The Penderwicks in Spring (14 page)

Ben crept down the steps but paused when he heard Skye and Jane talking in the living room.

“Now he’s sending me music he’s written,” said Skye. Last week it was ‘Pavane for S.P.’ and today I got this one.”

“ ‘Unrequited in D Minor.’ Wow.”

“It’s not like I can read music.”

“You could ask Batty to play them for you on the piano.”

“Yeah, right. It’s embarrassing enough showing these to you. At least he doesn’t put words to them. I don’t think I could stomach an entire song about his unrequited love for me.”

Most of what had at first sounded to Ben like gibberish—especially the
pavane
and the
unrequited
, whatever they were—now became clear. His sisters were down there talking about Jeffrey. If he weren’t so desperate to put out Nick’s signs, he would have gone right back up to his room. Ben absolutely did not want to get caught in another discussion of love.

“He wrote music for me once,” said Jane. “When I was ten, remember? I thought it the most interesting thing that had ever happened to me.”

“So why didn’t he fall for you? You would have appreciated him.”

“Skye, he’s always been nuts for you, ever since the first time you two met.”

“I crashed into him and almost knocked him out!”

“Well, now you know not to do that anymore.”

Ben heard a sort of half-groan, half-mumble from Skye, which seemed to be the end of the conversation. After a few minutes of quiet, he felt safe enough to resume his way downstairs. He was almost to the bottom baby gate when Jane started up again.

“I was telling Jérôme about wanting to be a writer,
and he said that to be a writer one must have a great heart. At least I think that’s what he said.”

“It’s not necessarily true, anyway,” answered Skye.

“I know. I thought of asking him what about Sartre, but then he was off on something else and I got completely lost. He speaks French so quickly.”

“Because—he’s French.”

This time the end of talking was marked by Jane throwing a pillow at Skye. Again Ben waited for a few moments before moving on, but he didn’t wait long enough. Just as he started over the baby gate, he heard Skye.

“I just miss Jeffrey, the old Jeffrey, the way he was before he started—”

More love talk! Ben tried to stop himself, but he overbalanced and ended up tipping headfirst over the gate and onto the floor. Both sisters were with him in a minute, picking him up and inspecting him for damage.

“I’m not hurt,” he said, trying to regain his dignity. “I just came down to put out the signs for Nick.”

“We put them out when the rain stopped,” said Skye, “and left on the outdoor lights so he could see them.”

“You should go back to bed,” said Jane. “Nick might not be home for hours.”

“Please let me wait with you,” said Ben. “Please.”

Skye looked at Jane and shrugged, and Jane looked at Skye and nodded, then they took him back into
the living room and settled him on the couch between them. He was determined that this time he truly would stay awake all night if necessary, even if he had to listen to his sisters talking about love stuff the whole time. But Skye picked up a book, nothing he could read over her shoulder, unfortunately—too many long words about something called string theory. Jane started scribbling in a blue notebook, and he didn’t even try to read over her shoulder. What Jane wrote was always private until she decided to share it.

Despite Ben’s resolve to stay awake, soon he’d slumped against Skye, lulled to sleep by the soft rustle of turning pages. He woke up once when Jane had murmured she was going to bed and covered him with a blanket before she went, and another time his eyelids fluttered open long enough for him to see Skye standing by the window, looking out, on guard. After that, Ben sank deep into his dreams, which eventually turned into a tale of being lifted off a couch and carried outside. He struggled against that—he was too old to be carried—until all at once he was awake and being handed over into the strong arms of Lieutenant Nick Geiger. Ben started to cry, happy this time, and Nick was laughing and making jokes, and Mr. and Mrs. Geiger were out there, too, also crying, even Mr. Geiger, and then Mrs. Geiger was saying that Nick needed his rest—lots and lots of rest and sleep—and Skye took Ben back from Nick. She carried him home again, but once there, he climbed upstairs and into his bunk by himself.

“Nick remembered me,” he said to Skye as she tucked him in.

“Of course he did, you nincompoop. Now go to sleep, and don’t tell anybody we let you stay up, okay? Dad and Iantha would be furious.”

“Okay. I Lima-Oscar-Victor-Echo you, Skye.”

“Lima-Oscar-Victor-Echo you, too, buddy.”

T
HE
P
ENDERWICKS DID WHAT THEY COULD
to help Nick sleep, tiptoeing around and stopping Ben from peering in any of the Geigers’ windows. So quiet was Gardam Street that spring itself decided to take a nap. The temperature dropped, then dropped again, and snow clouds started to gather. Mrs. Geiger’s daffodils drooped their yellow heads, and the Ayvazians’ creamy white magnolia blooms shivered in the unexpected cold. By evening, Iantha was insisting that everyone wear warm sweaters when going outside, and on Thursday morning before school, she bundled them all into the winter coats, hats, and mittens they’d abandoned weeks earlier.

The snow itself held off until that afternoon. Batty and Ben spotted the first flakes as they walked home
from school. Ben was celebrating—the snow meant a possible day off from school, a rare treat in late April. Batty was torn. No school on Friday meant missing chorus with Mrs. Grunfeld. But since it also meant missing the horror of the book report chart review, she decided that, on the whole, a day off would be a good thing, and she was singing as she darted through the snowflakes to fetch Cilantro.

For the official inaugural walk with both dogs the day before, she’d picked up Duchess first, and that had been a mistake. The adventure of finding Cilantro in Quigley Woods had taken a severe toll on the fat little dog, and she’d had to spend most of the walk in the wagon, which meant slow going for Cilantro and lots of extra wagon-pulling for Batty. So today she was changing the order of pickup, which would let her give Cilantro a brisk walk before adding Duchess to the mix. But when Batty got to Marsh Lane, Cilantro seemed to have forgotten who she was and refused to leave his house.

“Maybe he doesn’t like the snowflakes,” said Batty.

“We moved here from Idaho,” said Mr. Holland, again wearing his baby in a sling. “He’s used to snow.”

“Then maybe he won’t come out because Duchess isn’t here,” tried Batty. “He thinks she’s in charge.”

“I don’t care what he thinks. You tug while I push.”

Batty tugged on the leash, leaning back with all her weight, until Cilantro made it out the door, which Mr. Holland closed decisively behind him. Bereaved,
Cilantro made his tuba sound and tried to stuff his nose through the letter slot.

Patiently Batty waited until Cilantro remembered who she was and let her take him back to Gardam Street, barking only a little more than normal, mostly at snowflakes that came too close to his nose. Once they’d picked up Duchess, Cilantro did indeed perk up. So it was true. He did see Duchess as the boss of this crew, and Duchess seemed to agree. She’d regained enough of her energy to reject the wagon, instead strutting out in front of Cilantro, showing off the new red sweater Mrs. Ayvazian had run out to buy her for protection against the snow. Batty hadn’t the heart to tell either Mrs. Ayvazian or Duchess that the red accentuated the dog’s great girth and made her look like an overstuffed Christmas stocking with legs.

Up Gardam Street they went, calmly enough except for Cilantro suddenly forgetting what the wagon was, and barking at it. But Batty got him back under control and was almost feeling good about her dog-walking skills when, just as they reached the Geigers’ house, Nick appeared on the doorstep, calling out hello. Duchess, thinking he was calling hello to her, lunged toward him. Cilantro, thinking the same thing, lunged away from him. Then the situation worsened. Ben came flying out of the Penderwicks’ house, as though he’d been watching out the window in case Nick appeared—which he had been—and the addition to the scene of a shrieking boy caused Duchess
and Cilantro to change directions, but oppositely, until Batty, hopelessly snarled in the two leashes, her legs bound together, toppled over onto the wagon. As she fell, she realized that this was the stupidest possible way to first see Nick, as he would be certain to link her inability to keep upright with her lack of ability at sports.

As Nick and Ben came over to rescue her, it was Cilantro rather than Duchess who Batty feared would have the heart attack, as he tried frantically to run away, tightening even more the leash wrapped around Batty.

Until Nick planted himself in Cilantro’s path and spoke quietly but firmly. “Sit. Stay.”

To Batty’s surprise—and Cilantro’s, too, she thought—he sat, and so did Duchess, the whole fat redness of her. And they stayed.

“How did you do that?” asked Batty.

“Talent.” Nick gave her the smile that Rosalind always called the irresistible Geiger grin, except when she was annoyed with Tommy (and then she didn’t call it anything at all). “Ben, you hold the dogs’ collars, and I’ll get your sister out of her mess.”

“Yankee-Echo-Sierra, Sierra-India-Romeo,” said Ben.

“No, no, none of that Sir stuff. Not while I’m on leave. Call me, I don’t know, how about Mr. Fabulous?”

“Good grief,” said Batty.

“Good grief yourself.” Nick unhooked both leashes and unwound them, freeing Batty. “These are your new clients? Mom told me you started a dog-walking business.”

“Actually, I wanted to do dusting and companionship, but nobody needed me for that. I didn’t think I should walk dogs, because of—you know.”

Nick understood. “I’m sorry about Hound. That was a sad day when I heard.”

Batty tried to imagine Nick feeling sad about Hound in the middle of fighting a war.

“Weren’t you—” She paused, feeling awkward. “I mean—you weren’t too busy to think about home?”

“Some days home was all I thought about. Not
you
, necessarily, you understand.” There was Nick’s grin again, and the air was cleared.

“When can we start playing basketball?” asked Ben.

“Not while it’s snowing. We’ve got lots of time. I’ll be home until the first Sunday in May.”

“But that’s my birthday!” said Batty. “You can’t leave on my birthday!”

“You really can’t,” said Ben, who would have said that about any day if it would keep Nick with them longer.

“I won’t leave until after your party, okay? The army can do without me for an extra twelve hours.”

“Thank you.”

“And for your birthday present, I’ll help train you in whatever sport you’ve selected.”

“I’ve told you a million times that I don’t want a sport.”

“Sure you do. Sports build character.”

Batty thought she already had plenty of character. But there definitely was something she didn’t have. “Can you teach me how to make the dogs obey?”

“First you have to believe they will obey you. It’s all a matter of self-confidence. Go ahead, tell yourself that you’re the boss, then give them a command.”

I’m the boss, thought Batty.

“Duchess, Cilantro, lie down,” she said.

They ignored her.

“I’m the boss,” said Batty out loud. “Lie
down.
No, Duchess, no.”

Duchess was jumping up on Ben, trying to lick his face.

“I’m definitely not the boss,” said Batty.

“We’ll work on it later,” said Nick. “Right now I’m getting out of this crazy snow and going back to sleep.”

But he wasn’t allowed to sleep just yet. While Batty pulled away the dogs, Skye and Jane, with Lydia swinging wildly between them, burst out of their front door and flew across Gardam Street to pounce on him and smother him with sisterly affection.

When Batty got back home after the dog walk, she heard lots of banging coming from upstairs. She ran up and found the source—Lydia’s room, where Skye
and Jane were assembling the new big-girl bed that had just been delivered by a truck.

“Where’s Lydia?” Batty asked them.

“Under the crib,” said Jane.

“Did Nick scare her?”

“Of course not. She fell in love with him immediately.”

“She doesn’t like the new bed,” explained Skye. “See if you can talk sense into her.”

Batty lay flat on the floor. Yes, there was Lydia hunched under her crib, clinging to the bottom of the mattress like it was a life raft.

“Aren’t you excited about your new bed?” Batty asked her.

“Lydia’s bed,” said Lydia, getting a better grip on the crib mattress.

“
This
is your bed now,” said Skye, pointing at the big-girl bed with a screwdriver.

“And it’s a pretty bed,” added Jane.

The white wooden bed frame sat low to the ground and had violets sprinkled across the headboard. Even better, in Batty’s mind, was the long drawer that fit underneath. She dragged a reluctant Lydia out from under the crib so that she could see it.