The Penderwicks in Spring (13 page)

“You must understand that if you’re serious about singing, you will need a better teacher than I.” She held up her hand before Batty could protest again. “But there’s no reason for you not to begin here with me on an informal basis. That is, if you don’t mind missing recess one day a week.”

“No, no, no, I don’t mind missing recess.” Batty was ready to run in place and do jumping jacks right then and there to prove how little she needed recess.

“Good. We’ll start today, since the weather is so bad. I’ll make it all right with your classroom teacher.”

“That’s Ms. Rho, but she’s a little strict. And the weather …” The weather was glorious.

“I will take care of all of that,” said Mrs. Grunfeld, and Batty believed her. It was hard to imagine anyone or anything that Mrs. Grunfeld couldn’t take care of. “And put away your money, Batty. Save it for when you go on to your real coach. The good ones can be expensive.”

“Oh, Mrs. Grunfeld, I can’t—” gasped Batty, overwhelmed.

“Now, now, none of that. Spending extra time with you will be a pleasure for me. I must confess, I’ve been thinking of a song that would be just right
for your voice. I’m afraid it’s a love song, but then so many of the better songs are. Would you mind?”

Batty held tight to the piano bench to keep herself from leaping up and smothering Mrs. Grunfeld with a gigantic hug. “I don’t mind about love as long as it’s not a duet and I have to sing with one of the boys.”

“Agreed. No love duets.” Mrs. Grunfeld laughed. “I will work you hard, Batty Penderwick, even though I am just a generalist. You’re certain this is what you want?”

“Yes,” answered Batty, “this is what I want.”

“And, Duchess, by lunchtime it was raining! Not that I think Mrs. Grunfeld can actually make it rain, but you have to admit it was an interesting coincidence. So, anyway, during recess she taught me a song called “Not a Day Goes By,” written by Stephen Sondheim, who Mrs. Grunfeld says uses melody to express yearning better than anyone has since Verdi. And she said that Sondheim’s atypical tonal intervals are only one example of his genius—which I knew already from listening to
A
Little Night Music
eight million times—and that singing his songs would help me stretch my understanding of melody. Here, Duchess, listen to a little bit.”

But Batty could barely get into the song without giggling—Duchess was singing with her again.

“Also, I told Mrs. Grunfeld about Jeffrey and the
Grand Eleventh Birthday Concert. She said it was a great idea and that Jeffrey is my
mentore
, which is Italian for ‘mentor.’ It sounds better in Italian, don’t you think?”

Batty stopped talking to shake the rain from her hair, and to make sure that Duchess hadn’t yet worn herself out. While Batty loved this soft spring rain, it couldn’t be pleasant for the dog. Because Duchess was so low to the ground, any rain that missed her wide back splashed up to her undercarriage.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t be happier in the wagon? I don’t want you catching a cold. One arf for yes and two for no.”

“Arf, arf, arf, arf.”

“Four wasn’t a choice. Okay, I’ll decide. You’re going into the wagon.” Batty pulled the wagon alongside Duchess, and removed the plastic bag she’d laid over the blanket to keep it dry.

“Arf, arf, arf, arf, arf.”

“Shh,” said Batty, tipping the wagon on its side, but Duchess showed no interest in getting into it. “What’s going on with you? Why won’t you get in?”

“Arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, ARF!”

Batty was amazed that Duchess had the energy for so much barking and pulling. Maybe it wasn’t that she was trying to get away from the wagon. They were in the cul-de-sac now, and Duchess was pointed toward Quigley Woods—maybe she was trying to go there. Batty let Duchess tug her a few feet closer to the path.
Yes, that’s what she wanted, and while Batty thought the woods too damp and mucky for an overweight dachshund, she couldn’t help but wonder what had brought about this sudden burst of life.

“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.