As Poppy went with Lungwort, she looked about in astonishment: Gray House was not the way she recalled it. It was so much more crowded. Mice were milling about like a parade that had nowhere to go. A beehive had more privacy. There hardly seemed room for living. With yelling the principal mode of communication, Poppy’s ears rang with squeak and squeal as mice talked, argued, and chatted. The calm, still world of Dimwood Forest was as distant as the moon.
Within moments Poppy and Lungwort were deep in the old farmer’s boot. After the bright sun, the noisy, warm reception by her family, and the chaos of the house, Poppy found the boot gloomy, stifling.
Lungwort had set his thimble cap down to one side and eased himself, with a slight cough, onto his milkweed bed. There he lay, panting and wheezing from his exertions. Poppy studied him. He had aged considerably. His face had thinned. His gaze was unsteady, his breath uneven. He’s fragile, she thought. Even the ivory thimble lacked its normal polish. All the same she asked, “How are you, Papa?”
Lungwort batted the air with a paw as if it were an irritant. “Now Poppy, no need to waste time on chatter about foolish matters. I dislike chitchat. We’re at a momentous point in the history of this illustrious family. One of those moments that have marked the past—and will no doubt mark the future—with a sense of profound history.”
“Papa,” said Poppy, “do you mean the possible destruction of Gray House?”
“Well, yes, there’s that. Of course. But what I had in mind—in particular—was your future.”
“Mine?” cried a startled Poppy.
“Don’t interrupt. Just listen.” Lungwort fussed with his whiskers. “Now then, your first order of business will be to rid us of the threat of that machine of destruction—the bulldozer.”
“Papa,” said Poppy, “I don’t have any idea how to do that.”
“Then you had best find one,” said her father. “Secondly, you need find a solution for the overcrowding here.”
“It does seem bad. What about the place I found near New House?”
“Never been there. I like it here. Anyway, I’m told it’s become just as crowded. Besides, it’s Gray House that should concern you. It’s your ancestral home. So, finally, it’s about time you assumed your role as the head of this great family, Poppy.”
“Me! The head!”
“Yes, you. You are the one I’m appointing.”
Poppy stared at her father in astonishment. Perhaps it was because she didn’t want to think of what he had said, but the next moment she thought of something else: she had not seen Junior at Gray House. If he was not here, where could he be?
CHAPTER 19
Junior’s Color
IN THE OLD ORCHARD Mephitis woke from his nap. Even so, he lay quietly beneath the warm late afternoon sun, enjoying his drowsiness and the sun-stroked warmth of his black fur. Only gradually did he allow himself to recall where he was and what he was doing: visiting Junior’s family. That caused him to think of his own family, but when he did, his feelings of pleasure faded, replaced by melancholy.
He looked about for Junior. When the skunk realized Junior was no longer leaning against him, he became alarmed. Sitting up on his rear legs, he looked about. His best friend was walking toward a bush. “Hey, where you going?” Mephitis called.
“That blackberry bush,” said Junior. “I can use the berries to make myself black again. That way, when I tell my mother’s family that we’re brothers, at least we’ll look it.”
“That’s cool,” said the skunk, pleased by the idea.
Using his tail to balance himself, Junior stood on his rear legs to pluck a large, ripe berry. “Come here!” he shouted. Mephitis waddled over. “Squeeze the berry down over me,” Junior proposed.
Mephitis took the blackberry and smashed it between his front paws. When the juice ran down, Junior rubbed it deep into his fur. They repeated this a few times.
“How do I look?” Junior finally said, stepping back from the skunk.
“Well . . . freaking weird.”
“How come?”
“Mouse, you’re all . . . red.”
“Red!”
“Like a radish.”
Junior looked down at himself, back and front. “How come they call them blackberries?” he asked.
“Don’t ask me,” said Mephitis. “I didn’t name the things.”
“Maybe I should go to the creek and wash off.”
“Suit yourself,” said Mephitis. “But I bet there aren’t a lot of red mice in the world. Know what I mean? Really sick.”
Junior grinned. “Oh wow! Do I look like I’ve been dipped in . . . blood?”
Mephitis grinned. “Yeah, right.”
“Nasty!” exclaimed Junior. “That’ll spin their eyeballs. Skunk, they’re going to really hate us now.”
“I guess,” said Mephitis, not quite so enthusiastic.
“Yeah. I’m pumped,” said Junior. “Let’s go.”
Side by side, they walked through the orchard. Neither spoke, though occasionally Junior looked down at his fur. Gray House loomed larger and larger.
“Mouse,” said the skunk, coming to an abrupt halt. “I’ve been thinking: maybe you should go on first.”
“Alone?” cried Junior in alarm.
“Sure. That way you could see what’s going down. I can wait here. Then, if everything is okay, you come and get me. Look, your Aunt Lilly doesn’t even want me to come. Probably true for all the others, too. Check it out. I don’t mind waiting.”
“Hey, homie, we’re supposed to be doing this together.”
“We can. Only later.”
Junior turned from his friend and looked at the house. The silence was prolonged. “Hey, Mephitis, want to know something?”
“What?”
“I don’t want to go, either.”
“You turning chicken?” asked Mephitis.
“I’m a mouse, dude.”
“I thought a mouse has to do what a mouse has to do,” said the skunk.
“Well, I wish my mother never asked me to come.”
“Yeah, but she did, and you did, so now you’re done,” said the skunk. “Anyway, your mother will be worried.”
“How come you’re so nervous about my mother all the time?”
“It’s not all the time. Anyway, I like her.”
“Yo, skunk,” said Junior. “She’s just a mother. Big deal. Let me tell
