Fleabrain Loves Franny (7 page)

Franny had been hoping to discover her own rarity that autumn.

Impossible now, of course.

“Oh, Rose! Good for you,” Franny called. “I bet those cola caps are beautiful.”

Rose was little, but she was quick. Before anyone could stop her, she shot across Shady Avenue and up the stairs to Franny's porch. She'd remembered to look both ways before crossing but forgot that Franny was supposed to be contagious.

“Take a look,” said Rose.

Across the street, Teresa was yowling like a cat. “NO-O-o-o, Rose!”

Franny leaned forward and held out her hand. Rose dropped the cola caps into Franny's cupped palm, and Franny touched them, one by one, with the tip of her finger.

“A super-duper addition to the Collection,” Franny said.

“I know,” said Rose, reaching for them.

“ROSE!” shrieked Teresa, racing across the street.

Teresa was known for her shrieks, a peculiar source of pride. With the proper training, operatic singing was in her future, she liked to tell everyone. Franny was used to Teresa's shrieks. But this particular shriek was so vehement, it startled Franny. The three cola caps fell from her hand, skipping down the stairs.

“Roseyouarenottotouchthosecolacapsdoyouhearme!” shrieked Teresa. “Don'tyoudarethey'recoveredwithGERMS!”

“I'm not contagious!” Franny shrieked back.

“You are, too!”

“I'm not! I'm not! And very soon I'll be walking again. I'll be back in the swing of things. You'll see!”

By this time Teresa was sitting on Rose's bottom, who was struggling to reach the scattered cola caps on the front walk. Rose's shrieks, because apparently volume ran in the family, were almost as loud as her sister's.

“I want those bottle caps! I found them! They're mine!”

“She touched them!”

“I want those caps!”

“Rose, if you don't stop this, I'm going to tell everybody your big secret! I swear! I will!”

At that, Rose stopped her thrashing about but not her howling. Teresa stayed put on top of her.

All of a sudden, glowering, grumpy Professor Doctor Gutman was standing over the sisters. His black bristly eyebrows (not the kindly variety, like Sister Ed's) were raised in mighty disapproval.

“What is this ruckus?” Professor Doctor Gutman said. He turned to Teresa. “You're bigger than she is, young lady.”

Professor Doctor Gutman's deep, rumbly voice sounded like a king's, or an army troop commander's. Rose quieted mid-howl. Teresa stood up, then kicked the bottle caps to the curb.

Walter Walter and Seymour Walter moseyed across the street to witness the action.

“Life is too short for angry roughhousing.” Professor Doctor
Gutman's
r
's sounded gravelly and moist, as if they were coming from deep inside of him.

“Hey, where were you born, anyway?” asked Seymour.

“In Prague, a beautiful city in Czechoslovakia,” Professor Doctor Gutman replied. His eyes were bright and blue, like the European mountain lakes Franny had seen in her geography book,
Earth and Its Continents
. But his eyes were sad, too. Franny realized he'd been sad, not grouchy, all those other times she'd seen him.

“Wait a minute!” said Seymour. “That's enemy territory!”

“It used to be occupied territory, yes,” said Professor Doctor Gutman. “But that war is over. And its people aren't your enemy.”

All of a sudden Seymour looked fierce, as if the sound of his own voice had made him brave. “My parents said you're probably a spy.”

The rest of the Pack sucked in their breaths at Seymour's rudeness.

“And not even a doctor,” Seymour continued.

“I am not a practicing physician, no,” said Professor Doctor Gutman, smiling politely. “I am a researcher. And I am happy to be in America.”

“You have your own lab?” Walter Walter asked. “With rats and graph paper and all that?”

“It's not my own lab, and we use monkeys for our experiments, not rodents,” said Professor Doctor Gutman. “We have been known to use graph paper, however.”

“Researchers are just another kind of doctor, Seymour,” said Walter Walter.

“Pipe down, noodlehead,” said Seymour, shoving his brother's shoulder.

Teresa was still holding her wriggling sister by the arm. Rose was eyeing the bottle caps at the curb. “Well, we've got to go home now. See you, Franny,” she said.

“So do we,” said Seymour. “Come on, Wal.”

Walter Walter glanced up at Franny on the porch. “Well, see you.”

“See you,” said Franny softly as Walter Walter raced up the street.

She wanted to do more than just see him. She wanted to zoom down the block with him, up and down and around and around the block, her heart thumping and her hair flying and her shoes skimming the sidewalk as if she were about to fly away.

Like Before. And she would. She would!

“Now we can breathe again,” said Professor Doctor Gutman. He sat down on the steps of the Katzenback front porch, removed his hat with the feather in it, and ran a hand through his dark hair. “Gone is the Garlic Brigade.”

Those rumbling
r
's again.

“We haven't been formally introduced,” he said. “My name is George Gutman.”

“Very pleased to meet you. I'm Franny.” Franny had her journal and
Die Verwandlung
on her lap. She'd actually also been waiting for Professor Doctor Gutman to pass by, on his way home from the streetcar stop. “By the way, a friend of mine told me about this book,” she said, showing him
Die Verwandlung
. “But I can't read it, because it's in German. Do you know German, by any chance?” she asked.

“I do,” he said.

“What does
Die Verwandlung
mean?”

Professor Doctor Gutman glanced at the horrifying book jacket. “
Die Verwandlung
means ‘The Metamorphosis,' or, simply put, ‘the change.' But why would your friend want you to read this book? It is not a book for a child.”

“Many people seem to think Kafka has the answers,” Franny said. She leafed through the pages to find the margin comments, then held up the book. “My friend didn't really like the story, but he wanted my opinion.”

Professor Doctor Gutman smiled at the comments. “Tell your friend I agree with him. This is a silly story about a man who wakes up one morning to discover he's changed into a big bug. Kafka doesn't explain why, and, I'm sorry to tell you, I myself don't understand it, in any language. Kafka, the author, had more questions than answers.”

“Oh,” said Franny. “That does sound silly.”

Questions?
She had questions, too! Everybody had questions. But nobody seemed to have an answer. Or a cure. Tears came to her eyes. She blinked them away quickly, hoping Professor Doctor Gutman hadn't noticed.

“Well, what about this, then?” Franny flipped through the pages of her journal until she came to the mysterious little beige, brown, and red words scattered across the page.

Was

mich

nicht

umbringt

Professor Doctor Gutman read the words, then whispered something that sounded like a small sneeze.

Nee-cheh
.

“I'm sorry?” said Franny.

“Nietzsche,” said Professor Doctor Gutman. “He was a German philosopher, and these words seem to be part of one of his pronouncements.” He raised his bushy eyebrows. “My, my. Your friend has been doing some advanced reading lately!”

“He's extremely intelligent and well educated,” said Franny. “Self-educated.”

“Well, I think your friend was sharing Nietzsche's statement
Was mich nicht umbringt, macht mich stärker
. Which, when translated, means ‘What doesn't destroy me, makes me stronger.' Has he been through some rather hard times lately?”

“Oh, boy, has he ever!” said Franny. “But you say he's stronger now?”

“Your friend is saying that. Or at least he's quoting Nietzsche, who suggested that possibility.”

Franny clapped her hands. Her whole body tingled with joy. “That's such good news! Stronger!”

Professor Doctor Gutman grinned. He had a gold front tooth to match his gold ring. In fact, as the sun set, Franny noticed a golden tinge at the edges of everything.

“You work with Dr. Jonas Salk, right?” asked Franny. “Everyone says he lives in the neighborhood, but nobody ever sees him because he's working so hard to conquer polio. Actually, some kids joke that he's a figment of everyone's imagination.”

“He exists,” said Professor Doctor Gutman. “And, yes, he does work hard. Everyone on his research team does.”

Franny was relieved, as she, too, had wondered whether the great Dr. Jonas Salk truly existed. “Well, I hope we win the battle against polio,” she said.

“I hope we win the battle, too,” he said.

She wanted to ask him more questions about his work in the lab with Dr. Salk, but Professor Doctor Gutman had already unfolded his long legs from the stairs and was turning toward the front walk.

“Well, here is something interesting!” he said, bending down. Near the toe of his polished leather shoe was a bottle cap. “This one must be for you,” he said, handing it to Franny.

The bottle cap, larger than any other, was rimmed all around in bright gold. But its center was made of glass, so that the about-to-drinker would have a magnified view of all the bubbles, like luminous marbles swimming up from the bottom of the bottle.
Sparky's Finest
was etched in curly script around the bottle cap's rim. Franny had never seen anything like it.

“How beautiful!” she said.

Her own autumn rarity.

“Nee-Cheh”

G
reat minds think alike
, thought Fleabrain, quoting his favorite philosopher, Anonymous. He was relieved that Professor Doctor Gutman had shared his literary opinions about
Die Verwandlung
.

Fleabrain rubbed a tarsus under his “chin” pensively.

What doesn't destroy me, makes me stronger
.

Nee-cheh
. So that's how you pronounce it! Couldn't Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche—born October 15, 1844, died August 25, 1900—have done his worldwide fans a favor by spelling his name phonetically?

What doesn't destroy me, makes me stronger
.

Yes, he, Fleabrain, was stronger than ever. And getting even stronger.
Stronger
wasn't even the word for it! What incredible superflea powers he had now! And he couldn't wait to display them to Franny. It was necessary to return again to the First Order of Business: meeting Franny in “person.”

Greetings, my dear Franny!

I am perplexed by the overuse of birds with respect to poetic simile and metaphor
.

“Life is like a broken-winged bird … ,”

penned the eminent

American poet Langston Hughes (born February 1, 1902),

writing of one's feelings

when dreams are dashed
.

In an earlier century, the American poet Emily Dickinson (December 10, 1830–May 15, 1886)

had expressed a similar fondness for ornithology
.

“Hope is the thing with feathers … ,” Emily penned
.

I believe she is saying that there is hope in the world when something as lovely as a bird exists
.

I offer you a paraphrase:

“Hope is the thing with tibiae, tarsi, and tubelike mouthparts.”

I do realize I am taking great liberties with great genius
.

True, a bird is lovely, if you like that sort of show-offy, twittering, high-flying creature
.

But if you remember that beauty has many definitions,

I promise I will not disappoint
.

I am getting stronger, but

I want to be

at the height of my powers when we meet
.

Wait for my next missive, and do NOT misplace Sparky's Finest
.

With great excitement and trepidation,

FB

III
WINTER 1952–53: ADVENTURES

The Bath

F
ranny's heart ached. Loneliness hurt.

She now had new leather and steel braces to support her weakened legs, and wooden crutches to help her walk. Her braces squeaked like rusty hinges when she clumped slowly around the house. Did this mean she was “independently mobile”? She didn't feel very mobile, much preferring the zip of her wheelchair, which she could now ease into from her bed, all by herself. Then again, what difference did it make when she had hardly anywhere to go?