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Stormy, Misty's Foal

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<h2>Chapter 14</h2> <h3>MISTY GOES TO POCOMOKE</h3> In the helicopter on the way back to Wallops Station, Grandpa and Paul talked things over. They would try to seal off today's grief. No need to speak of it tonight, with folks listening in. It would be like unbandaging a wound for everyone to see. They would talk of the kittens instead. And so, when the plane landed, their faces were set in a mask. Maureen and Grandma, bundled in coats and scarves, were there to meet them. Maureen rushed up, bursting with curiosity. Before she could ask her question, Paul said, "You'd never, ever guess." "All right, Mr. Smarty. Then I just won't try." "There's more than one!" "Twins?" she gasped. "Oh, Paul, isn't that wonderful! One for you and one for me!" "Nope. It's quadruplets—it's four of them." "Can't be!" Grandma broke in as they walked toward the mess hall. "I may be a sea-captain's daughter, but I know 'nough about ponies to know they don't have four to once. Speak up, Clarence." Grandpa took off his hat and let the wind pick up the wisps of his hair. "Yup, Idy," he nodded, "yer kitchen's a nursery now with four little ones...." Grandma wailed. "Oh, my beautiful new table all bit up, and my linoleum ruint." "Pshaw! The little ones ain't bigger'n nothing," Grandpa said, flashing a wink at Paul. At the door of the mess hall Maureen stopped in her tracks and began jumping up and down as if she had the answer to a riddle. "It's Wait-a-Minute!" she shouted. "She's had kittens again!" Paul smiled. "Yep, Grandma's kitchen is a mew-seum now." The children and even Grandma and Grandpa laughed in relief, not because they thought the joke so funny, but because it was good to be together again. The refugee room had been transformed—cots lined up against the wall, neat as teeth in a comb, and new tables and chairs, and a television set with a half-circle of giggling children. The Beebes went directly to their corner. Maureen and Grandma were still full of questions. But the answers were short. "Yup, Misty's okay." "No, no sign of Skipper anywheres." "Rabbit's gone, too." "Yup, our house is dry, 'cept for a tiny bit of wetting in one o' the bedrooms." Here Grandpa pinched his nose, remembering. "But it's got a odor to it that'll hold you." In her dismay over her house, Grandma had forgotten all about Grandpa's ponies. Now as she helped him pull off his sweater, she asked, "What about your ninety head, Clarence? Are they...." Paul kept very still, and Grandpa's old leathery face did not change expression. He looked dead ahead. "There was losses," was all he said. He turned to Maureen, and his voice was tight and toneless. "Me and Paul have done a lot of yelling today, and we're both wore out. We just don't feel talky, do we, Paul?" "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." <hr class="tb" /> 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. <hr class="chap" /> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus37.jpg" alt=""/></div> <hr class="chap" /> 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 rumbly purring sounds. Misty grows drowsy. She turns to lie down, but the kittens are in her way. At last she sleeps, standing over them. <hr class="tb" /> 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. <hr class="chap" /> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus38.jpg" alt=""/></div> <hr class="chap" /> 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. <hr class="chap" /> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ch.jpg" alt=""/></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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