"You're lucky to be alive," Michael said, looking pale.
"And I hope you took a shower last night before you went to bed," Dad said, in what seemed, even for him, a monumental non-sequitur.
"Dad, I was bone tired and already soaking wet," I said. "What does it matter if I took a shower or not?"
"Meg, these are poison ivy vines!" Dad exclaimed.
"Oh, no," Michael and I said in unison. "Don't worry, Michael," Dad said, shooing us back up the ladder, "If you take a long, hot shower with plenty of soap, you should have no trouble. Washes off the sap that causes the irritation."
"I can't possibly have poison ivy," I wailed. "I have to be in a wedding in two days."
"Just as soon as the sheriff has finished looking at this, I'm going to hack down all of the poison ivy," Dad announced. "Of course the children shouldn't be down here, but you can't always keep them from wandering. And Michael, you'd better wash that dog of yours. He could be carrying the sap on his fur."
With that, he trotted off to shower.
"Oh, great," Michael said. "Do you have any idea how thrilled Spike is going to be when I try to wash him?"
"Probably about as thrilled as he was to be tied up on that ledge. If we want to find out who set that trap, I think we should keep our eyes open for anyone with fresh Spike bites."
"I guess that makes me a suspect," Michael said. "I'm always covered with fresh Spike bites."
"And poison ivy," I said. "Don't forget the poison ivy."
With these comforting thoughts, we both headed off for the showers. To no avail, at least in my case. By evening, I was starting to break out in blisters all over my arms and shins. The sheriff, wisely, inspected the booby trap from afar. When Dad showed up around dinnertime, I asked him to prescribe something for the itching.
"I have some interesting new ideas for treating poison ivy with natural herbs," he announced with great satisfaction. "Don't put anything on the left arm; we'll use that as a control and divide the right one up into patches so we can see which course of treatment works best."
"Nothing doing," I said. "I want heavy-duty chemicals, and I want them now. Give me a shot of whatever it was you gave Rob when he had hives."
"Benadryl," he said. "But really, Meg, that isn't necessary."
"If you won't give me something I'll find someone who will."
"Now, Meg," Dad began.
"Mother, explain it to him," I said. "If I don't have something to stop this itching, not only will I be too nasty and evil-tempered to live with but I will probably become very distracted and screw up some of the last-minute arrangements for one of the weddings."
"She does have a lot on her hands," Mother said.
"Several hundred blisters," Mrs. Fenniman said, giggling.
I shot her an evil look.
"I'm sure someone else will come down with a case soon," Mother said, soothingly. "There will be so many extra people around for the weddings, and so many of them will be from the city and will have no idea what poison ivy looks like."
Dad brightened visibly, and reluctantly agreed to prescribe some conventional medicine for me.
"Is it likely to spread?" Samantha asked, being careful to stay at least ten feet away from me, and upwind. Just my luck to have her drop by tonight; now I was sure she was calculating whether I was going to be presentable enough for her wedding.
"It will probably be all over my entire body by tomorrow," I said. "I'll look like a leper."
"Don't be silly," Mother said. "It can't possibly spread much more by tomorrow. Luckily it's a long dress," she said, glancing at my lotion-smeared legs.
"And no one will be able to see all the blisters on your arms once you have those elbow-length gloves on," added Michael, who had stopped by on his way back from Spike's walk and was showing, in my opinion, just barely enough sympathy, considering how narrowly he had escaped sharing my affliction. He was lounging against the porch rail, cool and blister free, while Spike sniffed around the flower beds.
"Oh, that's a great comfort," I said. "And I suppose--ahhhh!" I jumped back as Spike suddenly lunged toward me. To my surprise, however, instead of taking a bite out of me, Spike began licking my shins, tail wagging in delight.
"Isn't he cute?" Mother said. "He wants his aunt Meg to know how much he appreciates her saving him, doesn't he?"
"He probably just likes the smell of the ointment," I said, trying to push Spike away. "Maybe it's got bacon grease in it or something."
"I've never, ever seen him do that before," Michael said, as he tried to restrain the now-affectionate Spike.