“What good times?” asked Franny.
“Of course you’ve heard of flea circuses?”
“I’ve read about them,” said Franny. “But I always thought they were imaginary.”
Fleabrain “smiled,” a sad, rueful smile. “Ah, no, my dear Francine. They were as real as can be, and tantamount to severe and cruel abuse. Circus fleas have suffered greatly, believe you me.”
“I do know about the abuse of other circus creatures,” said Franny. “Bears on chains, forced to dance and ride tricycles, majestic lions cooped up in cages, monkeys wearing silly costumes!”
“Indeed,” said Fleabrain. “My own kind also wore silly costumes, and tight chains of silk thread around their ‘necks.’ They were deliberately frightened by loud noises so that they’d jump involuntarily, thus appearing to pull huge carts and battleships and coaches. ‘Huge’ in a relative sense, of course, but still heartbreaking. They were humiliated and overworked for fun and profit by cruel humans.”
“That is terrible,” agreed Franny. “I’m so sorry.”
Fleabrain leaped an inch. “But that was then, and this is now! I’ve still got enough of the kid in me to love the circus, as long as the participants can control the show in a humane way. So now, to the tune of ‘Entrance of the Gladiators,’ by the Czech composer Julius Fučík, born July 18, 1872, died September 15, 1916, we present F and F’s Fantastic Circus!”
And it began.
Fleabrain the Ringmaster waved a few tibiae, thrillingly whistling the familiar circus theme song Franny had heard a zillion times.
Scores of silverfish playfully emerged from an electrical outlet, then cavorted on the circus-ring rug in perfect musical time.
Fleabrain the Tumbler backflipped and high-jumped his way over to the silverfish. Whistling, he tapped his tarsi in a performance that put famous dancer Gene Kelly to shame.
A cockroach rode a nickel like a unicycle all around the room.
Multicolored particles bounced to the ceiling, artfully juggled by talented dust mites.
“Prepare to be amazed!” hollered Fleabrain. “Behold, the Amazing Alf!”
A thunderous earthquake shook the circus ring.
The Amazing Alf had rolled over.
“And there’s more! Here she is, the Fantastic Francine!”
The Fantastic Francine lifted iron nails many times her weight, her arms strong and muscular from pushing the wheels of her chair.
The Fantastic Francine was shot through a cannon/straw, landing in Fleabrain’s “arms.”
“And now, the Fantastic Francine will perform a high-wire feat never before performed in a wheelchair, big or small!” cried Fleabrain, helping Franny into her chair again.
He lifted Franny and her wheelchair above his head, then leaped to an impossible height, even for a flea. A previously unnoticed cobweb hung in a corner of the ceiling. Carefully, Fleabrain deposited Franny on a web strand, then jumped to another strand to watch her performance.
Franny’s strong arms, her wheelie practice, and her intimate knowledge of wheelchair dynamics allowed her to scoot and swerve expertly from sticky strand to sticky strand, correctly positioning the wheels to accomplish the maneuvers.
Wriggling his limbs in delight, even Fleabrain seemed surprised by the feats of the Fantastic Francine! Franny herself was exhilarated but not surprised. She’d had a feeling she could do it, although she was surprised at what a wonderful time she was having. She swooped and turned and balanced and wheeled, a small wind blowing at her back. It was almost as much fun as flying over Pittsburgh on Lightning.
But then …
Franny heard the creature before she saw him. His cry was like the keening of a cat and the hiss of a snake, an unearthly combination. Looking up, Franny saw the huge brown spider squeezing out of a crack in the wall. His several pairs of eyes focused on Franny and Fleabrain with a ravenous fury.
“I’ve got him within my sights,” whispered Fleabrain. “He has no idea whom he’s up against.”
The spider’s long legs advanced surely and confidently toward his prey, toward the seemingly helpless flea and the creature of flesh in the wheeled contraption. The web trembled as the spider reached their strands.
“Never fear, Francine!” cried Fleabrain.
Franny was afraid of the advancing spider, but she also felt sorry for him. He was at an unfair advantage because of Fleabrain’s unnatural superpowers, as well as Fleabrain’s anti-spider bias. The spider, on the other hand, about to paralyze his prey, was just doing what came naturally. Not to mention the fact that his web had become a playground for a disrespectful circus troupe.
“Watch me pulverize him,” sneered Fleabrain. “Watch me chew him to bloody smithereens. No. Watch me extract each leg, each eye, each hair, slowly and painstakingly, until he screams for mercy. Then watch me pulverize him!”
Franny was saddened to see that Fleabrain, once such a rational and compassionate creature, had become a vicious warmonger.
She rocked her wheelchair with sudden force, breaking several web strands. Falling through a gaping hole, she propelled herself downward, aiming her wheelchair carefully. The chair’s speed accelerated as it neared its destination, finally splashing down into the water tray under the “Cheer up!” dracaena plant.
“Alf, come!” Franny called. Grateful to have passed her Level 3 Junior Red Cross swim test before she got polio, she swam a speedy Australian crawl through the current, using only her upper body. A short distance from the edge, she grabbed Alf’s tail and was pulled from the water tray.
“Lie down, Alf,” said Franny.
Far above her, the combatants were at a silent standoff, motionless before the attack.
Franny dragged herself to the tip of Alf’s tail, then reached down to grab her clarinet from the rug.
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. Franny blew a G note with all her might.
It was a small sound, but it was glorious—strong and steady, neither a squeak nor a squawk. The beautiful little note filled the room, all the way up to the ceiling. Was it enough to “soothe the savage breasts,” the spider’s and the flea’s?
It was.
Several seconds later, Fleabrain joined her on the rug. The glorious little G note still hung in the air, like a lovely eau de toilette.
“Thank you. We needed that,” Fleabrain said. “I don’t know what came over me, although I think I understand what was irking the spider. But how satisfying to see the spider’s surprise when my superstrength allowed me to escape his sticky bonds!”
Fleabrain retrieved the wheelchair, which was floating in the water tray like a paddleboat. He dried it off with a piece of lint, then helped Franny slide from Alf into the chair.
“Fleabrain, I’d like to be my regular size again, please,” said Franny.
“Oh,” said Fleabrain. “Of course.”
Franny heard a trace of disappointment in his voice.
“It’s just that I want to play the beautiful note for my family,” she explained.
Franny felt exhilarated! She was now hopeful that with practice she would progress beyond the patriotic but boring “Yankee Doodle.” She was like little Rose Goodly, who was just learning to read those baby books about Dick and Jane. Rose complained that Dick and Jane were boring, boring, boring. You have to start at the beginning, everyone told her. Although Dick and Jane were boring, always hollering, “Oh, oh, oh!” at ordinary things—for example, their dog, Spot, running away from a frog. If they were miniaturized, Dick and Jane would probably drop dead from excitement.
But practice makes perfect. Practice would make her walk, too.
“I hope you enjoyed yourself in my world,” Fleabrain said anxiously.
“Oh, yes! I had an interesting, exciting time,” said Franny.
“I’m so glad. Hold on while I begin the maximizing process with some
FB Saliva Negative #2. Kindly give me your monocle, if you please.”
Franny handed him the miniaturized Sparky’s Finest, and Fleabrain squirted fluid onto its lens. “Close your eyes now,” he said, clasping the anointed bottle cap and focusing it on Franny. “Prepare to return to your natural size. It will be a slow but steady process.”
Franny closed her eyes, holding her clarinet tightly. There was that smell of firecrackers and popcorn again.
“We’ll be friends forever, won’t we?” she heard Fleabrain ask as he carefully returned Sparky’s Finest to the pocket of her blouse.
“Of course we will,” Franny answered, already feeling herself growing larger. It was a feeling that reminded her of happiness.
Poster Child
Franny’s mother shook the newspaper at the breakfast table.
“Listen to this,” she said. “ ‘If you lined up a bunch of dimes, you would need exactly 92,160 of them to make a mile. That’s $9,216.’ Whoever figured that out has a lot of time on their hands! ‘This week, mothers in Pittsburgh will be collecting money for the March of Dimes, trying to amass a Mile of Dimes like other cities in the U.S.’ Well, I believe I’m going to be one of those marchers.”
The March of Dimes was like a great big tzedakah box—an organization collecting dimes for the unfortunate victims of polio and for polio research. Franny used to think of the “unfortunate” as people who were hungry or cold and very poor, like the boy in her song with blistered feet who had to wear his sister’s clothes. Sometimes she’d see photographs of those unfortunates in the newspaper: children with huge eyes, wrapped in dingy blankets and holding empty bowls. Or photographs of unshaven older men eating a holiday dinner at a long table in a church hall.
But, of course, polio victims were unfortunates, too. There were posters of the March of Dimes poster children everywhere, it seemed—in libraries, stores, and banks. There was a photograph of one of them in that day’s newspaper.
When Franny looked at the top half of the poster child, ignoring the bottom half showing the little boy’s braces and wheelchair, he was a regular kid, laughing with joy. A kindly nurse laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. There were other children in the photo, children who didn’t have polio, crowding around the poster child’s wheelchair like really good buddies.
She herself would make a terrible poster child. And the only good buddy in her newspaper photo would be Fleabrain, who would look like a speck of dust on the page. No, not even a speck of dust. You wouldn’t even see him at all.
Fleabrain. Dear, dear Fleabrain.
As if reading Franny’s mind, Min said, “If you were a poster child, you’d stick out your tongue at the camera. Or bury your head in a book, foaming at the mouth.”
That made Franny laugh, because it was sort of true. Sometimes only a sister was allowed to say something sort of true, and then it became funny.
“Or I’d play ‘Yankee Doodle’ over and over on my clarinet until the photographer ran away screaming,” said Franny.
Fleabrain himself had put forth his opinion about all of this.
“Francine, those happy poster children are part of a giant marketing campaign to collect funds! Don’t get me started on modern advertising! It’s too unpleasant for people to open their newspaper and see a crabby poster child. That, my dear, would be an oxymoron, like a giant shrimp. Or a wise fool.”
Now Franny’s father glanced at the poster child’s photo. “A photo should encourage people to donate money, and this one is doing its job. The newspapers and the March of Dimes are educating the public about polio, as well as saving the Katzenbacks from debtors’ prison.” Mr. Katzenback smiled a little when he said that, so Franny wasn’t really worried about her parents going to jail for their debts. Still, she was glad that some of the medical bills for her care were being paid by the March of Dimes.
And those bills included Nurse Olivegarten’s.
“I fear this child isn’t cooperating. Her muscles aren’t loosening as fast as I’d like,” Nurse Olivegarten said at Franny’s exercise session that day.
“Franny, you do need to practice your standing and walking more often,” said her mother. “Nurse Olivegarten is working hard on you, for your own good.”
“In my opinion, Muriel, she needs to buck up and cultivate a more pleasant, can-do attitude,” said Nurse Olivegarten.
Who was Nurse Olivegarten to talk about being pleasant? thought Franny, lying on the kitchen table. When Nurse Olivegarten “worked on” Franny, she never looked Franny in the eye. She always had a mustache of sweat on her upper lip and a frown on her forehead. Nurse Olivegarten made Franny feel like a broken-down car in an automotive repair shop, or a chicken about to be plucked.
“We got movement before, and we’ll get it again. Believe you me, I know what I’m talking about,” said Nurse Olivegarten. “I need you to cooperate with me and practice your walking more often.”
“Believe you me,” Franny said, “I want me to walk just as much as you do.”
Once Franny was off the list of unfortunates, Nurse Olivegarten wouldn’t have to come anymore. It was worrisome that Nurse Olivegarten had started calling her parents Muriel and Sammy, like a member of the family who would be around forever.
And, Franny thought, I am a practicer and a cooperator! Ask Professor Doctor George Gutman! Ask me to play any one of three, almost four, songs on my clarinet!
“This girl has a beautiful embouchure,” Professor Doctor Gutman had told her parents. “She has been working hard in bringing her teeth and lips and tongue into excellent alignment with the mouthpiece. No easy feat, I tell you.”
Franny was proud of her embouchure. She wished her legs would be as cooperative after practice as her teeth and lips and tongue were.
But Nurse Olivegarten and Min were right about one thing. She wasn’t a bucker-upper about her condition. It would be hard for her to pretend to be joyful, even for a camera. It wasn’t only the polio anymore, really. Sometimes Franny felt like a girl from another planet, lost in the mysteries of outer space. Even if that girl could move all her limbs while she floated around up there, it wouldn’t make a bit of difference if she felt alone in the dark.
Thank goodness for Fleabrain. Dear, dear Fleabrain!
On Wednesday evening, almost every porch light on Shady Avenue was bright, a signal to the Mothers’ March that dimes could be collected at those homes. Aunt Pauline telephoned to borrow a bulb.
“No marchers have reached our block yet. I’ll bring a lightbulb right over,” Franny’s mother said. “Then let’s march together.”
Franny watched with Min from the living room window. Their mother scurried across the street, wearing her heavy duffel coat against the bitter cold.
Soon a group of Mothers’ Marchers rounded the corner. Franny’s mother and Aunt Pauline joined them. The marchers were singing like Christmas carolers, but they were singing the same exuberant tune, over and over. The tune was that of a song from Franny’s favorite movie, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. “Heigh-ho, heigh-ho! It’s off to work we go!” sang the dwarfs. The marchers’ words were different.
“Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho! We’ll fight that polio! Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho! We’ll fight that polio!” they sang.
The honks of car horns greeting the marchers became a happy accompaniment to their song. The marchers swarmed down the street, ringing doorbells, waving at their Squirrel Hill neighbors. Fathers marched, and children, too, who were excited to be outside after dark. They ran beside their parents like trick-or-treaters, wearing heavy snowsuits instead of costumes.
“Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho! We’ll fight that polio! Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho! We’ll fight that polio!”
Franny’s father opened their front door, with Franny in her wheelchair, and Min behind him. He gave one of the marchers several special March of Dimes cardboard booklets, their slots filled up with dimes. Franny peeked from behind his legs.
There was Teresa and Rose Goodly, and the A through C Solomon siblings.
Other kids she knew were calling her name from across the street. Franny searched for Walter Walter in the small crowd but couldn’t find him.
Someone yelled, “It’s Franny Katzenback!” Others joined in: “Franny! Hey, Franny! Franny!”
People began to clap, their gloves and mittens making muted thumps. They were clapping for her—Franny! Franny looked up at her father and saw tears in his eyes. She stretched her mouth into a big smile. She didn’t want her father to cry. Franny understood a little better then how a poster child must feel, relieved to know that others understood the difficulty of it all. She was grateful to the newspapers and the March of Dimes for educating the public. But they were clapping for her as if she’d done something. All she’d done was get polio.
“We miss you, Franny,” called Teresa.
But which Franny? Franny wanted to ask. Which Franny do you miss? Because, actually, I’ve been here all along. In the flesh.
The crowd, including Teresa and the others, moved on down the street, singing, “Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho! We’ll fight that polio!” into the cold night air.
Only Quiet Katy Green and her parents remained on the doorstep.
“So! This is Franny,” said Quiet Katy’s dad. He was wearing a TONIGHT I AM A MOTHER sign pinned to his jacket. “Katy talks about you all the time.”
Quiet Katy’s cheeks, already pink from the cold, grew pinker. “Oh, Daddy,” she whispered.
“Oops, my big mouth again. I’m the loudmouth in the family,” he said. “Katy and Sally are the shy ones. Two peas in a pod.”
“Oh, Carl,” said Quiet Katy’s mother, Sally. She put an arm around her daughter and smiled. Quiet Katy and her mother did look very much alike, with their round cheeks and watchful eyes.
“Come inside to warm up for a bit,” said Mr. Katzenback.
Before Franny knew it, the adults were sitting down for tea, Min had excused herself, and Franny and Quiet Katy were alone in Franny’s bedroom. Alf followed them in.
Quiet Katy looked around. “What a nice room!” she said. “I love your braided rug. I’ve got the same ballerina alarm clock! And you play the clarinet. I’m taking music lessons, too! My parents said I could choose any instrument, any instrument at all. I chose the trombone! Oh, you’ve got a dog! Lucky, lucky you! My parents won’t let me get one because my father has allergies, even though he’s allergic to cats, but he doesn’t want to take a chance, in case he’s allergic to dogs, too, and then it would be too late, because we’d all love that dog and wouldn’t want to return it. Let me see your books. Oh, I’ve read a lot of them! Didn’t you love Little House in the Big Woods and The Secret Garden? Wasn’t Little Women wonderful? I thought I’d read the entire Bobbsey Twins series, but you have some I haven’t even read yet!”
Fleabrain Loves Franny Page 10