Fleabrain Loves Franny

by Joanne Rocklin

  “Nurse Olivegarten! I moved my toe!” Franny yelled, louder now.

  The water was hardly warm anymore. Her fingers were wrinkly. Franny grasped one side of the big white tub and pulled herself to a sitting position. She stared at her left toe and tried to wiggle it. She tried again, glaring angrily, willing her puppet-toe to move. It didn’t budge. That’s when she felt the muscle spasm, like a blow to her thigh. She gasped and fell back into the water.

  “Nurse Olivegarten! Please!”

  The pain, the pain! It was a howling monster swimming up from the Allegheny River and rising from the drain. Franny breathed deeply, just as she’d been told to do during a spasm, great gulps of air that didn’t help at all. She tried to sit up, but the angry pain pinned her down. Purple and pink tiles shimmied on the wall. She heard the gurgle of bathwater in her ears and, from far away, the river-monster screaming and screaming.

  Nurse Olivegarten burst into the bathroom. “What’s all the yelling in here?”

  “I have a cramp. Can’t move,” Franny whispered between sobs.

  Nurse Olivegarten pulled her from the tub, wrapped Franny in a big pink towel, and laid her on the bathroom floor.

  “Where’s the cramp? Where? Stop crying like a baby, for goodness’ sake!”

  “Thigh,” said Franny, pointing. “Here.”

  Bending down, Nurse Olivegarten pressed hard on Franny’s thigh and massaged the spot for several minutes. “Better?”

  “A bit,” said Franny. Her chest was heaving, and the sobs kept coming.

  “I was gone for only a few seconds! How did it happen?”

  “I moved my big toe. It was like a miracle. I was trying to make it move again. And then I got the cramp. I called and called you.”

  Nurse Olivegarten loomed above her, suddenly grinning. “Well, now,” she said. “Of course. But it was no miracle, young lady! Didn’t I tell you my treatment would work, if you’d just be patient and stop fussing all the time? Didn’t I?”

  “Yes,” Franny whispered. She wanted to get off the cold floor.

  “Now,” Nurse Olivegarten said. “Do we have to go potty?”

  “No,” Franny said, looking away in embarrassment.

  “You sure? I didn’t like the looks of your bowel movement this morning.”

  “I’m sure. But will it happen again?”

  “The cramp? I have no idea.”

  “No, the toe. I moved it.”

  “Oh, the toe!” said Nurse Olivegarten, making Franny sit up and rubbing her hair with the towel. “You bet! More than the toe. But remember, it’s only a toe, eh? You have a long, long way to go. It will take a fair amount of time, but I’ll get you skipping around downtown Pittsburgh eventually.”

  Nurse Olivegarten carried Franny to her bedroom and dressed her in her pajamas.

  “You were gone for more than a few seconds, you know,” said Franny. “I might have drowned.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic! Completely your imagination. I stepped out and came right back.”

  “Was moving my toe my imagination, too?” Franny began to cry again.

  “Well, let’s see,” said Nurse Olivegarten. “Which toe was it? Your left?” She reached over and jerked Franny’s toe hard, moving it up and down. “Now you do it. Go ahead. Do it!”

  And Franny did. Not only her toe, but her entire left foot. She began laughing and crying at the same time.

  Nurse Olivegarten leaned very close. She smelled of perspiration, cologne, and cigarettes. “You should be moving more than some toes. You are just not working hard enough, fighting me all the way. Although it’s my professional duty to get you well, it is exasperating to work with you. Don’t you want to walk again?”

  What a dumb, dumb question! Franny closed her eyes and wished with all her heart she could jump out of bed and waltz around the room. She would be singing “A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes,” that beautiful song from the Cinderella movie, a song that made her shiver with hope every time she heard it because it promised that dreams could come true.

  No matter how your heart is grieving

  If you keep on believing

  Grieving. Believing. A surprising rhyme. A perfect rhyme. No matter how frightened and unhappy she felt, she would never give up!

  Franny opened her eyes. “I’ll try to work harder, I promise. I do want to walk again.”

  “Well, I hope I can stay long enough to make that happen,” said Nurse Olivegarten. Her olive eyes narrowed. “But my patience is wearing very thin.”

  The Meeting

  Franny was dreaming of Nurse Olivegarten’s “Patience,” a thin, dingy shawl full of gaping holes. Nurse Olivegarten poked her nose through one of the holes, flaring her nostrils. “See?” Nurse Olivegarten cackled. “My Patience is wearing thin! Wearing thin! And you’ll never, ever dance the buck-and-wing as well as I!”

  Ludwig van Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata tinkled in Franny’s ear. Nurse Olivegarten wrapped her torn shawl around her shoulders and began to dance. Her long legs jerked like a giant marionette’s, each foot pointing in a different direction. It was not a pretty sight. Even Alf whined in annoyance—and that’s when Franny woke up.

  The cheerful ballerina in a sparkly, flared tutu was dancing on the face of Franny’s alarm clock, endlessly inspired by the Moonlight Sonata. The dancer never moved her graceful arms, held high above her head, but her leaping legs and pointed toe shoes kept excellent time. Now the toe shoe of her bent leg pointed toward the two, while the toe shoe of her outstretched leg pointed toward the twelve. Franny reached over, clicked off the musical alarm, and turned on her bedside lamp.

  Alf clambered across the bed to her. He licked Franny’s face, his tail wagging furiously.

  “Come closer, Alfie,” said Franny. “Lie down and let me look at your tail.”

  Alf was an intelligent mutt. He understood many words. Come, Lie down, and even Tail were among them. But the manner in which he showed his bottom to Franny at that moment had a specific purpose to it. He was not merely following her command. He was acting out a mission.

  Franny secured the bottle cap behind one lens of her eyeglasses like a monocle, then closed her other eye and focused on Alf’s hairy tail. The hairs seemed to leap out at her, each one as thick as a tulip’s stem. It was as if she were looking through a powerful microscope. Closer still, and they thickened into brown, sturdy twigs.

  And there he was, clinging to one of them.

  Fleabrain.

  He waved a long, shapely hind leg. His flat body shone in the lamplight, as brown and polished as the leather of the most expensive shoes from Katzenback’s Footwear. Sparky’s Finest apparently magnified sound waves, too, and when Fleabrain spoke, his voice was small, but Franny heard him clearly. Her ears tingled. Fleabrain’s voice was pleasant, like the ringing of chimes.

  “Franny,” said Fleabrain. He sighed a high-pitched sigh. “Franny. Franny. Franny. My first word heard by human ears. A word as lovely as Ophelia or Juliet or any other name penned by Shakespeare.”

  “My full name is Francine,” Franny said. “But everyone calls me Franny.”

  “I am not everyone,” Fleabrain said. “For that reason, I’ll call you Francine. Even lovelier.”

  “But how do I know you’re real?” Franny asked.

  Fleabrain crossed several of his six legs and leaned back comfortably upon his hair hammock. “Oh, Francine, I have so longed for a conversation such as this with you! As the French philosopher René Descartes, born March 31, 1596, died February 11, 1650, has written, ‘Je pense, donc je suis’!”

  “I don’t speak French,” Franny said. “I think we’ve discussed this before.”

  “Right,” said Fleabrain. “My sincerest apologies. Bug it! My memory is usually as sharp as a bee’s stinger, but I suppose I’m in quite a tizzy, meeting you for the first time. ‘Je pense, donc je suis.’ Translation: ‘I think, therefore I am.’ I also expound, argue, sing a cappella, compose an elegy, recite an ode, and solve algebr
aic equations. As well as jump incredibly high and drink blood. Therefore, I am.”

  “Well, I’m glad you know you’re real,” said Franny crossly. It was 2:15 A.M., and her head hurt. “But how do I know you are?”

  “Oh, bug it. I suspected you’d ask that. I hate to do this to you, but—”

  Fleabrain leaped gracefully from Alf’s hair onto Franny’s arm. Six small bites and the job was done—bites on Franny’s arm in the shape of a tiny F, an exact replica of Fleabrain’s distinctive signature.

  “I can do the B for Brain if you need more convincing,” he said, jumping back into his hair nest. “I’m sure you recognize the penmanship. Or ‘mouthmanship,’ as it were.”

  Fleabrain laughed, then stopped abruptly in mid-giggle.

  “Don’t worry, Francine. I used one of my gentlest venoms. The bites shouldn’t itch for long, but they will still be there as proof at daybreak, before they fade away in a day or two.”

  “That’s OK,” Franny said. “I just needed to be sure.”

  “And don’t worry about Alf. I only need a repast from my host every fortnight to stay alive these days. Sometimes less. I seem to be getting most of my nourishment from books. Much more fulfilling, not to mention slimming.”

  As if on cue, Alf jumped from the bed to scratch his left hind leg vigorously with his right one.

  “This week’s supper,” explained Fleabrain. “Dogs don’t really mind a mild itch, as long as they can reach it to scratch. Did you ever watch a dog scratch an itch? I mean, really watch? They smile as they do it!”

  “That’s true,” said Franny, smiling herself.

  “I must say, I’ve grown quite fond of Alf,” said Fleabrain. “I’m learning to appreciate his generosity, and his pragmatic, down-to-earth attitude toward life. And, of course, the friend of my friend is my friend, to paraphrase the ancient proverb ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ There is some quibbling as to whether that proverb is of Arab or Chinese or Indian provenance, although all cultures eventually discover similar truths, I have learned. In any case, I do prefer my paraphrase. The dog and I are pals.”

  “I’m really glad about that,” Franny said.

  Fleabrain’s charming personality radiated fellowship and kindness. These qualities made him handsome to Franny—maybe not by Hollywood standards, but who cared about that? And not having met many—or, in fact, any—other fleas up close, Franny couldn’t compare him to his peers. But something told her he’d taken some pains with his appearance. The burnished, overlapping plates on his body shone, and the many hairs on his back seemed combed carefully into place.

  “I have to admit, I have rather an agenda tonight. Have you any other plans?” Fleabrain asked.

  “Plans?” It seemed to Franny she hadn’t had “plans” in a long, long time and wouldn’t have any in the near future, now that winter had arrived. “What kind of plans?”

  “I would like you to meet another friend of mine. You’ve actually met, but I’d like you to get to know one another on a different level, both literally and figuratively speaking. And”—with a front leg, Fleabrain covered his mouthparts shyly—“I’d like you to meet some adopted members of my family,” he said.

  “Oh, no!” cried Franny.

  “Forgive me, forgive me,” said Fleabrain. His tibiae shook with embarrassment. “I’ve been too forward. OK, I won’t subject you to my family, adopted or otherwise. This is our very first conversation, and already I’m treating you as an intimate. But I do feel as if we’ve been friends forever.”

  “It’s not that,” said Franny. “I would love to meet your family! I mean no offense, Fleabrain. But if my mother finds out there’s been another flea infestation in the house, she’ll start spraying again with Be-Gone-with-Them.”

  Fleabrain leaped with joy. “You’d love to meet my family? Huzzah! Franny, I give you my word of honor. I am the sole flea in this house, as far as I’m aware. My ‘people’ live elsewhere in the neighborhood. If you’ve no other plans, we can leave right away on our adventure. To celebrate your toe and foot wiggles this evening!”

  Franny giggled. “ ‘Leave right away’? Haven’t you noticed? I still can’t walk.”

  “Not a problem,” said Fleabrain. “We’ll bring your wheelchair.”

  Franny giggled again, then began to laugh harder. She fell back onto her pillow, gasping for breath. It felt wonderful to laugh like that. She was happy to know she still could.

  She felt a bit light-headed, and suddenly she realized she was levitating several inches above her sheets, then floating sideways. She seemed to be headed toward her wheelchair, parked at the side of her bed.

  Franny dropped gently into a seated position in the wheelchair. The yellow afghan from her bed drifted toward her, then wrapped itself around her shoulders and across her lap.

  “I’ll be right back,” said Fleabrain.

  Floating snake-like above her head, Franny’s red winter cap and matching scarf soon appeared, which Fleabrain had retrieved from the hall closet.

  “There!” she heard him say, his tinny voice slightly muffled by the scarf as he wound it around Franny’s neck. “Comfy?”

  “How … ?”

  “Was mich nicht umbringt, macht mich stärker,” said Fleabrain. “ ‘What doesn’t destroy me, makes me stronger.’ Not to belabor the point, but one could also opine: ‘What fire doesn’t destroy, it hardens,’ in the words of my favorite Irish playwright and author, Oscar Wilde, born October 16, 1854, died November 30, 1900. I’ll explain in greater detail soon. Whew! My exertions have left me a bit out of breath. And I still have to get you out the window.”

  Fleabrain hopped to the sill, raised the large window, then jumped down to the floor beneath the wheelchair. Franny grasped the arms of the chair as she was lifted, chair and all, and carried over the windowsill to the other side. She and the wheelchair landed on the lawn with a gentle thump. Alf followed.

  The night sky blazed with red and orange flames from the J & L Steel Mill on the banks of the Monongahela. Street lamps glowed up and down Shady Avenue.

  “We’ll go for a little jaunt around the neighborhood. Follow the dog!” Fleabrain yelled from Alf’s tail.

  A Ride in the Night

  Their route was winding and hilly. Fleabrain alternated his position between Alf’s tail and Franny’s shoulder. When they came to a particularly hilly section, she could feel Fleabrain push and accelerate her chair. Going down, he helped brake the speed. It was as if she were perched atop the Pippin at Kennywood Park, bumping and whizzing along. Of course, Franny didn’t scream her head off, as she used to do on that roller coaster. Before. Now she just sat back and enjoyed the ride, all the dips and turns in the bracing night air.

  After a while it began to seem unfair to have Fleabrain do all the work. Franny began pushing the wheels herself at the uphill mounts, to make things easier for the flea.

  “Lovely of you to help,” said Fleabrain, panting. “My strength is boundless, but I do feel the strain. The more I exercise, the more flexible my limbs will become.”

  “That’s what Nurse Olivegarten always says. I hadn’t realized my arms had become so strong.”

  But Franny didn’t want to think about Nurse Olivegarten. She didn’t want to think about exercises and the smell of hot, wet, woolen packs and being stuck in the house. She only wanted to think about this extraordinary ride in the night through the quiet streets of Squirrel Hill.

  Most of the homes were darkened, their window blinds like closed eyelids. Every now and then, a loud snore and whistle erupted beyond a window. At a corner house on Hobart Street, Walter Walter’s dad opened his bedroom window to throw a shoe at a yowling cat. Rolling along Phillips Avenue, she saw Teresa’s mother, up late—or early, as the case may be—folding a towering pile of laundry on the dining room table. Several dogs inside their homes greeted Alf with surprised yelps, most likely inhaling the odor of Alf’s excitement as he sped by. The air was cool and damp on her cheeks, but the
afghan kept her warm, as did the exertion of climbing the hilly terrain, with Fleabrain’s help.

  Up and down, up and down, they rolled through the streets branching off Shady Avenue, finally circling back to Nicholson Street, heading toward Frick Park.

  “Now that you know how strong your arms are, let’s try a bigger challenge,” Fleabrain said.

  “Nicholson Street is very steep!” said Franny.

  “We can do it.” Fleabrain whistled an inspiring yet familiar tune in her ear. The sound of the wheelchair gliding smoothly up the hilly street made for a pleasant accompaniment to the music.

  “You whistle very well,” Franny said. “So many talents! And I recognize that tune.”

  “Thank you, Francine. But only the violin does this piece real justice. It’s from the second movement of the Polish composer Henryk Wieniawski’s Violin Concerto No. 2 in D minor. Born July 10, 1835, died March 31, 1880. Such a superb concerto! I much prefer Wieniawski’s second movement to the first, don’t you?” said Fleabrain.

  “I guess I’ve only heard a snippet of the second movement,” Franny said. “It’s the opening theme to The Guiding Light, my mother’s favorite soap opera on the radio.”

  “Oh, do have a listen to the entire recording when you can!” exclaimed Fleabrain.

  They had reached the top of Nicholson at Beechwood Boulevard.

  “We did it!” cried Franny.

  “Of course,” said Fleabrain. “Never any doubt in my mind.”

  Beechwood Boulevard’s wide expanse was silent and empty of cars.

  “Let’s rest a bit and catch our breath before we cross this big street,” said Fleabrain.

  Fleabrain had thought of everything. Tucked in a corner at the back of her seat was a small bag of popcorn and an apple. She’d forgotten how good a sour-sweet apple tasted outdoors, crisp and chilled.

  As Franny munched, Fleabrain explained as much as he could.

  “It seems that a second dose of Be-Gone-with-Them, to which I was subjected, as you are well aware, has the paradoxical effect of bestowing extraordinary powers upon those who have survived a first dose. I don’t know if this has ever happened. There had never before been any survivors of the first dose, as far as I know, although, of course, I am going by purely anecdotal evidence. But I surmise that I developed powerful antibodies, which, when fighting the poison a second time, in some way affected my resilin. Resilin is the rubbery protein in a flea’s limbs, which explains my amazing jumping ability under normal conditions. My unfortunate experience with Be-Gone-with-Them helped concentrate my resilin so that it became even more effective. I didn’t think I could become stronger and smarter, but here I am.”