“How come?”
“Me and Junior went ahead. Figured she’d catch up to us. But then Junior went on his own.”
“How come you didn’t go with him?”
Mephitis looked away. “I don’t belong there. I mean, it’s just for mice. Anyway, that Aunt Lilly didn’t like me.”
“And you let that bother you?”
“I guess.”
“She didn’t like me, either,” said Ereth.
“You’re right. She didn’t.”
“What did she say?”
“Said you were ‘big and ungainly.’” Mephitis pursed his lips and folded his paws together as he repeated Lilly’s words in his best imitation of her dainty speech.
“That mouse,” said Ereth, “has as much brains as the pointy end of a sharp pin. What did Poppy say?”
“Told Lilly you were her best friend.”
“Which is why,” said the porcupine, “I thought I’d hang around in case she needed me.”
“Know what? I chased a bear away from her.”
“How’d you manage that?”
“My stink.”
“Good for you!” cried Ereth. “A little stink in the right place can make the world sweeter.”
“You really think so?”
“Hey, would you like things to be all one color?”
“No.”
“Okay, then: what stinks up my nose could be sweet up yours.”
Mephitis grinned. “Do you think I should stay around, too?” he asked.
Ereth stared at the skunk. “Suffering spider slippers. Between my quills and your stench, there isn’t much the two of us couldn’t chase off.”
Mephitis laughed. “That’s cool.”
“Except I think we should get a little closer to that Gray House. Keep an eye on things.”
“You mean me—with you?” said Mephitis.
“Depends how choosy you are about friends,” said Ereth.
“Junior is always talking about you. About the things you say and do. Would you talk to me like that?”
“Dolphin dandruff! There’s nothing special about the way I talk. I’ll talk to you the way I talk to everybody. What’s your name, anyway?”
“Mephitis.”
“Okay, Misfit, let’s go.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Not ‘sir.’ The name is Ereth.”
Mephitis grinned, as side by side the skunk and the porcupine started back toward Gray House. As they went, Ereth talked and Mephitis listened.
CHAPTER 22
Poppy at Gray House
POPPY, STANDING NEXT TO LUNGWORT on the front porch, with Sweet Cicely and Lilly close behind, looked out over the milling crowd of mice. Wishing she knew where Junior was, Poppy made a movement to leave the porch, only to be restrained by Lungwort.
“I need to make a speech,” said Lungwort, “and you need to be here.”
“What sort of speech?” said Poppy.
“I’m going to announce that you are about to become the new leader of our family.”
“Papa, please! I never said I would. I don’t want to be. I don’t live here. I have a family elsewhere. I’m going back home soon.”
“Nonsense,” said Lungwort. “We’ll work out the details later. I need to inform everybody that you’re going to deal with the bulldozer.”
“Papa! I told you: I don’t know what to do.”
Lilly, who was standing right behind her, whispered, “Poppy, please don’t argue with him. He’ll only get upset.”
“It will upset me a lot more,” returned Poppy.
“Poppy,” Sweet Cicely added, “you know your papa always does what’s best for everyone.”
“But—”
“Can’t you,” said Lilly, “show a little respect?”
Poppy tried to remember where she had heard that phrase before. But mice were now clustered all around and on the porch, and she did not want to argue in front of them, so she stayed put.
Lungwort went toward his regular speech-making place, an old straw hat. He tried to climb it on his own but found the going difficult. It was Lilly and Sweet Cicely who rushed forward. Pushing from below, they helped the old mouse ease into the hat’s crown. Once there, Lungwort coughed twice, tapped his thimble cap down over his head—pushing his ears out a little more, cleared his throat, stroked his whiskers, and began.
“My fellow mice, as I strive to maintain our superior style of life, while resisting change, you know I always have your best interests at heart. Alas, we Gray House mice are now facing a grave crisis, indicated by the presence of yonder yellow machine of mass destruction. We are all in imminent danger.
“Having, however, considered all aspects of the problem, I have decided to let my daughter Poppy solve the problem. You are aware, I’m sure, of Poppy’s many talents and achievements. In this she is certainly my daughter. Still, I can assure you I will not—of course—entirely withdraw into retirement, but shall provide Poppy with excellent advice and suggestions, etcetera, etcetera, based upon my many years of experience, so she will be enabled to do the hard job.”
There were cheers from the mice as well as cries of “Thank goodness!” “It’s about time!” “Change is what we need!” “Hurrah for Poppy!”
Lungwort held up a paw to still the crowd. “Now,” he resumed after a bit of wheeze, “once Poppy has accomplished this immediate task, making our happy family home safe again, I will take the opportunity to retire into my boot’s toe and let Poppy assume the thimble of family leadership, which I have worn with such humble dignity.”
As a murmur of approval went through the crowd, Lungwort held up a paw. “No, no,” the old mouse went on, “a little change is inevitable. But only a little. Now then, in days to come Poppy may well call upon you for assistance. I hereby request that you not stint in your support of her. Very well, I shall now ask Poppy to say a few words.”
Poppy, blushing, stepped forward.
“Hurrah for Poppy!” someone cried out. That was followed by lots of others shouting much the same thing.
Poppy felt like an imposter. She did not plan to become head of the family And she truly didn’t know what to do about the bulldozer. While she was happy, despite the current confusion, that she had come to visit, she certainly had no intention of staying. And right now she needed to get to Junior.
Even so, she took another moment to look out at the upturned faces, the pink noses, bright eyes, delicate whiskers, and large ears of her family. Gradually she noticed that one of the mice standing before her had bright red fur. Never before having seen such an oddly colored mouse, she stared. Perhaps the poor creature had a disease. Then she gasped: it was Junior! He was grinning. Then the thought came: he’s going to belch!
“Hooray for Poppy,” a small voice called, jarring Poppy back to her senses. She was just standing there, and all the mice still waited for her to say something.
“Thank you all,” she began. “It’s very nice to come for a visit. I’m afraid my father exaggerated when he listed all those things he wished me to do. But while I’m here, though my visit will be brief, I’ll certainly try to be helpful.
“For the moment I just want to say hello to you all. That’s my child over there,” she said, pointing at Junior. “The . . . ah . . . red one. He’s happy to be here, too.”
All eyes turned to Junior. Not knowing where to turn, he did a half shrug, while offering up a shy smile.
“We both thank you,” Poppy concluded.
There was a round of applause as Poppy came down off the steps. Ignoring her father’s cries of “Poppy, we must confer right now!” she made her way through the crowd toward Junior.
As she passed among the mice, she was patted again and again, while a variety of mice called, “Thanks for coming, Poppy.” “Sure great to have you back, Poppy.” “We need you, Poppy.” “You’ll solve everything, Poppy.”
Poppy, hearing the remarks, wondered if they would have so much confidence in her if they knew
she couldn’t keep track of the whereabouts—or the color—of her own son.
CHAPTER 23
Poppy and Junior
YO, MAMA,” SAID JUNIOR, grinning as Poppy approached. He was gazing at her intently, trying to see in her the things he had been told she had done.
“Where did you two go?” said Poppy, not knowing whether she felt anger or relief. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming here? I was really worried.”
“Sorry.”
“And why are you all red?”
“Wanted to be.”
Poppy looked around. “Where’s Mephitis?”
“Waiting for me in the orchard.”
As Poppy reminded herself that they were surrounded by mice, all of whom were looking and listening to their discussion, Junior grinned at her. “Hey, Mama,” he said, “they really like you here. I heard some wild stories. Like about that owl, Mr. Ocax. Is that true?”
“I don’t know what you’ve heard.”
“How come you never told me about it?”
“I’ve been too busy, but—” She felt a tap from behind. She turned. It was Lilly.
“Papa says he really must talk to you,” she said.
“I’ll be right there,” said Poppy. “Junior, come with me.”
“But Mephitis—”
“He can wait. Now come!”
“Oh, all right.”
Lilly led the way through the crowd with Poppy and Junior close behind. “No, really,” Junior whispered, “is any of that stuff true?”
“This isn’t the time to talk about it,” said Poppy.
“This the house you used to live in?”
“Yes.”
“It’s stupid.”
They climbed the porch steps and went into the house. Junior looked around. “Whoa, this place is so crowded,” he whispered. “Everyone heaped together. Is it just huge rooms like this one?”
“There are six of them.”
“Dumb,” said Junior. “No place to be yourself.”
“It wasn’t so bad in the old days,” said Poppy. She saw Sweet Cicely and moved toward her.
“Mama,” said Poppy. “This is my son Ragweed Junior. Junior, this is my mother. Your grandmother.”
To Poppy’s surprise, Junior grinned, “’Lo, Mama’s mama.”
Sweet Cicely stared at the young mouse and then flicked her ears once, then twice. “Ragweed?” she said to Poppy. “Is that truly his name?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Oh dear. How . . . regrettable. And why . . . is he red? Is his father a red . . . mouse?”
Poppy turned to Ragweed. “Yes, Junior,” she said. “Why in the world are you red?”
“The freaking berries weren’t black.”
“Freaking berries?” said Sweet Cicely, her brow furrowed. “What kind of berry is that?”
“I . . . got Mephitis to squeeze some over me.”
“And his . . . odor?” asked Poppy’s mother.
“Well . . . ,” said Poppy. “He has a friend. . . .” Her voice trailed off, and for a moment no one said a word.
“My friend’s a skunk,” said Junior.
“A skunk?” echoed Sweet Cicely.
“Poppy,” called Lilly from the entryway to the boot. “Papa is waiting. . . .”
“Perhaps,” said Sweet Cicely, “Junior . . . might wait a bit.”
“Why?” said Poppy.
Sweet Cecily flicked her ears. “Poppy, dear . . . his color . . . name . . . and smell. The other Ragweed was not one of your papa’s favorites.”
“Mama,” said Poppy, “Junior’s color is fine. As for his name, that’s fine, too. Now he needs to meet his grandfather.” She pushed Junior forward, and the two of them walked toward where Lilly was waiting.
“Hey, Mama,” Junior said, “do you like my new color?”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“Hey, guess what? I never thought of you having a mama.”
Poppy stopped. “Why?”
“That would mean you were . . . like me. That’s too freaking weird.”
“Maybe I am,” said Poppy as she pulled the plaid tie away from the entry to the boot. “And if you could refrain from saying ‘freaking’ for the next five minutes, I’d very much appreciate it. Papa!” she called. “We’re here!” She turned to Junior. “Come along.”
“What’s this place?”
“An old boot.”
“What’s a boot?”
“Never mind. Just brace yourself.”
“For what?”
“Junior . . . just freaking brace yourself!”
Junior grinned and stayed close to his mother’s side as they entered the dim boot and made their way to the toe.
CHAPTER 24
Lungwort Meets Junior
AS POPPY AND JUNIOR APPROACHED, Lungwort sat up abruptly on his milkweed bed. He stared at Junior, eyes blinking rapidly, whiskers twitching.
“Papa,” said Poppy, “this is your grandson.”
Lungwort continued to gaze mutely at Junior. He coughed twice and then said, “My eyes must be getting much worse. This young mouse appears to be . . . red.”
Poppy took a deep breath. “Papa he is red . . . for the moment.”
“Who did you say he was?”
“Your grandson.”
“My grandson?”
“Yo, old mouse,” said Junior. “Are you Mama’s papa?” Poppy winced.
“I am,” said Lungwort.
“That’s frea—”
“Junior!” cried Poppy.
Junior squeezed his mouth shut with a paw.
Lungwort frowned. “Is his father red?”
“Rye,” Poppy managed to say, “is a golden mouse.”
“Why does this one smell?”
“Papa . . . he’s a teenager.”
Junior grinned.
Lungwort continued to stare at him. “I wasn’t aware teenagers were required to smell. Does he have a name?”
Poppy hesitated for just a moment. Just as she was about to speak, Junior blurted: “It’s Lungwort, dude. My name is Lungwort Junior. Only they always call me Junior.” He held out a paw. “Pleased to meet you, old mouse. Mama always talks about you. Telling us what a cool mouse you are.”
A startled Poppy stared at her son.
Lungwort beamed with pleasure. “My, my,” he cried. “Named after me!” He turned to Poppy. “You never told me that.” He took Junior’s paw and pressed it warmly.
“But remember,” Junior said, louder than before, “I only answer to Junior.”
“Then Junior it is,” chortled Lungwort. “I must say I am honored to be so memorialized.”
“Now Papa—,” Poppy began.
Lungwort cut her off with a raised paw. “Poppy, you must leave me alone with this young mouse. He and I have much to say to each other.”
“But—”
“Scoot, Mama,” said Junior, grinning widely. “We Lungworts need to talk.”
Poppy, with an imploring look at Junior, went out.
Left behind, Junior slapped Lungwort on the back. “Yo, Gramps, you’re just the old mouse I need to talk to.”
“About what, pray tell?”
“I need to know everything about my mama. All the bad stuff she did when she was my age. And that Ragweed she used to hang out with. What was up with him? The full load of dirt. And about you, too. I bet you were wild.”
Lungwort laughed. “I think I can truly expound a fair amount about such subjects,” he said. “Indeed, you and I do have much to talk about.”
CHAPTER 25
Family Talk
POPPY, HER TAIL TWITCHING ever so slightly, made her way out of the boot. Lilly was waiting for her.
“Where’s Junior?”
“He’s with Papa.”
“Alone?” gasped Lilly.
“They’re getting on wonderfully.”
“They are?”
“I think so.” Poppy considered her sister. She seemed very tense, with eyes welling
with tears. Her whiskers drooped. Her ears flicked forward and back. “Lilly, you look sad. What is it?”
Lilly shook her head.
After a moment Poppy said, “It’s you who looks after Papa, isn’t it?”
Lilly, wiping a tear from her cheek, nodded. “Well, Mama and I.”
“And he takes it all for granted, doesn’t he?”
When Lilly turned away, Poppy reached out and touched her sister. “Lilly, listen to me.”
“You don’t need to talk down to me,” said Lilly, “just because you’re the one who is going to become the head of the family.”
“Lilly, how many times must I say it: I have no intention of doing that.”
“But you will. I know you will. You get your way with things like that. You’ve always been Papa’s favorite.”
“Lilly, I was anything but his favorite. And I don’t want to be head of this family. I am going back to my family.”
“Why would you want to go back to that dark, dank forest and that dead tree with that dreadful, smelly porcupine living right next door?”
“And I,” said Poppy, “can’t believe you would want to live in a place without a shred of privacy.”
Lilly held up her head. “I believe in loyalty to my family.”
“Lilly, I’m loyal to mine,” said Poppy with all the force she could muster.
“But how could you walk away from . . . all this?”
“Because my life has changed, Lilly. I like what it’s become. I’m happy with it. Anyway, this house is about to fall down. For your sake, I hope it doesn’t. But Junior is right: you’re heaped together here. No privacy. Whatever happens, I am not going to stay.”
“I still don’t believe you,” said Lilly, and she rushed off.
Poppy watched her go and started to follow, only to change her mind. The crowd of mice with all their noise had given her a headache. Hoping to find a quiet place, and tickled by a memory, she made her long way up to the attic of the house. Long ago, when no older than Junior, she had come upon a tin can shaped like a house, complete with chimney— which she used for an entryway. “Log Cabin Syrup,” read the label. Poppy had licked the can clean, lined it with shreds of old newspapers, and declared it her private room. She was one of the few mice who wanted privacy. Moreover, Poppy suddenly recalled, she had liked it dark, like Junior among the snag’s roots. Why had she done that? she asked herself. The answer came quickly: That made it all my world.