Fleabrain Loves Franny

by Joanne Rocklin

  Yours everlastingly,

  FB

  The Buckeye Amendments

  Teresa Goodly imagined the story and told it to the others. Teresa’s story was inspired by Mrs. Nelson, who got the information from her anthropologist husband, who said that children in the British Commonwealth played the same buckeye game as the Pack in Squirrel Hill. Across oceans and throughout time, Mrs. Nelson said, young people have always learned from one another.

  “Here’s the story,” Teresa said. “One hundred years ago, a family sailed to America from England or Ireland, or maybe it was Scotland. They settled in Squirrel Hill, in the days when the chattering gray squirrel roamed the land, stealing grain from the settlers and raining nuts on their roofs. The brother and the sister greatly missed their native land, with its shady horse chestnut trees and cool rivers. They were always moping about, bored and crabby, until one day their mother shook a broom at them, saying, ‘Get ye out of the house!’ So the brother and the sister moseyed over to Homewood Cemetery that autumn day. They noticed the fallen round nuts beneath a buckeye tree, reminding them of the nuts of the horse chestnut trees of their homeland and the games they used to play with them. The ancestors of those siblings, and the ancestors’ neighbors, have been playing the buckeye game around here ever since.”

  That was Teresa’s story, and the Pack agreed it was a good one, and quite plausible. They also agreed on the rules of the Buckeye Tournaments, which they’d been playing for years and knew by heart. But that spring, Teresa posted the rules on the bulletin board of Sol’s Ye Olde Candy Shoppe, adding some important amendments written in Brick Red crayon for emphasis.

  PRELIMINARIES OF THE GAME

  1. In the autumn, gather a bunch of round buckeyes that have fallen to the ground from the buckeye trees of Homewood Cemetery. Divide them up among the Pack. Note: Use a penknife to pry apart the sharp casing to get to the buckeye inside. Better than a potato peeler! Carol, THIS ONE’S FOR YOU. Remember last autumn’s skin loss?

  2. Put a hole through each buckeye. You can use a screwdriver or a nail. Do this carefully so the buckeye does not split.

  3. Keep your buckeyes indoors ALL winter.

  4. In the spring, thread an old shoelace through the hole of each buckeye. Knot it at the end. Take your buckeye(s) outdoors for tournaments.

  THE GAME

  Objective

  To crack the buckeye of the opposing player, or make it fall to the ground.

  Play

  1. Two buckeye players face off, holding one buckeye each on its string.

  2. One buckeye player is defense, and just stands there. The player on offense swings, trying to crack the other’s buckeye, and wins the match if this happens. If no one wins that round, just keep going until someone does, alternating offense and defense.

  3. The buckeye with the most winning matches compared to his opponent always goes first. If both are playing their first match of the season or the buckeyes are tied, you flip a coin.

  Scoring

  The winning buckeye is a King-over-1, if it is the first match of the season. After its next winning match, it is a King-over-2, et cetera. Last year Seymour’s buckeye was a King-over-50. No buckeye in history has ever scored that high. Some kids swear it never happened, since scoring is based on the honor system. Some say it happened because of the vinegar. (See Amendment #1.)

  ***IMPORTANT AMENDMENTS TO THE RULES!***

  Buckeye Amendment #1, Spring 1953

  Players are forbidden to bake their buckeyes or soak them in vinegar over the winter. This makes buckeyes as hard as concrete and unbeatable. What if we all did that? What would be the point of the game?

  Buckeye Amendment #2, Spring 1953

  If one player is in a wheelchair, the other player may (or may not) sit in a chair, too, to create a level playing ground. It’s up to you. Lawn chairs give the best spring.

  One of Franny’s buckeyes was King-over-24 by mid-April, as was Seymour’s. On the day of Franny’s challenge, they faced off in front of the Walters’ porch on Hobart Street. The whole Pack and some stragglers from other blocks were there. So was Alf, and, therefore, Fleabrain.

  “Go, Franny!” whispered Fleabrain.

  Seymour won the coin flip and decided to stand rather than sit. He flexed his buckeye arm, then gave Franny a piercing look, his infamous “Seymour eye,” which had intimidated many a lesser player. Franny was ready for him, her King-over-24 hanging firm on its shoelace.

  Seymour raised his arm, then stopped suddenly, midswing.

  “I think I’ll sit down,” he said.

  Walter Walter carried down his grandmother’s red-and-white-striped lawn chair from his front porch.

  “You’re making a big mistake,” Teresa called out. “Standing is better for hitting. You’re not used to sitting, Seymour.”

  “Pipe down,” said Seymour, sitting down on the lawn chair. He raised his arm and swung, missing Franny’s buckeye. “Do-over, do-over!” Seymour shouted. “I’m not used to sitting.”

  “No do-overs,” said Walter Walter. “You’ve had two weeks to practice both techniques, standing and sitting.”

  “Sitting, huh? Franny and Walter sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g!” shouted Seymour.

  Fleabrain almost bit Seymour but reconsidered.

  “Aw, let him stand up and have his do-over,” said Franny. “I’ll still beat him.”

  Seymour jumped up and swung. His buckeye tapped Franny’s, but hers stayed intact.

  It was Franny’s turn.

  Franny faced Seymour with her own steely gaze, raising her buckeye arm. At that moment, Seymour was overcome by a case of hiccups.

  “Postpone the challenge on account of hiccups!” yelled Teresa.

  “Right! No fair! She’ll never hit a jumping buckeye!” hollered Katy, even louder than Teresa, which was saying something.

  “Hic!” hiccuped Seymour, his face crumpling into a relieved smile.

  “Faker!” shouted B. “He’s just stalling.”

  Seymour shrugged. “Prove—hic—it!”

  “Postpone the challenge!” said Walter Walter.

  “I challenge the postponement!” shouted Franny, raising her arm again. “The tournament continues. No more delays.”

  To everyone’s astonishment, as Seymour’s buckeye-on-its-shoelace hiccuped to the left, then hiccuped to the right, Franny’s buckeye was waiting at the second hiccup, as if driven to it by an invisible force.

  Left. Right. Crack!

  Seymour’s buckeye was down! Franny’s buckeye was King-over-25. The rest of the Pack cheered so loudly, a startled Alf scrambled up onto all fours from his afternoon snooze.

  Fleabrain was as astonished as everyone else. He’d had nothing at all to do with Franny’s win. He hoped she realized that.

  Buckeye Amendment #3, Spring 1953

  Hiccups may be grounds for postponement, unless the offense agrees to continue.

  Happy for Her

  He was happy for her. Oh, he was so happy for her.

  He was happy when she pitched that no-hitter on the playground of Colfax School one Sunday, the afternoon another Pack from Northumberland Street decided to let her play, just that once and just for laughs. She surprised them by using her special throw, even more powerful now that her arm was so strong, the ball held in the cleft between her pointing and middle finger. Franny’s Whiz Ball. Walter Walter was her runner when Franny was up at bat, and she only struck out once.

  He was happy for her when she did a wheelie on Shady Avenue where the street goes downhill at Beacon, and didn’t capsize. The Pack gasped as one, in amazement.

  And happy for her when she arm-wrestled Walter Walter and won, and even when she arm-wrestled Seymour and Katy and didn’t.

  But mostly he was happy for her when she wasn’t someone special, just one of the Pack. One of the Pack wandering up the street, everyone looking for something to do on a sunny day. Rolling down the paths of Frick Park, needing a push only every now and then
. Reading comic books and library books in somebody’s living room or backyard, carried up the stairs in a friendship seat. Playing Gin Rummy and Steal the Pile and Old Maid and jacks. Sorting the bottle caps for hours with the other kids in Teresa’s basement, according to the caps’ rarity, condition, and duplication. Racing her wheelchair down the street in a game of tag, yelling “Safe!” when she touched a tree. And pretending not to hear her parents calling her inside, when the sunset shadows stretched along the sidewalks.

  She had a good arm and a good eye and a good heart and, of course, a good head—all the things she’d had Before. The difference was that now she couldn’t walk. She didn’t even like to try. She hated the kind of walking they wanted her to do, even though she practiced every now and then.

  Lean on left foot. Swing right hip out. Step with right foot.

  Lean on right foot. Swing left hip out. Step with left foot.

  She preferred her wheelchair.

  “I wear glasses to help me see,” she told her parents. “My wheelchair helps me move. I’m not a pedestrian anymore. Sure, it’s a tight squeeze through some doorways, but most of the time this chair is my noble steed. Or my chariot, its golden wheels embedded with precious jewels! And no more hot towels or stretching exercises, please. They’re not helping me anymore.”

  Fleabrain was happy for her, even though her parents protested. But he could see that their eyes were happy for their daughter, too. One of the Pack again, in her wheelchair.

  Happy for her.

  Happy as the day was long.

  And the day was long whenever Francine left the house. Soon it would be longer, for Fleabrain learned something that made his innards quiver.

  “I see no reason why your bright daughter can’t finish the school year in the classroom with her friends. I’m going to recommend that she does,” he heard Mrs. Nelson say to Franny’s parents. “The authorities already know she’s not contagious, and she is as ‘independently mobile’ as she needs to be. Keeping her out of Creswell is plain old discrimination, in my opinion.”

  Franny would be gone all the livelong day, where Alf and, ipso facto, he, Fleabrain, couldn’t reach her.

  Was mich nicht umbringt, macht mich stärker.

  What doesn’t destroy me, makes me stronger. He wasn’t at all sure he believed that anymore. Nietzsche didn’t know everything!

  He, Fleabrain, certainly wasn’t stronger. His formerly burnished shell was as dull as an old penny from the early nineteen-forties. He had no appetite, despite Alf’s splendid generosity. Dark dreams penetrated his sleep. His legs were weak and shivery, and his jumping wasn’t as powerful as it used to be. What was the point, if there was no joy for which to leap? Life had no meaning if he and Francine couldn’t be friends.

  During his saddest hours, he listlessly dragged himself to the night table beside her bed. There, he would leaf through Charlotte’s Web, examining its humorous illustrations, an attempt to feel closer to his Francine, however indirectly. This comforted him greatly. One day, by accident, and with nothing better to do, he began rereading the book in earnest. He’d never, ever reread a book three times, even his beloved Paramoigraphy!

  Oh, how he tittered and guffawed! Tears came to the tiny eye on each side of his head. He clapped his tarsi with delight throughout his reading. The simple beauty, the fun, the heart of it! A book for any age, for any species, including fleas who thought they knew everything. And yet he was at a loss to explain why the book made him feel so strongly at this, his third, reading. He couldn’t seem to analyze its power in a manner befitting his huge brainpower.

  Dearest Francine,

  I love Charlotte’s Web.

  Therefore, as your friend, I would be happy

  if you read it,

  but, of course, you already have.

  Yours,

  FB

  P.S. I couldn’t help noticing that you haven’t answered any of my previous notes. You have other things to do, of course. I am happy for you.

  Happy for her. Happy as the day was long.

  But he was brokenhearted for himself.

  What Fleabrain Knew but Wished He Didn’t

  Music floated up and through Alf’s tail hairs, haunting and piercing, like the sharpening of knives. Or chalk across a blackboard. Or the keening of wild creatures not of this planet. Scores, hundreds, perhaps thousands of the tiny, high-pitched voices harmonized together, louder than ever.

  “Fleabrain, you are sum-moned. Fleabrain, you are sum-moned. Fleabrain, you are sum-moned.”

  Fleabrain was terrified. If he wore boots on his tarsi, he’d be shivering in them.

  “Alf?” Fleabrain whispered into the dark, his voice quaking.

  “Huh?” Alf had been dreaming about lamb bones. “What’s wrong?”

  “Do you hear it?”

  “Hear what?” asked Alf. He yawned and flicked his tail and, thus, Fleabrain, back and forth.

  “Whoa!” said Fleabrain, hanging on to Alf’s hair. “You’re pretty vigorous for two in the morning!”

  “Sorry. I feel an odd, tingling sensation in my tail. What’s happening back there?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary,” said Fleabrain. “Having a bit of supper, that’s all. But, Alf, do you hear the singing?”

  Fleabrain, you are sum-moned.

  Fleabrain, you are sum-moned.

  Fleabrain, you are sum-moned.

  The choristers had now chosen a higher key, relentless and insistent.

  “Did you say you were singing, Fleabrain? I didn’t know you could sing,” said Alf.

  “Yes, of course I can sing,” said Fleabrain waspishly. “I’m a magnificent tenor, as fine as our famous American tenor Mario Lanza, born January 31, 1921. Oh, how I wish I had time to regale you with ‘E lucevan le stelle’ from the opera Tosca, by the Italian composer Giacomo Puccini, born December 22, 1858, died November 29, 1924! It’s the aria the imprisoned artist Cavaradossi sings while awaiting execution, entirely appropriate to the present situation. But that’s not me singing now. Alf, can’t you hear the choir? It’s mighty loud this time.”

  Alf cocked an ear. “Nope.”

  “What’s wrong with you? You’re a dog. Hearing’s supposed to be your major talent, second only to smelling! Don’t you hear it?”

  Alf tried again. “No choir. Sorry.”

  Fleabrain, you are sum-moned.

  Fleabrain, you are sum-moned.

  Fleabrain, you are sum-moned.

  Of course Alf couldn’t process the sound! Alf had never heard the singing because the sound had always been too small for even a dog’s ears to process, small being the operative word here. And the smaller the sound, the greater the importance.

  The greater the power.

  Fleabrain, you are sum-moned.

  Fleabrain, you are sum-moned.

  Fleabrain, you are sum-moned.

  The choir was making no attempt to harmonize or sing on key now. Foreboding and discordant, the command filled Fleabrain’s “ears.”

  “OK, OK, I’m on my way!” shouted Fleabrain. He might as well face the music. He would try, in these last, terrifying moments, to be brave, if he could.

  Alf turned his head. “Where are you going at this hour?” he asked.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” said Fleabrain.

  He rubbed himself all over with FB Saliva #3, a solution perfected to make the tiny even tinier. His jaws clattered with dread.

  Fleabrain, you are sum-moned.

  Fleabrain, you are sum-moned.

  Fleabrain, you are sum-moned.

  “Good-bye, dear world!” he whispered. “Good-bye, books! Good-bye, Alf, dear friend! Good-bye, my dearest, dearest Francine!”

  He felt the squeezing deep down in his “gut.” He could hardly breathe. He smelled the popcorn and the firecrackers. He heard a rushing sound like trees swaying and shaking in a storm, as he clutched his favorite tail hair, now as wide as a redwood tree.

  “Fleabrain, you are sum-moned
. Fleabrain, you are sum-moned. Fleabrain, you are sum-moned,” sang the choir, louder and closer now.

  “You want me smaller still?” gasped Fleabrain. He took another FB Saliva #3 bath, gamely rubbing it all over his body. “Now what?”

  He felt himself hurtling downward, then sideways, then up, then down again. The process seemed to take forever, but his reliable instincts told him a mere three seconds had gone by. His favorite Alf hair was no longer a hair or even a tree but a dull, flat surface stretching endlessly toward infinity.

  And then he became aware of them, thousands of them, sitting in rows all around him. They were waiting for the show to begin, as if they were patrons of the Manor Theater on Murray Avenue, except that the theater seemed as big as a stadium.

  On closer inspection, Fleabrain realized they weren’t all sitting. Some lounged on their sides; others bobbed up and down; some attached themselves to others and hogged a whole row. Others continuously morphed and divided into exact replicas of themselves.

  Fleabrain recognized a few of them from illustrations in The Invisible World, a biology book in the Katzenback bookcase: the pancake-shaped skin cells; the snaky nerve cells with their enthusiastic dendrites; the blood cells, round like sucking candy; a random buglike bacterium. He’d never thought he’d see them for himself, these creatures of another world. Except the world was Alf, or Alf’s tail, to be precise. Wonders of the microworld, which he certainly would have appreciated under different circumstances.

  “Fleabrain!” the group intoned, the sound large and commanding.

  “Yes?” Fleabrain whispered.

  “You have been summoned!”

  “I’m aware of that,” replied Fleabrain dryly.

  They all burst into an otherworldly, screeching laughter, with some applause.

  “Yes, I’m sure you are,” a few skin and muscle cells shouted in unison.

  “Who or What has summoned me?”

  “You have been summoned by the Commanders of All Nuclei!” cried the giant group, once again in unison. “And we have been named the Great and Powerful and Majestic Council of the Small. For today, anyway.”