Fleabrain Loves Franny

by Joanne Rocklin

  Nurse Olivegarten raced down the hall from the bathroom, where she’d been smoking a cigarette. She probably thought no one knew, but Franny sure did. Franny could smell that cigarette no matter how much lilac perfume and peppermint mouthwash Nurse Olivegarten used.

  “I told you to wait by the bathroom door,” said Nurse Olivegarten into Franny’s ear. She pulled her back into her wheelchair, squeezing Franny’s shoulders, hard.

  “What was that thump?” asked Franny’s mother, emerging from the kitchen, Alf bounding behind her. “Franny, are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine.” Franny quickly hid Die Verwandlung behind her back and then sat on it. Suddenly she realized who could translate it for her. “It’s a nice day,” she said. “Can’t we go out for a walk and meet Dad at the streetcar stop?”

  Her father had taken the streetcar downtown to work that day because the family car was in the shop. It was Professor Doctor Gutman’s stop, too, and he and her father sometimes strolled home together. Professor Doctor Gutman spoke English with what sounded to Franny like a German accent! On the walk back to Shady Avenue she could casually ask him about Die Verwandlung and find out why Kafka had all the answers. Or at least invite him for supper one evening to discuss the book further, after which she could discuss it with Fleabrain.

  “A walk! Impossible!” said Nurse Olivegarten, her mouth twisting into a fake smile, as if a joke had been made about Franny’s ability to walk. “We’ve done too much today. My shift is over, and I must start home.”

  “Franny, it’s almost dusk,” said her mother.

  “We can all go with Nurse Olivegarten. Then we can walk home with Dad!” said Franny. “Alf, too.”

  “I suppose Alf could use an airing,” said her mother. “I just don’t want you to get chilled and overtired.”

  “I’m feeling strong. Really, I am. Please, Mom,” Franny pleaded. “I’ll bundle up.”

  Her mother knelt down and took Franny’s hands in hers. “You haven’t truly wanted to go outside in a long time, darling.”

  Franny could hear the scratch of skates on sidewalks, and the shouts on Nicholson Street, where traffic thinned out and games were played. Dusk was always the best time for games—Red Rover and Kick the Can and catch—because kids knew their time outside was limited. That made the minutes (the seconds!) as precious as emeralds. But nobody was calling for Franny to come out. They used to call for Franny all the time.

  “I’m feeling strong,” Franny repeated.

  “All right,” said her mom, standing up. “Let’s go.”

  Alf scampered around Franny’s wheelchair, his toenails clattering on the hardwood floor. Suddenly he stopped to scratch vigorously behind his left ear.

  “I hope that’s not a flea he’s after,” said Nurse Olivegarten.

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s not,” Franny said.

  The Vista from Alf’s Left Ear

  Although he preferred the thick tangle and privacy of Alf’s tail hairs when he was awake and jumping, Fleabrain liked to snooze just behind his host’s left ear, where the hairs thinned out, silken and warm.

  And he always got very drowsy during Alf’s walks outdoors. That four-legged rhythm, pad-paddy-pad, pad-paddy-pad. The shifting, gorgeous kaleidoscope of color. The honks and shouts and whooshes and tweets becoming one long, humming note. A bug’s lullaby.

  But no, no! Mustn’t sleep, he admonished himself. He must keep his eyes open, his brain alert on this wonderful outdoor jaunt. Look and listen, but not like a bug. Focus the kaleidoscope, separate the sounds. Take it all in.

  He sensed Alf’s excitement rising. Instinct to instinct, he, Fleabrain, must calm him!

  “Streetcar’s coming! Smell it, flea? Hear the clanging bells?”

  “Pipe down, dog. You’ll cause some trouble.”

  “Can’t help it, flea! The dad’s coming home! Supper! Oh, joy!”

  “Get ahold of yourself, dog. I warn you, I’ll bite!”

  “OK, I’m heeling. I’m a good boy. I’m a good boy now!”

  Fleabrain pitied dumb Alf so.

  The dog responded only to basic threats or treats.

  Life would be unbearably boring if you couldn’t read or discuss books. Or discuss anything, for that matter.

  Of course “dumb” was a relative term, too, not to mention a cruel one, when referring to IQ.

  Franny would say that he, Fleabrain, was being critical and ungrateful to his host. She’d point out that her dog was “smart,” even though he could neither talk nor read.

  “Alf can shake hands!” she’d say. “Alf can roll over!”

  Such puny talents, in Fleabrain’s opinion. Roll over? For what purpose? A dog could roll over and roll over and roll over ad nauseam, but who benefited?

  The dog! The dog got a slice of liverwurst. The dog was beside himself with joy.

  The dog didn’t even know his life was boring.

  Yes, Fleabrain supposed he was jealous again. He couldn’t help it. He and Alf loved the same girl.

  But now … the red and white streetcar had arrived at the stop at the corner of Phillips and Murray, as had Franny, her mother, and Nurse Olivegarten.

  Focus the kaleidoscope, Fleabrain. Separate the sounds. Enjoy the ride.

  With a loud screech, the doors opened. There was the dad, descending the stairs. And there was that grouchy neighbor behind him, Gutman, Ph.D., M.D., E.R.U.D.I.T.E., or whatever the letters attached to his name were.

  OK, he was jealous again, Fleabrain admitted to himself. And his pride was hurt, as well. He himself could have translated that book for Franny, even though Kafka had written a ridiculous story, in his opinion. Answers, shmancers. What answers? A man turns into a bug? No matter how hard Fleabrain put his great mind to it, he just couldn’t figure out that book.

  How he hated ignorance, especially his own. How he loved an intellectual challenge, as much as he relished a blood feast! He was very excited to hear the professor’s views about that famous book.

  “Oh, joy! Oh, joy!”

  “Dog, calm yourself!”

  “Can’t help it, flea! WOOF!”

  Revenge, Then Disaster

  What happened next was all Nurse Olivegarten’s fault, and Fleabrain decided to take revenge.

  OK, it wasn’t entirely Nurse Olivegarten’s fault that Franny couldn’t say one word to the imposing Professor Doctor Gutman when they all met at the streetcar stop, let alone show him Die Verwandlung and ask him to translate.

  It was partly Alf’s fault, leaping up onto the shoulders of Franny’s father, knocking off his cap, which Professor Doctor Gutman bent down to retrieve. Then Professor Doctor Gutman straightened up again, and, perhaps slightly dizzy, perhaps because of the evening shadows, he didn’t notice Alf’s leash lying on the streetcar steps. That’s when he tripped and stumbled onto the sidewalk below.

  And Nurse Olivegarten really couldn’t be faulted when she acted like, well, a nurse, rushing forward to help him up, yakking his ear off about ice packs for swelling and hot-water bottles for pain, flapping her long eyelashes at him. Her parents had stood over the professor, too, apologizing over and over for their dog’s unruliness.

  And it wasn’t Nurse Olivegarten’s fault that Franny had an attack of shyness and couldn’t get in a single word. Professor Doctor Gutman looked so imposing in his herringbone jacket and his hat with the feather in its brim, even when he was lying flat out on the sidewalk. And then, when he stood up, brushed himself off, and scowled at everyone, it wasn’t Nurse Olivegarten’s fault that he’d rushed home ahead of them, or that Franny and her parents straggled far behind because it was such a steep climb along Phillips Avenue. Franny’s mother said that the professor seemed too unfriendly for an invitation to Friday-night supper. Although being yakked at by everyone while lying flat out on the sidewalk would make anyone unfriendly.

  All that wasn’t Nurse Olivegarten’s fault, but it was only Nurse Olivegarten who was bitten the next day—mercilessly.

  Fleabra
in’s revenge! He’d really been looking forward to the professor’s explanation of Die Verwandlung and relieved his frustration by punishing a human he detested.

  If Franny’s morning exercises hadn’t been so uncomfortable, she herself would have giggled like crazy, especially when she saw Nurse Olivegarten scratch her bottom.

  “There are fleas in this house,” said Nurse Olivegarten, now pausing to scratch her earlobe.

  “No one else is scratching,” Franny pointed out.

  Nurse Olivegarten pulled Franny’s leg, hard. “My skin is particularly sensitive. And I am attractive to insects.”

  Nurse Olivegarten declared that as if it were a compliment. Attractive, my foot, thought Franny.

  “Your dog has fleas, I tell you,” continued Nurse Olivegarten.

  “He does not!” Franny said. “He absolutely does not! How come nobody is scratching but you?”

  “I suppose some people are more sensitive than others,” said her mother.

  “They say it’s a certain scent emitted by a person’s skin, attracting the vermin,” said Nurse Olivegarten.

  “Or it could be a person’s imagination,” said Franny.

  Nurse Olivegarten held out her arm. It was peppered with small red dots. “This is not my imagination, young lady,” she said.

  “Oh, dear,” said Franny’s mother. “I’ll have to buy some Be-Gone-with-Them.”

  “No!” cried Franny, sitting up. “No, no, no! Alf does not need flea powder!”

  To Franny’s horror, despite her pleas, Be-Gone-with-Them Flea Powder was applied all over Alf that afternoon. He smelled like rotting lilies, which made the entire household cough, and Alf was banished to the basement for several nights.

  Fleabrain’s revenge had, unfortunately, backfired.

  Last Words

  Fleabrain knew death was approaching.

  Oh, the perils of great intelligence! If he hadn’t been lost in deep thought, he could have leaped off Alf in time to escape his poisonous fate.

  Now he could hardly breathe, much less leap. He heard faraway high-pitched voices singing an eerie chorus.

  Poor Fleabrain. Poor, poor Fleabrain.

  Darkness had quickly descended. He could no longer tell one of Alf’s hairs from another. It was black as night, black as tar, black as coal. Even his ability to create decent similes had deteriorated.

  How foolish of him to attack Nurse Olivegarten. Foolish, foolish, foolish! High intelligence, he was learning, did not necessarily imply common sense.

  He was so tired. So cold. So, so sad.

  “Oh,” Fleabrain murmured. “Woe is me.”

  Woe is me? Were those clichéd words to be his last?

  How awfully banal, compared to “It is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known,” penned by the English writer Charles Dickens—born February 7, 1812, died June 9, 1870—in his novel A Tale of Two Cities.

  Or “parting is such sweet sorrow,” penned by William Shakespeare in his masterpiece Romeo and Juliet, Act 2, Scene 2.

  Or the brave words spoken by our valiant first president, George Washington—born February 22, 1732, died December 14, 1799—on his deathbed! “It is well, I die hard, but I am not afraid to go!”

  Fleabrain wasn’t confident he was going to a better rest—not at all. Also, there was nothing sweet about the parting effects of Be-Gone-with-Them, except that putrid smell. And, unlike George Washington, Fleabrain was afraid to go. Very afraid.

  “Mama,” he whispered.

  “WOOF!” barked the overwhelmingly sweet-smelling Alf, doing his best to offer comfort.

  That dog—his host, after all—wasn’t so bad. His former host, that is. The guest was dying.

  Oh, the shadows, the odor, the cold, cold air he couldn’t seem to breathe! And that gobbledygook, which he knew was the singing of cells, atoms, nuclei, bosons, and more, taunting him in his misery. The smallest of the small, yet infinitely more powerful than he, Fleabrain, who would soon be gone forever.

  Poor Fleabrain.

  And then … Nothing.

  Nothing, Then Something

  Her parents took turns staying home from the shoe store to be with Franny.

  But each day was essentially the same.

  And each day, Franny feared the very worst for Fleabrain.

  Exercises with Nurse Olivegarten, rest, meals, look out the window, read a chapter, homework, listen to the radio.

  Rest.

  Hope.

  Peek inside the journal. Find nothing.

  Exercises with Nurse Olivegarten, rest, meals, look out the window, read a chapter, homework, listen to the radio.

  Rest.

  Hope.

  Peek inside the journal. Nothing.

  Fleabrain was dead, just as they were beginning their friendship. It was all so hard to bear. Franny cried into her pillow every night.

  Hope, hope.

  But one day, at last!

  Something.

  One small word in her journal, discovered on a gray, lonely Sunday afternoon with intermittent thundershowers.

  Was

  The ink was pale, like a mushroom on the lawn after a rain.

  Franny found herself smiling into her tomato soup at supper, so grateful that Fleabrain was still alive. At least, she hoped he was. Her smile pleased her family very much.

  “Isn’t the soup good, Franny?” Min said. “I helped peel off the tomato skins.”

  “Yes. My favorite,” Franny said.

  “Oh, honey, I’m glad you’re feeling more like yourself again,” said her mother.

  Of course, those remarks would have disturbed Franny on any other day. Saint Min! Saint Min, who helped peel the tomato skins, which Franny had declined to do, peevishly, that morning.

  And Franny would never, ever be “herself” again. Her real, truest, actual self, of course, was a pedestrian.

  But.

  That beautiful little word. Was. One word helped so much!

  The next morning when she checked, another word had arrived in her journal.

  mich

  The ink was a bit darker, like strong tea with a drop of milk. But mich? Mich?

  What did it mean?

  Could it be in German, again, like Die Verwandlung?

  The next morning she discovered a nearly rhyming word,

  nicht

  and that same afternoon, a word that didn’t rhyme at all.

  umbringt

  Both words were written in a glossy red.

  Blood red.

  The hue was upsetting to Franny because of her dawning understanding of the source of Fleabrain’s “ink” and the implications for her dear Alf’s comfort. Now she understood why Fleabrain’s first note to her had tasted familiar when she’d impulsively eaten it. Of course, deep down, she’d probably known that blood was Fleabrain’s ink of choice. His only choice, really.

  On the other hand, the red was so cheerful. A ripe-strawberry red, a Santa Claus snowsuit red, a chirping cardinal red! And that could only mean one thing.

  Hurrah!

  Fleabrain was in top form, his appetite returned in full, though communicating (apparently) in German.

  Dear Fleabrain,

  I am so glad to hear from you! Get well soon.

  Just so you know, I do not speak German. Or French, for that matter. But maybe someday I will.

  Your friend,

  Franny

  Sparky’s Finest

  Mrs. Penelope Nelson was Franny’s favorite teacher so far.

  She was also a historic first, because she was the first black teacher Franny’s school had ever hired. Principal Woolcott had told all the students that Creswell School was “very progressive and open-minded,” and they should be proud.

  Mrs. Nelson was Franny’s favorite teacher, but it wasn’t because she was a historic first. It was because Mrs. Nelson knew all the words to every single popular radio tune and often burst into song, just like that. And also because she traveled around the world
with her anthropologist husband every summer and had stories to tell of her adventures—for instance, camel-riding in a desert sandstorm. And because she said, “Call me Penny!” to all of the Katzenbacks when she came to their home.

  “Of course, you’ll have to call me Mrs. Nelson, as soon as you get back to school,” she said with a smile and a wink at Franny.

  Mrs. Nelson was a newlywed, another reason Franny liked her so much. She enveloped everyone near her in an aura of joyous optimism, as well as the scent of English Lavender by Yardley.

  Mrs. Nelson came to the Katzenback home every Monday afternoon for two whole hours. She explained everything clearly, corrected every piece of homework, and made Franny feel as if she weren’t missing anything at all, academically, at least.

  “You will be right in the swing of things when you return to fifth grade, as if you haven’t been gone one day.”

  Franny asked Mrs. Nelson if she knew how to translate German, since she’d done so much traveling.

  “German? Nope. Not one word of it,” said Mrs. Nelson. “Spanish, yes. And a bit of Tupi, believe it or not, because hubby and I will be traveling to the Brazilian rain forest this summer. Why do you ask?”

  “I’ve been looking at some of my parents’ old books,” said Franny.

  Mrs. Nelson let out a long whistle. “Whoo-ee! I’m impressed! But maybe you’re a little too young for those books?”

  “I read lots of books for my own age, too,” Franny assured her.

  “Well, I say this calls for a Nat King Cole song,” said Mrs. Nelson.

  “And then someday they may recall

  We were not too young at a-a-ll!”

  Still, it was a long week from Monday to Monday.

  Most afternoons, Franny sat on her porch, waiting for the Pack to stroll by from wherever they’d been having fun, before they went home for supper and homework.

  “Hi, Franny! See you, Franny! We miss you, Franny!” they’d call.

  One day they were carrying sacks and peering at the ground, looking for discarded bottle caps before the winter snows came. The Pack shared a large bottle-cap collection, which they planned to donate to a museum at some point, or maybe even sell for cash. They kept it in the basement of Teresa’s house, spread out on the concrete floor. It was most likely the largest collection of its kind, they figured, as they’d been collecting bottle caps for seventeen months. Seymour had actually been collecting on his own for two years, until Franny had once pointed out that a large joint collection made much more sense.