Fleabrain Loves Franny

by Joanne Rocklin

  The country’s recession and the resulting poor sales at Katzenback’s Footwear.

  The frightening proliferation of nuclear weapons.

  Were there spies in the U.S. government? Was Joe McCarthy’s Senate investigation of Communists too vicious?

  “Absolutely not,” said Nurse Olivegarten.

  “Absolutely,” said Penny.

  I agree! thought Fleabrain. A witch hunt in Congress!

  Saddle Shoes tapped with boredom.

  And what about the Cold War between the U.S. and the Soviet Union?

  And the Korean War between South and North Korea?

  Fleabrain moaned. “Ah, humans! Such folly! So many trials and tribulations! So many wars!”

  “Why worry?” Alf replied. “It’s beyond anyone’s control.”

  “Is it, Alf? Does it have to be?” asked Fleabrain.

  “Don’t ask me,” said Alf, gulping down another meatball.

  Fleabrain much preferred the sprightly conversation between Professor Doctor Gutman and Penny about the romantic style of the German composer Johannes Brahms, born May 7, 1833, died April 3, 1897.

  Sling-backs tapped jealously.

  “Dessert is served!” said Mr. Katzenback. “From Rosenbloom’s!”

  Saddle Shoes wriggled with glee. “Chocolate gems!” cried Min.

  Then the table was quiet once again, to Fleabrain’s great disappointment. Conversation could never compete with chocolate gems from Rosenbloom’s. Fleabrain could sense Alf’s anticipation, waiting for a few cake crumbs to drop.

  Finally, Wing Tips stood up.

  “Penny, what you see in my hand is called a tzedakah box,” said Mr. Katzenback. “Tzedakah is a Hebrew word meaning ‘righteous.’ Every Friday evening after the Sabbath meal, my daughters do the righteous deed of placing coins from their allowance in the box. This money is collected for people less fortunate than ourselves.”

  “Tzeh-dack-uh. Such a beautiful little box. And what a nice tradition!” said Penny.

  Saddle Shoes leaped up and ran to her father. Clink! went her coins into the tzedakah box.

  Mary Janes stayed still.

  “Come, Franny,” said Mr. Katzenback. There was a scraping of chairs as everyone moved closer to the table in order to make room for Franny in her wheelchair.

  “Oh, Dad. Just bring the box over here,” said Franny.

  “All right, darling. Here it is,” said her father.

  Clink! Clink! From her place at the table, Franny dropped her coins into the box.

  Sling-backs tapped impatiently.

  “If Franny had worn her braces and the proper shoes,” said Nurse Olivegarten, “she could have walked the short distance to her papa. We are all thrilled that Franny has some movement in both feet and, occasionally, in her lower limbs, Doctor Gutman. I’m using Sister Kenny’s methods of daily hot, wet packs and strenuous stretching. Soon our girl will be out of her wheelchair completely, just about as good as new. Show the doctor your leg movement, Franny.”

  Mary Janes didn’t move.

  Sling-backs kicked.

  Mary Janes still didn’t move.

  Fleabrain mightily restrained himself from biting one of Sling-backs’ ankles.

  “Please show him, Franny!” repeated Nurse Olivegarten.

  “No, I don’t want to right now. But I would like to show him my wheelies,” said Franny. “I do wonderful wheelies.”

  Min laughed. “She does!”

  “I’d love to see you do wheelies,” said Professor Doctor Gutman.

  Mary Janes began to wheel herself from the table. Pumps stood up.

  “Franny, we don’t want you to tire yourself,” said Mrs. Katzenback. “You need to save your strength.”

  “Save my strength for what? I hardly ever do anything,” said Franny.

  “Wheelies? What are wheelies?” asked Zadie Ben. It was the first time he’d spoken during the meal. Chewing carefully, not conversing, had been the task at hand.

  “Papa, wheelies mean that Franny races up and down the hallway in her wheelchair, then rears up on her wheels,” said Franny’s mother. “Now just isn’t the time.”

  “This is what Franny does?” said Zadie Ben, sounding more surprised than when his family and friends had surprised him with a ninetieth birthday party, taking over almost all of Weinstein’s Restaurant except a few booths at the front. “That’s something I’d like to do myself,” he said. “Will you teach me another day, feygeleh?”

  Min giggled, and so did Franny, at the thought of their great-grandfather doing wheelies. Oh, how Franny loved her Zadie! She loved how he called her feygeleh. Little bird. He always made her feel as if she could soar, even now.

  “Now is the time for schnapps in the living room for the adults, and cocoa for the girls,” said Mr. Katzenback.

  At that moment Not-Slippers jumped up, startling Fleabrain and Alf, whose haunches had been resting on them.

  “One minute, please, folks,” said Zadie Ben.

  “Of course,” said Mr. Katzenback. “Zadie will now say the after-dinner blessing.”

  Zadie Ben began to chant in Hebrew. His chanting went on and on and on, quite a bit longer than usual. Only Fleabrain seemed to notice that Zadie was no longer chanting a blessing in Hebrew but was singing a Yiddish song.

  Fleabrain’s heart filled with sorrow and dread.

  The song was describing a Truth of the Universe.

  The Yiddish words seemed to swirl around the room. They did wheelies against the walls. They broke into shards of syllables, bouncing from floor to ceiling. Fleabrain saw sparks flashing before his eyes, and his brain ached with the awful knowledge. He lay on his back, hardly breathing. He waved his limbs in distress.

  “Fleabrain, my friend! What’s wrong?” barked Alf.

  “A bit of indigestion,” Fleabrain gasped. “I’ll be all right in a moment.”

  He would be all right, but only if he kept his knowledge a secret, especially from Francine. Knowing his dear Francine as he did, if she truly understood this particular Truth of the Universe, she wouldn’t need him anymore.

  Fleabrain didn’t think he could bear that.

  Poor Fleabrain. Poor, poor, Fleabrain, the voices sang.

  How Did Our Cars Travel Without Us?

  FB Saliva #2

  Squawk! Squeak! Squawk!

  The mystery of Professor Doctor Gutman’s little black bag under the table was soon solved. It wasn’t a doctor’s bag but a clarinet case. The case and the clarinet inside had belonged to the professor’s daughter, Sophie Harriet Gutman. Now it belonged to Francine Babette Katzenback, who had just completed a rousing rendition of “Yankee Doodle” for Fleabrain.

  “Of course, I’ll improve with practice,” she said.

  Leaping onto the arm of her wheelchair, Fleabrain clapped several claws in appreciation of her enthusiasm, if not her musical prowess.

  “Professor Doctor Gutman’s daughter died in Europe during the war,” Franny continued, peering at Fleabrain through Sparky’s Finest. “That’s why his eyes are often sad. But he wants the clarinet to be played again, so he’s giving me free music lessons.”

  Fleabrain already knew that, of course. The whole street did, too. Squeaks and squawks tooted from Franny’s window even when it was closed, sounding less like music than cries for help.

  Franny maneuvered her wheelchair in order to place a record on her record player, which sat on a table beside her bed. “Listen to this, Fleabrain,” she said. Classical music filled the air.

  “Ah,” said Fleabrain. “The Mozart Concerto in A, played by the English clarinetist Jack Brymer, born January 27, 1915. There’s nothing lovelier than an evening’s clarinet concerto after a long day. And I must say, ‘Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,’ even if that breast is only a flea’s. A phrase coined by another Englishman, by the way. Writer William Congreve, born January 24, 1670, died January 19, 1729.”

  “The professor says I will play like that one day,” sa
id Franny. “Or almost, anyway, with years of practice.”

  Fleabrain hid a “smile” with his tarsi. His dear Francine had a long way to go, musically, from a squawking “Yankee Doodle” to a Mozart concerto. But he would be the last to discourage her. She looked so happy when she was squawking!

  Min knocked on the door. “Franny, please lower the volume of the record player. I’ve got a test tomorrow.”

  “Oh, phoo,” said Franny. But she turned off the record player. She began playing her clarinet again.

  Squawk. Squeak. Squawk.

  “The professor is a good teacher. I think I’m getting better,” said Franny. “It’s easier than my exercises with Nurse Olivegarten, and practicing the clarinet doesn’t hurt.”

  But there was so much for her to remember! Tongue high in back at the roof of mouth. Chin flat. Lower lip over bottom teeth. Upper teeth touching top of mouthpiece, but don’t bite. Tip of tongue touching tip of reed.

  Tee, tee, tee. Squawk!

  Min poked her head in again. “Franny! It’s late. Read a book or something.”

  “Okeydokey, Saint,” said Franny.

  “Speaking of books,” said Fleabrain, hopping onto the yellow afghan. “I have been thinking. Of course, I am always thinking. I think, therefore I am, and all that. But tonight I am thinking of a good book I’ve just completed. I practically gobbled it up.”

  “I know that feeling. I’m enjoying The Black Stallion,” said Franny, pointing to the novel on her night table. “I’ve just finished the part about the ship sinking and the boy and the wild horse plunging into the sea. And then the boy holds on to a rope while the stallion pulls him through the raging waters, and—”

  “I haven’t read that book for youngsters,” said Fleabrain. He waved a skinny leg dismissively. “The book I’m referring to is Paramoigraphy, by the English writer James Howell, born 1594, died 1666. It is his book of proverbs. I’ve read others by the same author. Have you perused his work, by any chance? Paramoigraphy is on the hallway bookshelf.”

  “ ‘Perused’? Do you mean ‘read’?”

  “ ‘Peruse’ generally means ‘to read with attention to detail,’ as I certainly did, having memorized most of his work. So, yes, ‘read’ is what I meant.”

  Franny remembered the book Paramoigraphy, lodged between an atlas and a book called Moby-Dick by Herman Melville on the top shelf of the lofty bookcase. It smelled of dust and stew and had TAYLOR ALLDERDICE HIGH SCHOOL—DISCARD stamped on its inside front cover.

  “I leafed through it, but the pages kept falling out,” she said. Plus, it looked boring, but she didn’t want to hurt Fleabrain’s feelings by saying so.

  “Yes, it’s an oldie,” said Fleabrain. “But Howell’s sayings truly make me think. He that hath eaten a bear-pie will always smell of the garden. I love the stink of compost and hairy creatures, don’t you? And No weeping for shed milk. Why cry, indeed? Milk is particularly delicious when putrid and smelly, a puddle on the ground.”

  “That is a different perspective,” said Franny.

  “The man had such literary insight! And my absolute favorite, the one that applies to you and me, my dear Francine—All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Francine and Fleabrain a dull girl and dull flea.”

  “I don’t find you dull one bit,” said Franny.

  “Nor I, you, Francine,” said Fleabrain. “Perhaps I should rephrase. All that hosing of fires and moving of automobiles, the midwifery, the championing of truth and justice—all those good deeds have been filled with such serious purpose and moral responsibility!”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” said Franny. She was proud of her good deeds with Fleabrain.

  Fleabrain grinned, a wiggle of his tubelike mouthparts. “Of course there’s nothing wrong with it! But, as I said, it’s all work and no play. And now you have to toot on that instrument every day.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind practicing the clarinet,” said Franny. “The professor says it’s good for my lungs.”

  Fleabrain leaped from the afghan onto the colorful braided rug by the side of the bed. “Francine, Francine, it’s time for some fun!” he called up to her.

  “Every single thing we’ve done together has been loads of fun.”

  Fleabrain jumped onto an arm of her wheelchair. “Francine, I’d like to try an experiment with you, if you don’t mind. As you know, there are ancient spells for miniaturization,” said Fleabrain, “but I think they’re all hogwash.”

  “Miniaturization?”

  “Right. The ancients, especially those of the Middle Ages, were convinced that spells could accomplish miniaturization.” Fleabrain’s voice tinkled with laughter. “Spells! Can you imagine? So very medieval! But I, Fleabrain, understand the science behind miniaturization. Basically, it’s the manipulation of matter on an atomic and molecular scale. I’ve even thought of some impressive names for the science. Nanotechnology. Or maybe microprocessing. Which do you think sounds more impressive?”

  “Both sound very impressive,” said Franny. “But why are you interested in miniaturization? You’re so small, I can only see you with Sparky’s Finest.”

  Fleabrain’s giggles were tiny peeps. “Oh, Francine, I wasn’t talking about myself. It was you to whom I was referring!”

  “Me? Miniaturized?” said Franny a little apprehensively.

  “As a researcher, I really should ask your permission to miniaturize you. Do I have it? I hope you say yes!”

  “Will it hurt?” Franny asked.

  “You will feel odd, but it won’t hurt, I promise. Was Alice in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland in pain? Not at all. Admittedly, Alice was fictional, but I believe her creator, the English writer Lewis Carroll, born Charles L. Dodgson, born January 27, 1832, died January 14, 1898, was a terrific visionary in terms of miniaturization. Hopefully, I’ve perfected the process. No chewing of Eat Me tablets or mushrooms necessary.”

  “Permission granted. Proceed,” said Franny. She realized that she trusted Fleabrain with all her heart.

  “Hold out an index finger, if you please.”

  When Franny did so, Fleabrain daintily squirted liquid from his mouthparts onto the tip of her finger. “Let’s try some FB Saliva #2. Simply dab this behind your ears and at your wrists, as you would a sweet eau de toilette. Sorry. That’s French for ‘toilet water’ or ‘cologne.’ ”

  Franny dabbed. FB Saliva #2 smelled odd but familiar, not sweet at all.

  “Close your eyes, take a few nice deep breaths, and relax,” Fleabrain said.

  Franny squeezed her eyes shut. She heard a pfffft! sound, like a fuse blowing, or a balloon losing its air. The room suddenly smelled of popcorn and firecrackers, a pleasant, partylike odor. Her scalp tingled. Her head bobbed, and her hands waved. She felt an odd squeezing sensation on her skin, similar to the tight feeling she always got after a summer sunburn.

  She had been through worse. Much worse. There was no pain to miniaturization at all, just as Fleabrain had promised. It was a very strange experience but nothing she couldn’t get used to.

  “Francine,” Fleabrain whispered, his voice trembling with love and awe. “You can open your eyes now.”

  Miniaturized

  It was a new world, and it took Franny’s breath away.

  At first she saw only a bright kaleidoscope of undulating objects. Huge brown trees, even bigger than prehistoric redwoods, with deeply engrained black rivulets. A rainbow of small mountain ranges. A large swath of heavenly sunshine, high above her head.

  Franny felt dizzy, swaying a bit in her wheelchair.

  “Breathe, Francine, breathe,” said Fleabrain. “Don’t try to understand the very big. Focus on what is relative to your new size, one thing at a time. It will make the adjustment easier.”

  Fleabrain’s voice was no longer squeaky. It was a wise, deep voice with vibrato around its edges, like the strumming of a guitar.

  Franny did as he told her. She focused on a dust particle, which
looked like a tumbleweed floating by. She stared up at a swooping, splendid highway of moonlight. She stared down at a crumb, which looked as big as a hunk of bread by the wheel of her chair. Her wheelchair had been miniaturized, too, as had everything Franny had been touching during the miniaturization procedure. That included Sparky’s Finest. Since Franny no longer needed it for magnification purposes, she dropped it into the pocket of her blouse for safekeeping.

  Sophie Harriet Gutman’s former clarinet was now smaller than an eyelash, a mere splinter of what it used to be. Franny felt guilty that the precious family heirloom had been accidentally miniaturized. But the guilty feeling was only momentary. Of course the process could be reversed! Besides, Franny was much too excited to worry about the larger world at that moment.

  For there she was, miraculously face-to-“face” with Fleabrain, who was perched proudly on top of a green hill. How handsome he was! His tubelike mouthparts; his tiny, expressive eyes; the neatly combed hairs on his body. And his legs! What wonders! Six of them, the hind legs formidably long for leaping. Now Franny could easily see each distinctive leg part: the coxa, the femur, the graceful tibia, the balletic tarsus, the claw. Of course, Fleabrain was just as handsome as ever, but up close he was so much more complex, so interesting, so regal. He reminded Franny of the drawing of a great Egyptian pharaoh in her history book, Worlds Far Away and Long Ago. He smelled strongly of earth and Alf and, yes, blood, but it was a familiar, soothing odor. And exactly the smell of FB Saliva #2 eau de toilette.

  She breathed deeply. Soon the kaleidoscope stopped undulating and began to make sense. The giant brown trees were the legs of her matching bedroom set—her desk, her chair, her bed. The deep black rivulets were the scratches on them. The rainbow mountain ranges were the braids of the rug, and the swath of heavenly sunshine, her afghan, draped on the bed above her.

  “Laissez les bon temps rouler!” said Fleabrain. “Translation: ‘Let the good times roll!’ ”

  One’s eyes were supposed to be mirrors to the soul. Although Fleabrain’s were teeny-tiny and on either side of his head, they did seem to be twinkling with merriment. His whole body was quivering with excitement.