Fleabrain Loves Franny

by Joanne Rocklin

  “Of course I read it!”

  “Well, let’s just see about that.” Franny picked up a pencil and Charlotte’s Web from the night table and flipped through its pages. “Here is a little pop quiz for you.”

  “Are you saying you don’t trust that I’ve read it?” Fleabrain asked. There seemed to be tiny beads of sweat on his tubelike mouthparts.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” said Franny, pursing her lips. “OK. First question. Where does the book take place?”

  Fleabrain took a deep breath. “I believe it takes place on a farm. Somewhere in Pennsylvania.”

  “One-half point for an incomplete answer. Near what city?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “Many readers may not have remembered that detail. But I would have thought you would, smarty-pants.”

  “I resent your tone, Francine.”

  “I apologize. Next question. The girl’s name?”

  “Phyllis.”

  “Wrong. The rat’s name?”

  “Al.”

  “Wrong. The rhinoceros’s name?”

  “Uh, Slim?”

  “There’s no rhinoceros in the story, Fleabrain,” said Franny sadly. She was getting no satisfaction at all from Fleabrain’s humiliation.

  “Trick question!” Fleabrain protested.

  Franny ignored him. “Explain the use of ‘radiant’ in Charlotte’s Web.”

  “Ah!” said Fleabrain. “Radiant: adjective. 1. Exhibiting happiness, joy, hope, love, liveliness, et cetera. 2. Radiating light beams; reflecting rays of light. 3. Physics: transmitted by radiation; radiant energy. Radiant: noun: that which radiates; as: a. Optics. The object or point from which light emanates. b. Astronomy. The point in the heavens at which, when traced backward, the visible paths of meteors appear to meet. And, of course, radiant: synonym: see bright.”

  “Fine, that’s the by-heart dictionary definition. But what’s so important about the word in Wilbur’s story?”

  Fleabrain paused. “I don’t recall.”

  “Who was Zuckerman?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “What happened at the fairgrounds?”

  “Rides? Bake sales?”

  “Something important happened there, Fleabrain.”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “What is Charlotte’s magnum opus?”

  “Latin for ‘great work.’ ”

  “Yes, we both know you’re a scholarly classicist, Fleabrain. But what’s the meaning of magnum opus in this story?”

  “No idea.”

  “And, final question, how does the book end?”

  Fleabrain bent his head. “Let me ponder upon that,” he said. A full minute slowly ticked by, announced by the click of the ballerina’s pointed toe.

  Fleabrain lifted his head and whispered, “I … I don’t know.”

  “Oh, Fleabrain,” said Franny, at last. “You’ve failed the test, of course. One-half point out of ten.”

  “Wasn’t the brilliant French scholar Rashi, short for RAbbi SHlomo YItzchaki, born February 22, 1040, died July 13, 1105, commended for saying ‘I don’t know’? Why can’t I, Fleabrain, say ‘I don’t know’ every now and then?”

  Franny tossed her pencil across the room in exasperation. “Rashi was being humble. You weren’t being humble, Fleabrain. You just didn’t read the book.”

  “I admit I leafed through the book quickly. I didn’t peruse it in depth. OK, I only looked at the terrific illustrations by the American artist Garth Williams, born April 16, 1912.”

  “Just as I suspected,” said Franny. Her eyes filled with tears.

  “To quote Anonymous, don’t you agree that ‘a picture is worth a thousand words’?”

  “Not the words of Charlotte’s Web, Fleabrain! You criticized someone very important to me and you didn’t even know her.”

  “May I interject and point out that Charlotte is fictional?” said Fleabrain diffidently.

  “Sure, she’s fictional. But to me, she’s real! I know that sounds odd, but that’s the way I feel. And you weren’t honest with me. Friends are honest with one another.”

  “I’ll read it tonight. I promise, Francine. You can test me again tomorrow.”

  “But you’ve failed the friendship test, Fleabrain.” Franny stared down at her shoes. She could hardly bear to look at him.

  “Please understand, Francine. There were so many other books I wanted to read in depth. Important tomes! Classics of the ages!”

  At that, Franny slowly reached up to remove Sparky’s Finest from in front of her eye. She stared down at the bottle cap in her palm, then closed her fingers around it. She lifted her arm.

  “You’ve broken my heart, Fleabrain,” Franny said.

  “No, wait, Francine! Please don’t! I apologize with every cell of my own pumping mechanism! Test me tomorrow!”

  But Francine swung her arm, her pitcher’s arm, and the bottle cap flew like her special fastball, bright beams of energy following its flight. When Sparky’s Finest hit the wall, its surface became a web of cracks, which shattered into shards of radiant light.

  “Oh, Fleabrain,” Franny whispered. She began to cry. “No more tomorrows.”

  Reading

  But, of course, tomorrow came.

  As the velvet gray light of dawn curtained the vast Pittsburgh sky, Fleabrain finished reading the last page of Charlotte’s Web.

  He immediately decided to write his opinion of the book in Franny’s journal.

  He had to search for the journal. He finally found it at the bottom of her closet, buried under her clodhopper shoes and a few items her parents had forgotten to burn—an old, naked doll, puzzles with missing pieces, and a twisted Slinky.

  You were correct, Francine!

  I quite enjoyed the book!

  The author demonstrates a way with words,

  acute powers of observation,

  sprightly humor,

  and

  an understanding of a young person’s world.

  Bravo, American writer Elwyn Brooks (aka E. B.) White! (July 11, 1899–)

  Professor Doctor Gutman and the Pack

  I’ve just received a very strange phone call from Nurse Olivegarten,” said Franny’s mother, later that Saturday morning. “She is moving to a small town in New Brunswick, Canada, and quitting all of her home nursing assignments, effective immediately. Something about needing time to reflect upon life’s path.”

  “Really?” asked Franny, her heart leaping.

  She was sitting on the front porch with Katy and Professor Doctor Gutman, who was helping them practice a duet for trombone and clarinet. “Did her voice … Did she sound OK?”

  “Yes, I think so,” said Mrs. Katzenback. “Although she seemed a bit subdued. I wonder why she couldn’t reflect upon life’s path in Pennsylvania.”

  “I mean, did her … her voice sound peculiarly small and squeaky?” Franny asked. “You can tell a lot from a person’s voice,” she hurriedly added.

  Her mother gave Franny a quizzical look. “No. Why should her voice sound small and squeaky?”

  “Oh, no reason,” said Franny, relieved. “Well, I guess Nurse Olivegarten left because she missed her family.”

  “Or maybe she missed the fiddleheads,” said Katy, who knew some of the story.

  At that, the two girls collapsed into a fit of giggles. Katy put her nose into her trombone bell to stem the laughter, which made a hollow, honking noise, and that only made them both laugh harder. Professor Doctor Gutman and Mrs. Katzenback raised their eyebrows at one another. But Franny could tell they were both pleased to hear the laughter, especially hers. She herself had been subdued and sad after Dr. Salk’s historic yet disappointing announcement to the world. Of course, the news was only disappointing to Franny and others who had been hoping for a cure. The rest of the world was rejoicing. But now she was rejoicing because of her mother’s news!

  “Nurse Olivegarten did leave us in a bit of a lurch,” said her moth
er. “Although I suppose your father and I can help you with the exercises until we find another professional.”

  “And before you know it, September will be here again. Franny will be back in school every day, and the problem will be solved,” Katy said.

  Katy. Dear, dear Katy.

  “Back in school. Problem solved,” said Franny. What beautiful words those were.

  She lifted her clarinet to her mouth and created a tune for that refrain on the spot. Back in school. Problem solved. Six tuneful toots.

  “Excellent,” said Professor Doctor Gutman. “Katy, can you play a D along with Franny at the end of that refrain? Sit up straight now to get lots of air into your lungs.”

  Katy on trombone wasn’t quiet. Katy on trombone was earsplitting and cacophonous. The loud wa-wa wail of her instrument easily drowned out Franny’s clarinet.

  Most likely attracted by the toots and wailing of the girls’ duet, the Pack had turned down Shady Avenue. It was prime bottle-cap hunting season. The melting snow revealed treasures buried during the colder months, and each member of the Pack was carrying their cap sack.

  “Howdy,” said Walter Walter.

  But Walter Walter was staring at Professor Doctor Gutman, as were the others—A, B, and C, Teresa, Seymour, and Rose.

  “Thank you for doing such good work in your science lab,” said B, in a hushed, respectful voice. The others nodded their heads.

  Professor Doctor Gutman smiled modestly.

  Continuing to stare, the Pack stood at the foot of the walk, clutching their bags.

  Franny knew why they were staring, of course. Professor Doctor Gutman was now an honored and official neighborhood celebrity. There had been photos of Salk’s team in the local newspapers, including Shady Avenue’s own Professor Doctor Gutman, standing right at the elbow of the great Dr. Jonas Salk. No one in the Pack had yet caught sight of Salk in the flesh, even though he lived somewhere in the neighborhood, but here, in front of them, was Salk’s esteemed colleague. That was almost as exciting as seeing the great Dr. Jonas Salk himself. There was a golden aura surrounding the professor, like sunshine after a dark, frightening thunderstorm. And the Pack was made up of the very kids the researchers had been working so hard to save from the scourge of polio.

  “Well, see you, Franny. See you, Katy,” said Teresa, as they all turned to continue their bottle-cap hunt. “We miss you, Franny!”

  “Wait a minute, Ter,” said Franny.

  “What?” asked Teresa, turning around.

  “Come back here for a sec,” Franny said.

  Teresa frowned and went to stand at the foot of Franny’s front walk again. The rest of the Pack followed.

  “Why do you always say that?” Franny asked.

  “Say what?”

  “ ‘We miss you, Franny,’ as if I’ve gone away, or something.”

  “Just being nice.”

  “It’s not so nice when the person you miss is right here in front of you.”

  “You know what I mean, Franny.”

  “Actually,” said Franny, “I don’t. This is me, and I’m here.”

  Teresa rubbed her toe in a sidewalk crack. “It’s the polio. You know. You’re contagious, Franny.”

  “I’ve told you over and over. I’m not contagious,” Franny said.

  “Well, Jane says polio is contagious where kids are concerned. She says she knows that for a verified fact.”

  Professor Doctor Gutman cleared his throat. He leaned over the porch railing, his hand under his chin. His black bristly eyebrows were raised in disapproval.

  “Tell me,” he asked, “who is this Jane?”

  “My older sister,” said Teresa.

  “How much older?” asked the professor.

  “She’s in seventh grade.”

  “Is Jane a scientist?”

  “Yes. No. Well, she plans to be, but she isn’t yet, I guess,” Teresa said, looking uncomfortable. “She has a very high IQ.”

  “Do us a favor, please,” said Professor Doctor Gutman in his deep, rumbly voice. “Tell Jane of the high IQ that you’ve spoken to a certified scientist today. Tell her he told you something important.” Professor Doctor Gutman stared piercingly at each Pack member in turn. “And it’s this …” His large hand, gold wedding band glinting, reached for Franny’s. “Your sister does not know of what she is speaking. People who have been infected with the poliovirus are contagious for only a short period, and for Franny, that period has ended. Her immune system developed its own antibodies to kill the poliovirus in her body—unfortunately, not before the virus had already done its damage. But Franny is not contagious! Would you kindly tell that to Jane, please?”

  Franny’s eyes filled with tears. She held on to the professor’s hand.

  Teresa grinned. “Sure. I’ll tell that to Jane.”

  “Right. She’s not contagious,” confirmed Katy. “And she’s my best friend.”

  Walter Walter looked at Franny. Franny looked back.

  Come on, Double-Dose Walter Walter, Franny thought. I know you. You don’t need your lucky buckeye or garlic or your father or your brother to help you do what’s right.

  Walter Walter strolled up to the porch. “I have some questions,” he said.

  “No, I have a question, Professor!” Seymour called out. “You’re not an American. Are you still spying? Will you be selling U.S. secrets to foreign countries?”

  “Oh, pipe down, Seymour,” said Walter Walter. “He’s a hero, not a spy, you noodlehead!”

  “Whether or not I myself am an American,” said Professor Doctor Gutman, still holding Franny’s hand, “or a hero, or even a spy, is entirely beside the point. This girl was infected by the poliovirus, but she is no longer contagious.”

  “Hey, would you swear to God about that?” Teresa asked.

  Professor Doctor Gutman’s mouth twitched. A sort-of smile. If Franny had blinked, she would have missed it. She hoped Professor Doctor Gutman wasn’t going to say swearing to God was entirely beside the point. Teresa placed great stock in swearing to God.

  “Yes, I would,” said Professor Doctor Gutman.

  “Good,” said Teresa. “I’ll tell Jane that, too.”

  “And, all of you, tell your parents, as well. They should have known this themselves.” Professor Doctor Gutman turned to Walter Walter. “Now, young man, do you have some questions for me?”

  “Actually, my questions are for Franny,” Walter Walter said.

  “Me?” Franny asked.

  Walter Walter grinned. “Are the buckeyes I gave you ready for the tournaments?”

  “You bet,” said Franny. “And thank you for the twenty-one Get Well cards.”

  Walter Walter blushed, glanced at his brother quickly, then looked back at Franny. “And, hey, what about your pitching arm? Still good?”

  Franny squinted and put a finger to her head, pretending to think hard. “Was mich nicht umbringt, macht mich stärker,” she said.

  Professor Doctor Gutman looked up at the sky and roared with laughter.

  “Huh?” said Walter Walter.

  “German,” said Franny. “It means ‘better than ever.’ ”

  Rereading

  George Gutman was rereading Kafka’s Die Verwandlung. He often reread books. Sometimes, while rereading, he was shocked to discover that a book had magically changed. It was as if the author had tiptoed into the professor’s library, plucked the book off the shelf, and created a brand-new one, without changing a single word.

  Before, the story about a man who turned into a big ugly bug had filled the professor with the pain of a hard truth. Life was silly and meaningless. The death of loved ones, meaningless. It was not a story he enjoyed reading. Before.

  Today, the story was making him laugh. Imagine that, thought the professor, wiping his eyes. A man wakes up, and he’s changed into a bug. Horrible! But what will happen next? You must carry on to find out. You turn the page and continue the story, trying very hard to make sense of it. You turn m
ore pages and … surprise! The book is funny. After a while, it’s even beautiful.

  Rereading

  Dearest Francine,

  Hi, there!

  Me again.

  Haven’t dropped you a line in a while.

  I’ve

  been busy!

  I

  just want to tell you that I’ve reread Charlotte’s Web. I’ve

  never done that, reread a whole book, although I admit to rereading sections of Paramoigraphy. But there are so

  many books to read. Why

  waste time rereading?

  Nevertheless, I did reread Charlotte’s Web. After this reading, I have distilled the book down to

  two important Truths of the Universe:

  (1) It’s fun to be a writer, as Charlotte was.

  (2) Friendship is important in life, which, of course, reinforced what I already knew.

  (There was a third, minor TOTU:

  (3) Eat a good breakfast. That pig could sure pack it in.)

  Francine, I believe I am a good writer.

  Charlotte’s style was

  spare and poetic, using only a word or two crafted inside her web

  to stunning effect!

  I admire that. I can’t decide on my own style,

  or

  what I would consider

  my magnum opus.

  But I am industriously working on:

  twelve sonnets, two historical novels, fifty haiku, one comedy of manners à la the English novelist Jane Austen (December 16, 1775–July 18, 1817), seven romantic poems combining the styles of the great Persian poet Rumi (September 30, 1207–December 17, 1273) and the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda (born July 12, 1904), a tale of horror à la the American writer Edgar Allan Poe (January 19, 1809–October 7, 1849), a dissertation on the causes of the Spanish-American War, and the libretto for a possible opera or Broadway musical.

  One other thing. I thought I was a good friend.

  I guess I was mistaken.

  I WILL TRY HARDER! I WILL BE THE BEST FRIEND IN THE UNIVERSE!

  No more show-offy shamming.

  But how can I be a good friend

  if you won’t let me?