Fleabrain Loves Franny (6 page)

How he hated ignorance, especially his own. How he loved an intellectual challenge, as much as he relished a blood feast! He was very excited to hear the professor's views about that famous book.

“Oh, joy! Oh, joy!”

“Dog, calm yourself!”

“Can't help it, flea! WOOF!”

Revenge, Then Disaster

W
hat happened next was all Nurse Olivegarten's fault, and Fleabrain decided to take revenge.

OK, it wasn't entirely Nurse Olivegarten's fault that Franny couldn't say one word to the imposing Professor Doctor Gutman when they all met at the streetcar stop, let alone show him
Die Verwandlung
and ask him to translate.

It was partly Alf's fault, leaping up onto the shoulders of Franny's father, knocking off his cap, which Professor Doctor Gutman bent down to retrieve. Then Professor Doctor Gutman straightened up again, and, perhaps slightly dizzy, perhaps because of the evening shadows, he didn't notice Alf's leash lying on the streetcar steps. That's when he tripped and stumbled onto the sidewalk below.

And Nurse Olivegarten really couldn't be faulted when she acted like, well, a nurse, rushing forward to help him up, yakking his ear off about ice packs for swelling and hot-water bottles for pain, flapping her long eyelashes at him. Her parents had stood over the professor, too, apologizing over and over for their dog's unruliness.

And it wasn't Nurse Olivegarten's fault that Franny had an attack of shyness and couldn't get in a single word. Professor Doctor Gutman looked so imposing in his herringbone jacket and his hat with the feather in its brim, even when he was lying flat out on the sidewalk. And then, when he stood up, brushed himself off, and scowled at everyone, it wasn't Nurse Olivegarten's fault that he'd rushed home ahead of them, or that Franny and her parents straggled far behind because it was such a steep climb along Phillips Avenue. Franny's mother said that the professor seemed too unfriendly for an invitation to Friday-night supper. Although being yakked at by everyone while lying flat out on the sidewalk would make anyone unfriendly.

All that wasn't Nurse Olivegarten's fault, but it was only Nurse Olivegarten who was bitten the next day—mercilessly.

Fleabrain's revenge! He'd really been looking forward to the professor's explanation of
Die Verwandlung
and relieved his frustration by punishing a human he detested.

If Franny's morning exercises hadn't been so uncomfortable, she herself would have giggled like crazy, especially when she saw Nurse Olivegarten scratch her bottom.

“There are fleas in this house,” said Nurse Olivegarten, now pausing to scratch her earlobe.

“No one else is scratching,” Franny pointed out.

Nurse Olivegarten pulled Franny's leg, hard. “My skin is particularly sensitive. And I am attractive to insects.”

Nurse Olivegarten declared that as if it were a compliment.
Attractive, my foot
, thought Franny.

“Your dog has fleas, I tell you,” continued Nurse Olivegarten.

“He does not!” Franny said. “He absolutely does not! How come nobody is scratching but you?”

“I suppose some people
are
more sensitive than others,” said her mother.

“They say it's a certain scent emitted by a person's skin, attracting the vermin,” said Nurse Olivegarten.

“Or it could be a person's imagination,” said Franny.

Nurse Olivegarten held out her arm. It was peppered with small red dots. “
This
is not my imagination, young lady,” she said.

“Oh, dear,” said Franny's mother. “I'll have to buy some Be-Gone-with-Them.”

“No!” cried Franny, sitting up. “No, no, no! Alf does
not
need flea powder!”

To Franny's horror, despite her pleas, Be-Gone-with-Them Flea Powder was applied all over Alf that afternoon. He smelled like rotting lilies, which made the entire household cough, and Alf was banished to the basement for several nights.

Fleabrain's revenge had, unfortunately, backfired.

Last Words

F
leabrain knew death was approaching.

Oh, the perils of great intelligence! If he hadn't been lost in deep thought, he could have leaped off Alf in time to escape his poisonous fate.

Now he could hardly breathe, much less leap. He heard faraway high-pitched voices singing an eerie chorus.

Poor Fleabrain. Poor, poor Fleabrain
.

Darkness had quickly descended. He could no longer tell one of Alf's hairs from another. It was black as night, black as tar, black as coal. Even his ability to create decent similes had deteriorated.

How foolish of him to attack Nurse Olivegarten. Foolish, foolish, foolish! High intelligence, he was learning, did not necessarily imply common sense.

He was so tired. So cold. So, so sad.

“Oh,” Fleabrain murmured. “Woe is me.”

Woe is me?
Were those clichéd words to be his last?

How awfully banal, compared to “It is a far, far better rest that I
go to than I have ever known,” penned by the English writer Charles Dickens—born February 7, 1812, died June 9, 1870—in his novel
A Tale of Two Cities
.

Or “parting is such sweet sorrow,” penned by William Shakespeare in his masterpiece
Romeo and Juliet
, Act 2, Scene 2.

Or the brave words spoken by our valiant first president, George Washington—born February 22, 1732, died December 14, 1799—on
his
deathbed! “It is well, I die hard, but I am not afraid to go!”

Fleabrain wasn't confident he was going to a better rest—not at all. Also, there was nothing sweet about the parting effects of Be-Gone-with-Them, except that putrid smell. And, unlike George Washington, Fleabrain was afraid to go. Very afraid.

“Mama,” he whispered.

“WOOF!” barked the overwhelmingly sweet-smelling Alf, doing his best to offer comfort.

That dog—his host, after all—wasn't so bad. His former host, that is. The guest was dying.

Oh, the shadows, the odor, the cold, cold air he couldn't seem to breathe! And that gobbledygook, which he knew was the singing of cells, atoms, nuclei, bosons, and more, taunting him in his misery. The smallest of the small, yet infinitely more powerful than he, Fleabrain, who would soon be gone forever.

Poor Fleabrain
.

And then … Nothing.

Nothing, Then Something

H
er parents took turns staying home from the shoe store to be with Franny.

But each day was essentially the same.

And each day, Franny feared the very worst for Fleabrain.

Exercises with Nurse Olivegarten, rest, meals, look out the window, read a chapter, homework, listen to the radio.

Rest.

Hope.

Peek inside the journal. Find nothing.

Exercises with Nurse Olivegarten, rest, meals, look out the window, read a chapter, homework, listen to the radio.

Rest.

Hope.

Peek inside the journal. Nothing.

Fleabrain was dead, just as they were beginning their friendship. It was all so hard to bear. Franny cried into her pillow every night.

Hope, hope.

But one day, at last!

Something.

One small word in her journal, discovered on a gray, lonely Sunday afternoon with intermittent thundershowers.

Was

The ink was pale, like a mushroom on the lawn after a rain.

Franny found herself smiling into her tomato soup at supper, so grateful that Fleabrain was still alive. At least, she hoped he was. Her smile pleased her family very much.

“Isn't the soup good, Franny?” Min said. “I helped peel off the tomato skins.”

“Yes. My favorite,” Franny said.

“Oh, honey, I'm glad you're feeling more like yourself again,” said her mother.

Of course, those remarks would have disturbed Franny on any other day. Saint Min! Saint Min, who helped peel the tomato skins, which Franny had declined to do, peevishly, that morning.

And Franny would never, ever be “herself” again. Her real, truest, actual self, of course, was a pedestrian.

But.

That beautiful little word.
Was
. One word helped so much!

The next morning when she checked, another word had arrived in her journal.

mich

The ink was a bit darker, like strong tea with a drop of milk. But
mich
?
Mich?

What did it mean?

Could it be in German, again, like
Die Verwandlung?

The next morning she discovered a nearly rhyming word,

nicht

and that same afternoon, a word that didn't rhyme at all.

umbringt

Both words were written in a glossy red.

Blood red.

The hue was upsetting to Franny because of her dawning understanding of the source of Fleabrain's “ink” and the implications for her dear Alf's comfort. Now she understood why Fleabrain's first note to her had tasted familiar when she'd impulsively eaten it. Of course, deep down, she'd probably known that blood was Fleabrain's ink of choice. His only choice, really.

On the other hand, the red was so cheerful. A ripe-strawberry red, a Santa Claus snowsuit red, a chirping cardinal red! And that could only mean one thing.

Hurrah!

Fleabrain was in top form, his appetite returned in full, though communicating (apparently) in German.

Dear Fleabrain,

I am so glad to hear from you! Get well soon
.

Just so you know, I do not speak German. Or French, for that matter. But maybe someday I will
.

Your friend,

Franny

Sparky's Finest

M
rs. Penelope Nelson was Franny's favorite teacher so far.

She was also a historic first, because she was the first black teacher Franny's school had ever hired. Principal Woolcott had told all the students that Creswell School was “very progressive and open-minded,” and they should be proud.

Mrs. Nelson was Franny's favorite teacher, but it wasn't because she was a historic first. It was because Mrs. Nelson knew all the words to every single popular radio tune and often burst into song, just like that. And also because she traveled around the world with her anthropologist husband every summer and had stories to tell of her adventures—for instance, camel-riding in a desert sandstorm. And because she said, “Call me Penny!” to all of the Katzenbacks when she came to their home.

“Of course,
you'll
have to call me Mrs. Nelson, as soon as you get back to school,” she said with a smile and a wink at Franny.

Mrs. Nelson was a newlywed, another reason Franny liked her
so much. She enveloped everyone near her in an aura of joyous optimism, as well as the scent of English Lavender by Yardley.

Mrs. Nelson came to the Katzenback home every Monday afternoon for two whole hours. She explained everything clearly, corrected every piece of homework, and made Franny feel as if she weren't missing anything at all, academically, at least.

“You will be right in the swing of things when you return to fifth grade, as if you haven't been gone one day.”

Franny asked Mrs. Nelson if she knew how to translate German, since she'd done so much traveling.

“German? Nope. Not one word of it,” said Mrs. Nelson. “Spanish, yes. And a bit of Tupi, believe it or not, because hubby and I will be traveling to the Brazilian rain forest this summer. Why do you ask?”

“I've been looking at some of my parents' old books,” said Franny.

Mrs. Nelson let out a long whistle. “Whoo-ee! I'm impressed! But maybe you're a little too young for those books?”

“I read lots of books for my own age, too,” Franny assured her.

“Well, I say this calls for a Nat King Cole song,” said Mrs. Nelson.

“And then someday they may recall

We were not too young at a-a-ll!”

Still, it was a long week from Monday to Monday.

Most afternoons, Franny sat on her porch, waiting for the Pack to stroll by from wherever they'd been having fun, before they went home for supper and homework.

“Hi, Franny! See you, Franny! We miss you, Franny!” they'd call.

One day they were carrying sacks and peering at the ground, looking for discarded bottle caps before the winter snows came. The Pack shared a large bottle-cap collection, which they planned to donate to a museum at some point, or maybe even sell for cash. They kept it in the basement of Teresa's house, spread out on the concrete floor. It was most likely the largest collection of its kind, they figured, as they'd been collecting bottle caps for seventeen months. Seymour had actually been collecting on his own for two years, until Franny had once pointed out that a large joint collection made much more sense.

Teresa and her sister Rose waved at Franny. Seymour, A, B, and C were too involved in their search to look up.

“Heigh-ho!” Walter Walter called to her in a fake jolly voice. He anxiously touched the front of his shirt, where, underneath, Franny guessed, his garlic-bud necklace was hidden.

“Guess what, Franny? I found three cola caps!” cried Rose.

Teresa smiled at her younger sister. They all knew that little Rose hadn't yet mastered the concept of rarity versus quantity. Teresa herself had once been lucky enough to find a rare Red Ribbon Beverage bottle cap at the curb in front of Sol's Ye Olde Candy Shoppe. Someone had dug deep into the store's cooler and most likely pulled out the last bottle of its kind. Others had found an old Vernors Ginger Ale cap and caps for Gateway club and cherry soda pop. All the caps were certainly over five years old, if dirt and rust were any determination of age. And one Saturday, Walter Walter and Seymour (each claimed to have spotted it first) plucked an Iron City Beer cap from an overturned garbage can. Seymour insisted it was from pre–Civil
War days. Franny pointed out that they had probably used corks, not bottle caps, way back then. But Seymour said it was probably pre–one-war-or-another, so they kept it, anyway.