by Ellen Raskin
“I hope you’re not counting on me to perform on Founders’ Day,” Florence said.
“Of course I am,” his sister replied. “What’s a parade without Baby Flo? You’re going to be the King of Hearts.”
“Really, Mom,” Mona complained. “I wish you would stop calling Uncle Florence ‘Baby.’ He’s not six years old anymore.”
“For heaven’s sake, Mona,” Sissie replied. “You know very well that ‘Baby’ was his stage name, and a very famous one too. Besides, Flo was fifteen when that playbill was made; he just passed for six. And speaking of names, young lady, I wish you would stop calling your father ‘Newt.’ ”
“I don’t mind, really,” Newt said, trying to avoid another squabble.
“It just isn’t right,” Sissie insisted. “Besides, she still calls me ‘Mom.’ ”
“Well, I can’t very well go around calling my mother ‘Sister,’ can I?” Mona reasoned. “That’s almost as bad as having an uncle named ‘Remus.’ ”
“What’s wrong with that?” Sissie asked. “Really, Mona, sometimes I don’t understand you at all.”
Mona groaned, and once again Uncle Florence came to the rescue.
“Joseph Conrad!” he exclaimed. “Just think, two Joseph Conrads.”
3. PLOTS AND PLANS
MUCH TO MONA’S RELIEF, Fido was not at the breakfast table the next morning. He had taken a cue from his prey and was lurking behind the azalea bush, ready to spring when his cousin left for school.
“Mona, I’ve got to talk to you,” Fido said, grabbing her books as hostages.
“Go ahead and talk,” Mona replied haughtily, “but that doesn’t mean I’ll listen. Just don’t let your nose drip on my books.”
Fido reached for his handkerchief with his free hand. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
“Everybody in Pineapple thinks you’re so special, Fido Figg II, but they don’t know what I know—that you’re a disgusting, filthy pig. My answer is no, absolutely and finally no! I will not get you any dirty books.”
“That’s not what I was going to ask,” Fido protested. “Besides, I don’t need you to get me pornography; I can get all I want myself.”
“See, I told you you had a filthy mind. You’re no different from the dogs you live with, Fido Figg.”
“The dogs don’t read pornography!”
Mona clenched her teeth in anger. “That’s all you think about, isn’t it, Fido—baseball and sex.”
“You’re the one who brought it up, not me. Anyhow, just listen a minute, will you? I have a great idea for Uncle Florence’s birthday present.”
At last Fido had Mona’s attention.
The present would be a new paint job for the bus. He would pay for half of the paint and do all the painting if Mona could arrange to keep their uncle away from the bus all day Saturday.
Mona weighed the sharing of her own Uncle Florence against the painting over of the words “The Fabulous Figgs, starring Baby Flo” on the side of the bus.
“All right,” she said at last, “but what color?”
Black would look like a hearse, red like a fire wagon, yellow like a school bus, blue like the town bus (it wouldn’t do to have people lining up at Uncle Florence’s door at rush hour). They agreed on green. Spring green.
Fido had one more suggestion. “Maybe we can get Uncle Truman to letter ‘Capri’ on the bus door.”
“No!” Mona screamed. “No, please no.”
Fido was dumfounded by her outburst. “All right, just green. Spring green all over.”
Mona turned to hide her tears from an approaching neighbor.
“Good morning, Fido. Hello, Mona. My, aren’t you the lucky one to have such a thoughtful cousin carry your books for you.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Lumpholtz,” Fido said, shaking her hand.
Mona grabbed her books and ran.
Mona thought the school day would never end. She had devised a plan to keep Uncle Florence away from the bus until dark, but she would have to hurry. Saturday was the day after next.
She reread the first (and only) paragraph of her composition, then her mind wandered to Uncle Florence’s gasp of delight when he awoke on Sunday, his birthday, and saw the bright, shiny bus. The spring-green bus.
Mona shuddered to think that Fido had wanted that hateful word “Capri” painted on the bus. Uncle Florence wasn’t really sick; he just had a virus. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t go to Capri; not yet, not without her. He couldn’t leave her alone in the world with no one but a tap-dancer for a mother and an incompetent used-car dealer for a father.
★ “Capri,” the people of Pineapple said. “Leave it to the Figgs to have some crazy religion of their own. They think their souls will go to a place called Capri when they die. Not the real Capri, but another world all together. Just as well. Who would want to go to heaven if the Figgs were going to be there?”
The bell rang. Pushing and dodging, Mona ran out of school to the used-car lot.
Newt agreed to buy the paint and be paid back in installments. Leaning into the bus, Mona apologized for not being able to help out today (too much homework) and blew Uncle Florence a kiss.
Fido was waiting on the front porch, blowing his nose. Mona collapsed on the steps next to him, panting for breath.
“What’s going on in there?”
“Girl Scouts and their mothers,” Fido replied.
“That’s going to be a sight not to see,” Mona remarked. She had avoided all of her mother’s holiday shows for the past three years.
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Fido said. “The shows are really great fun. Dad’s going to let me lead the dogs in the parade this time.”
Mona shook her head over the silliness and humiliation of it all, but said nothing. She needed Fido’s help if she were going to keep Uncle Florence away from the bus all day Saturday.
“Listen, Fido, I have a plan all worked out. I can tempt Uncle Florence to travel out of town if there is a book collection for sale. Now, old man Bargain subscribes to all the newspapers within two hundred miles so he can read the obituaries and buy up books from dead collectors’ relatives. All I have to do is read the obituaries before Bargain does, then make an appointment for Uncle Florence to look at the books.”
“How can you get those papers if Mr. Bargain is the only one in town who subscribes to them?”
“You, Fido Figg, are going to steal them!”
“I will not. Honestly, Mona, for someone who hates dirty books....”
“Old man Bargain swears at me, so it’s all right.”
“It’s not all right. If you want to steal them, go ahead; but not me. And how is Uncle Florence going to travel two hundred miles? He doesn’t drive, and your folks work Saturdays.”
“You’ll have to ask your father to drive us.”
“Let’s get this straight, Mona,” Fido said after a long sniff. “I’ll paint the bus; I’ll pay for half the paint, but the rest is up to you. Good-bye, I’m late for practice.”
4. THE POTATO DANCE
How DID your homework go?” Florence asked at the dinner table.
“Terrible,” Mona replied, remembering that her composition was overdue. If her plan kept to schedule, she could return to school in time to hand it in, but she had to write it first. “Just terrible.”
“That’s not like you, princess,” Newt said as Sissie carried in a flat cake, tapping and singing “School Days.” “You’re always so good in school. Not like us, huh, Sis?” Newt chuckled over sweet memories.
“Being good in school isn’t everything, Mona,” Sissie said. “I wish you’d let me teach you baton-twirling. Or at least some of the cheers.”
“Your mom was the best cheerleader Pineapple High ever had,” Newt said proudly.
Sister demonstrated her favorite. “With an N. With an E. With a W, T. Newwwwwwwt!”
Unimpressed, Mona left the table and returned with her notebook.
“Why don’
t you read your composition out loud. Perhaps we can help you,” Uncle Florence said, as she had expected.
“The assignment is to describe an imaginary person in five hundred words,” Mona explained, then read what she had written:“His name was Holtzlump. Conrad Q. Holtzlump, to be exact. The people of Winston-Salem wondered what the Q. stood for. They knew so little about this strange man, who had a nose like a potato and moved like a trombone.”
“We too,” Sissie said approvingly. “What does the Q. stand for, I wonder. And how did you ever think up a name like Holtzlump?”
“I’m more concerned with Winston-Salem,” Newt said. “You haven’t taken up smoking, have you?”
Mona’s answer was a wilting glare.
“That’s quite good, Mona,” Florence said. “Go on.”
“That’s all I have,” Mona confessed. “I can’t figure out what kind of a person moves like a trombone.”
“Then why did you write it?” Newt asked.
“I like the way it sounds,” Mona replied. “Sort of intriguing.”
“Your Uncle Truman looks something like a trombone when he’s doing his human-pretzel act,” Sissie said.
Newt corrected her. “You’re thinking of a French horn.”
“Well, change it to French horn and write about Truman,” Sissie suggested.
“It’s supposed to be an imaginary person,” Mona replied impatiently. “Besides, who wants to write five hundred words about a double-jointed idiot who bites his toenails? ”
“Mona Lisa Newton, what a thing to say about your Uncle Truman!” Sissie scolded.
“Well, it’s just what all the people of Pineapple say about him,” Mona replied calmly.
“What people?” Newt was aghast. “I don’t know anyone who’d say such a thing.”
“Never mind.” Mona couldn’t explain how she knew what everybody said. She just knew.
Worry creased Uncle Florence’s face. “Let’s get back to your composition. As you say, it is supposed to be an imaginary character.”
“I know!” Sissie exclaimed. “Just turn it around, Mona. Make him have a nose like a trombone and move like a potato.”
“Move like a potato!” Newt howled.
Sissie giggled uncontrollably. Uncle Florence smiled broadly. Someone repeated “potato” and all three roared with contagious laughter.
Then four.
“Look,” Newt gasped, pointing at his daughter. “Look, Mona’s laughing!”
Mona stopped laughing.
The others stopped laughing, cleared their throats, and returned to the business at hand.
“I have an idea,” Florence said. “Your paragraph is too good to waste. Why don’t you put it aside and start again with something you do know? Describe the Figg-Newton giant.”
Mona argued that the giant wasn’t imaginary, but her uncle explained that although they were each half of the giant, the giant itself was not real.
Mona wasn’t sure, but the giant would be simple enough for her to describe: its clothes (which she had sewn), its face (Kadota plus pimples), its arm movements (like a windmill, like a bird).
“Thanks, Uncle Florence.” Mona wrapped her arms around her uncle and planted a big kiss on his cheek. Then, turning her back on her parents, she clumped up the stairs to her room.
Newt and Sissie stared sadly after their daughter, stung by the deliberate rejection. At last Sissie rose from the table.
“Moved like a potato,” she said, trying to sound cheerful.
Newt forced a loud laugh at Sissie’s attempt to imitate a potato dancing. “Hey, Sissie, that’s good. That’s really very good.” His voice broke.
Mona, Mona, Uncle Florence thought. Perhaps it’s all for the best that I go to Capri.
III
1. THE THIEF
STOP THAT MAN! Stop him!”
Newt stopped jogging and looked around. “Who, me?” Ebenezer Bargain was pointing a spidery finger at him.
“Shame on you, Newton Newton,” Mrs. Lumpholtz snapped. “Stealing an old man’s mail.”
“What arc you talking about, Alma? I didn’t steal any mail.” Newt vindicated himself by opening the burlap bag he had been carrying over his shoulder for the inspection of the crowd. “Just car paint, see? And here’s the receipt.”
The commotion on Hemlock Street came at a propitious time for Mona, who was hurriedly shuffling through Bargain’s mail behind a trash can in the alley. There were no obituaries of book collectors in the newspapers, but she made a more fortunate discovery.
Mrs. Lumpholtz was now accusing Flabby Benckendorf of the theft. The druggist was proclaiming his innocence, and a third voice (a voice remarkably like Uncle Florence’s) was appealing to all parties for reason.
Mona stuffed a catalogue in her jacket pocket, opened the back window of the shop, and tossed the rest of the mail and papers onto the top of Ebenezer Bargain’s high desk. Her timing was perfect. When she reached the corner the blue town bus was waiting with open doors.
Slumped in a rear seat, Mona studied Saturday’s auction catalogue to the end of the line, She then walked the two blocks to the kennels.
“Kadota, go see what’s disturbing the dogs.” Gracie Jo had her hands full bathing three mongrels in the kitchen sink.
“Down, Mutt; down, Jeff; come here, Boy.” Kadota dispersed the dogs one by one until he found Mona at the bottom of the pack. “Everything’s all right, Gracie Jo,” he called, “it’s only Mona., smelling of her cat.”
★ “Dogs!” the people of Pineapple said. “Funny how they’ve always taken to Gracie Jo. And not only dogs. Once when the circus came to town two elephants and three white horses followed her all the way home. Small wonder she fell in love with that Figg of an animal-trainer. Some doctor he is, with his mail-order degree. Every animal Kadota treats ends up shaking hands. That’s all right for dogs, but who wants to shake hands with a cow?”
The honorary dog-catcher appeared at the screen door carrying the wet pets. “You okay, Mona? Why aren’t you in school?”
“I’m just fine, Auntie Gracie Jo,” Mona said, picking herself up. “I hope I didn’t frighten the animals.”
Mona, the model of politeness, ingratiated herself by shaking hands with the yelping dogs. Trying to ignore the rooster that had lighted on her head and the Dalmatian nudging her in the rear, she pleaded her cause. “Fido and I have a plan for Uncle Florence’s birthday, and we need your help.”
“Fido” was the magic word. Not only did Kadota agree to her requests; he even drove her back to the used-car lot.
Mona brushed off the telltale dog hairs, took a deep breath, and prayed that some of the family show-business blood would course through her veins.
“Uncle Florence, look what I’ve found,” she shouted as she leaped up the steps of the Fabulous Figgs bus waving the catalogue.
“What’s all the excitement?” Florence asked, surprised by her rare exuberance. Mona shoved the open catalogue into his gnarled hands.
Sale 924. Saturday, at 10 A.M. 12
34 [CLEMENS, SAMUEL L.]. Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. New York, 1885.
4to. FIRST AMERICAN EDITION, early issue with “was” for “saw” p. 57, line 23; frontispiece in first state. Original cloth, some wear near top of spine. BAL 2415.
35 COLERIDGE, S. T. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. London, Ballantyne Press, 1899.
12mo. Woodcut initials on opening page. Green morocco, inlaid and gilt design on upper cover, t.e.g., uncut, by Riviere.
36 CONRAD, JOSEPH. The Secret Agent. A simple tale. London, 1907.
FIRST EDITION. 12mo, original red cloth, with the 40 p. of ads at end dated “September, 1907”. Keating 73.
37 CONRAD, JOSEPH. Youth. A narrative and two other stories. Edinburgh and London, 1902.
FIRST EDITION. 12mo, original pale green cloth. With the 32 p. ads dated “10/02”. Contains “Heart of Darkness”. Keating 34,
“Where did this come from?” The only catalogues Florence re
ceived were for sales of colorplate books, but he was soon studying these listings with intense fascination.
“Two Conrads, first editions,” he remarked. “And ‘Heart of Darkness’ is one of my favorite stories.”
“Can we go, Uncle Florence? Please?”
“Go where?”
“To the auction, tomorrow, in Middletown?”
“Go all the way to Middletown? How? I can phone in a bid; I don’t have to attend the sale.”
Mona looked out of the bus window expectantly. “But it’s better to be there, if you want a good price. Besides, I’ve never ever been to an auction.” Mona was playing her part well, but it wasn’t enough. Florence remained unconvinced.
She changed her tack. “I was hoping we could start a Conrad collection, what with these two books and the two on Bargain’s top shelf. I really want to read the books, all of them; and it would be so much nicer to read them in the first editions like you did.”
Florence laughed. “I’m not that old. But if you want to read the Conrads, if you really want to read them, well, maybe....”
“Yes, really, really,” Mona promised. Her plea was interrupted by the expected knock on the bus door.
“Anybody want to buy a dog?”
Kadota squeezed into the bus and plopped down, overlapping two seats, a mangy mutt cradled in his arms. Its coat was so matted and dusty that Mona thought it might be a large rat, but she reached over and shook its paw anyway.
Florence looked puzzled; his brother seldom visited the bus.