The Penderwicks at Point Mouette

by Jeanne Birdsall

  She had no illusions about beauty, for either her or Mercedes, but Jane was pleased with her new haircut. Alec had taken them to a salon called Marilyn’s, where the actual Marilyn gave Jane the best haircut of her life, a soft mop of curls that framed her face. Everyone liked it so much, they ordered up exactly the same for Batty—and then Skye got her own version, one more suitable for straight hair. And last, while Alec’s beard was being shaved off, Mercedes was given a cut identical to Skye’s. Hairwise, the day ended triumphantly, with everyone improved, especially Alec, who they all agreed looked quite handsome without his beard. A few of them also thought that he reminded them of someone they’d seen before, but after Jane came up with a lot of movie stars as possibilities, Alec told them to please stop before his ego exploded.

  So the haircuts were a good result of the treachery of Domi—the person Jane couldn’t think about. Nevertheless, they could barely balance out the bad results. For example, Sabrina Starr. What Jane now knew about love—that it was all a sham, or at least it was if you fell in love with a skateboarder who cared nothing for you—wasn’t anything she wanted to write down. Sabrina Starr Has Her Heart Broken? No. That book wasn’t going to take its place beside Sabrina Starr Rescues a Boy and Sabrina Starr Rescues an Archaeologist. But a book had to be written. Jane would feel like a failure if she went back home without a new Sabrina Starr book. This was past writer’s block.

  “Writer’s boulder. Writer’s skyscraper. Writer’s Great Wall of China,” she said, and was exasperated to find herself crying again.

  The storm that Skye had predicted was beginning to show itself. No thunder or lightning yet, but the wind had already picked up, tossing the trees and blowing away the day’s heat, and huge clouds, black giants, were sailing in from the horizon. Jane was pleased—there was nothing like a glorious thunderstorm to make you stop crying and realize how silly you were being. She climbed onto the seawall, drinking in the intoxicating smell of the coming rain. And now a distant foghorn was blowing, reminding Jane of battered ships and drowned sailors.

  “In the old days,” she told the wind, “women walked the shoreline, fearful for the men who were struggling through the storm in frail wooden boats, buffeted by powerful and angry waves. Rats, this isn’t cheering me up.”

  She forced her imagination to go in a different direction and started over.

  “I am the opposite of Samson—when my hair was cut today, my strength returned.” This was better. Pleased with herself, Jane raised her hands high, commanding the elements. “I am the All-Powerful Jane Letitia Penderwick, Queen of the Storm. Bow down before me!”

  A rumble of thunder greeted her, which Jane thought a nice touch. The black clouds were coming fast now, racing toward the setting sun. For a last few moments, pale gleams of light picked out sea froth; then even that light was obliterated and the ocean became a seething gray mass. A bright stab of lightning flickered across the clouds, the thunder rumbled again, closer this time, and the first fat drops of rain splattered down. Several of them landed on the nose of the Queen of the Storm.

  “Jane, Jane, come inside! You’re going to get struck by lightning!”

  Batty and Mercedes were at the screen door, wide-eyed and fearful, with Hound adding his barks to their shouts.

  “For heaven’s sake,” said Jane, but the rain was coming faster now, and even the Queen of the Storm wasn’t in the mood to get soaked. She gave a final imperial wave to the sea, then ran back inside.

  “Close the door!” cried Batty.

  Jane shut the sliding glass door against the rain, then shook the water from her curls. “Why are you upset, Batty? We have plenty of thunderstorms at home.”

  “Home is not beside the ocean.”

  “It’s just as safe here,” said Mercedes bravely.

  “What about New Jersey?” Batty asked. “Is it safe where Rosalind is?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Jane.

  “Then we should be in New Jersey.” Batty was pulling Hound to shelter behind the couch. “Besides, I’m scared for the seals.”

  “She thinks they might drown,” added Mercedes.

  Instinctively, Jane turned to stare outside at what was becoming a tempest of wind, waves, and driving rain. It certainly wasn’t going to be a pleasant night for the seals.

  “But they won’t drown,” she said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because they’re sea creatures. Sea creatures don’t drown!”

  Jane knew she wasn’t convincing anyone. Batty had that stubborn expression she got when determined to be right against all logic, and Mercedes looked as off-balance as when she rode her bicycle. It was time for a different tactic, Jane told herself, or they would start crying, and there’d already been too much crying for one day.

  “Let’s play seals on the island,” she said, “having fun in the storm.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Jane started pushing furniture into the center of the room, creating an island out of chairs and the table and couch. It didn’t take long for Batty and Mercedes to join in, and before long there was an impressive pile to clamber onto, which they did, and so did Hound, who loved being on furniture, island or no island.

  “I am Janilopilis the seal,” said Jane encouragingly.

  Batty and Mercedes crouched on the rocks—also known as chairs—and waggled their elbows like flippers.

  “I am Mercedilopilis,” said Mercedes.

  “I am Battilopilis,” said Batty.

  Hound barked and knocked a cushion onto the floor.

  “We sea creatures love rain and thunder and lightning.” Jane was warming to being a seal. “The Queen of the Storm would never let us come to harm. So say we all.”

  “So say we all,” repeated Batty.

  “I think I see a face at the window,” said Mercedes, then screamed, “I do see a face at the window!”

  She was pointing at a small window on the side of the room. By the time Jane looked, there was no face or anything else, but Batty had caught Mercedes’s panic, and the two of them and Hound were scrabbling off the island and falling into the deadly sea.

  “He’s over there!” shouted Batty, pointing to the sliding glass door, and this time when Jane looked, she did see a face.

  And while it wasn’t at all a scary face, Jane’s stomach turned over inside her and she wished she could hide behind the island with the others. Instead, putting on her best Queen of the Storm attitude, she climbed down as gracefully as she could and slid open the door.

  “Hello, Dominic.” He was soaking wet, and Jane could think of no earthly reason for him to be at Birches. “What do you want?”

  He handed her a toothbrush. “Mercedes forgot this.”

  “Mercedes, it’s just Dominic and he’s brought your toothbrush,” Jane said over her shoulder.

  “Thank you.” This came from behind the couch.

  Jane thought that Dominic would leave, but he just stood there in the rain, staring at her.

  “You look different somehow,” he said after a while.

  “So do you.” It was true. He didn’t look like a prince anymore. “Well, good night.”

  “I could come inside.”

  They’d been happy without him, and he would only upset her all over again. Jane knew this but wavered—it was raining so hard, and he was so wet, and maybe she should let him come in. Would Sabrina Starr let him in? No. But I’m not a hero, Jane thought desperately, and it would be only polite to rescue him from the storm.

  “Maybe you can …” But, wait, something was happening—something extraordinarily wonderful—Jane’s writer’s block was shattering into a billion pieces. Hallelujah and glorious days. A miracle had come, and finally she knew how to write her book.

  “Now you really look different,” said Dominic.

  “Dominic, now I really am different. Thank you and good night.” She shut the door in his face and turned back to the living room. “Time for bed, you two! I have a book to write!”
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  Next door at Alec’s, the movie had turned out to be scary indeed. The very real thunderstorm, with its crashing and flashing, had added to the atmosphere of fear, and Skye wasn’t the only one to cling helplessly to whoever was sitting nearest her—even if it was Hoover—especially during the scenes with the sheep inhabited by evil spirits. Skye had never realized how frightening sheep could be, and she was glad that Batty wasn’t there to see them.

  But now the movie was over, the lights were back on, and evil sheep seemed much less likely. Alec and Jeffrey were already at the piano, playing out bits of the movie soundtrack and arguing over when it had and hadn’t overwhelmed the plot, which led somehow—Skye stopped paying attention for a few minutes—into a demonstration of the elegantly simple melody line for “The Best Is Yet to Come,” which seemed to be about to lead into something else that Skye didn’t understand.

  “I should go see how Jane is doing,” she murmured to Aunt Claire.

  “What?” Aunt Claire was listening to all the music talk. “Oh, good idea. Make sure everyone still has the same hairstyle they had when we left.”

  The thunderstorm was over and gone, with nothing left to show but fresh seaweed tossed up from the depths by the rough surf and, above, wisps of clouds scudding across the moon and stars. Skye gazed up, found Arcturus, then Spica, and wondered how many black holes were lurking unseen between the two. But even so interesting a conjecture couldn’t keep her lingering long. She was too anxious about what she’d find when she got back to Birches. Obviously it hadn’t burned down, but Skye fully expected Jane still to be crying, and that was bad enough.

  Here is what she found instead: all the furniture in the middle of the room, and Jane lying on the floor, writing in her blue notebook. Skye was glad that Jane wasn’t crying, but it was hard to be glad about the furniture.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “I’ve finally figured out how to write my book. Listen: Here was a terrible moral dilemma. Should Sabrina Starr rescue the loathsome boy who had stomped on, mutilated, wrecked so many hearts? Or should she leave him to the brutal fate his own actions had brought on?” Jane scribbled a few more words and looked up. “Do you think mutilated is too heavy-handed?”

  “Yes, but I meant what happened to the room?”

  Jane seemed just now to notice the furniture. “We were playing seals on an island. I’ll move it back.”

  She popped up and began shoving things back where they belonged, while Skye peeked into Batty’s room. Never had she seen a bed so jam-packed. Batty, Mercedes, Hound, and Funty and Ellie the elephants were all jumbled together—along with several sheets of cardboard with SALE and GOLF written on them, plus one that said TIGHTWAD, a word that Batty had learned from Ivy + Bean. The desire to tidy up the mess was strong, but Skye controlled herself. The little girls were peacefully asleep, despite the crowding. She quietly closed the door and helped Jane with the last few chairs; then the two of them sat on the couch. It was nice to spend time together with no one being heartbroken or frantic.

  “I’m sorry about earlier,” said Jane, “and about the last few days. I can’t believe you didn’t get furious when I said that about someday you’d fall in love and understand.”

  “I did get furious.”

  “Well, I’m all better now. No more crying, at least over Dominic. Maybe not ever again over a boy. I could be cured.”

  “Good,” said Skye, then laughed.

  “I could be.” Jane didn’t seem to believe it either. “Oh, Skye, he kissed me yesterday. I didn’t want to tell you, but he did, and then I wrote that ‘Ode to a Kiss’ and he gave it back to me, and guess what he wrote on it, the scum. He wrote: It didn’t mean anything. My first kiss didn’t mean anything to the person I kissed! A major life marker ruined!”

  “But it wasn’t your first kiss. Didn’t you kiss Deane Balogh in second grade?” Skye counted off on her fingers. “And then Walter Li in fourth grade. And who was that kid who followed you around last year—Artie somebody?”

  “They don’t count. I was young then.”

  “You’re young now.”

  “I don’t feel young.” Jane sighed. “Do you ever think about kissing?”

  “No.”

  “And you haven’t, right? I mean, except for Ron Hagey.”

  Skye let herself dwell on memories of Ron Hagey. It had been his sixth birthday party, and out of all the girls he’d picked her as the one to kiss. She still didn’t know why. “I kissed Pearson last December. I told you that.”

  “You did not tell me!”

  “I thought I did. It was that time I gave him a bloody nose, even better than the one you gave yourself last week.”

  “Did you kiss him before or after the bloody nose?”

  “Before. He promised he’d finally stop asking me out if I kissed him just once. So I kissed him, then punched him. He didn’t seem to mind.”

  “I wish I had your clarity of vision,” said Jane. “I just hope I’m not doomed to a life of falling for the wrong boys, drifting, alone, never settled. Though probably I shouldn’t get married anyway. A writer has to be able to concentrate on her work without distractions. What about you—do you think you’ll get married?”

  Skye frowned. “Why is everybody talking about marriage? First Jeffrey, now you.”

  “Who is Jeffrey talking about marrying? You, right? Do you want to marry him?”

  “I don’t know! I’m only twelve!”

  “Calm down. You’re going to have a heart attack or something. Should I try to hypnotize you again?”

  “Don’t you dare.” Skye held up a pillow for protection.

  “You know, maybe Jeffrey talks about marrying you because we’re his family now and he’s afraid of losing us. Because his actual family is an awful mother and a stepfather who hates him and a real father who’s either dead or never bothered to meet him, and who knows which is worse?”

  “Maybe,” said Skye.

  “What do you mean maybe? I know of what I speak. After all, I’m a writer, and thus understand human emotions.”

  “Unless they’re yours.”

  “Touché.” Jane stuck out her tongue at her sister. “Besides, Batty wants to marry Jeffrey, which could solve your problem. Say touché back.”

  “Touché back.”

  Wearily peaceful after the day’s traumas, the sisters rested quietly, enjoying the night breeze coming through the windows. Once, faintly, a hint of music blew in with it—a blend of saxophone and piano wafting across the beach from next door. Skye tried to picture the scene over there, with the two of them playing, but she got stuck at Alec, all shaven now. She was one of those who thought he looked like someone else without his beard, and it was still puzzling her.

  “Jane, are you sure Alec doesn’t remind you of anyone? And no movie stars this time.”

  “Let me think. Now that Sabrina Starr had cast off the specter of an unfulfilling romance, her mind was once again clear and sharp. One of our teachers from Wildwood, maybe?”

  Skye concentrated—and thought she had it. “The gym teacher.”

  “The muscle-bound one with the ponytail?” Jane shook her head decisively. “No.”

  “Well, it’s someone, I’m sure of it.”

  “I’ll tell myself a magic charm before I go to sleep.”

  “For heaven’s sake, no more magic charms or wishes for the rest of the vacation. Please.”

  “All right, grumpy.” Jane picked up her blue notebook. “Shall I read you more of my book? I’ll start at the beginning.”

  Skye yawned. “Sure.”

  “It’s called Sabrina Starr Rescues the Heartbreaker. Chapter One. Sabrina Starr had met him once—this incorrigible heartbreaker—in New York City during her mission to rescue the Chinese ambassador and thus preserve world peace. Nice beginning, right? Skye? Skye, are you awake?”

  But Skye, that overworked OAP, had fallen asleep even before the Chinese ambassador. Wisely not taking this as criticism of h
er writing, Jane covered her sister with a blanket and went back to work.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Questions

  THERE WAS MUCH DISCUSSION the next morning about where to hold the golf ball sale. For Batty, who had already met enough new people for any one vacation, the pinewood seemed like the right place—maybe the lady in the green skirt would come back and buy everything, all million balls and every one of Jeffrey’s golf clubs. Jane, however, had grandiose visions of hawking their wares on the golf course itself, maybe from one of those fun little carts. Skye, who was still hoping the whole thing would be forgotten, said they should set up in front of Birches, and if no buyers showed up, that would be the end of it. Finally, when the discussion became too heated, Aunt Claire sent Jeffrey next door to ask Alec for his opinion. Alec’s answer was so logical—the best place for a sale was the entrance to the golf course—that everyone stopped arguing and packed up to go. Even then, a skirmish with Hound delayed them—he was as insistent that he go with them as they were that he didn’t. Once again Alec was consulted, and once again he solved their problem, this time by sending back with Jeffrey a red rubbery thing stuffed full of peanut butter, which so entranced Hound that he barely noticed when the sales team left for the golf course entrance.

  To get there, they had to walk halfway up the hill toward Moose Market, then go left on Pomante Street, right on Cross Street, left on Pullem Street, and, finally, right on Greene Street. They set off, carrying among them five buckets of golf balls, ten signs that Batty and Mercedes had made the night before, a blanket to sit on, snacks and water, and the Mouette Inn box to keep money in. Then there was the big heavy bag of clubs, which Jeffrey insisted on lugging all by himself. He said that he relished the agony, knowing the clubs would soon be out of his life forever. It was a long walk to be carrying so much, and they had to make several rest stops, the most pleasant one on Pullem Street, in front of a house where a potbellied pig named Frederica was sunning herself in the yard. Batty and Mercedes were so overwhelmed with the pig’s splendor that Skye again let herself hope the sale would be abandoned, but too soon Frederica’s owner took her inside, and everyone reshouldered their burdens and trudged onward.