The Penderwicks in Spring

  “Okay, but I hope you have a good reason. And it had better not be a rabbit, because I don’t believe in terrorizing rabbits. Not that you could keep up with a rabbit.”

  On they went into the woods, with Duchess straining against her halter, her nose to the ground, definitely tracking something. At least Batty no longer had to be concerned for the local rabbits. What with the barking and the clamor of the empty wagon, every animal for miles around would be warned of their approach.

  Now they were plunging off the path, with Duchess swerving around trees, and Batty doing what she could to slow her down. All at once the little dog stopped, panting and clearly delighted with herself.

  “Not a rabbit,” said Batty.

  Duchess had led her, in fact, to another dog, an oddly wrinkled—and soaking wet—dog crouching beside a wreck of fallen tree branches, torn down in a long-ago ice storm. While he wagged his tail feebly, seemingly relieved to have been found, Duchess strutted and yipped, as proud as if she herself had created this mournful beast out of the raw clay of nature.

  Batty knew about approaching strange dogs, no matter how tame they seemed. She sidled slowly toward this one, being careful not to make eye contact and, when he didn’t growl or bare his teeth, held out her fist for him to sniff. Which he did, snuffling sadly, then ducking his head for her to pat. Now she could see the problem. He’d managed to get his leash snarled up in the dead branches and he was stuck.

  “Poor guy. What are you doing here?” She read the tag hanging from his collar. The address was on Marsh Lane, two streets over from Gardam. The dog’s name was listed, too. “Cilantro, like the plant?”

  He cocked his ears, acknowledging that while Cilantro was indeed his name, it wasn’t his fault. He did seem to believe, however, that being stuck was his fault, and for this he was apologetic.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get you out of here. But, Duchess, you have to settle down first.”

  Duchess’s journey through the woods was catching up with her. Obediently, she toppled onto her side, her four legs twitching. Batty tied her leash to the wagon, just in case she miraculously revived and decided to dash off again.

  The untangling wasn’t easy, and Batty picked up lots of mud and a few scratches in the process, but soon Cilantro was free and saying hello and thanks to Duchess. Now it was time to get him back to Marsh Lane, where she hoped someone was terribly worried about him. First, however, she had to get Duchess back to the Ayvazians, who would certainly be starting to wonder where she was. And with Duchess now looking half dead, it was clear she’d have to be put back into the wagon to go anywhere at all. Embarrassed in front of her new friend, Duchess at first resisted the wagon, but once Cilantro had gravely sniffed it and approved, she allowed Batty to lever her up and in.

  Batty started back the way she’d come, now with two dogs. Cilantro followed more willingly than she’d expected, though he did slow them down by continuously changing his mind about walking next to, behind, or in front of the wagon. By the time they emerged onto Gardam Street, he’d switched positions seven times, and Batty was losing patience with having to unwind his leash from the wagon pull. It didn’t help that the rain had decided to come down harder, and though they’d all been wet before, now they were drenched, and the blanket underneath Duchess was soaked through and through.

  Such a relief, then, for Batty to spot Ben and Rafael running from the Geigers’ house to the Penderwicks’. Even from here, they looked wet and muddy, which meant they’d probably been digging for rocks in the rain. But, dirty or not, they could still take Duchess home so that Batty could get this crazy Cilantro back to where he belonged.

  “Ben!” she called. “Rafael! Come here!”

  They veered toward her, shouting “Eleven o’clock, eleven o’clock!” Batty assumed it was some new code of theirs. Cilantro, however, assumed they were making war cries. He cowered behind Duchess and her wagon, trying to blend into the scenery. It didn’t work.

  “Where’d you get that dog?” asked Ben.

  “Duchess found him.”

  “Are you going to keep him?” asked Rafael.

  “Cilantro? No! He’s got a home.” Though she wondered what kind of owner would let such a goofy dog run off by himself.

  “Good, because he doesn’t look normal,” said Ben.

  “He’s not actually abnormal, I think.” She looked doubtfully at the wrinkly dog, now peering around Duchess at the boys. “He didn’t get this scared until you started screaming ‘Eleven o’clock, eleven o’clock.’ What’s it mean, anyway?”

  “Nick!” said Ben. “He’s with Tommy now, in Delaware, and he’s going to leave after dinner and he should be home around eleven o’clock. Isn’t that great! Ready, Rafael?”

  “Golf-Romeo-Echo-Alpha-Tango, GREAT, Golf-Romeo-Echo-Alpha-Tango!” they chanted together, jumping up and down as they did it.

  Cilantro slunk back behind Duchess.

  “The boys are happy, not angry,” Batty told the frightened dog, but that didn’t help. “Ben, I have to get Cilantro back to his house. Please take Duchess home and tell the Ayvazians that Duchess walked really far and I’m sorry she’s so wet.”

  Encouraged by the memory of Mrs. Ayvazian’s cider donuts, Ben and Rafael willingly took over Duchess while Batty set off with Cilantro. If she hadn’t been certain she’d never see him again, she would have told him about Nick being a soldier, and how good it was that he was coming home, though Batty did hope he’d gotten over his obsession with finding the best sport for everyone—that is, especially for her. But then Cilantro probably wouldn’t have listened anyway. He was too busy growling at anything he found unfamiliar, including several trashcans and a bicycle leaning against a garage. When they got too close to a recycling bin, he went all out and barked. His bark was as peculiar as his looks—plaintive and deep, like a lovelorn tuba.

  When they reached Marsh Lane, Cilantro pulled Batty in a straight line to his house, where he threw himself at the front door, scrabbling and barking. Batty could hear people shouting his name even before the door opened, and when it did, chaos and happy reunion ensued. There was a man with a baby in a sling, and two other small children at his feet, all of them thrilled, but none as thrilled as Cilantro, who disappeared into the house without even a backward glance at Batty.

  The man’s name was Mr. Holland, and Batty forgave him for pet neglect as soon as he explained that they were new to the neighborhood and just getting adjusted, and that since Analise—one of the small children—had let Cilantro escape around lunchtime, they’d called the police and the shelters and had driven all round Cameron putting up flyers.

  “We were afraid we’d never see him again,” he said. “Where did you find him?”

  “In Quigley Woods, but I had help,” said Batty. “A dog I walk led me to him.”

  “You’re a dog walker? But that’s great! Do you want a new client?”

  No, no, no. The last thing Batty wanted was yet another dog to walk, particularly a dog as prone to trouble as Cilantro. If she’d been better at talking to strangers, she’d have come up with a firm refusal for Mr. Holland. As it was, she could only stutter about how she didn’t think she was qualified to walk more than one dog at a time and how her parents would have to approve and how they might say no and, anyway, there could be an important dusting job coming up any day now. But nothing could discourage Mr. Holland. He offered Batty another twenty dollars a week to add Cilantro to her roster, said he’d call her parents to discuss it all that very evening, and insisted she take another ten dollars right then, as a reward for bringing the dog back to his loving family—especially Analise, who’d been wracked with guilt since letting him go in the first place.

  Batty trudged back home through the rain, stunned with this new development. Suddenly she had two new dogs in her life, when she’d wanted none? Because her parents would probably say yes—Marsh Lane wasn’t so far away. And there’d been no calls from other neighbors with dusting jobs or anything else, so
she didn’t have that as an excuse.

  Soon, though, Batty reminded herself of what was important—Musica anima mea est—squared her shoulders, and hummed a little Sondheim to cheer herself up.

  Ben had begged to be allowed to stay awake until Nick got home, but to no avail. That Lieutenant Geiger could arrive without being greeted by Penderwicks and without even the Welcome Home signs, which hadn’t been put out because of the rain, was too awful for Ben to contemplate. So he didn’t. Instead, after his parents had said good night, he crept over to Batty’s room.

  She was reading Masterpiece, about a boy named James and his friend Marvin, who happens to be a beetle. It was high on her list of books she refused to ruin by writing about in a book report.

  “You’ve got to keep me awake until Nick comes home,” Ben said.

  “That’s hours from now. How am I supposed to keep you awake?”

  “You can talk to me.” He sat down on the bed. “Tell me about Cilantro again and how Dad said you can walk him, especially since he’s named after a plant.”

  Ben knew the whole story already. He and Batty had both listened to their mom’s side of the conversation when Mr. Holland called, and again while she and their dad agreed that Batty should be allowed to walk Cilantro.

  “You know as much as I do,” she answered. “Why would I tell you again?”

  “Because I need to stay awake. Or you can hum to me. You hum all the time anyway.”

  “I don’t hum all the time.” She didn’t want Ben noticing such things.

  “Then let’s play a game. Please, Batty. I really want to see Nick tonight.”

  Because Batty knew it would indeed be nice to have Penderwicks awake for Nick when he got home, she put aside Masterpiece and got out the board game Othello. They played game after game after game while the clock crept much too slowly toward eleven, until finally she stretched out.

  “Batty?” said Ben, poking her. “Wake up.”

  But she wouldn’t, so he stretched out, too, just to get comfortable, and the next thing he knew, he woke up with his face planted in the middle of the Othello board. He started up—the clock said 10:55! Furious with himself, and peeling off the game pieces that had stuck to his cheeks and forehead, he ran across the hall and to the window in his room. It was okay. There was no blue truck yet, and the rain had stopped. Now he could put out the signs before Nick got home.

  Ben crept down the steps but paused when he heard Skye and Jane talking in the living room.

  “Now he’s sending me music he’s written,” said Skye. Last week it was ‘Pavane for S.P.’ and today I got this one.”

  “ ‘Unrequited in D Minor.’ Wow.”

  “It’s not like I can read music.”

  “You could ask Batty to play them for you on the piano.”

  “Yeah, right. It’s embarrassing enough showing these to you. At least he doesn’t put words to them. I don’t think I could stomach an entire song about his unrequited love for me.”

  Most of what had at first sounded to Ben like gibberish—especially the pavane and the unrequited, whatever they were—now became clear. His sisters were down there talking about Jeffrey. If he weren’t so desperate to put out Nick’s signs, he would have gone right back up to his room. Ben absolutely did not want to get caught in another discussion of love.

  “He wrote music for me once,” said Jane. “When I was ten, remember? I thought it the most interesting thing that had ever happened to me.”

  “So why didn’t he fall for you? You would have appreciated him.”

  “Skye, he’s always been nuts for you, ever since the first time you two met.”

  “I crashed into him and almost knocked him out!”

  “Well, now you know not to do that anymore.”

  Ben heard a sort of half-groan, half-mumble from Skye, which seemed to be the end of the conversation. After a few minutes of quiet, he felt safe enough to resume his way downstairs. He was almost to the bottom baby gate when Jane started up again.

  “I was telling Jérôme about wanting to be a writer, and he said that to be a writer one must have a great heart. At least I think that’s what he said.”

  “It’s not necessarily true, anyway,” answered Skye.

  “I know. I thought of asking him what about Sartre, but then he was off on something else and I got completely lost. He speaks French so quickly.”

  “Because—he’s French.”

  This time the end of talking was marked by Jane throwing a pillow at Skye. Again Ben waited for a few moments before moving on, but he didn’t wait long enough. Just as he started over the baby gate, he heard Skye.

  “I just miss Jeffrey, the old Jeffrey, the way he was before he started—”

  More love talk! Ben tried to stop himself, but he overbalanced and ended up tipping headfirst over the gate and onto the floor. Both sisters were with him in a minute, picking him up and inspecting him for damage.

  “I’m not hurt,” he said, trying to regain his dignity. “I just came down to put out the signs for Nick.”

  “We put them out when the rain stopped,” said Skye, “and left on the outdoor lights so he could see them.”

  “You should go back to bed,” said Jane. “Nick might not be home for hours.”

  “Please let me wait with you,” said Ben. “Please.”

  Skye looked at Jane and shrugged, and Jane looked at Skye and nodded, then they took him back into the living room and settled him on the couch between them. He was determined that this time he truly would stay awake all night if necessary, even if he had to listen to his sisters talking about love stuff the whole time. But Skye picked up a book, nothing he could read over her shoulder, unfortunately—too many long words about something called string theory. Jane started scribbling in a blue notebook, and he didn’t even try to read over her shoulder. What Jane wrote was always private until she decided to share it.

  Despite Ben’s resolve to stay awake, soon he’d slumped against Skye, lulled to sleep by the soft rustle of turning pages. He woke up once when Jane had murmured she was going to bed and covered him with a blanket before she went, and another time his eyelids fluttered open long enough for him to see Skye standing by the window, looking out, on guard. After that, Ben sank deep into his dreams, which eventually turned into a tale of being lifted off a couch and carried outside. He struggled against that—he was too old to be carried—until all at once he was awake and being handed over into the strong arms of Lieutenant Nick Geiger. Ben started to cry, happy this time, and Nick was laughing and making jokes, and Mr. and Mrs. Geiger were out there, too, also crying, even Mr. Geiger, and then Mrs. Geiger was saying that Nick needed his rest—lots and lots of rest and sleep—and Skye took Ben back from Nick. She carried him home again, but once there, he climbed upstairs and into his bunk by himself.

  “Nick remembered me,” he said to Skye as she tucked him in.

  “Of course he did, you nincompoop. Now go to sleep, and don’t tell anybody we let you stay up, okay? Dad and Iantha would be furious.”

  “Okay. I Lima-Oscar-Victor-Echo you, Skye.”

  “Lima-Oscar-Victor-Echo you, too, buddy.”

  THE PENDERWICKS DID WHAT THEY COULD to help Nick sleep, tiptoeing around and stopping Ben from peering in any of the Geigers’ windows. So quiet was Gardam Street that spring itself decided to take a nap. The temperature dropped, then dropped again, and snow clouds started to gather. Mrs. Geiger’s daffodils drooped their yellow heads, and the Ayvazians’ creamy white magnolia blooms shivered in the unexpected cold. By evening, Iantha was insisting that everyone wear warm sweaters when going outside, and on Thursday morning before school, she bundled them all into the winter coats, hats, and mittens they’d abandoned weeks earlier.

  The snow itself held off until that afternoon. Batty and Ben spotted the first flakes as they walked home from school. Ben was celebrating—the snow meant a possible day off from school, a rare treat in late April. Batty was torn. No school on Friday meant
missing chorus with Mrs. Grunfeld. But since it also meant missing the horror of the book report chart review, she decided that, on the whole, a day off would be a good thing, and she was singing as she darted through the snowflakes to fetch Cilantro.

  For the official inaugural walk with both dogs the day before, she’d picked up Duchess first, and that had been a mistake. The adventure of finding Cilantro in Quigley Woods had taken a severe toll on the fat little dog, and she’d had to spend most of the walk in the wagon, which meant slow going for Cilantro and lots of extra wagon-pulling for Batty. So today she was changing the order of pickup, which would let her give Cilantro a brisk walk before adding Duchess to the mix. But when Batty got to Marsh Lane, Cilantro seemed to have forgotten who she was and refused to leave his house.

  “Maybe he doesn’t like the snowflakes,” said Batty.

  “We moved here from Idaho,” said Mr. Holland, again wearing his baby in a sling. “He’s used to snow.”

  “Then maybe he won’t come out because Duchess isn’t here,” tried Batty. “He thinks she’s in charge.”

  “I don’t care what he thinks. You tug while I push.”

  Batty tugged on the leash, leaning back with all her weight, until Cilantro made it out the door, which Mr. Holland closed decisively behind him. Bereaved, Cilantro made his tuba sound and tried to stuff his nose through the letter slot.

  Patiently Batty waited until Cilantro remembered who she was and let her take him back to Gardam Street, barking only a little more than normal, mostly at snowflakes that came too close to his nose. Once they’d picked up Duchess, Cilantro did indeed perk up. So it was true. He did see Duchess as the boss of this crew, and Duchess seemed to agree. She’d regained enough of her energy to reject the wagon, instead strutting out in front of Cilantro, showing off the new red sweater Mrs. Ayvazian had run out to buy her for protection against the snow. Batty hadn’t the heart to tell either Mrs. Ayvazian or Duchess that the red accentuated the dog’s great girth and made her look like an overstuffed Christmas stocking with legs.