The Penderwicks in Spring

by Jeanne Birdsall

  “And you were so good with dear old Hound,” added Mrs. Ayvazian.

  Should Batty explain how she hadn’t been good enough with Hound to keep him alive? No, she couldn’t say that to these nice people. She’d simply take Lydia and leave, and hope to find work at another house.

  But Lydia had decided to like this strange-looking dog.

  “Gato,” she said again, this time with pleasure.

  Sensing approval, Duchess toddled over and snuffled at Lydia’s ankles. Lydia giggled, and Batty felt that she was losing control over the situation. The feeling grew stronger when Duchess gazed into her eyes, pleading for sympathy.

  Batty turned to the Ayvazians. “Are you certain Duchess would survive a walk?”

  “Of course she will, dear,” said Mrs. Ayvazian.

  Mr. Ayvazian made a stronger point. “What she won’t survive is staying behind that chair for too much longer.”

  “Then I guess we could try.”

  “Wonderful! Now, where did I put that harness?” Mrs. Ayvazian whisked out of the room, and Duchess cautiously lowered herself to the floor, staying there when her mistress returned with the harness and, with great effort, maneuvered it around the dog’s massive chest.

  Next Mrs. Ayvazian clipped on the leash, and the expedition was ready for departure. Astonishingly, Duchess managed to hoist herself up and stagger toward the door.

  Mr. Ayvazian abandoned his memoirs and, belying his great age, picked up Duchess and carried her outside. “There, you miserable excuse for a dog. Go for a walk with these nice girls and count yourself lucky if I let you back into the house.”

  But Batty noticed how gently he set Duchess down, and how he gave her an extra scratch under the chin.

  “How far should we take her?” she asked, knowing it was an optimistic question, since it was doubtful they would manage to take Duchess anywhere at all.

  Mr. Ayvazian thought. “How about around the cul-de-sac and back?”

  “Yes, we don’t want to wear her out on the first day,” said Mrs. Ayvazian, helping Lydia into her stroller. “Enjoy yourself, Duchess. Good-bye.”

  So they set out, two girls and a dog, bravely, and very, very slowly.

  As soon as Rafael arrived, Ben took him behind the hydrangea bushes to show off the roads, hills, and bridges built from stone. They added another hill or two and an airstrip, then put together two entire teams: Team Golf-Oscar-Oscar-Delta (GOOD), under the command of Lieutenant Geiger, and Team Bravo-Alpha-Delta (BAD), under the command of Dexter. Team BAD used the Chinook to attack Team GOOD’s base camp. Team GOOD fought them off with guts and the Black Hawk, then went on the attack themselves, chasing Team BAD out of the hydrangeas and into the front yard with much yelling and running around, until the Chinook crashed into the maple tree and Dexter plunged to his doom. It was then that Ben noticed the odd procession making its way up Gardam Street. Batty slowly pushing Lydia in her stroller—this he understood—but what kind of creature was that, struggling to keep up with them?

  “Batty’s got a huge guinea pig on a leash,” said Rafael, squinting to bring the scene into better focus. “Like the hugest one in the whole world.”

  “Its nose is too pointy for a guinea pig. More like the hugest rat in the whole world.”

  Neither of the boys wanted to meet a huge rat, but they refused to run away from something Lydia didn’t seem to be afraid of. So they stood their ground and, as the procession came closer, were relieved to see that the giant rat was only a fat dog with short legs.

  “Don’t laugh,” said Batty when she reached them. “Her name is Duchess, and she lives with the Ayvazians.”

  No one laughed—the situation was too dire for that. Duchess had collapsed, panting. She was doing her best for these children, but she hadn’t walked this far in a long time. Ben and Rafael ran inside and brought back water, which she would drink only right from their hands. Even after that, she seemed incapable of going any further, let alone all the way around the cul-de-sac.

  “I should take her back home,” said Batty, “but I don’t think she can make it that far. She’s going to die. I shouldn’t have taken this job.”

  “We could carry her,” said Rafael.

  “No, we can’t,” said Ben. “Look at her.”

  “Out,” said Lydia, who had been trying unsuccessfully to escape her stroller and get closer to Ben.

  “Not yet, Lydia.”

  Ben gave Duchess more water, then stroked her ears and head. “Poor dog.”

  “Out!” said Lydia.

  “Would the dog fit in the stroller?” asked Rafael.

  It was worth a try. Lydia was let out of the stroller and warned that she’d have to wear Duchess’s harness and leash if she didn’t behave, then the effort to install Duchess began. They found that her bulk wasn’t as big a problem as her floppiness. It was as though the signals from her brain couldn’t reach all the way to her back end. Batty, Ben, and Rafael had to work together, lifting the front half of Duchess in first, then, with a great heave, the rest of her. But once they’d accomplished it, Duchess seemed grateful, even attempting a doggy smile—though she didn’t like it when Lydia tried to put the crown on her head.

  The walk could now resume. Batty pushed the stroller, Rafael held Lydia’s hand, and Ben walked in front to keep watch over Duchess, all the way around the cul-de-sac and back down the street to the Ayvazians’ house. Relieved that the ordeal was over, Batty knocked on their door. The Ayvazians were bound to be dismayed that she’d brought Duchess back in a stroller and would give up on this nonsense, then Batty would be free of the responsibility.

  That’s not what happened. Mrs. Ayvazian took one look at Duchess and said that she’d never seen such an improvement, and Mr. Ayvazian tried to put Batty on his permanent payroll, with a twenty-dollar advance for the coming week.

  Twenty dollars! That would go a long way toward paying for singing lessons. Still, Batty hesitated.

  “I promised my parents I wouldn’t accept a job without checking with them first.” This was a stalling technique, since Batty was sure her parents would agree to the arrangement. They’d known the Ayvazians forever.

  “You go ahead and ask your parents, and if it’s okay with them, I’ll pay you tomorrow after you take Duchess for another walk.”

  “But, Mr. Ayvazian.” Batty tried one more time to get out of this. “I’m not sure Duchess liked it.”

  He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Mrs. Ayvazian likes it, and that’s what I care about the most.”

  Indeed, not only was Mrs. Ayvazian pleased with Duchess, she was delighted to have even more children return than had set out. Before Batty knew what was happening, everyone was inside the house, eating cider donuts and watching while Duchess maneuvered her way back into her hiding place behind the blue armchair, where she could recover from her perilous voyage around the cul-de-sac.

  As soon as she got back home, Batty sought refuge at the back of her closet, asking Hound’s forgiveness for letting a new dog into her life. Asimov followed her there and provided some comfort, at least, and didn’t seem to mind when Batty took out Hound’s old rubber bone and cried over it. Crying helped a little—enough, anyway, to let her rejoin the family. And when her parents were proud and enthusiastic about her first job, Batty tried to look enthusiastic, too. After all, more jobs might come from other neighbors. Having something to do besides walking a dog would lessen the sting.

  Then at dinnertime came a phone call from the Geigers, with news so very wonderful it swept away all cares and worries. Nick had just landed in the United States, he was safe at his base in Kentucky, and he would be heading north—and home—soon.

  Cheering and applause broke out around the Penderwick table. Nick! Nick! Jane lifted Lydia from her high chair and danced around the kitchen with her, Skye pumped her fists in the air, Mr. Penderwick and Iantha smiled happily at each other—and Batty saw that Ben was weeping, tears dripping down his face.

  “He’s been w
orried about Nick,” she said.

  “Oh, sweetheart.” His mother went over to hug him. “Everyone’s been worried.”

  “Maybe we need to make Welcome Home posters,” said Jane. “Would you like that, Ben?”

  Ben nodded, smeared his tears around with his napkin, managed a smile—and the poster team took over the kitchen. Space was cleared on the kitchen floor, large sheets of cardboard scrounged up, and markers and crayons distributed. Skye and Jane wrote messages for Nick in giant block letters and gave them to the younger siblings. Over by the refrigerator, Ben enthusiastically filled in W, E, L, C, O, M, E, H, O, M, and E on one poster. In front of the sink, Batty worked on another, coloring in M, I, S, S, E, D, Y, O, and U while trying to keep Lydia from completely wrecking the letters W and E.

  After a while, a few of Jane’s boys showed up and were pulled into the poster-making business. One was Artie, and the other one was someone new, a French boy named Jérôme who’d only just come to the United States as an exchange student. It took him a while to understand what they were doing, partly because Jane insisted on explaining in French.

  “Nick est … sort of a … un grand frère, qui … rentrer … Artie, what’s third-person future?”

  “I don’t know. I take German,” said Artie.

  “Nick is a brother?” asked Jérôme, who’d understood that much.

  “Oui!” Jane was thrilled with her ability to communicate.

  “He’s like an older brother,” said Skye. “Jane, Jérôme’s English is probably better than your French.”

  “But it’s good practice for me, if he doesn’t mind.”

  “Mais, non.” Jérôme nodded politely. “Jane speaks beautifully.”

  As Jane beamed happily and went on butchering the French language, the rest of them bent to the task. Artie quickly became the star of the group, with his seemingly effortless drawing of a Black Hawk, declared by Ben to be museum-quality art.

  “If I had paint, I could make it even better,” said Artie. “Even just some black and white would help.”

  Ben took off to ask his mother if they had any paint in the house and came back with the answer—there was plenty in the basement, lots of cans of different colors.

  “I’ll go,” said Batty. If regular American teenagers made her shy, one from a foreign country made her want to hide under the kitchen table. This was a good excuse to take a break, and gather her courage.

  Humming “High Hopes,” a great song for courage-gathering, she ran down to the basement and over toward the corner where the paint cans were stored. She seldom went this way—it meant going past the big black oil tank that years ago Skye had said was a child-eating monster. Skye had even given it a name: Hanfligurtson. Though now that Batty thought about it, Hanfligurtson sounded more like something Jane would make up. So maybe they’d both been in on it.

  “But of course I’m too old now to believe in—” Batty stopped, pulling up beside a heap of old bicycles, sleds, and a kiddie pool or two. The bikes and sleds hadn’t grabbed her attention, no. It was what was peeking out from under one of the pools: a small red wagon that Batty hadn’t thought about in years. Aunt Claire had given it to her when she was four, and she and Hound had played with it for months after, sharing many adventures.

  Another Hound haunting. Would they never come to an end?

  Her humming had fled, replaced by a fierce desire to drag the wagon upstairs and hide it in her closet with the rest of her secret treasures.

  “Batty! Did you find the paint?” Ben was calling from the top of the stairs.

  “Not yet,” she answered, catching her breath.

  “You sound funny.”

  “No, I don’t. I’ll be up in a minute.” She shoved the wagon back under the kiddie pool and went to get the paint.

  USUALLY ON SCHOOL DAYS Batty woke up to her alarm clock playing “Chain Gang.” This Monday, she woke when something touched the tip of her nose. At first she sleepily brushed whatever it was away, half remembering when Hound used to snuffle her awake. But the nose-touching kept happening until Batty had to open her eyes and deal with it. Her room was still dark—the sun wasn’t yet up—but there was just enough light to see a small finger coming at her again and, behind the finger, brown eyes, lots of red hair, and a princess crown.

  “Lydia is hungry,” said the nose toucher.

  Batty turned on her bedside lamp, trying to grasp the situation. The clock said it was only a quarter of six, fifteen minutes before the alarm would go off. “Did you climb out of your crib?”

  “Oui.” Lydia did an interpretive dance of her breakout, which ended with her standing on her feet, thank goodness, rather than on her head. Then she repeated her message: “Lydia is hungry.”

  So the expected had happened—Lydia had figured out how to escape the crib. Good thing the big-girl bed was arriving soon. And now Batty was stuck with Lydia. Yawning, she got them both downstairs, provided Lydia with a banana and a sippy cup of milk, and parked her in the living room near the piano.

  “I’m going to practice now, and you’re going to stay in here and not get into trouble. You can dance if you want. Okay?”

  Lydia nodded happily, her mouth full of banana, and Batty went to her piano and began with the Hanon exercises Mr. Trice insisted upon for warming up. Batty didn’t find them boring, though. Indeed, she lost herself in the pleasure of feeling her fingers fly, gaining always in strength, flexibility, and accuracy.

  Lost, that is, until she heard Lydia crying “Ben, Ben!” and then the slam of the front door. Panicked, Batty leapt off the piano bench. Had Lydia made it out the front door? No, there she was at the window, still calling for Ben. Because he had escaped and was racing through the dawn—in his pajamas—to the Geigers’ house.

  Now what? Couldn’t a girl have a peaceful morning for practicing the piano? Batty picked up Lydia and flew out of the house in pursuit of her little brother, in her bare feet, across the chilly dew-drenched grass. By the time she caught up with Ben, cursing her fate as the eldest of the youngest Penderwicks, he was around back of the Geigers’ house, peeking into their kitchen window.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  “I want to know if Nick is home yet.”

  “He couldn’t possibly be. It’s much too soon.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “His truck isn’t here, is it?”

  “Oh.” No, Nick’s blue pickup truck with the Red Sox decal wasn’t in the driveway. Pressing her advantage, Batty used Lydia as a battering ram to push Ben away from the window. It was too late.

  Mr. Geiger’s voice drifted out to them. “Connie, I believe we’re being staked out for a robbery. We really should have bought that alarm system.”

  Ben whispered to Batty. “I told you to put home security on the PWTW list.”

  “He means us, you numbskull.” She called in through the window, “It’s not robbers, Mr. Geiger. Just Batty, Ben, and Lydia.”

  “Never mind, Connie,” they heard him say. “Just those annoying kids from across the street.”

  But Mrs. Geiger was already opening the back door and inviting them in. She even understood without being told what they were doing there.

  “Nick’s not here yet, but isn’t it wonderful about him coming home?” She was almost hopping up and down with excitement. “He’s leaving Kentucky this morning to drive to Delaware for a quick visit with Tommy at college, and after that he’ll drive up here and arrive tomorrow night, sometime after eleven.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Ben. And he actually did hop. “Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow night,” warned Batty. “You might be asleep and not see him until after school on Wednesday.”

  “Tomorrow night, tomorrow night, tomorrow night.” Ben hopped into Mr. Geiger, almost making him spill his coffee.

  “Connie, get these kids out of here,” he said, handing a blueberry muffin to Ben.

  “Lydia is hungry,” said Lydia, so Mr. Gei
ger gave her some muffin, too.

  Mrs. Geiger went on. “And he’s going to stay for almost three weeks. Three weeks before he has to go back to that awful war. A good, long visit!”

  “Three weeks, three weeks, three weeks!” said Ben.

  Batty tried to grab Ben as he hopped by, but now Mr. Geiger was hopping, too, so she gave up, and put down Lydia, who also started hopping. The phone rang. Mrs. Geiger answered it.

  “Yes, Iantha, they’re here. I’ll send them right home.” She laughed. “No, Bill and I like it. You know we do.”

  “We’ll go back now,” said Batty as soon as Mrs. Geiger hung up. “Ben, stop bouncing around!”

  “But we are dancing with joy,” said Mr. Geiger, putting on a glum face.

  “Batty, dear, before you go, I spoke with the Ayvazians last night,” said Mrs. Geiger. “They told me how sweet and kind you were to Duchess, and how good it will be for the little dog. They were so pleased.”

  “I wasn’t that sweet and kind.” Batty had been careful, but not the rest of it. She remembered a few unkind words while getting Duchess into the stroller.

  “They thought so. And, if you still have time, I’d like to hire you, too.”

  “Wow! Really?” This was wonderful news. Batty was 100 percent certain there were no dogs secretly living behind any of the Geigers’ armchairs. “What do you need doing? Dusting?”

  “Dusting!” said Mr. Geiger. “I do the dusting, thank you very much.”

  “Shh, Bill,” said Mrs. Geiger. “No, I’m opening up a new flower bed in the backyard, and I could use help with digging up rocks.”

  “That’s me!” cried Ben. “I am the digger of rocks!”

  With Ben accelerating from a dance of joy into an extravaganza of ecstasy, it took Batty another few minutes to get her siblings back outside and across the street. The sun was up by now, another gorgeous spring day beginning. She passed Ben and Lydia off to Iantha, who fussed over their bare and bedewed feet, then sat them down for breakfast. She wanted Batty to eat, too, but Batty excused herself for a few moments, slipping down to the basement instead.