The Penderwicks at Point Mouette

by Jeanne Birdsall

  “Ta-da! Prepare to see the miracle I’ve wrought,” she said jubilantly, then over her shoulder added, “Stop groaning, Jeffrey, and leave your hair alone.”

  He sidled through the doorway, wearing black jeans and a white shirt, with his hair slicked back—all the usual sticking-up parts were flat. “She’s brutal with a hairbrush.”

  “And it was worth it,” said Aunt Claire. “You look elegant. Doesn’t he, Skye?”

  Skye was too busy laughing at the expression on his face to answer, but Mercedes thought Jeffrey so glorious she would have thrown herself at his feet if Jane hadn’t popped out of Batty’s room just in time.

  “Wait till you see Batty,” she cried.

  A shyly radiant Batty now appeared. Jane had put her into one of Skye’s skinny black T-shirts, tied at the waist with a mysterious white braided band that on later inspection turned out to be shoelaces swiped from various sneakers. The result wasn’t exactly a black concert gown, but Skye found that if she squinted, it wasn’t far off, especially if she could ignore Batty’s flip-flops.

  “You look beautiful,” said Mercedes. “Oh, Batty!”

  “And elegant,” said Jeffrey. “Doesn’t she look elegant, Skye?”

  Skye squinted again, this time at Batty’s face, so earnest and happy, so certain of her own magnificence. “Yes, I think she actually looks elegant. I’m impressed.”

  “So, are we all ready to go?” asked Aunt Claire. “Jeffrey, you’re sure about this?”

  “No,” he said.

  “I can tell Alec you’ve changed your mind.”

  He shook his head, and Skye was greatly relieved.

  “Everything’s fine, and I’m ready to go.” He bent his arm for Batty, who took it as gracefully as if she’d been trained from birth. And they led the way.

  The procession was slow because of Aunt Claire’s crutches, and they took the long route, by road, not beach. This got them to Alec’s front door, which they so rarely used that there was a lot of being clumped up and confused, and trying to figure out whether they should knock, until Hoover heard them from the inside and made such a racket that knocking would have been ridiculous, and Alec opened the door to let them in. All this was strange and uncomfortable, and if it hadn’t been for Hound and Hoover, who were thrilled to be together after several days apart and had so much to discuss, so many smells to share, and so much wrestling to do, more than one of the people might have fled altogether. But by the time the dogs had calmed down, everybody had managed to make their way into the house.

  Jane whispered to Skye, “How did we ever miss it?”

  Skye knew exactly what she meant. Tonight the resemblance between father and son was stronger than ever. They had the same dark circles of sleeplessness under their eyes, and their jaws were set into identical lines of stubborn loneliness and pride. Jeffrey pretended to ignore Alec, and Alec pretended not to notice he was being ignored.

  Now Alec cleared his throat and made nervous host–like motions with his hands.

  “I don’t know if anyone would like dessert first,” he said. “There’s blueberry pie.”

  Jeffrey signaled no to Aunt Claire with a quick thumbs-down.

  “No, thank you, Alec,” she said, a diplomatic go-between. “I believe we’ll begin with the music.”

  Alec had the room nicely prepared for the concert, with a vase of fresh flowers on the piano, lit candles here and there, and a group of chairs arranged in such a way as to keep a respectful distance between performers and audience. Aunt Claire was settled into the comfiest chair. Jane, Skye, and Mercedes sat in a row beside her, the dogs piled on top of each other under the piano, and Alec stood off by himself in a dark corner.

  Now it was time for Batty’s great moment. Jeffrey helped her onto the piano bench, where she sat to one side, her legs dangling, too short to reach the floor. He murmured to her, she nodded, and then he faced the portion of the audience that didn’t include Alec. His hair was already escaping the bonds of Aunt Claire’s handiwork—and Skye noticed Alec unconsciously smoothing down his own unruly hair.

  Jeffrey began. “Tonight’s concert will open with Miss Batty Penderwick—”

  “No, no,” interrupted Batty.

  “My apologies,” he said. “The concert will open with Miss Elizabeth Penderwick on the piano, accompanied by yours truly. Ladies and gentlemen, ‘Summertime,’ by George Gershwin.”

  As he sat on the bench next to Batty, Skye stealthily pulled the cotton balls out of her pocket but delayed stuffing them into her ears. Since it was just possible that what she was about to hear wouldn’t be horrible, she’d give Batty thirty seconds before blocking it out. Getting ready to count the seconds, Skye watched as Jeffrey softly beat out the time for Batty—and the music began.

  And it was beautiful. Batty carried the melody up where a voice would sing—her small hands confident on the piano keys—with a natural sense of this poignant hymn to sweet drowsy summers, past and present. Jeffrey supported Batty without overwhelming her, adding Gershwin’s rich harmony. He did it brilliantly, so that Batty owned the music—and it was clear that she knew it, despite her goofy outfit, despite her age, despite the fact that Penderwicks just don’t make music.

  Skye wasn’t surprised to see that Aunt Claire was crying. She felt like it herself without knowing why and concentrated on getting the cotton balls back into her pocket. Jane wasn’t bothered with staying cool—her whole self was quivering with the music—while Mercedes cried along with Aunt Claire and hugged herself with delight.

  Then the spell was broken. Jeffrey had abruptly stopped playing, startling Batty, whose hands dropped off the keyboard. He put his arm around her to soothe her, whispering until she nodded.

  “All right?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She swiveled toward the corner where Alec was hiding. “Please, would you like to join us on your saxophone?”

  The audience all knew what this meant and watched like hawks as Alec silently came out of the shadows, took up his saxophone, and looked to the boy at the piano for direction. Once again Jeffrey beat out the time, the audience relaxed, and the music started again. What had been lovely before was now luscious and heartbreaking. To Skye, it seemed that Batty and Jeffrey played even better than before, while Alec’s saxophone roamed, impassioned, between her melody and his harmony, breaking into wild runs that made everyone shiver.

  And again Jeffrey stopped playing. His hands hung limp, and he tried to whisper to Batty, but instead he sank forward until his head fell onto the keys with a discordant crash. With that crash, and the horrible wrenching sobs that followed, Skye and Jane were on their feet, Jane to scoop up a bewildered Batty and Skye to catch the saxophone that Alec threw aside in his haste to get to his son. In two strides, he reached him, pulling Jeffrey up and hugging him, hugging him, hugging so fiercely that he would never let go. It took a long time, but at last Jeffrey’s sobs slowed down, and the two started to talk.

  “I haven’t forgiven you. Don’t you dare think it’s suddenly all better.” This was Jeffrey, showing no signs of wanting the hugging to stop.

  “No, I won’t, I promise,” said Alec, hugging and hugging.

  “And I might never forgive you. I don’t know if I even like you.”

  “I don’t like me much right now, either,” said Alec. “See, we have something in common besides the music.”

  “And don’t be funny and nice. It just makes everything harder.” Jeffrey started crying again, just to prove his words.

  Thus ended Batty’s first-ever concert, in midsong, with tears, happiness, and laughter. It was made up to her later, but not until all the crying stopped, and then everyone had to eat the entire blueberry pie and drink lots of milk—because crying can make people so hungry—while Aunt Claire called Turron to give him the good news. After that, Batty, Jeffrey, and Alec played “Summertime” once more, all the way through and without interruption. But this time they left out the drowsiness, turning the song into a lilting celebra
tion of all the good summers to come, all the fun that would be had, and all the music that would be made.

  Batty still got to finish off with a solo on her harmonica. She dedicated it to Mercedes, for her loyal friendship, which made Mercedes blush and cry all over again, and then Batty played “Taps” with soul and feeling—one final good-bye to Maine—and she did it so well that even Skye couldn’t complain.

  Much later, after Aunt Claire and Jane had taken the little girls away, Skye lingered on the beach, waiting for Jeffrey. He was still inside with Alec—they’d been talking for almost an hour now, but Skye didn’t mind. She had the stars to watch, and black holes to dream about, and freedom to revel in. Freedom! No more secrets. No more worries. She hadn’t ruined Jeffrey’s life after all, or let Jane ruin hers, and though it turned out Batty really did have musical talent, Skye figured she could live with that, as long as the piano was far enough from her bedroom that she wouldn’t have to listen to the practicing.

  She picked up a shell and danced with it under the stars but quickly came to her senses and threw the shell into the ocean. After that, she was careful just to walk, up and down, sedately even, until Jeffrey finally joined her. He was smiling like he’d never stop.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “Mostly we talked about music.”

  “Jeffrey!”

  “And his family. My family.” He shook his head with happy disbelief. “My cousins are musicians, too. There’s one my age, a girl who plays the cello.”

  Skye’s head snapped around. “She doesn’t play soccer, does she?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “No reason.” She kicked off her shoes and waded into the cold water. She hadn’t gotten so far as wondering about cousins and how much Jeffrey might end up liking them.

  Jeffrey was shedding his shoes and socks, too. “Alec says he doesn’t know how he’ll ever thank you and Jane enough for figuring it all out—that we look alike. We do look alike, don’t we, Skye?”

  “What?”

  “Alec and I, don’t we look alike?” He waded into the water after her.

  “Yes, you do look alike. Where do your cousins live?”

  “I forget. The Midwest, maybe?”

  “That’s pretty far away,” she said, cheerful again.

  “I guess so. And Alec said that he and I will come back here together next summer. And I said that I wasn’t sure if my mother—you know. But he said he’d take care of all that.” He stopped, and Skye heard him catch his breath. “Is this all real, Skye? And true?”

  “True and real.” She punched his arm for the last time that summer. “As real as that.”

  “Good.” He grinned wickedly, the way Skye liked it the best, and punched her back. “Alec also said that you have to come back next summer, too, but with the whole family this time. Half of you can stay in Birches and the other half at his house—there’s plenty of room there.”

  “Great. We can do it all over again.”

  “I know.”

  “But with Rosalind, thank heavens,” said Skye.

  “Of course, except, Skye, you know you were a great OAP.”

  “But with Rosalind!” she repeated forcefully.

  Jeffrey laughed. “With Rosalind.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  And Back Again

  THE FIRST TO RETURN HOME was Rosalind, who immediately ran across the street to see Tommy. Who in turn was so overwhelmed to see her that he managed only two sandwiches for his afternoon snack, causing his mother to ask if he wasn’t feeling well. When Rosalind was satisfied that Tommy not only felt fine but was still her very own, she was ready to go back across the street, take her luggage inside, and reacquaint herself with home.

  At first the house shunned her, pretending to be an unfamiliar place—either too small or too big, and with the colors not at all what she remembered—but once she reached the kitchen with its big family table and Ben’s high chair in the corner, all was once again as if she’d never left. She’d hoped to find Asimov the cat there, on his favorite sunny windowsill, but not only wasn’t he in the kitchen, he wasn’t anywhere else Rosalind looked for the next fifteen minutes. Finally she discovered him hiding under the couch, full of indignation about being left behind while everyone else went on vacations. It took her another five minutes to partially coax and partially drag him out into the open, after which he crashed onto his side in a pretend heart attack brought on by neglect and starvation.

  “You’ve gained at least two pounds, Asimov,” she said, picking him up. “So you weren’t starved. And Tommy told me he was over here every day watching baseball games with you, so you weren’t neglected either.”

  Asimov’s answer was to droop heavily in her arms looking, if no longer dead, at least pathetic, and he kept it up until Rosalind hauled him back into the kitchen and opened a new can of tuna. After two bites he forgave her, and after another three he forgot all about being left behind, though he did forever hold on to his newfound interest in the Red Sox.

  Rosalind checked the time—three o’clock. While Daddy, Iantha, and Ben wouldn’t be home until that evening, the Maine contingent should be arriving soon. She took her luggage up to her room and dug around in it for the stuffed animal she’d bought for Batty in Ocean City, a squishy red lobster with huge eyes. She had a squishy toy crab for Ben, too, a stingray-shaped chew toy for Hound, and a miniature toy octopus for Asimov. She carried the lobster, stingray, and octopus back downstairs and tried to present the octopus to Asimov, but he leaped instead at the lobster.

  “Bad cat,” she said, holding the lobster high and kicking the octopus around, hoping its movement would catch Asimov’s interest. When at last he deigned to poke at it dispiritedly, Rosalind went outside to sit on the front steps and await the travelers from Maine.

  She’d missed them very much. She’d expected to miss Batty and so had been ready for that emptiness, but she hadn’t expected to miss Skye and Jane as much as she had. She also, however, hadn’t thought she’d enjoy being without all of them, even Batty, despite the missing. She’d tried not to feel guilty about it—Anna had said that for once she was being normal—and by now had forgiven herself. Because what she felt right this minute, sitting on the front step and waiting, was what mattered. She let herself be swept up in it, a grand and uproarious happiness that they would all soon be together again.

  And then there was the curiosity. It hadn’t escaped Rosalind that she’d never once in the entire two weeks talked to Skye. She’d talked to everyone else, including Jeffrey, including even a man named Turron, though she never quite figured out who he was. But Skye, no. The lack of Skye had been so apparent that after a while Rosalind asked Aunt Claire if she was still with them in Maine, and Aunt Claire laughed and said yes. There were other mysteries, too—events hinted at, people mentioned, then dropped. Like Dominic. Who was Dominic?

  Commotion was breaking out behind Rosalind. Bored with the octopus, Asimov was meowing at her from inside the door, and when she resolutely ignored him, he launched himself at the screen and hung there, stuck and yowling. Sighing, she went back inside and took him to the kitchen for another look at his octopus, which she prayed he would finally take to. This time she got down on the floor and wiggled the octopus enticingly and made what she hoped were octopus noises. It was in the middle of one of the squishiest of these noises that Rosalind heard a car pull into the driveway, its horn blaring—they were home!

  She tossed aside the octopus, raced outside, and hurled herself at Aunt Claire’s car, shouting “Hello” and being shouted back at by Skye, who sprang from the car almost before it stopped.

  “Your hair!” Rosalind cried to Skye, and when Jane leaped out, too, she said it again. “Your hair! Why did you cut your hair?”

  “It’s a long story,” said Skye.

  But Rosalind was now diving into the backseat, ready to bestow her lobster and her love and longing, but found it frighteningly empty of children and dogs.

 
“Where’s Batty? Where’s Hound? What’s happened to them?”

  “They’ll be along in a minute with Jeffrey,” said Aunt Claire, smiling in the front seat.

  “But who’s driving them?”

  “Alec,” said Skye. “He’s a long story, too. Hold on. We have to get Aunt Claire out of the car.”

  Rosalind was reeling. Both her sisters seemed taller and so independent with their cropped hair. Had time moved more slowly in New Jersey? Had she been asleep for a year under the boardwalk? And why did Aunt Claire need help getting out of the car?

  Jane got a pair of crutches out of the backseat, and Skye pulled Aunt Claire out of the front seat, and now Aunt Claire was on her crutches and reaching for a hug from her oldest niece.

  “How beautiful you look, Rosalind,” she said. “We all certainly missed you.”

  “But you said on the phone that it was a minor strain!” Rosalind refused to be distracted by compliments. “Are you all right? Why didn’t you tell me how bad it was?”

  “Skye didn’t want you to worry,” answered Aunt Claire. “None of us did. We were fine.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “A shorter story. Hoover the dog did it,” said Jane.

  “Hoover?” asked Rosalind, then clutched at her hair. “Oh, I remember now. Batty kept talking about Hoover and how bad he is. I thought she was exaggerating.”

  “He’s bad, all right,” laughed Skye, “as you’re about to find out.”

  Another car was pulling into the driveway, with more honking. Rosalind got a confused impression of the occupants of the front seat—besides Jeffrey, a man she’d never seen before and a blur of black-and-white dog with a squashed-in face—before she plunged into the backseat and found it delightfully and comfortably occupied by her most beloved youngest sister—another haircut!—who was unhooking her seatbelt as fast as she could and crying, “Rosalind, Rosalind,” until the two of them, plus the red lobster, plus the dogs, all tumbled out of the car, with hugs and dog kisses and much loud homecoming exuberance, the loudest of which was Batty’s insistence on playing her harmonica.