The Penderwicks: A Summer Tale of Four Sisters, Two Rabbits, and a Very Interesting Boy

by Jeanne Birdsall

  “What's wrong with Hound?” asked Mr. Penderwick.

  “Nothing,” said Batty.

  By now, the noise had woken Skye and Jane, and they had joined the crowd in the hall.

  “What's happening?” said Jane, still half asleep. “Is Jeff—”

  Skye kicked her.

  “Hound, be quiet!” said Mr. Penderwick. Hound flopped down and started licking Batty's door. “Now, girls.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” answered all four, each looking impossibly innocent.

  “Mrs. Tifton and Mr. Dupree are downstairs. They seem to have lost Jeffrey. I'm trusting that Jane hasn't carried him off in a hot-air balloon.”

  “Oh, Daddy, of course not,” said Jane.

  “That's a good start. Now, to proceed a little further, can any of you tell me where he is?” No one answered. “Rosalind?”

  “No, Daddy, we may not,” said Rosalind. Oh, if only she'd let Jeffrey sleep under Harry's tomato stand! He'd be long gone by now.

  “May you tell me if he's safe?” he asked, scanning their faces carefully.

  “Yes, he's safe,” said Rosalind.

  “And comfortable?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he in Batty's room?”

  There was a terrible silence, and everyone hung their heads.

  “Oh, daughters,” said Mr. Penderwick.

  “If you knew everything, you'd understand,” said Skye.

  “Please don't tell Mrs. Tifton he's here,” said Jane.

  “I have to tell her something. The poor woman is worried sick.” He thought for a minute. “All right. I'll tell her that all I know so far is that he's safe and that I'll call her after I've tortured the whole truth out of my children. In the meantime, if any of you four happen to see Jeffrey”—he stepped closer to Batty's door and raised his voice—“tell him not to worry too much. He's not alone in this.”

  The door opened slowly and out stepped Jeffrey, very rumpled and with dark circles under his eyes. “Good morning, Mr. Penderwick. I'm sorry to have caused so much trouble.”

  “No trouble at all, son,” said Mr. Penderwick. “Would you like me to tell your mother you're here?”

  “Thank you, but I should go down and tell her myself.”

  “Jeffrey, no!” said Skye. “Let Daddy do it.”

  “It's over, Skye. I might as well go down there and face up to it,” said Jeffrey. “Besides, Rosalind said I should try one more time to get Mother to listen to me about Pencey, and I guess this is my chance.”

  “But what if I was wrong?” Rosalind clutched her father's arm. She couldn't bear sending Jeffrey downstairs to suffer again.

  “You weren't wrong,” said Mr. Penderwick. “Jeffrey, would you like me to go with you?”

  “Yes, sir.” Jeffrey squared his shoulders. “Please.”

  “We all will,” said Rosalind.

  “Maybe just Jane.” It killed Skye to say this. “She's the only one that Mrs. Tifton doesn't completely despise. But, Jeffrey, the rest of us will be right here if you need anyone to beat anyone else up. Just kidding, Daddy.”

  “Ha,” he said, not without humor, then stepped back so that Jeffrey could lead.

  It was a solemn parade downstairs, with Jane at the rear behind Jeffrey and her father. She was proud to be part of Jeffrey's honor guard, but she had hoped never to see that Dexter again. And there he was, lolling sleepily at the kitchen table. What did he care if Jeffrey's whole future was at stake? Creep!

  And now Mrs. Tifton was out of her chair, rushing across the room. “Jeffrey, oh, my baby.”

  She hugged him close for a long time, murmuring little words of mother love. Jane's eyes welled with tears, and it was hard work to remember how much she disliked Mrs. Tifton. But then the sweet murmuring stopped, and Mrs. Tifton's sharp voice was back.

  “How could you do this to me?”

  “I'm sorry, Mother. I didn't mean to upset you.”

  “Not upset me! What were you thinking?” She held him at arm's length. “That I wouldn't be upset if my only son ran away?”

  Jeffrey wriggled free. “I just—”

  “Well, you're safe and I suppose that's what's important, though of course there has to be some kind of punishment. But let's go home now and forget about it until we're all thinking more clearly.” It was obvious that Mrs. Tifton thought she was being generous.

  “No,” said Jeffrey.

  “No?” she said, her hands on her hips. “What do you mean, no?”

  “I want to talk now, before we go home.”

  “Don't push your luck, young man. I've been amazingly patient so far, considering what you've put me through.”

  Jeffrey looked over at Mr. Penderwick, who nodded encouragingly He took a deep breath and tried again. “Mother, I have something very important to tell you. I've tried to tell you before, but you've never listened. Please listen this time. Please.”

  “This is ridiculous. When don't I listen to you, Jeffrey?”

  “Just sit down and let me talk. Please.”

  “Brenda, honey” Dexter was no longer looking so sleepy. Perhaps he was worried about his own future. “You don't have to do this in front of these people.”

  Jane bristled. These people, indeed. Someday when she was famous and on television talk shows, she would tell the story of Dexter Dupree, Mr. Lines on the Road, and humiliate him in front of the world.

  “Just one minute and then I'll go home. I promise,” said Jeffrey.

  Mrs. Tifton looked from Dexter to Jeffrey, then sat down in her chair. “It's all right, Dexter. There's nothing Jeffrey can say that could embarrass me. If he has something so important to discuss, I'll listen for a minute. One minute, young man, that's all you have.”

  “I don't want to go to Pencey. Not next month, not next year, not ever.”

  Mrs. Tifton stood up. “We're not going over that again.”

  “Mother, you said you'd listen.” She sat down again. “I loved Grandpa. You know I did, and I still miss him. But I'm not him, and I'm not like him.”

  “Yes, you are, dear. This is silly. We've known ever since you were a baby—”

  “You've known, and Grandpa knew. But you never asked me what I thought.”

  “Why, you used to march around wearing that little military cap that Papa gave you for Christmas and call yourself General Jeffrey, and you looked so happy.”

  “I don't remember any of that.”

  “You were very young then. Two or three, I suppose.” She stopped, confused.

  Jeffrey moved closer to his mother. “Do you remember telling me about when Grandpa tried to teach you how to swim?”

  “Of course I do.” Mrs. Tifton shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

  “You were five years old and you were terrified of the water, but he insisted you learn, and you begged and begged, until Grandpa just picked you up and threw you into the deep—”

  Mrs. Tifton made a little sound at the back of her throat, and Jane saw tears sparkling in her eyes.

  Jeffrey paused, uncertain for a moment, then went on. “He threw you into the deep water and you thought you were going to drown and you cried out for help and he just kept shouting SWIM, SWIM, until finally Grandma ran over and pulled you out.”

  “I don't understand why you're talking about this now,” she said, definitely crying now. “I forgave Papa for that long ago. He was just doing what he thought was best for me.”

  “I know that. But, Mother—” He waited while she wiped her eyes. “You still don't know how to swim, do you?”

  “Oh, Jeffrey, I'm so—I'm so—” She looked wildly around the room. “Dexter! I need to go home! Take me home!”

  Dexter was immediately out of his chair, half supporting, half carrying Mrs. Tifton toward the door. Scared and bewildered, Jane tugged on her father's shirt. “Jeffrey didn't finish. Don't let them leave.”

  “But he made a very good beginning. Go to him.”

  Jane rushed over to Jeffrey, now all alone in the midd
le of the kitchen. “Oh, Jeffrey, Jeffrey, you were so fabulously brave.”

  White and stricken, he looked almost as though he didn't recognize her. “Brave?” he said, then flinched as the door slammed shut behind his mother and Dexter.

  “Son, you'd better go with them,” said Mr. Penderwick.

  “Not yet, Daddy,” said Jane.

  “Yes, Jane-o, it's best. For now, he must keep talking with his mother.”

  Jane tore over to the bottom of the stairs and shouted up at her startled sisters, “Quick, he's leaving!”

  Seconds later, everyone had dashed downstairs and Skye was pressing Jeffrey's backpack into his arms.

  “Are you all right?” she said.

  “I don't know.”

  “It's time, Jeffrey,” said Mr. Penderwick. “I'm proud of you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He threw the backpack over his shoulder and went out the door.

  “Jeffrey, we're going home tomorrow morning!” Skye cried after him.

  “He knows, sweetheart,” said Mr. Penderwick. “We've done all we can. It's between him and his mother now.”

  Now there was nothing left but to get ready to leave Arundel. They had to organize and pack and clean, all those melancholy end-of-vacation chores that take so much longer than they should. By the time all that was over, it had started to rain again, not the kind of good strong rain that pounds soothingly on the roof and windows, but an annoying drizzle that made everyone feel damp and restless. No one wanted to go out into it, but inside was too depressing with all the packed boxes waiting by the front door. Finally Mr. Penderwick—after much Latin that was probably about daughters and mopiness—came up with the idea of farewell gifts for Jeffrey. So Rosalind made her last batch of Arundel brownies, all for Jeffrey, with none set aside for Cagney Jane bound another copy of Sabrina Starr Rescues a Boy and wrote To Jeffrey, Love from the Author on the title page. After a long internal struggle, Batty decided to give back to Jeffrey the photograph of Hound, but as it was already his, it didn't really count, so she also got out her crayons and drew a picture of the bull. Luckily, she wasn't much of an artist, and Rosalind thought the picture was of Hound and even printed HOUND across the top in neat letters. That left only Skye, fretting and fuming to come up with a grand gesture. At last she had an inspiration. She emptied one of the packed boxes—by transferring Batty's stuffed animals to paper bags—cut it apart, and reconstructed it as a flat piece of cardboard. On this she painted a new Dexter target, larger than the old one and with an even smirkier face, and instead of plain D. D. across the bottom, D. D. D. D. for Dreadful Dopey Dexter Dupree. It was a truly impressive target, she thought, and would give Jeffrey an extra special reason to remember her.

  And all through that oh-so-long and dreary day, what about Jeffrey? The sisters took turns watching out the window for him, but he never came, and he never called. It made them sick with worry not to know what was happening. They couldn't simply knock on Mrs. Tifton's door and ask—those days were over—and they didn't dare telephone. Finally that evening, when no one could stand it anymore, they voted that Skye sneak over to the rope-ladder tree and climb up to see Jeffrey. But as they had feared, the rope ladder was gone, and though there was a light in Jeffrey's window, Skye returned to the cottage knowing as little as when she had left.

  “Were you even sure he was up there?” said Jane. “Did you see his shadow or hear the piano or anything at all?”

  “No,” said Skye. “Nothing.”

  “Dexter could have murdered him and stuffed him in the closet,” said Jane. “We'd never know.”

  “If Dexter hurts a hair on Jeffrey's head, I'll murder him.”

  “I'll help,” said Batty, boldly waving Funty in the air.

  “No one's murdering anyone.” Rosalind gave Skye and Jane the now-look-what-you've-done frown.

  “Sorry,” said Jane, twisting and tugging at her curls with frustration. “I just can't stand this waiting.”

  “We're going home first thing tomorrow,” said Skye. “What if Jeffrey hasn't come by then?”

  “He'll come,” said Rosalind. “He's got to.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Good-bye for Now

  BUT THE NEXT MORNING, the car was loaded and the cottage key slid under the mat, and the only person there to say good-bye was Harry, in a black HARRY'S TOMATOES shirt.

  “Black because I'm sorry you're leaving,” he said. “I'll miss the excitement.”

  “And you haven't heard any news about Jeffrey?” said Skye.

  “You mean since he ran away and his mother found him hiding with you?” Harry shook his head. “I really am going to miss the excitement.”

  “Harry, tell him we left presents on the front porch,” said Jane.

  “I'll do that.” Harry handed a large paper bag to Mr. Penderwick. “Tomatoes.”

  “Thanks, Harry. All right, girls, it's time. Pile in.”

  “A little longer, Daddy,” said Jane. “Maybe he'll still come.”

  “If he hasn't by now, I don't think he will. I'm sorry, honey, but we need to start on our way.”

  Skye and Jane stuffed Hound into the back with the suitcases and boxes, then everyone slid into their seats, taking the same spots they'd had arriving three weeks earlier. They looked as miserable as it's possible to look without crying, and probably some of them were.

  “I didn't say good-bye to Yaz and Carla,” said Batty. “They'll be disappointed.”

  “You can send them a postcard when we get home,” said Rosalind.

  “And Churchie. Let's send her one, too.”

  “Good idea.”

  “And Jeffrey?”

  “Oh!” said Jane. She was definitely one of the criers.

  “If we haven't heard from Jeffrey in a few days, I'll call and make sure I talk with Churchie, I promise,” said Mr. Penderwick. Harry was pulling away in his tomato truck. “Say good-bye to Harry.”

  “Good-bye, Harry! Thank you for the tomatoes!” The sisters waved out the car windows while Hound barked unhappily in the back.

  “Here we go.” Mr. Penderwick started the engine and headed down the driveway. Four heads turned to watch the yellow cottage disappear slowly into the trees.

  “Good-bye, white bedroom,” said Skye.

  “Good-bye, secret passage in the closet,” said Batty.

  “Good-bye, dearest Jeffrey and Churchie and summer and magic and adventure and all that's wonderful in life,” said Jane.

  Good-bye, Cagney's Fimbriata rosebush, thought Rosalind, and good-bye, Cagney She turned around and unfolded the map, a brand-new uneaten one. There was the route home, marked in red—she'd done that the night before—but the red line was oddly blurry. Annoyed, Rosalind dashed the tears out of her eyes. At the end of the driveway, we turn right onto Stafford Street, she told herself resolutely, then we go left on—

  “Whoops,” said Mr. Penderwick, stepping on the brakes.

  He'd left his glasses on the kitchen counter and had to run back for them. Which meant that Skye and Jane had the chance to check the tunnel for Jeffrey one last time—and in a flash, they were out of the car and racing off.

  Rosalind turned around and looked at Batty, very small and woebegone in the backseat.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Endings are sad, aren't they?”

  “Yes.” And way in the back, Hound whimpered in agreement.

  Rosalind was trying not to whimper herself. For now that it was too late, all of a sudden she knew she'd made a mistake. I'm an idiot, she thought. I'm only twelve years old—well, twelve and a half—and Cagney's much too grown-up to be my boyfriend, but he was my friend and I hid from him the last time he came to see me. And he didn't come to say good-bye today and if he remembers me at all, he'll remember me as this little jerk who fell into the pond and ruined his date and I'll never see him again ever, for the rest of my life. If only, if only—

  “Hey, Rosalind.”

&nbs
p; And there he was at her window, in his Red Sox cap, friendly and cheerful and just the same as always. Rosalind's “if onlys” floated away, and she was left with that now-familiar hit-by-a-truck feeling. And although it was a nice feeling this time, her heart was beating so quickly and her breath was so queerly shallow that she couldn't say anything but could only open the door and stumble out of the car. Cagney caught and steadied her before she fell down altogether.

  “Still having trouble with your head?” he asked.

  “No—yes—I mean—”

  “Let me see.”

  She pushed aside her hair and let him gravely inspect her bruise while she tried to calm her nerves.

  “Doesn't look like there'll be any permanent damage,” he said. “Unless you had a concussion and that's why you're babbling.”

  “I am not babbling.” She said it very slowly and precisely.

  “Good.” He looked into the car. “You've lost most of your family.”

  “Daddy's getting his glasses from the cottage and Skye and Jane are looking for Jeffrey. They'll all be back soon.”

  Now Rosalind noticed that Cagney was holding a pet carrier. Glad for an excuse to avoid his gaze, she bent down and peered in at two funny bundles of fur, squished side by side. “You brought the rabbits,” she said.

  “They're why I'm late,” said Cagney “First Carla hid behind the refrigerator and then Yaz wouldn't let me catch him for the longest time, but I thought Batty might like to see them again before she went home.”

  Rosalind's heart, whose beating had slowed down a bit, now swelled to twice its normal size with gratitude. She called into the car. “Batty, the bunnies are here to say good-bye!”

  “I brought you something, too.” Cagney reached behind him and picked up a large pot. “It's a Fimbriata rose. I figured you deserved one of your own, after helping me with mine.”

  “Oh, Cagney” Rosalind took the pot and buried her nose in a white bloom. A present. She didn't have a present for him. She should have given him some of those brownies after all. Would she ever understand boys, in her whole entire life? And what should she say now? Then, thank heavens, Batty was out of the car and throwing herself at the pet carrier, and Rosalind was able to figure out her next lines.