Figgs & Phantoms

by Ellen Raskin

  “Why do I have to be taller? Phoebe’s shorter than I am, and....”

  “Taller, seven inches taller, you obstinate child,” the pirate insisted. “Why should I invent a short companion when I’m over six feet tall?”

  Mona grew, looking up, looking into the rugged face of the dream-maker. “Did you look the same in real life?” she asked in admiration.

  “I look exactly as I did at the age of thirty,” he replied.

  “How old were you when you died?”

  “Old. I lived a long life, learned and loved many things. And so should you.”

  “You mean I can come back?” The pirate didn’t answer. “I’ll learn everything there is to learn; I’ll look at everything there is to see. I’m a good memorizer, just like my Uncle Romulus, the Walking Book of Knowledge.”

  The pirate did not seem overjoyed at the prospect of seeing Mona again. “Pile your stringy hair on top of your head and wear a long white dress,” he ordered.

  Mona felt like the Statue of Liberty in one of Sissie’s tableaus.

  The pirate frowned. “Can’t you put some flounces on the sleeves and hem? You are the dumpiest guest I ever had. Never mind, your compassionate uncle invites even stranger-looking guests, poor souls who found no happiness in life.”

  Mona thought of the pig-faced woman as her host studied her with a critical eye. “Try, at least, to look a bit older.”

  “Maybe if I put a few worry lines in my face....”

  “You have too many worry lines now. Try to look serene, confident. Try to look like a real person.”

  “I am a real person,” Mona insisted.

  “You are a selfish, stubborn, self-centered child,” the would-be pirate replied.

  A gong reverberated through the marble corridors. The guests had arrived, singing.

  “—Hurrah for our Pirate King!

  And it is, it is a glorious thing

  To be a Pirate King!

  It is!

  —Hurrah for our Pirate King.”

  The pirate king strode with open arms to greet his guests. His clothes faded and he emerged from the shadowy envelope dressed in a gleaming black suit with white ruff, ruffled cuffs, and silver-buckled knee breeches.

  “Dear Phoebe. Florence, my friend. Thank you for coming. May I introduce Señorita Narcissus Maria-Teresa Murillo y Olivares de Santiago.”

  The tall señorita presented a hand to her bowing uncle. She had planned to whisper her identity in his ear, but Florence was still only four-feet six-inches tall. And her captor was watching her with an alert eye. “You must be Florence Figg. I’ve heard so much about you. Delighted, I’m sure.”

  Florence kissed her hand politely and introduced his wife. Mona nodded in haughty recognition, then strode past Phoebe, head held high.

  “Please join us on the terrace for some refreshments,” Mona said with a broad gesture as she swept up the steps. The full-flounced skirt and added seven inches proved too much for Mona’s fine balance. She stumbled into Phoebe’s open arms.

  “I’m so sorry, señorita,” Mrs. Figg said sweetly. “We must have adjusted the rise of the step too quickly. It is indeed a pleasure to have such a beautiful guest visit our island.”

  Mona thanked Phoebe with a warm smile and studied her carefully as the pirate uncorked a bottle of champagne. Phoebe looked like Uncle Florence, acted like Uncle Florence, but was softer, tenderer. The motherly Phoebe was the female counterpart of her uncle, the part he had never allowed himself to be. Phoebe could stay, Mona decided; Phoebe and Florence would be her parents forever. And the pirate could be.... But she had little time left if she was to remain in Caprichos. Florence was still ignorant of her true identity.

  Florence raised his glass in a toast. Mona stared hard at the glass in his hand and changed the liquid to celery tonic, her uncle’s favorite soda. Mona watched for his reaction over the rim of her glass as she took her first sip of champagne.

  “Ilck!” Mona uttered involuntarily, surprised by the sour taste. The pirate scowled, then forced a laugh. “Perhaps I should have served sangria to my Spanish guest.”

  “Or do what I do, señorita,” Florence suggested. “I pretend the liquid is celery tonic. I prefer it to champagne, I’m ashamed to say. Would you like me to change yours? ”

  “No, thank you, I’m just fine,” Mona mumbled. Her plan was faltering. Her host was angry with her.

  The discussion turned to paintings for the main hall of the palace. Phoebe suggested a Gauguin. She had seen reproductions of his work in one of Florence’s books and found the people beautiful, and the exotic setting would mirror the palace landscape.

  Uncle Florence suggested Veláquez’ “Las Meninas,” one of the most glorious paintings ever created by man. “And Spanish,” he added with a shy smile.

  Mona gathered all of her courage. She knew the name of one painting, and now was the time to say it. “The greatest painting of all time is one with which I am quite familiar,” she announced. “It is by Leonardo da Vinci, and it is called ‘The Mona Lisa.’”

  Mona Lisa Newton awaited her uncle’s cry of recognition. Instead he and Phoebe regarded their host anxiously.

  The would-be pirate calmly explained. “The señorita doesn’t know. You see,” he said to Mona gravely, “I had come on that very painting on a royal treasure ship. In honor of the victory I made a gift of ‘The Mona Lisa’ to my dear friends the Figgs.”

  “Mona Lisa was the name of Florence’s favorite niece,” Phoebe said. “And it is also the name of our two-year-old daughter.” The couple smiled at each other with parental pride.

  “Our little one looks just like my bride,” Florence added, beaming. “I hope you’ll have a chance to visit our cottage and meet her, señorita.”

  “No,” Mona replied in a whisper. Strains of a waltz drifted through the open French doors. “No, I’m afraid I shall be leaving soon.”

  The pirate ushered the Figgs into the sapphire ballroom. Mona hobbled after them and stood at the door, watching Uncle Florence and Phoebe waltzing in perfectly paired little steps, gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes. Mona wanted to remember her Uncle Florence as he looked now: carefree and contented, no longer the shy, wounded creature out of place in a world too large. Uncle Florence was deservedly happy.

  Blinded by tears, Mona turned to leave.

  “May I have this last dance?” Capitán Miguel de Caprichos, his leopard eyes flashing, placed a strong arm around Mona’s waist. He held her hand. His hand was warm, so warm. Mona spun around the floor in El Pirata Supuesto’s embrace, whirling and twirling, faster, faster through a swirling nothingness.

  Tap-tap-tappity-tap-tap.

  VI

  1. WELCOME HOME

  TAP-TAP-TAPPITY-TAP-TAP. The noise was deafening.

  His hand was warm, so very warm.

  Mona opened her eyes to a face in the whiteness. “Daddy,” she mumbled, and tried to sit up through the tangle of tubes. Newt let go of her hand and eased her back into the pillow.

  “Just lie back, princess. You’re in the hospital. Sissie, come here quick,” Newt shouted to his dancing and crying wife. “Mona’s awake.”

  “My baby!” Sissie shrieked, tears streaming down her cheeks. She kissed her daughter’s eyes and nose and ears and mouth, then ran out of the room to get the doctor.

  Newt stroked Mona’s damp hair back from her forehead. “You’ve been sick, princess, very sick. Everybody’s been so worried. Your mother’s been dancing her feet off hoping you’d hear the tapping, wherever you were, and come back to us.”

  “Welcome back, young lady,” Dr. Davenport said, checking her vital signs and unplugging her from the machines. “I don’t think you’ll be needing these anymore, but I want you to lie still and rest. You set a medical record, you did. We were ready to give up on you days ago, but your father wouldn’t let us. Over his dead body, he said. You must be the stubbornest critter on the face of this earth.”

  Sissie kissed Mona again and
ran off to telephone their relatives the good news. Mona noticed someone else in the room, sitting in a chair against the wall, a paperback book in his hand. Above him hung a tilted sign.

  Newt was holding her hand again. She looked up into his tired face and drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

  A week passed, a quiet week of waking and sleeping and growing stronger. Each time Mona woke her father was there, holding her hand. And Fido was there, reading.

  Mona smiled at her father and sat up in bed.

  “Guess what day this is, princess,” he said excitedly.

  Mona had no idea of the day or the month.

  “It’s Founders’ Day!” Sissie announced, bursting into the room. She hastily propped up the pillows behind Mona, who was sinking back into the bed. “And I have a big surprise for you. The parade has been rerouted so it will pass right under your window.”

  Mona groaned a feeble protest.

  “Same old Mona,” Fido said, as the door flew open. Romulus and Remus, in identical uniforms, jogged in.

  “We are the very model of a modern Major-General,

  We’ve information vegetable, animal, and mineral....”

  “Just a little preview of what’s to come,” Romulus said, giving his niece a warm hug. Remus was still singing:“I’m very well acquainted, too,

  with matters mathematical.

  I understand equations,

  both the simple and quadratical....”

  “Oof!” The mathematical twin was knocked to the floor by a howling Great Dane.

  “Mona, poochy,” Kadota pounced on Mona and gave her a big wet kiss on her cheek, followed by nine Kanines with extended paws. Mona shook hands, and looked around the room. “Gracie Jo’s getting dressed for the parade,” Kadota explained, but that was not who Mona was looking for.

  “Where’s Uncle Truman?”

  “He’s been in an accident, princess,” Newt explained, “but he’s doing just fine: just two broken legs and a smashed elbow. He’s in traction in the room under this one; that’s how come your mother was allowed to tap-dance by your bed.”

  Mona now understood why the welcome-home sign was so crudely drawn. He must have made it in his hospital bed with one hand. “What kind of accident?”

  Kadota explained. “Truman tied himself into such a tight knot that he rolled down the stairs. He couldn’t call for help because his mouth was in his armpit. He had the crazy notion that he could find you in Capri and bring you home.”

  “What’s so crazy about that?” Remus asked, brushing dog hairs from his major-general’s uniform. “I thought the same myself. I divided and divided trying to reach zero, trying to reach you in Capri, Mona. My last fraction was so long I had to tape two rolls of toilet paper together to write it down.”

  “Were you really in Capri, Mona?” Fido asked.

  Caprichos, Mona thought and wondered as Sissie shoved chattering people and yelping dogs out of the room. “Let’s go, everybody; we’ve only got fifteen minutes before the parade begins. Come on, Newt honey.”

  Newt was still sitting at her bedside, holding his daughter’s hand. “I’ll stay here with Mona,” he said.

  Sissie stood alone at the door, staring back at the tender father-daughter scene. Mona looked up and saw the confused expression on her mother’s face, an expression of hurt surprise, perhaps even jealousy.

  “Go ahead, Newt,” Mona said. “I’ll be all right.”

  “But someone’s got to stay with you, princess.”

  “I’ll stay,” Fido said.

  2. FIDO’S DISEASE

  FIDO STILL WORE his hangdog expression, but something was different about him. Mona didn’t know what.

  “Mona., I’ve got to ask you about....” Fido’s question was interrupted by Dr. Davenport.

  “You look a bit pale, young lady,” the doctor observed, feeling her pulse.

  “Too much excitement,” Mona tried to say around the thermometer in her mouth.

  “Fine. You’re doing just fine,” he pronounced, completing his hasty checkup. “I want you to sit by that window and watch the parade; it will cheer you up. Best medicine there is, a parade. Got to run now and help my wife Sophie paste flowers on the big float. I’ll look in on you later this evening. And I’ll see you tomorrow, Fido, for another shot.”

  Fido blushed as the doctor scurried out of the room.

  “I knew it, I knew it,” Mona cried in disgust. “You get out of my room this minute, Fido Figg II, and take your venereal disease with you.”

  “It’s not that, Mona, really it isn’t,” Fido protested. “It’s just—just allergy shots.”

  Mona, about to sneer at the lame excuse, suddenly recognized the change in Fido: his nose wasn’t running anymore. “What are you allergic to?” she asked dubiously.

  “I can’t tell you. I don’t want anybody to know, especially my folks. Besides, you’ll laugh.”

  “Try me,” Mona challenged.

  Fido hung his head and stuttered out his sad confession. “I’m allergic to d-d-dogs.”

  “Dogs!” Mona exclaimed, but she didn’t laugh. Fido looked too pitiful for ridicule. “I won’t tell anybody, I promise,” Mona said.

  Fido nodded gratefully, but something other than the absurd irony of his affliction seemed to be gnawing at him. “Mona, I’ve got to ask you something,” he said hoarsely. “Mona, were you really in Capri?”

  Mona remained silent, unwilling to reveal her secret, even to her troubled cousin. Besides, she was not sure there was a Caprichos; it could have been a feverish delusion, or a dream. Her dream.

  “Please tell me, Mona,” he begged pathetically. “I don’t want to go there, but I’ve got to know. Did Uncle Florence want to go to Capri, or—or was he killed by the paint fumes?” Fido clutched the bedstead and seemed about to collapse under the burden of his terrible guilt.

  “I was there, Fido,” Mona said. “I was in Capri with Uncle Florence. And I’ve never seen him so happy. Phoebe was there, too. And just before I left, Uncle Florence said I must remember to thank you for his wonderful birthday present.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” Mona said firmly. “Now go and join the parade.”

  Fido yelped with joy, ran out of the door, ran in again to kiss her on the forehead, ran out again, and ran in once more with another question. “Mona, how much does a first edition of Lord Jim cost?”

  “One hundred dollars. But I’ll let you have it for seventy-five, in installments.” Mona smiled as her first customer ran out the door to join the marchers. Then slowly she climbed down from the bed. She was going to watch the parade.

  3. PARADE WATCHING

  FIGGS!” hissed Mrs. Lumpholtz.

  Mona stood motionless in the middle of the room, her shoulders rigid. She almost wished she were back in the jungle with the creeping, crawling snakes.

  “Mona Lisa Newton, you’re a Figg through and through. Just look at you running around in bare feet, and your being so sick. Here, take this!” Mrs. Lumpholtz handed Mona a wrapped shoebox.

  A drum ruffled; a sour trumpet heralded the start of the Founders’ Day parade.

  “Open it up, for heaven’s sakes. I made them for poor Florence, but he won’t be needing them anymore, God rest his kind soul. Here, let me help you.” Alma Lumpholtz led the trembling patient to the window seat and unwrapped her gift. What Mona had once thought a bomb was a pair of crocheted slippers.

  “See, a perfect fit,” Mrs. Lumpholtz said, placing them on Mona’s cold feet.

  A whine of bagpipes proclaimed that the sanitation department was doing its fling.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Lumpholtz,” Mona said. “Would you like to watch the parade from my window?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Mrs. Lumpholtz dragged a chair to the window as another visitor entered the room.

  The girl scouts, dressed as pine cones, and their mothers, waving crab-apple blossoms, danced by.

  “Hello, Mona, you’re certainly looking better t
han you did the last time I saw you,” the librarian said. “I thought you might like this book.”

  “Thanks, Miss Quigley.” Mona was delighted with the gift, The Amenities of Book Collecting, and even more delighted that the librarian was not angry with her. “How come you’re not in the parade?”

  “Careful, Mona,” Miss Quigley replied in a pretended huff. “I forgave you once, when I learned you were only asking for a Conrad title, but if you are going to tell me that I have a natural musical talent and should be down there strutting to ‘Bye, Bye Blackbird’ I’ll never lend you another book.”

  “I didn’t mean that, really, Miss Quigley,” Mona said.

  “Well, I’ll forgive you if you let me watch the folks making fools of themselves from your window.”

  Mona didn’t know whether or not to take Miss Quigley seriously.

  “Make yourself at home, Rebecca,” Mrs. Lumpholtz said, moving her chair aside to make room for the librarian.

  Bump Popham rode by in the sky-blue Studebaker followed by the tap-dancing Pineapple Slicers, carrying the star pitcher on their shoulders. Fido, still clutching his Joseph Conrad paperback, waved cheerfully up at Mona. He sneezed. Behind him Kadota led the performing Kanines, who stood on their hind legs and shook paws with one another.

  Mona laughed heartily and Mrs. Lumpholtz and Miss Quigley applauded the perfect performance.

  A papier-mâché Grubb Hill rumbled into view. On its pinnacle, dressed in pioneer buckskin, stood Gracie Jo, her eyes shaded with one hand, the other pointing to an imagined new town. At her side, also pointing, was a bird dog. Gracie Jo’s imitation of a statue was so convincing that two pigeons came to roost on her head. Behind the float trotted an impromptu cortege of six stray dogs, a hog, two goats, and Noodles.