Figgs & Phantoms (5 page)

“Joseph Conrad! Two books by Joseph Conrad!” Florence exclaimed, hoping his enthusiasm was catching. “He's one of my favorite authors; why, I must have read some of his books four or five times. Describe them. They may be first editions.”

Eyes closed to help her memory, Mona recited details.
“Lord Jim ...
a tale ... London 1900 ... light green cloth.
Typhoon
... New York 1902 ... dark green binding, decorated cloth, slight tear at top of spine.” When she opened her eyes,
Las Hazañas Fantásticas
was no longer on the desk.

“Yes, first editions,” Florence said excitedly. “Next month we will take the two Conrads from the top shelf. And, if you'd like,
The Romance of Sandwich Glass.”

W
HAT IN THE WORLD is the matter with Mona?” Sissie asked. “She tore out of here like a swarm of bees was after her.”

Puzzled, Uncle Florence looked over his shoulder. Mona had been right behind him when he entered the house. “Maybe she forgot something at the bus,” he suggested, wondering if he had remembered to lock up his special collection.

“No, it's just me,” Fido said, pushing the sofa into place. “Mona's been avoiding me like the plague.” He stopped to blow his leaky nose. “I've been trying to talk to her for days.”

Newt walked in the door, too concerned for his usual ebullient greeting. “What in the world's the matter with Mona? Why is she hiding behind the azalea bush?”

Fido ran out of the front door so fast Newt dropped his tulips.

“For me?” Sissie picked up the flowers and tapped a thank-you dance.

 

 

The door slammed. Mona skidded across the waxed living room floor, stumbled into the kitchen, and fell into her chair at the dinner table.

“Bravo,” Sissie applauded. “That's what I call a grand entrance.”

Mona bent over her plate and twirled her spaghetti.

“What did Fido want?” Newt asked.

Mona shrugged.

“You mean you still haven't talked to him about whatever it is he wanted to talk to you about?” Newt was incredulous. “I didn't know the Fabulous Figgs had a disappearing act.”

“That's not funny, Newt,” Mona blurted and slurped up the stray strands of spaghetti.

Florence handed Mona his napkin. “I didn't know you gave classes on Thursday, Sis.”

“Must have been a class of elephants,” Newt guessed, pointing his fork at the tilted theatrical poster on the wall.

“The volunteer fire department,” Sissie explained. “I'm teaching them a double-time step for Founders' Day.” To demonstrate, she tapped to the wall, whistling “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” and straightened the framed playbill.

 

★
“Figgs!” the people of Pineapple said. “This was a nice, quiet town before those show folk settled here. Had decent celebrations. those days, not like now with Sister Figg Newton making a fool of herself and the volunteer fire department to boot. Not that Sister was ever on the stage herself. Too young. Vaudeville was dead by the time she learned to tap-dance, and the Figgs were never fabulous enough for television. Maybe she wouldn't be tapping her head off now if she had been a real star, like her brother Florence.”

 

“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.”

M
UCH 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.”