Fleabrain Loves Franny

by Joanne Rocklin

  FB:

  A magnificent Wonder!

  Yet

  one has to chuckle! The medievals thought the Wizard Merlin had built it!

  A bit of excavating in the area on my part easily revealed pieces of decorated, flat-based pottery. Thus, Stonehenge was built around 2500 BC, during the Neolithic period.

  And how were those heavy stones

  moved?

  I put forth this theory: Could there be an ancestral connection from that era?

  A Neolithic Fleabrain? Who is to say nay?

  WONDER #2

  THE CATACOMBS OF KOM EL SHOQAFA

  FK:

  We zoomed east across the Atlantic once again. For this flight, however, we departed at 10:00 P.M. in order to arrive while it was still dark. Fleabrain, prudent as always, had reminded me to bring a flashlight. Lightning and Alf were terrified and stayed outside, so we just peeked in and didn’t remain long.

  Catacomb means “underground cemetery,” and it was first built in the second century AD. FB translated Kom el Shoqafa for me, which means “Mound of Shards” in Arabic. Relatives would gather to bury and remember their dead and have a bite to eat. But they were too superstitious to bring home their food vessels, FB explained, so they just broke them and left them behind.

  I have tried to correct the color in my book using Burnt Sienna and Gray and Melon and Gold, but as I said, it was dark when we were there.

  FB:

  Oh, the melding of cultures—Greek, Roman, and Egyptian! The

  carvings on the walls, the sarcophagi themselves, how artistically, historically, devastatingly fascinating!

  But I didn’t have time to present a proper lecture to Francine.

  That lily-livered horse and the spineless hound were spooked by the spirit of a dead donkey, who, on September 28, 1900, caught his hoof in a crevice

  and plunged to his

  death to the bottom floor, thus introducing the catacombs to the modern world.

  Alf’s impatient whining and Lightning’s terrified snorts slightly spoiled and definitely shortened the experience for us.

  WONDER #3

  THE LEANING TOWER OF PISA

  FK:

  Leaving Pittsburgh at 3:00 A.M., we arrived in Pisa at 9:00 A.M., just as the tourists were lining up. The Leaning Tower of Pisa is a tall bell tower in the city of Pisa, Italy. The Leaning Tower of Pisa leans. It really does. It made me sad to think about the embarrassment of the poor architect who designed it long ago in the twelfth century. Nobody is quite sure who he was, exactly, but he was probably not very boastful about it. The Tower was built on a very weak foundation, and when workers began the second floor, the Tower began sinking into the soil, which was too soft on one side. They did not try to build again for another hundred years, too busy with wars. By the time they tried again, the soil had settled, and it was much safer.

  A young girl around my age fed Lightning a grape. I wanted to converse, but I could not. One day I will learn Italian. Alf scampered into the Tower, then up the stairs, before he was caught and returned by an angry guard.

  I have used White crayon with shades of Carnation Pink and Silver to color the Tower in my book.

  FB:

  My heart mechanism was breaking for my Francine at the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

  I was prepared to share a chuckle with her at the expense of the foolish designers of the Tower, but she was so solemn!

  I pondered the situation and suddenly knew why. I am forthrightly sharing my intuition in this journal, for her to read.

  Oh, Francine. I know it was the stairs, almost three hundred of them, which

  you would never be able to climb (and I didn’t dare carry you in public).

  Three hundred stairs. When confronted with that reality up close, it must be hard.

  And do not worry, Francine! I will teach you Italian.

  What Lightning Knew

  One week later, the tour of Wonders was finally over. Lightning and Alf and Franny and Fleabrain zoomed westward from Turkey, slowing down as they reached the Allegheny Plateau. There, beneath them, the Allegheny River from the northeast and Monongahela River from the southeast joined to form the mighty Ohio. Pittsburgh was a golden triangle floating in the waters. The city’s bridges, rusted hulks during the day, shone like jeweled bracelets in the moonlight. Franny remembered a Truth of the Universe, as Fleabrain called them, a truth she’d never felt was very important Before.

  “There’s no place like home,” she said. “Right, Fleabrain?”

  That’s what her father said every single time they returned from a summer visit to her grandparents in Michigan, or from a family get-together with her cousins in Brooklyn, New York. And, of course, that’s what the intrepid Dorothy said in The Wizard of Oz, returning home to Kansas. Now, having traveled the world far and wide, having visited Wonder after Wonder all in one week, Franny decided that her own city was a Wonder, too, as she surveyed it from above with fresh, well-traveled eyes.

  “Of course there’s no place like home!” said Fleabrain. “But only on a purely rational level.”

  “Who decides these lists of Wonders, anyway? Couldn’t everyone make up their own list of Wonders?” Franny asked.

  Fleabrain chuckled. “That would certainly lead to a hodgepodge of lists, don’t you think? Next thing you know, we’d have baseball fields and chewing-gum factories and the latest automobile on those lists! No, my dear, Wonders are Wonders because they are timeless, ancient, unique, and mysteriously beautiful.”

  “But why are there only seven Wonders? That’s kind of limiting, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose there could be a few more than seven Wonders,” replied Fleabrain, “but the ancient Greeks thought there were five planets, plus the Sun and the Moon. Ergo, seven, as they counted their own ancient Wonders. And, OK, OK—the Greeks were wrong about the number of planets, as we all know. But look at it this way: Seven is just the right amount for a week of wondrous sightseeing.”

  “I do think Pittsburgh is beautiful, though,” said Franny.

  “But that doesn’t make one’s home a Wonder!” snapped Fleabrain. “If everyone thought that, my dear, they’d hardly want to expand their vistas!”

  “Oh, Fleabrain,” said Franny. “I hope you don’t think I’m ungrateful. It’s just that coming home has made me see that my city is lovely, too, and that’s a good thing. So, thank you.”

  “I have so many more true Wonders to show you!” said Fleabrain. “The Seven Wonders of the Oceans! The Seven Wonders of Outer Space! The Seven Wonders of each Continent! For every celebration, another tour of Wonders. Doesn’t that sound Wonderfull?” Fleabrain gave a low chuckle, delighting in his own wit.

  “I guess so,” said Franny.

  “Today will be a very busy day. We’re behind in our travel journal entries. We certainly don’t want our beautiful memories to be warped by time,” Fleabrain said. “I believe the Taj Mahal should be White, with just a few shadowy touches of Maize and Sea Green, don’t you? I would suggest a straightforward Tan crayon for both the Great Wall of China and the Roman Colosseum, the latter with a light wash of Silver.”

  Now the lights of Squirrel Hill were flickering beneath them. To Franny’s great surprise, instead of returning to Frick Park and its stables, where her wheelchair was parked behind a boulder, Lightning was circling the neighborhood, Alf close behind.

  Fleabrain didn’t seem to notice Lightning’s detour. “As for the Hagia Sophia of Turkey,” he was saying, “on the body of the mosque I believe you can be wildly artistic and use your Brick Red and Cornflower crayons. For the minarets and dome—”

  “Shh, Fleabrain,” said Franny. “I need to concentrate on something with Lightning right now, if you don’t mind.”

  It had become clear to Franny lately that when a girl and a horse travel the Earth and night sky together, they become almost as one, naturally knowing one another’s thoughts. She had leaned forward to hug Lightning, breathing in his sweet, horse
y smell, and in that lovely, predawn moment, Lightning gave Franny his own gift. He began to share some secrets he held. But he wasn’t really breaking any confidences. The few secrets Franny gleaned from Lightning were things she already knew yet hadn’t really known she knew, until flying over the streets of Squirrel Hill early that morning.

  In a corner house on Hobart Street, Walter Walter slept with his lucky buckeye, the one with the round yellow marking, under his pillow. He hoped its shining eye would protect him from enemies in the dark (mainly his angry father, who drank a lot). His brother, Seymour, was scared of rattlesnakes and atom bombs, which were easy to avoid in Squirrel Hill. He was also scared of thunder and their father, too, which weren’t.

  Inside their home on Douglas Street, A, B, and C Solomon envied the offspring of presidents, or the kids of any parents with good, secure positions, maybe with a bit of inherited money in the bank, to boot. Why couldn’t their last name be Heinz or Mellon or Carnegie or Frick—rich people’s names!—instead of Solomon? they wondered. Their dad had lost his job, and both parents were looking for work. When A, B, and C Solomon searched the streets for bottle caps, they were secretly hunting for change or for valuable arrowheads to pawn. When A, B, and C Solomon were invited to birthday parties, they usually sent their regrets. Birthday gifts were expensive.

  On Phillips Avenue, more secrets:

  Teresa Goodly felt dumb compared to Jane, and so she mimicked her older sister whenever possible. Jane’s IQ was higher than Teresa’s, she’d overheard her parents say. And little Rose wet her bed.

  On Nicholson Street, Katy Green worried about her shyness, no longer a secret to Franny. Franny was her best friend, which wasn’t a secret, either, but good to know for sure.

  Now, swooping over Shady Avenue, Franny could hear Min sobbing in bed, muffling the sounds with her pillow. She was crying for Franny and Franny’s condition; crying because her parents seemed to care more about Franny than her; crying because it was mean to feel bad about that. And did Franny herself still love her? she wondered. Crying, too, because she loved Milt the stable boy with all her heart, and he loved her back. Min and Milt. Milt and Min. Even their names were perfect together! But he was older than Min and would be going away to college in a year, probably forgetting all about her.

  “Oh, Min,” whispered Franny, her own heart aching with love for her sister. “Mom and Dad care about us both, even-steven.” And she knew—she just knew—that Milt would never forget Min.

  “Well, I’m not holding any secrets—you can be assured of that,” said Fleabrain, guiltily remembering Zadie Ben’s important Truth of the Universe he dared not share. “I am an open book, so to speak.”

  “Me, too,” said Franny, although, truthfully, she was tired of visiting faraway Wonders. They made her feel lonely, somehow. She didn’t want to hurt Fleabrain, who meant well. She would keep that feeling a secret.

  But Lightning had learned something important during all his years of patient listening. Lightning knew that you didn’t hold a secret; the secret held you. Until you told it to let you go.

  Who Is the Gateway Angel?

  IV

  SPRING 1953: HOPE

  What the World Knew, Finally

  Spring had always meant hope to Franny, for good times and imagined beginnings.

  And hope really was a thing with feathers, as she had learned via Fleabrain from the poet Emily Dickinson. Soon the window screens would be carried up from the basement, and Franny would hear the birds of summer, the warblers and flycatchers and finches, hopefully winging their way toward Frick Park. Hope was also a faint smell, maybe just a promise, of lilacs in the air. Hope was the color green, a Crayola Spring Green, a faint flush on the lawns, green dots peppering the poplars and oaks. And hope was also the color black, as the slushy snow melted on stairs and porches, leaving the soot to be swept away.

  Hope was a row of buckeyes on her windowsill, hard and strong for the springtime games.

  And hope was KDKA radio blaring from a screened window. Another season for the Pittsburgh Pirates coming up! World Series, here we come! Hope, hope, hope!

  Spring had always meant hope, but this spring, of course, was different. Hope was walking, if you could call it that, very slowly, in her braces, and only a few steps at a time.

  But hope was also Squirrel Hill’s very own Dr. Jonas Salk, who would be world-famous very soon.

  “THE SCIENTIST SPEAKS FOR HIMSELF!” the newspapers announced excitedly. Dr. Jonas Salk would speak on CBS radio to the whole wide world, at exactly 10:45 P.M. on Thursday, March 26. A historic announcement on a historic day!

  “I’m sure Katy’s parents are letting her stay up to listen,” Franny complained to her mother and father. “I don’t see why you won’t let me stay up, too.”

  “If Katy’s parents allowed her to parachute from the Gulf Tower, does that mean we should, too? And you need more rest than Katy.”

  “Mom, I just want to hear his voice.”

  Her mother laid her hand gently on Franny’s cheek. “Sweetheart, why is it so important to hear his voice? He’ll be talking about the research at his lab, that’s all. Some of what he says will be very technical.”

  Franny was surprised that her mother wasn’t as jubilant as she was. She wondered if Dr. Salk’s voice would sound like Rabbi Hailperin’s, sonorously deep and wise. No, his voice would probably sound raspy, from all that cigarette smoking, although, of course, just as wise.

  On the historic night of March 26, Franny was awakened in her bed by Salk’s voice on the living room radio. She turned her head to look at her clock. The toe shoe of the dancer’s bent leg pointed to eleven. The toe shoe of her stretched-out leg pointed gracefully toward nine. For fifteen whole minutes the voice rumbled wisely and hopefully. From her bedroom Franny could understand only one word, but it was an excellent word. Progress!

  At the breakfast table the next morning, her parents were silent. Their eyes were red-rimmed and not exactly jubilant. “Good morning, girls!” they sang in one voice, a “Let’s buck up and pretend to be happy” voice.

  “What did Dr. Salk say?” Franny asked. “It was good news, right?”

  Franny’s mother looked down at her plate of eggs.

  “It was good news, right?” Franny repeated. “Why so glum?”

  “Yes,” said her father. “A vaccine to prevent polio will be ready to be released to the world very soon, Salk said. The researchers know how to grow the virus, kill it, and use it to create a vaccine. They’ve already tested the vaccine on small groups. When those people were injected with the vaccine, even though the virus was dead, their bodies were fooled into producing antibodies against it, Salk and his team learned. Those antibodies would protect them if they were ever exposed to the live poliovirus. And nobody contracted polio after receiving the vaccine. In other words, the vaccine works and is safe. They will begin vaccinating large groups of kids next year, to further test the vaccine.”

  “He was so confident about the vaccine, he gave it to himself. Others in his lab injected themselves, too.” Franny’s mother’s voice broke. “They say he even gave it to his own three sons.”

  Min slammed her fork down so hard, the plate holding her scrambled eggs broke into three pieces.

  “That’s not good news!” Min cried. “Why couldn’t Salk have shared the vaccine with his neighbors, too? Did he have the vaccine last summer, before Franny got sick?”

  “Oh, Min,” said Mrs. Katzenback. Tears streamed from her eyes down to her nose. “You broke your plate,” she said, as if that was the reason she was crying. She wiped her face with her hand and jumped up to remove the broken china and clumps of egg.

  “Mom, I’m sorry,” said Min. “I’ll clean it up.”

  “No, no, I’ll do it,” said her mother, and Franny knew she wanted to continue crying in the kitchen.

  Mr. Katzenback sat very still, as he always did when he was upset, his hands clasped tightly on the table.

  “The vac
cine to prevent polio is a little too late for our Franny,” Mr. Katzenback said. “The researchers wanted to make very sure the vaccine was effective and safe before they gave it to the public. And we are happy for the kids who will be saved from polio with this vaccine. Very happy.”

  “But what about all those dimes pouring in from all over the country? Miles and miles of them! Weren’t some of them being used to find a cure?” Franny asked. Deep down she knew the answer. Had she known all along? “Didn’t Dr. Salk also talk about the cure he and his lab partners were working on?”

  Her mother had returned with Min’s scrambled eggs.

  “There’s no cure, Franny,” Min whispered.

  Mrs. Katzenback sat down slowly. “There is no cure for the effects of the poliovirus, Franny,” she said. “The virus attacked the motor neurons in your spinal cord. The resulting paralysis of your legs can’t be undone.”

  “Francine,” said her father. He always called her Francine at very serious moments. “Your family will be here to help you. And life goes on.”

  “You always say that,” said Franny.

  “Franny, please don’t talk to your father that way,” said Mrs. Katzenback. “He is trying so hard to make you understand.”

  “I will never understand!” Franny said. “And of course life goes on. Heck, easy for you to say! Your lives go on as pedestrians! Mine goes on in a wheelchair!”

  “But exercise and massage are helping you,” said her mother. “You’re beginning to walk! And please don’t say ‘heck.’ ”

  “Exercise and massage take too long! And who says they’re helping me? I’m not really walking. If that’s walking, then I like my wheelchair much, much better. Furthermore, it feels good to say ‘heck’! Heck, heck, heck!”

  “I personally think Franny should be allowed to say ‘heck’ as many times as she wants to,” said Min. “And I’ll say it, too. HECK!”

  “A million times ‘heck’!” shouted Franny.

  Her parents looked at one another and smiled, even though now her father was crying, too. He reached over to hold his wife’s hand. “Muriel, under the circumstances, I think we should allow our daughters this particular transgression.”