Fleabrain Loves Franny

by Joanne Rocklin

  Her parents traded sections of the morning newspaper.

  “Bank robbery at Peoples Bank at dawn yesterday,” said Mr. Katzenback. “Page four.”

  “Oh, no!” said Mrs. Katzenback.

  “Don’t worry. Police got ’em,” said Mr. Katzenback, shaking the newspaper and turning the page.

  “BANK ROBBERS ARRESTED!” screamed the headline.

  “Our tax money is doing some good,” said Mrs. Katzenback.

  Franny bent her head over her book, hiding her grin. “Heigh-ho, Franny, away!” she said softly. At her feet, Alf snorted, giving a quick scratch to his hindquarters.

  “Why did you ask for so many books about horses this week, Fran?” Min asked.

  “Why not? I happen to like horses,” said Franny.

  She was already one-third of the way through My Friend Flicka. Piled up by the side of her wheelchair were her other library books. The Black Stallion. Black Beauty. The Red Pony. Franny loved the feeling of having a pile of books waiting for her.

  Her mother and Min glanced at each other across the room.

  “I know what you two are thinking,” Franny said. “You’re thinking I’m never going to get a chance to ride, so why am I bothering to read about horses?”

  “I was thinking no such thing,” said her mother.

  “Ha!” said Franny. She had known her mother her entire life, and she knew exactly when Muriel Katzenback was fudging the truth. She usually twitched her nose sideways to the left, and her mother had done just that.

  “I have no problems with horseback riding, under extremely careful supervision,” said Mrs. Katzenback. “But we don’t live on a farm in the country.”

  “We don’t plan on becoming stage performers, either, but that didn’t stop us from taking tap-dancing lessons,” said Franny. “Min, next time please get me some books on tap dancing.”

  “Oh, Franny,” said Saint Min. “You don’t even like tap dancing.”

  Min was right. Last year they’d both signed up for Sunday Tap Time at the Gene Kelly Studio of the Dance. Franny had quit after one week. Min had quit after two. They’d both agreed that tap dancing was the stupidest thing. Shuffle, shuffle, clickety-clack. Just the stupidest thing! And so were those black, noisy shoes tied with huge, floppy bows that kept getting untied. Tap dancing had seemed like a good idea at the time. Dancing lessons were much cheaper than piano lessons, and, anyway, they couldn’t afford a piano. And other kids in the Pack were taking tap. But Franny and Min had no idea how terrible it was until they tried it.

  “Those awful shoes!” said Min. “And remember the blister I got on my heel, as big as a dandelion head? All that gooey liquid squirting out when it burst?”

  “Shuffle, shuffle, clickety-clack,” said Franny, and then they were both laughing their heads off together. Just like Before.

  It seemed like the perfect moment. She just couldn’t keep it inside anymore. “Look, everybody!” cried Franny. She lifted her left foot up and down at the ankle. “It may not be tap dancing, but I’m wiggling my toe inside my shoe. Shuffle, shuffle, clickety-clack!”

  Franny had been right about everyone’s reaction. Oh, the hollers of joy! The hugs and sloppy kisses! But there were tears on their cheeks, too. In all her life, Franny had never seen her parents cry. Even when she’d first come down with polio, they’d seemed too frozen with fear to cry.

  “I’m so grateful to that wonderful Nurse Olivegarten,” her mother said, blowing her nose. “I’ll telephone her right away. She was so right. Her treatment works!”

  “Don’t,” said Franny. “She already knows.”

  Her father frowned. “I wonder why she didn’t mention it. She said that her Friday evening with you had been quiet and uneventful.”

  “She’s too modest,” said Mrs. Katzenback. “She must have breakthroughs like this all the time.”

  A quiet and uneventful evening, my foot, thought Franny. Nurse Olivegarten didn’t want to say anything about what happened, good or bad, and, anyway, it was just a few toes, she would say. But Franny didn’t want to think about Nurse Olivegarten, especially on Nurse Olivegarten’s day off. What she wanted to do was dance (even tap-dance!) and sing and soar through the air with happiness. And if she couldn’t do that, she would do almost the next best thing.

  Wheelies.

  She’d discovered she could do them the other day, whizzing down the long hall in her wheelchair. Just as she reached the lofty bookcase at the end of the hallway, she reared backward on her wheels, neighing, “Eeeeeeeehhhh!” then hollering, “Heigh-ho, Franny, away!”

  Up and down the hallway and back again, two times, three times, then four. “Eeeeeeeeehhhh!”

  It felt so good.

  “Franny, stop that now!” cried her mother. “You’ll exhaust yourself. It’s just too much for you.”

  “I’m riding my horse, Mama,” said Franny. “You said you didn’t have a problem with that.”

  “What your mother means is—” said Mr. Katzenback.

  “I think she means I’m an invalid,” said Franny. “In-valid. Ab-normal.”

  “You know what I think?” Min said. “I think Franny and I should both get ourselves some fresh air.”

  “I think so, too,” said Franny. “Eeeeeeehhhh!” she whinnied. “Franny and Min, away!”

  “It looks like rain,” said their mother.

  But Min was already tugging their warm jackets and hats and scarves from the hall closet before her parents could say no.

  “We don’t want you to get overtired, girls,” said their father.

  “Better than undertired!” said Franny, which made both girls laugh.

  They were still laughing as Mr. Katzenback carried Franny to the lawn chair on the front porch, went back in to bring out her wheelchair, then helped Franny into it. Min pushed the wheelchair down the front walk as Mr. Katzenback followed them to the sidewalk.

  “Be careful,” he said, his mouth curved into a worried smile.

  “You look like we’re going on a long trip, Dad,” said Franny. “We’ll be fine.”

  Too bad it wasn’t snowing, she thought. Then she could pretend she was the Snow Queen, rolling along in her chariot. Franny loved the beauty of the freshly fallen snow blanketing Squirrel Hill, before it was powdered over with gray soot from the mills.

  Professor Doctor Gutman was coming down the street, carrying a grocery bag. Franny’s heart thumped with joy and hope when she saw him. He gave them a tired smile, then tipped his hat in the fancy European way Franny recognized from movies she’d seen. She imagined hardworking Professor Doctor Gutman alone at a small kitchen table, eating a single lamb chop, his fork and knife against the plate the only sounds in the room.

  “My parents would like to invite you to supper on a Friday evening,” Franny blurted out. “They suggested the first Friday night of 1953. Six o’clock. We hope you can come.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” said Professor Doctor Gutman, smiling his gold tooth at them. “Thank them for the invitation … Please excuse me, I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Franny, short for Francine. And this is my sister, Min, short for Minot. French names, but we don’t speak French.”

  “Franny. And Min. Thank you.” The professor tipped his hat again in his fancy, polite way.

  After he’d gone, Min asked, “Did Mom and Dad really tell you to invite him?”

  “No,” said Franny. “Actually, Mom thought he was too grouchy to invite to supper, but she’s wrong. He’s very nice. And, anyway, it’s too late now.”

  “We’d better tell them they’ll have a guest very soon,” said Min, giggling.

  As they went up Shady Avenue, Franny and Min began singing at the very top of their lungs. The song they sang was the best song in the world, Franny used to say when she was little. In a way, it still was.

  A boy was sitting on a railroad track,

  His feet were full of BLISTERS.

  He tore his pants on a rusty nail,


  So now he wears his SISTER’S!

  Oh, it ain’t gonna rain, no more, no more,

  It ain’t gonna rain no more.

  So how in the HECK

  Can I wash my NECK

  If it ain’t gonna rain no more?

  “Oh, Franny,” said Min. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Really? I didn’t go anywhere,” Franny said.

  “You did so. Well, the goofy, happy, and friendly you went away.”

  Franny knew what Min meant. Today she felt more like herself again. “Listen, Min,” she said. “Help me stand.”

  “What do you mean? You’re not wearing your braces or your sturdy shoes.”

  “It won’t matter. Help me stand up, right now. I’m feeling very strong. Maybe I can even take a few steps.”

  Min wrinkled her brow. “Are you sure, Fran? What if … ?”

  “What if what?” asked Franny. “I’m feeling very strong, I’m telling you.”

  “Well, OK,” said Min. She put her arms under Franny’s armpits and pulled her from the wheelchair, Franny’s arms around Min’s neck. With great effort, Min propped up Franny against her.

  “Lean on me,” Min whispered.

  “Just at first,” said Franny. “Then I want to stand by myself.”

  She and Min stood hugging, and soon, slowly, slowly, Franny withdrew her arms.

  “There,” Franny said. She looked Min straight in the eye. They grinned at one another. “Now I’m going to move my left toe, and then my left foot. Then I’m going to move my right toe and my right foot. And then, ta-da! I’ll walk.”

  “Careful,” said Min.

  Who needed Nurse Olivegarten? Left foot, right foot—easy-peasy.

  Except it wasn’t. Her left toe and her left foot refused to move. She gritted her teeth and tried again.

  “Are you OK?” Min asked.

  “Please. Don’t help me,” Franny said. She closed her eyes and tried again. Move, move! It was as if the ability to move had been part of a long-ago dream. The effort made her dizzy. “Give me a few seconds,” she said, swaying. “There,” she said, feeling some movement. “I did it.”

  But Min’s worried gaze was no longer straight in front of her. She was looking down at Franny, because Franny was lying flat on the sidewalk.

  “Oh, Franny!” Min said, her lips trembling.

  Here I am, Franny thought. This is the new real me. The always-lying-down-needing-help real me.

  And suddenly there was Teresa, looking down at her, too, and Quiet Katy, and Teresa’s older sister, Jane.

  Min pulled Franny into a sitting position, her hands under Franny’s arms.

  “Please, help me get my sister to her chair,” she said to the others.

  Teresa, Jane, and Quiet Katy backed away, then stood pale and still, as if frozen by a wizard’s spell.

  “Please,” Min repeated. Franny’s stiff legs made a quiet shushing noise as Min dragged her along the sidewalk.

  “I’ll help,” said Quiet Katy, stepping forward, but Min had already lifted Franny into the wheelchair. She leaned her head on Franny’s shoulder to rest for a few seconds.

  Franny saw that Quiet Katy was holding a cloth bag, and so were the others. She knew that inside those bags were the black shoes with their floppy ribbons for Sunday Tap Time at the Gene Kelly Studio of the Dance. And she knew she’d give anything in the whole world to be walking home from the streetcar stop after Sunday Tap Time. It didn’t even matter if tap dancing was the stupidest thing.

  “See you, Franny,” said Teresa. “Take care of yourself.”

  Quiet Katy walked backward, solemnly watching Franny and Min.

  “That poor, poor cripple!” said Jane.

  Franny knew she and Min weren’t supposed to hear that.

  Poor cripple.

  “I’m sorry, Franny,” Min said. “Let’s just keep going.”

  Min began singing again, not at the top of her lungs this time.

  A boy was sitting on a railroad track,

  His feet were full of blisters.

  But Franny didn’t want to sing or keep going. The whole day had a blister on it now.

  “No, let’s go home,” she said.

  Holiday Headlines

  Truths of the Universe

  Fleabrain loved the Sabbath, or Shabbos, as the Katzenback family called it in Yiddish, that venerable old language. Only Great-grandfather Zadie Ben and Fleabrain spoke and understood Yiddish fluently; the rest of the family knew a few words here and there. Fleabrain had learned the language while reading the work of the fine Yiddish poet Rosa Harning Lebensboym, born 1887, died 1952.

  And Fleabrain loved when the Katzenbacks invited guests, which always resulted in lively and provocative conversation. That night, the first Friday of 1953, there were three guests besides Zadie Ben, who was visiting from his nursing home: Professor Doctor Gutman, Nurse Olivegarten, and Penny Nelson, Franny’s teacher, whose husband was out of town attending to his anthropological affairs.

  “This is my first Shabbos meal!” said Penny, who wasn’t of the Jewish faith.

  “Our family is delighted to have you at our Sabbath table,” said Mrs. Katzenback.

  One could say that Fleabrain was also a member of the Katzenback family, although only one member of that family would agree. But there they were, he and Alf, at the Shabbos table. OK, under the table. And both were praying in their own way, as were the eight humans above them.

  Alf was praying that challah bread crumbs and other delicacies would drop to the floor. A stray carrot coin, a fat noodle, or a smidgen of chicken from the soup. Alf hoped Franny and Min would answer his prayers, and they did.

  As it should be, thought Fleabrain. The old dog deserves those little extras.

  “More, more!” whined Alf.

  Fleabrain clasped his hairy front legs together in a prayerful attitude. But he couldn’t think of anything to ask for. He had it all! Two best friends (although one was more of a generous host). A warm, hairy bed. The occasional blood feast. Stimulating reading materials. Adventure. His health.

  Was there more in life to be had?

  He supposed he should give a little prayer of thanks.

  But then again, to Whom or What was he praying?

  The eight humans had blessed the candles, the wine, and the bread, while praying to something larger than themselves.

  Nah. Not for him. Most things on Earth were larger than Fleabrain.

  A sudden, brilliant inspiration came to him. Oh, how smart, smart, smart he was! He, Fleabrain, would pray to things smaller than himself! Way, way smaller than himself. Molecules. Atoms. Sub-sub-sub-atomic somethings, singing to him from a faraway place. Because small was great.

  He didn’t understand it all yet. One day he would, bug it. One day, he, Fleabrain, would discover all the Truths of the Universe! He was so smart, his brain ached.

  Fleabrain could hear the humans slurping their soup. Not much conversation during that part of the meal. Everyone was too hungry to discuss intellectual matters.

  Now was a good time for Shoe Analysis, a pleasant little hobby of Fleabrain’s. So much could be learned by studying eight pairs of shoes under a table.

  Pair Number One: Professor Doctor George Gutman’s.

  Brand-new men’s black dress shoes. Old gray socks, a tear at the ankle lovingly darned with teeny cross-stitches. Couldn’t the guy afford a new pair of socks to go with the new shoes? Ah, yes. Maybe he finds it hard to replace the old socks because he misses the person who repaired them. At New Shoes’ feet was a small black doctor’s bag. Does a researcher make house calls? A mystery.

  Pair Number Two: Nurse Olivegarten’s.

  Dangerously pointy, high-heeled blue sling-backs. Silk hose. Toes pointed toward the professor’s.

  Pair Number Three: Francine’s. Oh, Francine!

  Patent-leather Mary Janes, Franny’s best shoes from Before, which she’d insisted on wearing instead of her ugly orthopedic ones. Nurse Olivegarten hadn’t a
pproved.

  Pair Number Four: Penelope “Call me Penny!” Nelson’s.

  Appropriately, red penny loafers, recently spruced up with new heels. Frugal (beginning teacher’s and anthropologist’s salaries). Optimistic: shiny 1953 pennies tucked into the slots.

  Pair Number Five: Zadie Ben’s.

  Brown slippers. No. Not slippers. Leather shoes with the backs worn down. Also, no shoelaces. Some things were more important than dressing like a Dapper Dan, especially when you were ninety-three years, six months, and four days old. For instance, one’s comfort on short, pleasant walks. Reading books. Arriving at meals while the food was still hot. The wisest human in the room.

  Pair Number Six: Saint Min’s.

  Clean white socks. Saddle shoes, white and black. Two coats of white shoe polish oh-so-carefully applied to the saddle shoes’ white sections.

  Pairs Seven and Eight, at each end of the table: Muriel’s and Sammy’s.

  Men’s new size-ten maroon wing tips with tan trim. Ladies’ new size-six lime-green pumps with flawed stitching. Katzenback’s Footwear’s slowest-selling models of 1952, a small personal indulgence after the 1953 models came in.

  Now Pumps and Wing Tips got up to bring in the rest of the meal, with the help of Saddle Shoes. Penny Loafers moved to help.

  “Sit, Penny dear! Our guests are here to enjoy,” said Mrs. Katzenback.

  Patent-leather Mary Janes stayed still. Oh, Francine. I know you want to help, too, thought Fleabrain. Everybody knows you’d help if you could.

  Dinner was served. Alf sighed with happiness as more tidbits—a lump of potato pudding, a slice of turkey, a meatball—began to rain down.

  Fleabrain reveled in the conversational tidbits:

  The upcoming inauguration of General Dwight D. Eisenhower and Senator Richard Nixon as president and vice president, respectively.