The Penderwicks in Spring

by Jeanne Birdsall

  It hadn’t occurred to her that the Ayvazians might have thought her sweet and kind. But now that they did, well. She went back to the pile of bikes and sleds, and this time tugged the little red wagon all the way out from under the pool. Yes, it was as she’d thought—just the right size for Duchess, and much lower to the ground than Lydia’s stroller. And it wasn’t in bad shape, just dusty and with several scrapes in the paint.

  Batty picked up the handle and pulled the wagon a few feet—the clatter of the wheels bringing back such memories. If only she could be sure that Hound wouldn’t mind.

  She had all day to think about it.

  That afternoon, Batty carried the red wagon up from the basement, scrubbed it until it shined, found an old blanket to make it a more comfortable ride, filled a bottle of water for Duchess, and dragged it down Gardam Street. Mrs. Ayvazian opened their front door with a big smile. Alongside her was Duchess, her tail wagging with pleasure.

  “She’s ready for you,” said Mrs. Ayvazian. “We told her you were coming, and she’s been sitting by the door waiting.”

  Mr. Ayvazian came up behind his wife. “And we told her it was time to make it outside on her own.”

  “You told her that, Harvey,” said Mrs. Ayvazian.

  “Humph.”

  Batty softly whistled and held out her hand. With a great heave and greater determination, Duchess rose up, made her way through the doorway and down the step—with only a minor amount of stomach-scraping—and over to Batty.

  “Well, here we go,” said Batty, picking up the leash.

  “Good-bye, good-bye,” said the Ayvazians.

  Like on the day before, they moved slowly, maybe even more slowly, since Batty wanted to conserve the dog’s energy, getting her as far up Gardam Street as possible before resorting to the wagon. She should also try getting to know Duchess a little better, since they were going to be spending time together. But how to begin? Conversation with Hound had always flowed so naturally.

  “I guess I could tell you about school today,” she said. “Ginevra turned in three more book reports and Ms. Rho just about fainted with happiness. Also, Vasudev finally remembered to turn in all of his, so now I’m the only one with no stars. I guess I really do need to write a book report one of these days.”

  Duchess had no reply, being too consumed with forward motion to think about book reports.

  “I passed the test on clouds, so that was good. Then, at recess, Melle and Abby demonstrated how to tango. Keiko wants to learn—just in case she ever gets a crush on a boy who can tango, though who that could possibly be I don’t know, certainly not Henry or Vasudev. Maybe Eric the sixth grader knows how to tango.”

  They’d now reached the Penderwicks’ house. Batty paused, in case Duchess needed a break, but the little dog forged on.

  “Tomorrow is Tuesday, which means Mrs. Grunfeld will be at school. I’m going to go in early to talk to her about singing lessons. Keiko says I should just ask Mrs. Grunfeld to teach me, but that seems awfully bold, so I think I’ll show her the twenty dollars I’ll get from Mr. Ayvazian and ask her if it’s enough. And then I hope she’ll say ‘Twenty dollars a week is just right, and I will be your singing teacher. No need for you to meet someone new who might make you belt.’ Then I’ll say ‘Thank—’ Oops, Duchess, are you all right?”

  The dog had stumbled, but not until they were well past the Penderwicks’ house and the next house, too. Batty gave her some water and sat down on the curb for a few moments of rest. A warm breeze was blowing, and in the sky, fluffy clouds—cumulus!—formed and re-formed into fantastic shapes, a celestial zoo of imaginary animals. Batty thought about songs that had animals in them. “Teddy Bears’ Picnic” was a good one.

  She started to sing, then stopped abruptly, almost certain that Duchess was trying to sing along with her. “What are you doing?”

  Duchess thumped her skinny tail.

  “All right, I’ll try again,” said Batty, and did. “Good grief, you are singing along!”

  It wasn’t exactly singing, more like a soft, happy whining, but Duchess was clearly proud of her attempt. Her brown eyes were bright, and her tail was now going like crazy. Batty pondered this new development. Hound had always been happy to listen when Batty sang, or talked, or whistled, or anything, but he hadn’t tried to chime in.

  Batty leaned over to talk face to pointy face. “Let’s try the key of C.”

  Duchess gave her an exuberant dog kiss, but Batty pulled away, unwilling to be too easily charmed, and began the labor of loading dog into wagon. It turned out to be much easier than with the stroller. With the wagon tipped just so, Duchess could roll on—then, with Batty leaning heavily on the opposite side, the wagon righted itself, now full of dog. It was a minor triumph for both girl and beast, which they celebrated with a few bars of “Run the World (Girls).”

  When they’d gone around the cul-de-sac and back down Gardam Street, they found Mr. Ayvazian outside, waiting for them.

  “She walked a little further today,” said Batty, tipping Duchess out of the wagon. “And she’s still alive.”

  “Of course she’s still alive,” he answered, and handed over a twenty-dollar bill. “We’ll see you tomorrow, then, won’t we, Duchess?”

  Duchess yapped cheerfully, and Batty set off home with the money she’d earned, her first solid step toward those all-important voice lessons.

  She was on her way to her bedroom—to stow the money in an envelope she’d already prepared, with PWTW written on it in large red letters—when a song exploded out of nowhere. It was that wretched sprite again, bursting out with Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5.” Batty dove through the nearest door, which happened to take her into Rosalind’s bedroom, fell onto the bed, and stuffed her face into the pillow.

  Batty was getting used to her sprite, and had decided that it looked Tinker Bell–ish, all sparkly and too pleased with itself. She’d gained little control over it, however. That day at recess, during a game of dodgeball, she’d just barely managed to stop herself from singing after hitting Henry with the ball. True, it was the first time in her life she’d handled a ball that well, but that was no excuse for trying to sing “We Are the Champions” in front of the entire fifth grade.

  “Stop, stop, stop!” she pleaded with the sprite, still working on “9 to 5.” “Humming is okay, but humming only, please. And a calmer song would be better.”

  The sprite cycled willfully through several more songs before settling on a Mozart sonata, calm enough to let Batty get off the bed and wander around Rosalind’s room while she hummed, though she just couldn’t help doing dance steps as she went.

  When Rosalind left for college, she’d bravely offered to give her room away to whoever needed it the most, but the family had voted to keep it as hers at least for the first year. Batty was glad they had, glad she could come here to visit. The matching striped bedspread and curtains, the tidy desk and bookshelf, the bulletin boards full of snapshots—all were redolent of Rosalind, as though she could appear at any moment. (Only nineteen more days!)

  One bulletin board had been taken down and put in a corner facing the wall. Batty turned it around to look, though she knew what she’d find. Here were photos of Tommy from over the years, starting long ago, when he was still just the goofy kid across the street. Here he was jumping into a kiddie pool with Skye, and here he was, so little he needed two hands to hold his football, and here, going down a sliding board, and here, in his costume for the sixth-grade play. As the photos went on in years, they slowly introduced romance. First Tommy was shoving Rosalind, then holding her hand, then putting his arm around her, then they were all dressed up and ready for prom.

  Batty turned the bulletin board back to the wall. At least Rosalind still had it. That gave Batty hope for their getting back together.

  Batty drifted over to look at the framed photo on the bedside table. It had held pride of place there for as long as Batty could remember, and had only been left behind because Rosalind had
taken a smaller version along with her to college, not wanting to subject the big one to the rough-and-tumble life of a college dorm. The photo showed Rosalind as a very tiny baby being held by her mother—Batty’s mother, too, that is. Rosalind looked like most babies, all fat cheeks and no hair, but their mother, how pretty she’d been, so young and happy.

  Here’s where Skye had gotten her blond hair and blue eyes, the only sister to have them. All Batty’s life, she’d heard about how much Skye looked like their mother. And it had been true. But as Skye grew older, it had gotten even more true, until the similarity—at least to this one photo—was startling. If Batty squinted a little, she could almost believe that she was seeing Skye holding a baby.

  “Of course, I have our mother’s name,” she told the sort-of-Skye in the photo.

  Because Batty was just a nickname. Her real name was Elizabeth Penderwick, just like her mother’s. Batty thought it an excellent name for a professional singer.

  BEN WAS IN HIS ROOM gluing rocks to his giant cardboard Minnesota. His mom had helped him mark where all the mountains would go, and these rocks were for the Mesabi Range. Ms. Lambert had said that they could just draw on their states, but it seemed to Ben an opportunity too good to miss for showing off some of his rocks. Plus, Rafael was using pieces of sponge on his to represent swamps, and was even trying to figure out how to keep the swamps wet without them falling right off Florida.

  In between gluing rocks, Ben looked out his window at the strange new car, Flashvan, that had arrived the night before. Jane and Skye thought it even more hideous than the photograph had shown, but Ben thought it stunning. Rafael said that when they became famous movie directors, they would ride around in driver-less cars, except when they were in their private helicopters. Until then, though, Ben was delighted with Flashvan.

  “Ben!” Batty was outside his door. “Time to walk to school.”

  Ben looked at his clock. They always left the house at exactly 8:20 a.m. and it was now 8:04 a.m. “No, it’s not.”

  “I need to be there early. Let’s go.”

  Ignoring her, Ben glued another rock to Minnesota. Never had homework seemed so much like play, though he had to admit he wasn’t as interested in the cities and lakes as he was in the mountains. The mountains in Minnesota had such great names, like Disappointment Mountain, Toad Mountain, Ghost Hill, and Pilot Knob.

  Batty shoved open his door, knocking over two hangers plus a pile of small rocks he’d added for extra security.

  “If we leave right now,” she said, “I’ll carry your backpack to school.”

  Here was a powerful incentive. “And you’ll carry it home, too? Even if I put in rocks I find at recess?”

  “Yes, well, up to three rocks, anyway, and not huge ones. Now hurry.”

  With Ben hurrying, Batty was able to get to school with a precious fifteen minutes to spare for talking to Mrs. Grunfeld. She sent him to Ms. Lambert, headed to the music room, and found Keiko waiting for her outside the door.

  “I thought you might need hand-holding,” she told Batty.

  Batty gratefully took Keiko’s hand. “I’m determined to go through with it. Musica anima mea est.”

  “Right,” said Keiko, and knocked on the door.

  Mrs. Grunfeld opened the music room door with a smile. “Batty, good morning! And—”

  “Keiko Trice,” said Keiko. “I’m just here for moral support.”

  “Mine?” asked Mrs. Grunfeld, surprised.

  “No, Batty’s. She’ll explain.”

  So Mrs. Grunfeld took Batty into the room. “Why do you need moral support?”

  “I’ve decided I want voice lessons after all.” Batty took the twenty-dollar bill from her pocket. “Here’s some money I’ve earned, and I’m going to be getting another twenty every week from now on.”

  “Good for you, coming up with both the resolve and the money! I’m proud of you.”

  “Thank you.” Batty waited for Mrs. Grunfeld to offer to be her teacher. Maybe twenty dollars wasn’t enough. “Do lessons cost more than this?”

  “That depends on the teacher you choose. I could put together a list of teachers for you, ones I’m familiar with. Would you like that?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Come see me on Friday, then, and I’ll have it ready for you.”

  Batty thanked her again and walked out, defeated.

  “What did she say?” asked Keiko.

  “That she’d put together a list of singing teachers for me.”

  “But what about her? Oh, Batty, you didn’t even ask, did you?” Keiko knocked on the door again and, when Mrs. Grunfeld opened it, took matters into her own hands. “Batty is too shy to tell you that she wants you to be her singing teacher.”

  “My goodness, that didn’t even occur to me.”

  Keiko pushed Batty back into the room and closed the door behind her.

  “I understand if it’s because I don’t have enough money,” Batty told Mrs. Grunfeld.

  “My dear, it’s not the money. I’m simply not a professional voice coach, just a generalist, at best. And, besides, as soon as school is over, I’m going on a tour of the great opera houses of Europe. I’ll see Così fan tutte at La Scala and Fidelio at the Vienna State Opera. Doesn’t that sound marvelous?”

  Batty felt herself folding up inside, like an accordion. “Yes, I guess so, but you wouldn’t let me belt like the people on television.” Tears were starting to come, though Batty fought them. “And another teacher might not like my voice.”

  “That last part is impossible.” Mrs. Grunfeld went into her desk and came back with a box of tissues. “Here, wipe your eyes and let me think.”

  Batty sat down on the piano bench to get out of the way. Mrs. Grunfeld’s thinking seemed to include doing little dance moves while softly humming. When Batty listened closely, she recognized “Plant a Radish” from The Fantasticks, which gave her hope, because she loved The Fantasticks.

  Mrs. Grunfeld got all the way to the part about planting beanstalks before stopping in front of Batty.

  “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.