The Penderwicks in Spring (10 page)

Batty took a wet towel to Lydia, who fought her manfully. The process wasn’t made easier by Asimov, who decided it was a good time to try to steal Lydia’s waffle.

“No, no,
gato
!” cried Lydia, but Asimov ignored her, not knowing that
gato
is Spanish for “cat.”

“More Spanish!” Mr. Penderwick shook his spatula. “Skye’s getting ahead of me again. Lydia, what is the Latin for ‘five’?
Unus, duo, tres, quattuor,
then what?”

“Armaweerum.”

“No, but that does sound like the start of the
Aeneid.
How clever of you to remember that.”

“Oui,”
said Lydia.

“Rafael and I are going to study Klingon when we’re in high school,” said Ben.

“Fine goal,” said Mr. Penderwick, sliding a hot waffle onto a plate. “Ready to eat, Batty?”

“Yes, please. Yum.” She sat down, and dug in. There is nothing so delicious on a Sunday morning as a waffle fresh out of the waffle iron, smeared with butter and real maple syrup. “Ben, will you come with me to distribute the PWTW flyers?”

“Can’t. Rafael is coming over, and we’re going to build and battle.”

“What about taking Lydia along?” Mr. Penderwick asked.

Batty looked doubtfully at Lydia, now with a chunk of waffle stuck in her red curls. Not exactly the businesslike appearance Batty hoped to project. But a talkative baby sister was always good cover for a shy person. “Lydia, will you come with me to distribute my flyers?”

“Lydia wants to build and battle.” Lydia waved her fork for emphasis.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” said Ben. “Go with Batty. It will be much more fun.”

“And you can ride in your stroller,” added Batty.

This caught Lydia’s attention. She was always willing to go somewhere if she could ride there in regal splendor. Today was no exception, so after breakfast, she allowed herself to be cleaned and readied for an outing. She wanted her crown and several tutus, one atop the other, and also an attendant. For this she chose her pink-and-green-striped doll, which Skye had named Baby Zingo as a joke. Except that Lydia thought it an excellent name, and now they were stuck with it. When Lydia and Baby Zingo had at last been loaded into the stroller, Batty slid the PWTW flyers into its pocket and resolutely set out to meet her future.

Gardam Street had ten houses, five on each side. Because knocking on nine doors was beyond her, even with Lydia’s company, Batty had come up with a compromise. She would distribute flyers to every house,
quietly slipping them into mailboxes, but she must also—to prove her resolve—knock on at least one door. It was tempting to choose the Geigers’. Batty had been in and out of their home all her life and had little shyness left for any of them, certainly not for Nick and Tommy, but not even for their parents.

Choosing the Geigers was too cowardly, though, and they got only a flyer, just like the other families up and down the street. Batty decided to knock on the door of the second-least-scary family, the Ayvazians, down on the corner, who were old, tiny, and kind, and always had excellent treats on Halloween.

Mrs. Ayvazian opened the door at Batty’s knock and beamed. “It’s some Penderwicks! How nice! Come in, come in.”

Before Batty could explain about the flyer, Mrs. Ayvazian had helped Lydia out of her stroller and was bustling them both into the house. Mr. Ayvazian was in the living room, sitting at a table piled high with books, papers, and photographs.

“Look who’s come to visit, Harvey.” Mrs. Ayvazian turned back to the girls. “He’s writing his memoirs.”

“I’ve made it past Vietnam,” said Mr. Ayvazian. “Hope to reach Reagan by Christmas.”

“And how is Miss Lydia?” said Mrs. Ayvazian.

“Goldie put Frank in a box,” she answered.

“Not now, Lydia,” said Batty.

Her storytelling thwarted, Lydia decided to show off her tutus. She executed a giddy triple twirl, then
set off on a series of hops that put Mr. Ayvazian’s table at risk. Batty lunged, getting hold of a tutu or three just in time. One good bump to that table and all the papers, books, and photographs would be on the floor, and that would be the end of earning money for a while, since it wouldn’t be fair to charge the Ayvazians to clean up a mess Lydia had made.

“How about some cider donuts for our guests?” Mr. Ayvazian asked.

“Of course,” said Mrs. Ayvazian. “Who would like some donuts?”

“Lydia,” said Lydia.

“No, you wouldn’t,” said Batty, determined to keep this strictly business. She handed a flyer to Mrs. Ayvazian. “No thanks for either of us, Mrs. Ayvazian. I’ve come looking for work.”

“Work? Goodness.”

“I’m the Penderwick Willing to Work and I can do most anything—well, some things, like dusting.”

“I do my own dusting,” said Mrs. Ayvazian, “and Harvey handles the outside, except for the gutters, of course.”

“I don’t know much about gutters.” Except for the time Tommy had lodged a baseball in one, causing a small flood.

“That dog could use a walk,” said Mr. Ayvazian.

“Why didn’t I think of that? Batty, would you consider walking a dog?” Mrs. Ayvazian asked.

The last thing in the world Batty wanted was to
walk a dog. She hadn’t even been able to protect her own dog. How ever could she be trusted with someone else’s? But she couldn’t say any of this to Mrs. Ayvazian. Besides, there didn’t seem to be a dog in the house. There never had been a dog at the Ayvazians’.

“I didn’t think you had a dog, Mrs. Ayvazian,” she said, hoping this was all a misunderstanding.

“Duchess, dear, say hello to Batty and Lydia.” Mrs. Ayvazian lowered her voice, as if the invisible dog could hear her. “She arrived only last week. My brother moved to Florida and thought she would be better off here with us. I think she misses him something awful.”

“Well, she should miss him. He spoiled her rotten.” Mr. Ayvazian didn’t lower
his
voice. Since there was still no dog in sight, Batty didn’t know whether this was a good or bad sign.

Could it be that the Ayvazians were losing their minds? This happened sometimes to old people, Batty had heard, although usually it made them do things like misplace keys, not hallucinate dogs. She was trying to figure out a polite way of getting Lydia safely out of the house when she heard a grunt coming from behind a blue armchair.

Then, slowly, while Batty and Lydia stared in amazement, an oddly shaped brown animal—like an overstuffed hot dog with teeny legs—dragged itself out into the open.

“Gato,”
said Lydia uncertainly.

Batty hoped that the dog—for it was not a cat but a terribly overweight dachshund—didn’t understand Spanish. Never had she seen a look of such shame on an animal’s face. It was clear that Duchess already knew she was tubby—being called a cat could have pushed her over the edge.

“Have you ever met a dog that needed exercise more than this one?” asked Mr. Ayvazian. “Laziest dog I ever met.”

“She’s not lazy, Harvey, just a little out of shape.” Mrs. Ayvazian gave Duchess an encouraging pat on the head. “Would you like to take a walk with Batty and Lydia?”

“I really hadn’t considered walking dogs,” said Batty. Especially not this dog, who looked like she would die of a heart attack at any moment. “I don’t think I’d be any good at it.”

“Anyone can walk a dog,” said Mr. Ayvazian.

“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.