride Grandpa was at the door. He flung it wide and a flash of golden fur bulleted into the room, skidding across the wet floor until it reached Maureen.
“Skipper! Skipper!” she cried, hugging him passionately, wildly.
Grandpa and Grandma seemed to forget they were grown. They let Skipper come leaping at them, let him put his front feet on their shoulders. Who minded muddy paws? Who minded the icy-cold nose? Who minded the wet tongue-swipes? And the tracked floor? Not even Grandma! Only Wait-a-Minute hissed and spat at him.
Everyone was laughing and crying and talking all at once.
“Where you been, feller?”
“I thought you’d been caught in a mushrat trap.”
“I thought you’d drowned, for sure.”
“Why, ye’re strong as a tiger.”
“And yer coat’s got a nice shine.”
Paul came in then, a wide smile spread across his face. “He should be fat and shiny. He’s been in the smokehouse eatin’ his way through hams and salt pork.”
Grandma wiped her laughter-tears away. “He allus was crazy on smoked meats,” she said.
Maureen buried her nose in his ruff. “He’s even got a smokehouse smell to him,” she said. “Remember, Paul? Last thing you did was to go get a ham before we left on the helicopter.”
Grandpa went to the sink and plunged his face into the wash basin, making a sound like a seal. He came up bellowing: “Skipper’s a progger!”
“What’s that?” Maureen and Paul wanted to know.
Grandpa scruffed his beard, thinking. “It’s a old, old Chincoteague word, and it means . . . wa-al, it jes’ means someone as is smart enough to grab a livin’ when things is dire bad.” And he cupped his hands around his mouth and boomed, “Welcome home, ye old Progger!”
Chapter 17
SAWDUST AND SADNESS
SATURDAY. News briefs from around the world were coming over the radio like flak:
“India agrees to a conference with Pakistan. . . . African leaders at the United Nations are exploring the Common Market. . . . Russia accuses the United States of warmongering. . . . Jordan and Israel again at loggerheads over the River Jordan. . . . England’s Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip return in triumph from Australia and New Zealand.”
The newscaster paused and took a breath as if all this were far away and only a prelude to the real news. His tone became neighborly now and conce
rned.
“And here on the home front, the tiny flooded island of Chincoteague has aroused the sympathy of the whole nation. The islanders, whose livelihood depends on chickens and seafood and ponies, have suffered a savage blow to all three industries. Their oyster beds are gone; their chickens are gone. And today’s report indicates that only a remnant of the wild pony herds on Assateague Island have survived. These are the ponies that made Chincoteague famous for the annual round-up and Pony Penning celebration, and that have brought visitors by the thousands. How seriously this loss will affect the tourist industry can only be estimated.
“Yet the Chincoteaguers are showing indomitable courage. With bulldozers and scoop shovels they are pushing tons of sand off streets, off lawns, out of cellars, and back into the channel. Clean-up crews are making bonfires of rubble and debris.
“Oh . . . flash news! Two notes were just handed me. One says Misty, the movie-star pony, has been evacuated from her owner’s kitchen to an animal hospital in Pocomoke, Maryland, where her colt is expected momentarily.
“The other says the Second Army at Fort Belvoir is flying in helicopters within the hour to remove the dead ponies from Chincoteague and Assateague . . . ”
At Pony Ranch Grandpa snapped off the radio in mid-sentence. “I got to go now,” he said in a tone of finality. “Them’s my orders.” He kissed his family good-bye as solemnly as if he were going away on a long journey and might never return.
“No, son.” He shook his head in answer to Paul’s asking look. “No, ye’re needed here today to work on Misty’s stall. Somebody’s got to ready it for her homecoming. Besides, Grandma and Maureen can’t lift that wet rug out on the line by theirselves. They need an able-bodied man.”
“But who’s going to help lift the dead po—”
Grandpa cut off the word with a sharp glance. His eyes said, “Less talk, the better.” And his voice said, “Each ’copter has a crew of four stout army men, and there’s Tom Reed and Henry Leonard to help me.”
Grandma’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. Quickly she went to the cupboard and took out a small brown sack. “I was saving these peppermints for Misty’s baby. But here, Clarence, you take them. For extry strength,” she whispered, “when things is rough.”
• • •
Paul and Maureen were soon so busy with preparations for Misty’s return that they forgot Grandpa. The phone might ring any minute, long distance, with big news from Pocomoke. And if it did, the made-over chicken coop had to be dry and snug and warm, and waiting.
The day was spent in a fever of activity. At first they tackled the heavy, sodden straw with enthusiasm. They were used to cleaning Misty’s stall every morning before breakfast. It took only a few minutes—fifteen at most. But now clumps of seaweed made the bedding slithery as soup and heavy as lead. With fork and shovel they pitched and tossed for an hour. Each wheelbarrowful seemed heavier than the last, until finally it took both of them, one at each handle, to push it and dump the muck in the woods.
Skipper found an old pulpy potato and asked Paul and Maureen to play ball, but they were too busy and too tired.
At morning’s end the floor of the shed was emptied of wet bedding, but what remained was a churned-up, slimy mass of mud. Maureen leaned against the wall, rubbing an arm across her face. “How are we ever going to get it dry?” she said, bursting into tears.
Paul felt defeated too, and his head and body ached. “What we need,” he groaned, “is a thousand million blotters. But where?” Suddenly his face lighted in inspiration. “Sawdust!” he cried. “That’s what we need!” He ran sloshing toward the road, calling back over his shoulder, “You wait, I’m going to see Mr. Hancock.”
Mr. Hancock was a long-time friend. He was a woodcarver, and had given work to Paul and Maureen when they were earning money to buy Misty’s mother. Often for fifty cents apiece they had swept his shop clean of sawdust and shavings.
By the time Maureen had finished her cry and wiped away her tears, Paul and Mr. Hancock were driving into the yard in his newly painted truck. She gaped in astonishment as she watched them unload bushel basket after bushel basket of sawdust at the door of the stall.
“Ain’t near enough,” Mr. Hancock said as he helped dump the yellow sawdust on the floor and saw it turn dark and wet in seconds. “Tell ye what,” he said, noticing Maureen’s tear-streaked face, “it’s eatin’-time now and we all got to eat, regardless. That’ll give this stuff time to absorb all the wet it’s a-goin’ to. Then ye got to heave it all out, and I’ll bring more sawdust, and some chips too. Lucky thing I had it stored high and dry in my barn loft.”
Paul piled the empty baskets into Mr. Hancock’s truck. Then he and Maureen headed wearily for the house. Maureen was trying not to cry.
“See what I see?” Paul pointed to the back stoop. And there was Grandma milking the nanny goat, who was tied to the stair railing.
“Sh . . . sh!” Grandma warned as the children came up. “Don’t frighten her. This ain’t easy, but I got eenamost enough to make us a nice pot of cocoa.”
All during lunch Grandma kept up a stream of conversation to cheer them. “Children,” she said brightly, “a she-goat was ’zackly what we needed. If not for Misty, then for us. Ain’t this cocoa de-licious?”
Paul and Maureen nodded, too tired for words.
“You can each have two cups. And all the biscuits you can eat, with gooseberry jam. I figger the starving people of the world would think this a Thanksgiving feast, don’t ye?”
“Yes, Grandma.”
“And since you still got work on Misty’s stall, you don’t need to hang my rug outside today. I got all the windows open and there’s a good breeze blowing in.”
“Thank you, Grandma.”
“Now, you two perten up. Everything’s going to be better this afternoon. Life’s like a teeter-totter. Heartbreak, happiness. Happiness, heartbreak. You’ll see. Everything’ll be better this afternoon.”
Grandma was right. By the time the wet sawdust was shoveled out, Mr. Hancock was back again with a small tow wagon hooked onto his car.
“Got a big surprise fer ye,” he chuckled. “The road people was putting down some ground-up oyster shells, and I got ’em to fill my wagon plumb full. With them shells first, and the shavings atop that, ye’ll have the driest stable this side o’ Doc Finney’s.”
The rest of the afternoon flew by in a fury of work. Paul dumped the oyster shells onto the floor. Maureen raked them even. Then came layer on layer of chips and shavings. For a final touch they took a bale of straw and cut it up, a sheaf at a time, into short wisps.
“Why can’t we just shake it airy?” Maureen asked. “My fingers ache. Why do I have to cut it?”
“Do you want his pipestem legs getting all tangled up and throwin’ him down?”
“’Course not. When you tell me why, I don’t mind doing it. But, Paul, how do you know it’s going to be a ‘he’?”
“I don’t, silly. People always say ‘he’ when they don’t know.”
“Well, I say ‘she.’”
With the work done, Paul flopped down on the straw and lay there quite still.
“You sick?” Maureen asked in fright.
“No!”
“Then what are you doing?”
“I’m a newborn colt and I’m testing to see if there are any draughts. Doctor Finney says they can’t stand them.”
“I feel the wind coming in through the siding. I can feel it blowing my hair.”
“That’s easy to fix.” Paul got up and plastered the cracks with straw and mud. Meanwhile Maureen stripped some pine branches and scattered the needles lightly for fragrance.
By twilight any horse-master would have tacked a blue ribbon on the old chicken-coop barn. Maureen called Grandma to come out and inspect. “You’ve got to see, Grandma. It’s beautiful. Misty’s going to be the happiest mother in the world.”
Grandma, holding her sweater tight around her neck, stepped inside the snug shelt
er. She beamed her approval. “I declare to goodness, I’d like to move in myself. Just wait ’til yer Grandpa sees this. Likely he’ll do a hop-dance for joy.”
But that night Grandpa never even looked at Misty’s stall. It was dark when he came home. Without a word he made his way toward the kitchen table and sat down heavily. His face seemed made of clay, gray and pinched and old. Without removing his jacket he sat there, hands folded, just staring at the floor.
The noisy clock was no respecter of grief. Each stroke of the hammer thudded like a heartbeat. The seconds and minutes ticked on. Paul and Maureen sat very still, saying nothing, doing nothing. Just waiting.
“Yer Grandpa’s had a mill day,” Grandma whispered at last. “He’s all cut to pieces. Jes’ leave him be.”
It was as if the gentle words had broken a dike. The old man hid his face in his arms and wept.
“Don’t be ashamed to cry, Clarence. Let the tears out if they want to come.” Grandma put her clean, scrubbed hand on the gnarled, mud-crusted ones. “King David in the Bible was a strong man and he wept copiously.” Her voice went on softly. “In my Sunday School class just two weeks ago I gave the story of King David. There was one verse and it said, ‘The King covered his face and wept.’ Just like you, Clarence.”
Neither Paul nor Maureen made a sound. They were too stunned. They watched the heaving shoulders in silence. Grandpa, who had always seemed so strong and indestructible, now looked little and feeble and old. When his sobs quieted, he wiped his eyes and slowly looked up. “I ain’t fit to talk to nobody,” he said, his voice no more than a breath.
“Oh . . . oh, Grandpa!” Maureen cried. “Your voice! It’s gone! You ain’t bellerin’!” And she ran to him and flung her arms about him, sobbing hysterically.
“There, there, child. Don’t you cry, too. I’m plumb ’shamed to break down when we’re lots luckier than most folks.” He smiled weakly. “We got our house and each other and . . . ”
“And Misty,” Paul said earnestly.
“And Misty,” Grandpa nodded. “It’s jes’. . . . ” He swallowed hard and his hands gripped the table until the knuckles showed white through the dirt. “It’s jes’,” he repeated, “that all the days of my life I’ll hear that slow creakin’ of the crane liftin’ up the dead ponies, and I’ll see their legs a-swingin’ this way and that like they was still alive and kickin’.” Now the words poured from him in a tide; he couldn’t stop the flow. “And some had stars on their faces, and some had two-toned manes and tails, and some was marked so bright and purty, and most o’ the mares had a little one inside ’em.” His voice broke. “I knowed all my herd by name.”
Stormy, Misty's Foal Page 9
