Pinky Pye (8 page)

"Well," said Mama, who had gone to the boat with Ginger to meet them. "How is it?"

Papa had his foot in a cast! And he was walking with a crutch the doctor had loaned him. "It's a fracture," he said. "I have to stay off it for a while."

Oh, dear,
thought Rachel. What now of his work on the terns and on all the other birds that he was here to observe for those men in Washington? Aloud she said, "I'll watch the birds for you, Papa. I'll try to find out something for you and you can send it in. The other day I thought I saw a cormorant."

"You'll be a real help," said Papa. "I know you will."

Papa was not a complaining man, and since he had a great deal of work in his briefcase to catch up on, he could certainly keep busy. That is, he could keep busy if Pinky would let him do a little typing for a change, instead of her. This backlog of work that he had could occupy him for a long time, work, for instance, on the genus Eupsychortyx, a group of quail about which he had pages and pages of notes and sketches.

But would this satisfy the men in Washington? Would they be content with a study of quail in Santa Marta when what they were counting on was a study of the birds of Fire Island? That was what had to be found out, and Papa eased himself into his chair under the big green umbrella and, with injured foot resting on a stool and with a small table that fitted nicely over his lap for his typewriter, he composed a letter presenting his predicament to the men in Washington.

What he wanted to know was this. Did they wish to withdraw him from this job and send another ornithologist out here? He did not know how long he was going to be laid up. But he did know that he would be quite limited for a while in his activity, at least his foot activity, he wrote, though so far his brain activity could be counted on to remain as usual. After this letter was finished, he put a piece of blank paper in the typewriter. He was accustomed to work, and just because he had a lame foot, he was not going to bask under the green umbrella and do nothing.

Pinky, on the back stoop, had heard Papa typewriting his letter. The reason she had not come over to help him was that she had been practicing leaps, taking off from the stoop exaltedly after a yellow butterfly. Having had the breath knocked out of her from one completely abandoned flight, she had had to rest a moment. Then, peeking at Papa from time to time out of the corner of her eye and washing herself meanwhile, she finally decided to lope over to him. She sprang up on his lap and waited patiently for him to begin to typewrite. However, Papa's long nimble fingers did not begin at once, for Papa was somehow confused as to just what work to go on with until he had had an answer from the men in Washington. Sometimes it is hard to switch one's mind from Fire Island birds to birds of Santa Marta, and so, closing his eyes, Papa sat back. Taking in the situation at a glance, Pinky saw that she would have to play the typewriter herself. She started clicking the letters very slowly.
Pul-ink, pul-unk.

In the cottage everyone was happy to hear the sound of the typewriter, for it meant that, since Papa was at work, he was happy. So Mama suggested that, since Papa was happy, she and the children might as well go down to the beach for a cooling dip in the ocean.

Jerry and Bennie jumped at the idea. This morning Jerry had brought home the bottom of a baby carriage that still had all its original four wheels on their axles. The wheels were not even very bent.

"Where'd you get those wheels?" Uncle Bennie had asked when Jerry had appeared from behind a fisherman's shack on the dock with his treasure.

"Back there," said Jerry. "The man back there just said, 'Take it, son, take it. Glad to get rid of it. Junk,' he said. 'Just junk.'"

"Junk!" Uncle Bennie had exclaimed. "The way people, big people, get things mixed up!" he'd thought. "The best things in the world are junk to most people."

Now Jerry and Uncle Bennie hoped to find boards drifting in on the beach that they could put on top of these excellent wheels, and then Jerry would practically have his wagon taxi completed. So naturally Jerry and Uncle Bennie were anxious to go down there. "Hurry up, Rachel," said Jerry impatiently. "Get your suit on."

But Rachel wondered if she should go down to the beach. She thought she should not abandon Papa on the first day of his fractured ankle. Then she thought, yes, she should go down to the beach and study the birds for him. Some Pye ought to be studying birds, so she put on her bathing suit after all. Papa was typing—she could hear him—or Pinky was typing. Anyway some typing was going on, so Papa would not need her. She ran to kiss him good-bye, and glancing at his paper, which did not have very much on it
{Hasn't warmed up yet,
Rachel thought), she was rather surprised to have the word "cat" pop out at her quite often from the paper. Then she reasoned, "Must be writing about the genius catbird," and she raced off to catch up with the family. "Back soon," she called to her father.

Pul-ink. Pul-unk.
Beginning slowly but soon gathering speed, the typewriter sounded like the cackling certain blackbirds make early in the morning. What appeared on the paper was this:

Meditations of Pinky Pye

My name is Pinky because that is my name. I was named it.

"Woogie" was the first word that I typewrote. What does it mean? It means what it sounds like—woogie. It is not yet in the dictionary. When it does get in the dictionary, it will come between woofy and woohoo.

Usually the first word people type is their name. Going by this, Woogie should be my name. But it isn't because Pinky is my name.

"Pinky! Why not Blackie?" ask those two little ones who in their pink stripes are alike.

I have to stick out my raspberry-colored tongue to show them.

"Oh, yes, of course," they say. "It is like pink ice cream."

True. Only my tongue is hot, not cold.

To me, genealogies are tiresome. The genealogy of the old cat, Gracie, for instance, is a boring one recited to all visitors. Gracie is, they say, the daughter of a famous New York cat named Ash-can Sam. Since so much is made of genealogies around here, I feel obliged to put in a few words about my past.

I am the daughter of a brave mother who was abandoned last summer by horrible summer people. The less said about my father the better. In winding up my genealogy, I will say that my mother, too, claimed to be the daughter of a famous New York cat named Ash-can Sam. I believe that all cats from New York are daughters of this infamous cat called Ash-can Sam. So, why people make such a big thing of Gracie being
the
New York cat, I don't know. My mother was a cat of some repute, too, but I never heard her boast about it. Her Ash-can Sam father was coal black, a handy color. My brother and sisters are white with orange and black and tan spots, excellent for camouflage, but they are not beautiful as I am. Still they know how to catch crabs without getting pinched. Do you?

Soon after I and my brother and sisters were born, my brave mother caught cold and died. We mewed for two days (our eyes were barely open) and then we had to make our living as we could. Using our wits, we caught minnows, baby frogs, and insects. And we stayed alive. I love to reminisce about my babyhood in the reeds and rushes, for it was a happy life full of danger.

Then, one day, mistaking us for crabs I suppose, an awful girl captured us in a crab net and that was the end of that life for us. Where my brother and sisters are, I don't know. But I am here with Pye.

Now Pye is, they say, a famous bird man, though I have never seen him catch a bird and eat one. My mother was more famous, for she caught them. Pye contents himself with just watching the birds, a pastime we all enjoy. In this place watching is a very important thing. Even the cook, who is known as "Mama," is aware of this. "Watch out for poison ivy." "Watch out you don't drown." Or just plain, "Wat-chout!" Everyone in this house likes to watch something or other. The noisy fellow, Bennie, watches crickets. He catches them, at least, though he doesn't eat them any more than Pye does birds. So far, I haven't got the hang of why all this watching is going on and no catching. There must be some good reason, and the minute I have caught on I'll explain it to you, who must be as much in the fog as I am.

Well, here come the two-alike in their peppermint stripes, marching around the house, wanting to see me typewrite. It's too bad they missed the show, for I am through for the day. Still, why not practice a little, get up my speed?

As the twins marched up, "Urra, urra, una, urra," were the words they saw on the paper.

"What does that say?" they asked deferentially.

"It says, 'urra, urra, urra, urra,"' said Papa courteously.

"What does that mean?"

"It either means 'Hurray!' or it means Pinky is purring on the typewriter."

Since there seemed no reason for Pinky to be saying "Hurray!" the twins decided that she was purring. They then hastened off to spread the latest news about Pinky, that this typewriting cat could now even purr on the typewriter, the hardest thing yet.

A few days later Papa received a letter from the senator from Connecticut saying he was sorry about Papa's accident and imploring him, "Stay on, Mr. Pye, and do your work." The letter said that the same old rule prevailed in Washington of "calling in Pye," broken-footed or not, and no one would consider sending any other bird man to Fire Island in Papa's place. The senator ended up by saying, "I am sending you a wheelchair that I bought some years ago when I broke my leg in a trout stream. Perhaps you can get around in that."

"A wheelchair!" exclaimed Uncle Bennie in delight. "Can I ride in it?"

"Sure," said Papa. "Because I know I won't."

Nevertheless, today when the wheelchair arrived on the early morning boat, Papa had been very pleased with it. Though he had never been in one before in his life, he knew how to ride it right away. He was pretty tired of sitting under the green umbrella, seeing the same view all the time, even if it was a marvelous view. Of course he had been hobbling around on one foot with the help of a cane, but this was pretty tiring, and he had not been able to get down on the sandy beach for long walks at all. Now with the help of the wheelchair he could get on with the study of the Fire Island birds a little better, though he still couldn't do any hunting in difficult places for hidden nesting sites.

"Papa, won't you have to get permission to go around in a wheelchair?" asked Rachel. "After all a wheelchair is something on wheels, isn't it? And I thought only bikes and wagons were allowed in the wheel line."

So before Papa went careening around in his wheelchair and possibly getting arrested for being on wheels, he decided to find out the rules and regulations.

"It's all right with me," said the man in charge of such affairs. "That is, if you get a little bell," he said to Papa. "Ring it goin' around corners." The Pyes couldn't tell whether the man was joking or not, so they bought Papa a bell. Now Gracie and Pinky and Papa all had little bells. As a heavy fog had blown in, it was very handy to have the little bell, and on the return trip home Papa rang it whenever he thought someone was coming.

This was the first real foggy day the Pyes had had since their arrival twelve days ago. Rachel and Uncle Bennie and Jerry decided to go for a walk in the fog. They couldn't get lost in a fog on this island. They knew the narrow walks by heart.

They walked along the top of the dune, and it was so foggy they couldn't see the ocean down below, though they could hear it pounding in. They felt eerie being this close to the mighty Atlantic Ocean, with nothing between them and Europe but the invisible ocean. They listened to it booming. It might be rising and rising in the fog, unseen, and soon it might swell up and over them. Suddenly feeling scared, they decided to go home without one single roll down the dune. Can you imagine rolling down a sand dune not knowing when you might meet ocean instead of real, right, regular beach? No. Neither could they. So they started for home.

What an unusual sort of day it was! First there was fog. And now it was beginning to grow windy. Gusts of wind blew fog away in patches, revealing here a cottage and there a tree and once the peppermint-striped twins playing house as though there wasn't any fog at all.

On the way home the children stopped to pick up the mail. They felt grown-up and smart because no one had said, "Please pick up the mail on the way home." They just knew to do it.

"Well, I'm four," said Uncle Bennie when they reached home and were praised for this thoughtfulness.

"Br-r-r," said Mama when they came in. "I thought you'd never get back. I don't like you traipsing around in the fog and the cold. One thing I hate is a cold, wet summer at the beach."

"Oh, Mama. That's what you always say at the least sign of a cloud. It's not going to be a cold, wet summer at the beach. It's going to be a nice summer," said Rachel comfortingly. "It
is
a nice summer already."

Mama lighted the log fire in the fireplace.

"Besides," Rachel added. "You know it rains once in a while even in Cranbury. Anyway, it's not raining. It's fogging."