Chapter 12
WAIT-A-MINUTE COULDN'T
By six o'clock the next morning the men had been outside summing up the weather, and had come in to report: "Wind's slacked up a bit. Still blowin' nor'nor'east. Sky's cloudy, but no rain."
By seven o'clock a new parade of church ladies marched in with big pans of sweet rolls and pots of steaming hot coffee.
At eight o'clock a Coast Guard officer, square-jawed and handsome, strode into the room. He was a big man, and when he pounded for order, the few left-over rolls jumped on their plates. "Folks," he boomed out, "I've good news for you." He waited a moment until his scattered audience finished folding their blankets and quieted down. "You'll be pleased to know," he announced, "that the Red Cross is coming in, bringing canned goods and a steam table so you can have nice hot meals."
One of the church ladies walked out in a huff.
"And they are bringing cots and pillows, so there'll be no more sleeping on the floor."
A shocked silence followed. Who wanted to stay another night? Even on a cot? Everyone wanted to get home.
"Bear in mind, friends," the brisk voice went on, "this is not a one-day evacuation. More refugees will be coming in."
"Where'll we put 'em?" several voices demanded.
The officer ignored the interruption. "By order of the State Department of Health, no women or children can return to Chincoteague until all the dead chickens are removed and the other carcasses, too—goats, dogs, pigs, and of course dead ponies. There could be a plague—typhoid or worse."
Grandpa's arms seemed big enough to take in his whole family. "Don't listen at the man. Ponies got sense. They'll hie theirselves to little hummocky places and wait it out. And Misty, of course, is dry and comfortable."
The officer let the mumblings and grumblings die down. He rapped again for silence. "The Mayor of Chincoteague has asked for volunteers—only able-bodied men—to fly back each day to clean up the island and repair the causeway. Only able-bodied men," he repeated, scrutinizing the group. "Will all who wish to volunteer come to the front of the room."
Grandpa leaped forward as if he'd been shot from a cannon. Paul was a quick shadow behind him.
"Paul Beebe!" Grandma called out. "You come back!"
But Paul seemed not to hear. He locked step with Grandpa and they were almost the first to reach the officer.
Grandma sighed. "Who can stop a Beebe? We can be proud of our menfolk, can't we, Maureen?"
Maureen burst into tears. "Oh, Grandma, being a girl is horrible. Paul always gets to have the most excitement. And he'll be first to see Misty's baby. Oh, oh...." And she buried her head in Grandma's bosom and sobbed.
"There, there, honey. We'll find something real interesting for you to do. You'll see."
A handful of lean, weathered fishermen were now lining up as volunteers. The officer began counting from the tail of the line. As he came to Paul, he stopped, trying to make up his mind if he were man or boy. For the moment he left Paul out and went on with his counting, "... eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen." At fourteen he paused.
"But, sir!" Paul heard his own voice sounding tight and urgent. "The 'copter holds fifteen, and Grandpa needs me. Don't you, Grandpa?"
The officer turned inquiringly to the old man.
"Fact is," Grandpa said proudly, "when it comes to handlin' livestock he's worth ten men."
"That settles it," the officer smiled. "We've completed our first load."
When the helicopter set down on Chincoteague right beside the Fire House, the Mayor was waiting for them, standing in the cold and the wet, slapping his hands together for warmth. He poked his head inside the cabin, quickly studied the occupants, then clipped out his orders: "Split into three bunches, men. Beebe, you and Paul go up to Deep Hole to check on the dead ponies and mark their location for removal by airlift. Charlie and Jack, you arrange for crews to pile up the dead chickens at convenient loading points. We'll need the rest of you to work on the causeway so's we can truck the chickens across. Thank you, men, for volunteering."
Three DUKWs were parked alongside the helicopter waiting to take each group to its base of operation. The driver of the first one beckoned Grandpa and Paul aboard with a welcoming smile. "You men are lucky," he said, "your house is okay; at least it was last time I was down there."
"Is ... uh...." Paul stopped, embarrassed. The Coast Guardsman had just called him a man, and now he was frightened to ask a question, and more frightened not to ask.
"What you lookin' so scairt about?" Grandpa wanted to know.
"I want to ask him a question," Paul said miserably.
"Go ahead!" the driver encouraged as he steered through the debris-clogged street. "Go ahead."
Holding his breath, Paul blurted, "Is Misty all right? Has she had her colt?"
"Sorry, Paul, we been too busy to look in on her. But Mayor says I can take you there before we go up to Deep Hole."
It was strange, chugging down Main Street. Paul knew he ought to have remembered how it was from yesterday. But yesterday Chincoteaguers were sloshing along in hip boots, or riding horses or DUKWs, and they were trying their best to joke and laugh. Today there were no home-folk faces. Grim soldiers were patrolling the watery streets, rifles held ready.
"What they here for?" Paul asked.
"To prevent looting," the Coast Guardsman replied.
But what's there to loot, Paul wondered, looking at the houses smashed like match boxes, with maybe only a refrigerator showing, or a bathtub filled with drift.
They passed other DUKWs plying up and down, delivering food to the Fire House, to the Baptist Church, to the few houses on higher ground where owners had refused to leave. And they passed heaps of rubble which once were old landmarks—the oyster-shucking house, and the neat white restaurant whose owner boasted he bought his toothpicks by the carload. Now there was not even a toothpick in sight.
As the DUKW headed eastward to the spit of land that was Beebe's Ranch, Paul winced. The pretty sign, "Misty's Meadow," was still standing, but it didn't fit the spot. There was no meadow at all. Only a skim of murky yellow water.
Paul felt a strangling fear. He had waited all night and half the morning to see Misty. Now in sight of the house, he couldn't wait another moment. He started to jump out.
Grandpa put a restraining arm across his chest. "Ye're jerky as a fish on a hot griddle, son. Simmer down. Ponies can't abide fidgety folk."
After what seemed an eternity but was only a minute, the DUKW jolted to a stop and Paul and Grandpa were out and up the steps.
Breathless, Paul opened the door a crack, and all in a split second his worry fell away. Misty was whinkering as if she too had waited overlong for this moment, and she started toward him, but stepping very carefully, lifting her feet high, avoiding something dark and moving in the straw.
"My soul and body!" Grandpa clucked, looking over Paul's shoulder. "Ee-magine that!"
Then he and Paul were on their knees, and Paul was laughing weakly as he stroked Wait-a-Minute and admired her litter of four squirming, coal-black kittens.
"Ee-magine that!" Grandpa repeated. "Misty's postponed hers, but Wait-a-Minute couldn't!"
"A whole mess of kittens in Grandma's kitchen!" Paul said. Disappointed as he was, he couldn't help laughing.
