Fleabrain Loves Franny

by Joanne Rocklin

  “I don’t understand why they need a whole separate building just for kids in wheelchairs,” she said. “Hey, I also wear glasses! Why don’t they have a Home for Nearsighted Children?”

  Her father smoothed the pillowcase behind her head. “You know it’s a bit more complicated than that, honey,” he said.

  “I just wish they would give me more time to practice my walking. I promise, I’ll practice every single minute.”

  Her parents were holding hands. They looked at one another. Franny could tell they were trying as hard as they could not to cry, to help Franny look at the bright side of things. That was a parent’s job. And Franny loved them very much for trying to do something so hard. Something impossible.

  As impossible as her ever walking again, even if she stole all the days’ marches from the sun, just as the writer James Joyce described, and practiced walking forever and ever. She knew that now.

  “Franny, come listen to the radio with us in the kitchen. The Charlie McCarthy Show is on,” said her mother.

  “I really don’t feel like laughing,” said Franny.

  “Well, you can’t just stay holed up in your room,” said her father.

  “Yes, I can,” Franny said. “That’s what the poet Emily Dickinson did.”

  Min came to sit on Franny’s bed later that evening. “Oh, Franny,” she said. She didn’t tell Franny to eat or leave her room or stop crying, and, anyway, she was crying herself. Alf licked Min’s face. Franny loved Min for being Min.

  The ballerina leaped strenuously at 9:37 P.M., but even she seemed tired of the struggle. Franny, slipping to the floor, dragged herself to her closet across the room to dig out her journal.

  Dear, dear Fleabrain,

  I miss you very much. We have so many more Wonders to explore. Please come back.

  Love always,

  Franny

  Lying on the braided rug, Alf stirred.

  “Fleabrain?” Franny whispered. She pulled herself to the night table and found the tiny leftover fragment of Sparky’s Finest she kept in a drawer. Alf came to her, and she held the glass to her eye as she carefully combed through the dog’s tail with her other hand. She turned her head to search the room. Splinters of moonlight. A blur of gray shadow.

  But no Fleabrain.

  “Fleabrain, can you hear me?” Franny asked. “Where are you? Fleabrain, what should I do?”

  Three Little Words

  Of course he could hear her!

  “I can hear the beating of your heart and every single breath you breathe!” Fleabrain wanted to shout as he watched Franny from Alf’s hairy flank.

  But he couldn’t say that to her. Those words were embarrassingly maudlin and flowery, not to mention more than three, his allowable quota.

  That night Fleabrain labored at discovering the three perfect words to help his dear, dear Francine. Shakespeare, Rumi, Neruda, Kafka, Dickinson, Hughes, the esteemed Howell—no great writer in all of history ever labored harder at his or her creative task.

  Certainly a mere three words should be easy to compose.

  He industriously filled one and one-half pages of Franny’s journal.

  I love you.

  Some girl, Franny.

  Do not worry.

  Count to ten.

  Roses are red.

  Chin up, Franny.

  Be proud, Franny.

  You are terrific.

  Never fear, Franny.

  Always hope, Franny.

  Fleabrain loves Franny.

  Fleabrain cherishes Franny.

  Hooray for you.

  Salutes to you.

  You will prevail.

  You will succeed.

  Friends forever, Franny.

  Comrades forever, Franny.

  Amigos forever, Franny.

  Hello, I’m here.

  Fleabrain is here.

  Really, I’m here.

  None of those measly, three-word sentences would truly help Franny, Fleabrain knew. He was blocked, hopelessly and frighteningly stymied, despite his huge, incomparable brainpower.

  Frustrated, Fleabrain lay curled on the floor in a “fetal” position. One tiny eye stared at the ceiling, willing his IQ to help him create. He could hear Franny crying in her bed, unable to sleep. Bug it! It was just too much. Who cared about the threats and demands of the Commanders of All Nuclei! Posh on the Great and Powerful and Majestic Council of the Small! He would write Franny an ode of one thousand verses proclaiming his love, inviting her to join him in a Wonder-filled life, forever and ever.

  No. That wasn’t what Franny needed.

  And then Fleabrain saw it.

  High up in its usual corner, lit by moonlight, was the small web of the angry brown spider. A lopsided, accidental Z had been spun smack-dab in the web’s center.

  Of course, it meant nothing, nothing at all. But with no other available source of inspiration, in his terrible frustration and desperation, Fleabrain decided to give it his creative all, one more time. He began to brainstorm using that Z.

  You have zeal.

  You are my zenith.

  I am Zorro.

  Zinc melts 419.5 C.

  My zinnia, Franny.

  Oh. Wait.

  He, Fleabrain, was not the one to help Franny this time, after all. It would be someone else who loved her. Someone from her own world.

  Ask your Zadie, Fleabrain wrote.

  No need to cross anything out. Fleabrain’s instincts told him that those three words were perfect.

  Zadie’s TOTU

  Zadie Ben was singing a lullaby.

  Franny had telephoned him the evening before. She’d told him she missed him. Would he have an answer? she’d wondered to herself. Trouble was, she wasn’t even sure what her question would be.

  And there he was in her bedroom the next morning, singing a lullaby. There were several things wrong with that.

  First of all, lullabies were for evening. And Zadie Ben usually sang after Friday-night supper, not Sunday breakfast.

  Second of all, lullabies were for sleeping. She knew that Zadie Ben wanted her to wake up, not sleep. Everybody wanted her to do that. Get out of bed, get dressed, greet the morning sun, and smile, smile, smile. Like an uncomplaining poster child.

  Third of all, Franny didn’t understand the lullaby. The words of the song were in Yiddish. That had never bothered her before, during all the hundreds of times she’d heard it. The tune itself was as familiar as her bathrobe, so familiar, she’d hardly realized there were words along with it. Zadie Ben said he’d learned the song at his mother’s knee, and his mother had learned it at her mother’s knee, who’d learned it at her mother’s knee. Franny imagined a dizzying line of plump knees and warm laps going way, way back in time. Everyone in that line knew what the song meant, except her.

  He was sitting in her desk chair, which he’d dragged close to her bed. His eyes were closed, and he held his worn, slipperlike shoes in his lap. He had taken them off to be comfortable because he’d been sitting there for a long time. Zadie Ben smelled like pancakes and tea, and Franny realized she was hungry. She reached for his hand.

  Zadie Ben’s eyes opened slowly, as if he’d been singing in his sleep. But his cheeks were pink and his eyebrows wriggling, and Franny loved him so much, she wished he could live forever.

  “What’s that song about, anyway?” she asked.

  And so he told her.

  The song was an old, old story set to music by someone who preferred to sing. Before the universe was created, the song went, God filled clay vessels with the sparks of light necessary to make an absolutely perfect world.

  “Of course, that made for some pretty powerful ingredients,” said Zadie Ben. “The pressure was enormous! KABOOM!”

  He sang the song again, in English this time.

  The vessels of light shattered,

  Shards scattered,

  Piercing the sparks,

  Hiding the sparks,

  Those precious sparks! />
  Then tumbling, tumbling down.

  “Can you imagine the giant explosion?” he asked her. “Yes,” Franny whispered. She’d seen the newsreels of the bomb bursting over Hiroshima. It was easy to imagine the noise and the stink and the heat, as the vessels of light shattered into shards. She imagined all the broken pieces swirling about the firmament, piercing and trapping the beautiful light, then the shards tumbling down to Earth. It must have been beautiful and terrifying, all at once, and thank goodness no one had been there to experience it.

  “And that was that,” said Zadie Ben. “The world ended up, as everyone knows, not-so-perfect. We’ve been trying to free the light from those broken shards ever since.”

  “Someone from long ago had a wonderful imagination,” Franny said.

  Zadie Ben rubbed his chin thoughtfully. There was a sugarlike sprinkling of white bristles on his face. He’d arrived very early that morning and needed a shave. “You’re right; it may not have happened exactly like that,” he said, “but the song and its story still tell the truth. The important thing to know is that it’s the world that needs to be repaired, not you, feygeleh. So leave your bedroom and help us fix it.”

  “Me?” Franny pulled herself up to a sitting position. “How can I fix it?”

  Zadie Ben leaned over to kiss her cheek. The white bristles above his mouth tickled. “You’ll figure it out,” he said.

  “Well, now she knows,” said Fleabrain.

  Fleabrain and the brown spider were both lying companionably on the window ledge several days later, warmed by a sun ray.

  “Yes, now she knows,” echoed the spider.

  “Franny will be very busy, freeing the light from her world’s broken shards,” said Fleabrain. Tears filled his tiny eyes. He would miss her very much.

  “By the way, I’ve been meaning to tell you,” said the spider. “That Z in my web wasn’t accidental. I spun it on purpose.”

  “The thought crossed my mind,” said Fleabrain. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “I did it for Franny. She and her clarinet saved my life, that day you were both cavorting inside my web.”

  “I remember, I remember,” said Fleabrain. “Don’t rub it in. No hard feelings?”

  “Not at all,” said the spider. “All’s well that ends well, as the Bard would say.”

  Fleabrain clapped several tarsi. “Shakespeare! You’re a reader!”

  “I’ve been known to peruse a bit, when time allows me to leave the web.”

  “I just realized we haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Fleabrain, Ctenocephalides canis.”

  “Chuck, here. Parasteatoda tepidariorum.”

  Fleabrain leaped seven inches into the air. “You’re kidding!” he shouted. “Your name is Chuck? Short for Charles?”

  The spider’s multiple eyes looked hurt. “Charles is my given name, yes. What’s the matter? You have a problem with it?”

  “No problem at all, actually. It’s a perfectly distinguished name. In fact, may I call you Charles?”

  “I would love that. No one has ever called me Charles, except my dear, departed mom.”

  “Charles, my good friend,” said Fleabrain. “I’d like to share some information with you, but please keep it between you and me. Franny plans to begin repairing the world very soon. OK, not exactly the whole world. Just her little part of it.”

  “And her plan is … ?”

  “You’ll see, you’ll see,” said Fleabrain.

  The ballerina danced away the minutes of the afternoon. With each minute, Fleabrain’s happiness grew, as he marveled at the miracle of a spider and a flea, perched side by side on one beam of light. Another Truth of the Universe, he realized. Kindred Spirits were everywhere!

  “Say, Charles, have you read Howell’s Paramoigraphy?” Fleabrain asked.

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “Charles, I think you’ll love it.”

  A Statement

  Nicholson Street was steep, but Franny said she preferred that route, and Min and Milt helped her from behind. The birds of dawn were twittering, her heart was beating, and Alf was panting as he trudged beside her wheelchair. Somewhere on Alf’s tail, Fleabrain was cheering. From Franny’s perspective, things were quite noisy. From Min and Milt’s perspective, Franny guessed, it was a quiet morning, with a silvery sky and a splash of sunrise. Very romantic.

  “Are you OK, kiddo?” Milt asked.

  “I’m perfect, langer loksh,” Franny said.

  Milt had arrived at the Katzenback home at 6:00 A.M. Franny was ready, dressed, and waiting in her chair. She was wearing her braces and her clodhopper shoes. Milt picked her up and carried her, and Min pushed the wheelchair, quietly and swiftly, out the front door.

  Soon they were quickly crossing the boulevard, then moving more slowly along the wooded path, the morning sun slanting through the trees.

  “Mom and Dad will be reading my note soon,” Min said. “I taped it on Dad’s shaving mirror.”

  “They’ll be angry,” said Franny. “Worried, too.” That was the only flaw in her plan.

  “Oh, phooey!” said Min. “This is important. I told them everything would be fine, and to meet us there at eight. They’ll be there.”

  Oh, phooey?

  Who was this spunky, angry Min, flyaway hair in her eyes, her cheeks as pink as cotton candy? Where had Saint Min gone? Franny wondered at the change in her sister, ever since that awful letter from the school had arrived. Or did it have something to do with falling in love? Or maybe this more spirited Min had been secretly hiding all along, waiting for an important reason to show up.

  And here was one reason. As they entered Lightning’s stall, he bent his head way down to nuzzle Franny’s neck, as always. She kissed his velvet nose, then put both arms around his neck to whisper the secret of their next adventure into his ear.

  “I’ll be right back,” said Milt. He ran into the stables’ office and emerged with a picnic hamper. “Before we go, breakfast for all of us.”

  Milt spread a blue-checked tablecloth on a picnic table in front of the stables.

  Bagels, cream cheese, melon, and apples. Blueberry pie and eleven dog biscuits. It was probably the best breakfast of all of their lives.

  After breakfast, Franny fed Lightning an apple, then watched Milt brush him until his rich brown hide gleamed like a buckeye. He checked Lightning’s tail for stickers and hay and cleaned his feet with a pick.

  “Next time you’ll help me,” Milt said to Franny.

  “Are you going to get into trouble for all of this?” Franny asked.

  “Maybe,” Milt said. “Maybe not. Lightning’s my aunt’s horse.” Milt’s dark eyes crinkled when he smiled. Franny understood why Min loved him.

  Milt tacked up Lightning and walked him around the stables a few times to warm his muscles.

  “Hey, Milt, it’s getting late,” said Min. “It’s time.”

  “Ready, Franny?” asked Milt.

  “Ready,” said Franny.

  Ready.

  Milt picked her up, and he and Min carefully helped Franny straddle the horse’s saddle and put her feet into the stirrups. Franny held the reins while her sister stood beside her, Min’s hand on Franny’s leg.

  “Walk on, old fellow. You won’t be traveling very far,” said Milt. He held a rope attached to Lightning’s halter.

  Lightning started forward slowly, guided by Milt, Alf following the horse.

  “You’re a natural, kiddo!” said Milt.

  Franny sat tall. She’d done this before. “Thank you,” she said.

  The procession turned down English Lane, then onto the sidewalk of Beechwood Boulevard, which was now alive with cars and people. Horns honked, and people gawked at the girl on her horse on the sidewalks of Squirrel Hill. Milt held up his hand to stop the traffic as they crossed the boulevard at the corner. Only one more block to go.

  There were so many things in the world to repair, Franny knew. But there were so many things that didn�
��t need repairing at all.

  The sun on her back, like a warm cloak.

  Min’s smile that morning.

  Alf.

  Lightning, her noble champion, his true speed and aerial power known only to a few.

  Her love for her family and her friends.

  Charlotte’s Web.

  Her love for Fleabrain, always and forever.

  They had reached the school. Walter Walter and Katy had told the rest of the Pack who told everyone else, and now there was a respectful silence as Franny and Lightning trotted into the school yard. Every kid had imagined themselves sitting upon that beautiful old racehorse. No one would ever forget Franny’s ride.

  Franny saw her parents, with tenuous smiles and concerned frowns, just as Min had predicted. But she hadn’t expected to see the young man with a camera.

  “Jimmy Regis, here,” he said, wearing a press badge and a smile. “Special Correspondent to the Pittsburgh Rag. Do you have a statement to make, miss?”

  “A statement? Well, yes, I do,” said Franny. “My name is Francine Babette Katzenback. I’m in fifth grade, and I want to go to school with my friends. I’m not allowed to come in my wheelchair, so I came on a horse. They may not let me stay at Creswell, but here I am today.”

  “May I?” Jimmy asked, holding up his camera. Franny nodded, and a bulb flashed.

  Min and Milt helped her down, and Franny walked across the yard, holding on to Min’s arm. 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 could see Mrs. Nelson, waving from a second-floor window. Franny could tell she was singing. At the Girls’ Entrance, Katy and Teresa made a friendship seat, hands over wrists, stronger than rope. Franny put her arms around the girls’ shoulders and pulled herself up, and they climbed the stairs to their classroom.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Charlotte’s Web, written by E. B. White and illustrated by Garth Williams, was published in October 1952, after the summer of the worst polio outbreak in U.S. history, in which 58,000 cases were recorded.

  White’s novel is a celebration of life and of a life-saving friendship. Any reader who has ever felt helpless and lonely can identify with the plight of Wilbur, the runt piglet of the litter, doomed to death because of his size. Young polio victims, especially, felt small in the face of their illness, suddenly overwhelmed by a situation in which everyone seemed to know what was best for them, but no one could really help. Perhaps some longed for their own tiny, but mighty, Charlotte. And so I imagined Franny and Fleabrain, the three of us connected by E. B. White’s inspiring book.