The Penderwicks: A Summer Tale of Four Sisters, Two Rabbits, and a Very Interesting Boy

by Jeanne Birdsall

  The music stopped and Dexter was talking again. “I've been looking into Pencey Do you know they allow boys to start as young as eleven? Why not send Jeffrey there this year?”

  “You mean this September? Next month? Dexter, he's my baby.”

  “Of course he is, but the sooner he starts Pencey, the better chance he'll have of eventually going to West Point. You've told me how much that meant to your father.”

  “It meant the world to him.” Mrs. Tifton's voice dropped. “Since he didn't have a son to follow in his footsteps.”

  “Well, I know someone who's glad the General had a daughter.”

  The dreadful kissing noises started up again and lasted for what seemed like an eternity. When Mrs. Tifton and Dexter at long last broke apart and went back inside, no one wanted to talk or even look at each other. Finally Rosalind touched Jeffrey on his shoulder.

  “It'll be all right,” she said.

  Jeffrey shook her hand away and stood up. “I've got to go.”

  “See you tomorrow?” asked Skye.

  “I guess so.” Jeffrey angrily rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Happy birthday, Jeffrey,” said Jane.

  “Don't forget your presents,” said Batty.

  But he was already gone. The sisters crept sadly back onto the veranda to gather up the gifts.

  “We're lucky Mrs. Tifton didn't notice all this stuff.” Rosalind picked up the torn wrapping paper and crumpled it into a ball.

  “She was too busy kissing that Dexter.” Skye kicked the stone bench.

  “Rosalind, was Jeffrey right?” asked Batty. “Was this the worst birthday party ever in the history of the world?”

  “Of course not,” said Rosalind.

  Skye kicked the bench again. “Close, though.”

  Late that night, in her attic bedroom, Jane finished another chapter of her book. In this one, Ms. Horriferous told Arthur that she meant to keep him locked up forever.

  “Why? Why?” he cried.

  “I like to torment you,” she cackled.

  “Please, please, let me go,” begged Arthur.

  “Never!” she cried, and swept out of the room.

  Arthur furiously beat his fists against the walls of his prison. He would do anything to get away. Where was Sabrina Starr? When would she return for him? And would she have figured out how to get him out the window and into her hot-air balloon?

  Jane put down her pen and closed her notebook. She knew she should go to bed, but she wasn't at all sleepy. She kept going over the evening in her mind, especially the very end, when Jeffrey ran off alone into the darkness. What a horrible way to find out that your mother was getting married. And that the man she was marrying wanted to ship you off to military school a whole year early!

  Jane needed someone to talk to. She slid her feet into slippers, tiptoed downstairs, and pushed open Skye's door. “Skye, are you asleep?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have to talk about Jeffrey.”

  “Go away or I'll kill you.”

  Jane shut the door, went back down the hall, and pushed open Rosalind's door. Although all her lights were out, Rosalind wasn't in bed. She was standing at the window, staring out into the night.

  “Rosalind?”

  Rosalind turned. “Oh, Jane, you startled me.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “I was thinking about—um, lots of things. Why are you still awake?”

  Jane sat down on Rosalind's bed. “I can't stop worrying about Jeffrey.”

  “We talked about all this on the way home. There's nothing we can do right now..”

  “We could ask Daddy to adopt him.”

  Rosalind sat down beside her. “Don't be ridiculous.”

  “We could write a letter to Mrs. Tifton explaining why Jeffrey shouldn't go to military school.”

  “We'd do better with the adoption scheme,” said Rosalind. “Go to bed, Jane. It's late.”

  “You're right.” Jane stood up, then sat down again. “I have something else to talk about.”

  Rosalind sighed and lay down. “Go ahead.”

  “Do you think it would be disloyal to Jeffrey if I asked Dexter for help with my book? He's a real live publisher. I might never meet another one. This could be my last chance.”

  “The point isn't whether or not you'd be disloyal to Jeffrey. The point is whether Dexter meant what he said about helping you, and he probably didn't, because he's not a nice person. This is not your last chance. You're only ten. So forget all about it and go back to sleep.”

  Jane slipped back upstairs and got into bed. She told herself that Rosalind was right, that it was silly to count on anything from a creep like Dexter. But then Jane had an idea and sat up in bed with excitement. Maybe Dexter wasn't always a creep. Maybe he had two sides, like that Dr. Jekyll person in the play the sixth grade had put on last spring. Dr. Jekyll was a nice man until he drank a secret potion, which turned him into the horrible Mr. Hyde (played to dastardly perfection by Rosalind's friend Tommy Geiger in a fake black beard). Maybe the man who was Mrs. Tifton's nasty boyfriend was the bad, Mr. Hyde side of Dexter. Then the good, Dr. Jekyll side of Dexter—called Mr. Dupree!—could be a wise, kind publisher, who would be only too eager to help young writers find their destinies. It was that man, the Mr. Dupree side, who had said at dinner he'd look at the Sabrina Starr book when it was finished.

  Jane settled back onto her pillow. It was a theory, maybe a good one, maybe not. But she would keep it to herself, because her sisters would only laugh at her. In the meantime, she would work hard and write the best book she could. She closed her eyes and went to sleep, and all that night, she dreamt about being a famous and distinguished author.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A Bold Escape

  THE DAY AFTER HIS BIRTHDAY PARTY, Jeffrey showed up at the cottage ready for soccer practice as though nothing had changed from the day before. But something had changed, and everyone knew it. Now Jeffrey had the double threat of Dexter and Pencey hanging over his head, without knowing which was going to happen or when. It didn't make it any easier that the Penderwicks' time at Arundel was more than half gone. In a week and a few days, they would be heading back to Cameron. Without knowing Jeffrey's fate? Maybe never to see him again? It was unthinkable.

  Then, too, there was the problem of Mrs. Tifton all of a sudden being everywhere. It was the upcoming Garden Club competition, Jeffrey said. His mother was obsessed with Arundel winning first prize and so was spending all of her time outside, fussing over details and driving Cagney nuts. And driving the children nuts, too. If they were kicking soccer balls at the marble thunderbolt man—he made a good goaltender— Mrs. Tifton showed up to scold. If they were taking bets on how high the lily pond frogs could jump, she said they were bothering the frogs. If they were cooling off in the shade of a rose arbor, she told them—well, anything, it seemed, just to keep them moving along.

  It was bad for everyone, but it was hardest on Batty. For while the three older Penderwicks loathed Mrs. Tifton, Batty feared her. As she told Hound when they were alone at night, Mrs. Tifton was the meanest person she had ever met. So mean, said Batty, that the flowers died when she walked by, which wasn't true, but Hound knew just what she meant. And so Batty did everything she could to avoid Mrs. Tifton and generally succeeded by hiding behind a bush or a sister. But there was one occasion when Mrs. Tifton caught Batty all by herself, and the consequences were dreadful.

  It all started one morning a few days after the birthday party.

  “Please, Rosalind,” said Batty. She was clutching two fat carrots.

  “I already told you, Batty. I'll take you to see the rabbits later, but not now” Rosalind was simultaneously baking brownies and reading a book about Civil War generals. Cagney had lent her the book, and she wanted to be able to say something intelligent about Ulysses S. Grant and Appomattox the next time she saw him.

  Batty cared nothing for Grant and Appomatto
x. “Cagney says the bunnies expect me in the mornings now By later, they'll already think I've bandoned them.”

  “Abandoned.”

  “They'll think I've abandoned them.”

  “I'm right in the middle of making these brownies, and then I have to finish my letter to Anna so Daddy can mail it for me when he goes into town,” said Rosalind. “So it's either later or not at all. You've seen the rabbits every morning for a week and a half now You can skip one day.”

  “No, I can't.”

  “Honey, I'm sorry. Why don't you ask Jane or Skye to go with you?”

  “ 'Cause they'll say no.”

  “Ask them. If they won't, I promise we'll go later, okay?”

  Batty carried her carrots out to the front yard, where Jane and Skye were painting a face on a big round piece of cardboard. The face had a smirk and a big mustache, and in case that wasn't enough of a hint, the initials D. D. were painted across the bottom.

  “Jane, Rosalind says she can't take me to see Yaz and Carla and will you?”

  “Sorry,” said Jane. “Cagney figured out how to put rubber tips on those arrows and Jeffrey's bringing them over so we can do target practice. Can't you ask Daddy?”

  “He's out collecting plants,” said Batty. She looked at Skye with no hope.

  “Forget it, midget,” said Skye.

  Batty gloomily wandered into the backyard and over to Hound's pen, where Hound was sleeping on his back with his legs sticking up in the air. Maybe she should just go by herself. Batty leaned against the fence and pondered the idea. Stay in the yard, that was always the rule. But no one had ever said where the yard for the cottage actually ended. She could ask Rosalind if maybe the yard stretched all the way to where the rabbits lived. Or she could go see the rabbits first and ask Rosalind later. Which? She would ask Hound.

  “Hound! Wake up!” said Batty. But he only grumbled and fell over onto his side.

  That was a good enough answer for Batty. She looked around to make sure no one was watching, then took off for the hedge. Be quick like a bunny, she said to herself as she popped through Jeffrey's gap and across the gardens—with only a brief detour to the lily pond to visit the frogs—then to the carriage house and Cagney's door. Panting, but triumphant and still unobserved, Batty knocked.

  Cagney wasn't home. But that was all right. Often he wasn't, and Batty knew exactly what to do, for he had explained it all to her and Rosalind. Call out to Yaz and Carla, open the door and slide the carrots inside, then you can watch through the screen as they eat the carrots. But never forget the most important part, Cagney had said. You must latch the door securely again, because if you don't, Yaz will shove it open with his nose and run away, and he can't survive outside. A fox would kill him, or a hawk or an eagle. Then Carla would wither away and die of loneliness, because they're best friends and love each other very much.

  Batty pressed her face to the screen and peered in. Yaz and Carla were asleep on the rug, side by side, their noses touching. “Wake up,” called Batty softly. Carla flipped one ear in her direction, then Yaz did, and a minute later they were both yawning and stretching and doing their wake-up dance—running around in a circle, jumping and changing direction midair, then running around in a circle the other way.

  Batty carefully unlatched the screen door and shoved her two carrots inside. Though she knew she shouldn't, she also stuck her nose inside, just in case Yaz wanted to come over and rub noses. This was her downfall. For while her nose was still inside, she heard a familiar and dreaded sound behind her on the brick path that led to Cagney's door. Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap.

  Panicked, Batty whirled around to face her enemy and discovered that the situation was even worse than she had thought. For it wasn't just Mrs. Tifton—Dexter was there, too. The carrots were forgotten. The rabbits were forgotten. And Cagney's most important rule about latching the screen door was forgotten.

  “Good grief, Dexter, here's one of the Penderwicks,” said Mrs. Tifton. “Run along back to the cottage, Bitty or whatever your name is. Your father didn't rent the whole estate, you know..”

  Batty felt as helpless as a fly in a spiderweb. She would have liked more than anything to run along to the cottage, but getting past those two grown-ups was impossible.

  “Why doesn't she say anything?” said Mrs. Tifton. “She didn't speak at Jeffrey's party, either. Did you notice that?”

  “Maybe something's wrong with her.” Dexter tapped the side of his head significantly..

  “Or she could be deaf.” Mrs. Tifton leaned toward Batty. “CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

  Batty didn't mind being thought deaf, but she was annoyed that Dexter didn't think she would understand what his head tapping was all about. She knew that meant crazy, even if she was only four. I'm not crazy, she thought, you mean old silly man. And she concentrated all her attention on wishing Dexter's mustache would turn green or orange or fall off his face and onto the ground right there and then. Which is why she didn't notice that behind her, the screen door was slowly being pushed open. It wasn't until it bonked into Batty's back that finally too late, she remembered about Yaz and his tendency to escape. Letting out a yell, a kind of garbled combination of Yaz and no—YAZHNO!—she threw herself against the door, relatching it. But Yaz was already through. There was a brush of fur against Batty's ankle, a streak of brown down the path and across the driveway, and he disappeared into the gardens.

  The adults had noticed nothing but Batty's cry. Mrs. Tifton straightened up, not pleased. “Yazhno? When she does talk, she doesn't make any sense.”

  “Like I said.” Dexter tapped his head again.

  “Maybe you're right. Another reason to be glad her family is leaving soon. Seven days and counting.” She put her arm through Dexter's. “Come along. Our Cagney must be somewhere else.” And away they strolled.

  Batty was in shock. She had done everything wrong. All of that about the yard stretching to where the rabbits lived and maybe she could go by herself— wrong, wrong, wrong. She had disobeyed Rosalind, she had disobeyed Cagney and she had annoyed Mrs. Tifton. But worst of all, it wasn't she who was being punished for it. It was Yaz and Carla, who would soon both be dead because of Batty's wickedness. Wicked, wicked Batty. She couldn't go back to Rosalind now There was only one thing to do. Find Yaz and bring him home.

  By the time Rosalind finished her letter to Anna, the brownies were done. She took them out of the oven and let them cool, cut them into squares, and neatly wrapped four of the squares in tinfoil. These were for Cagney Just the other morning, while watering the Fimbriata rosebush, he'd told Rosalind how much he liked brownies. He said they were just about his favorite food—brownies and the hot dogs you get at Fenway Park. Not that she'd made the brownies for Cagney, she told herself while sticking a cheerful yellow bow onto the tinfoil. As she had written to Anna, she would never sink so low as to try to get a boy's attention with food. Or with Civil War knowledge. Brownies also happened to be her father's favorite snack, and the Civil War truly was fascinating, though she'd never realized it before.

  Batty hadn't come back inside since leaving with the carrots. Rosalind figured she'd either convinced Jane to take her to visit Yaz and Carla or she'd started playing and forgotten all about them. Rosalind considered looking for Batty before taking the brownies to Cagney's apartment, just in case she still wanted to go. But no, Rosalind decided, with only a tiny twinge of guilt. Cagney might be there, and it was more fun to see him without little sisters around.

  Though she didn't know it, Rosalind took the same route Batty had earlier, even including the detour to the lily pond. Rosalind loved this pond. She found it peaceful but a little sad, too. For some reason it always made her think of Hamlet's girlfriend, Ophelia, and how she drowned herself when she went insane. Or maybe it was when Hamlet went insane. Rosalind wasn't sure which, and Anna said it was Rosalind who was insane to be reading Shakespeare. But Rosalind's mother had loved his plays and always quoted him. Like: I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet
my daughter, be merry. Her mother must have said it to her a thousand times. Lately, Rosalind had been thinking about her mother even more often than usual and wondering whether or not she would like Cagney Though how anyone could not like Cagney was beyond Rosalind's power of imagination. He's probably perfect, she thought, and, leaning over the edge of the pond, picked a lily and tucked it behind her ear.

  She set off again for the carriage house, still not directly, for the sisters had learned the best routes for avoiding Mrs. Tifton. This one took her around the pond, up past the old springhouse, down through the lilac walk, and—

  Her luck ran out. She was face to face with Mrs. Tifton and Dexter.

  “This is too much, really too much,” said Mrs. Tifton. “Penderwicks everywhere, like a swarm of locusts. And who gave you permission to pick one of my lilies?”

  Rosalind clapped her hand over the flower, mortified. “No one—I mean, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have.”

  “That's right, you shouldn't have, like you shouldn't be here in my gardens. I'm getting very tired of running into your family.”

  “I'm sorry,” said Rosalind again. “I was just going to leave Cagney some brownies.”

  “The way to a man's heart, et cetera, et cetera,” said Mrs. Tifton. “Remind me to bake for you sometime, Dexter.”

  “You already have my heart, darling.”

  “Yes, well, of course.” She patted her hair complacently. “So, Rosalind, you may leave your little offering at the carriage house, but if you're hoping to see Cagney, I sent him out to buy mulch. Then hurry back to your own side of the hedge, and if your youngest sister is still hanging around, take her with you.”

  “Batty?”

  “Bitty, Batty.”

  “The one with the wings.” Dexter made the wings sound extremely ill-bred and tacky.

  Rosalind's stomach took a plunge. “You saw Batty at the carriage house?”

  “That's what I said, isn't it?” said Mrs. Tifton. “Now run along.”