Fleabrain Loves Franny (9 page)

As if on cue, Alf jumped from the bed to scratch his left hind leg vigorously with his right one.

“This week's supper,” explained Fleabrain. “Dogs don't really mind a mild itch, as long as they can reach it to scratch. Did you ever watch a dog scratch an itch? I mean,
really
watch? They smile as they do it!”

“That's true,” said Franny, smiling herself.

“I must say, I've grown quite fond of Alf,” said Fleabrain. “I'm learning to appreciate his generosity, and his pragmatic, down-to-earth attitude toward life. And, of course, the friend of my friend is my friend, to paraphrase the ancient proverb ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend.' There is some quibbling as to whether that proverb is of Arab or Chinese or Indian provenance, although all cultures eventually discover similar truths, I have learned. In any case, I do prefer my paraphrase. The dog and I are pals.”

“I'm really glad about that,” Franny said.

Fleabrain's charming personality radiated fellowship and kindness. These qualities made him handsome to Franny—maybe not by Hollywood standards, but who cared about that? And not having met many—or, in fact, any—other fleas up close, Franny couldn't compare him to his peers. But something told her he'd taken some pains with his appearance. The burnished, overlapping plates on his body shone, and the many hairs on his back seemed combed carefully into place.

“I have to admit, I have rather an agenda tonight. Have you any other plans?” Fleabrain asked.

“Plans?” It seemed to Franny she hadn't had “plans” in a long, long time and wouldn't have any in the near future, now that winter had arrived. “What kind of plans?”

“I would like you to meet another friend of mine. You've actually met, but I'd like you to get to know one another on a different level, both literally and figuratively speaking. And”—with a front leg, Fleabrain covered his mouthparts shyly—“I'd like you to meet some adopted members of my family,” he said.

“Oh, no!” cried Franny.

“Forgive me, forgive me,” said Fleabrain. His tibiae shook with embarrassment. “I've been too forward. OK, I won't subject you to my family, adopted or otherwise. This is our very first conversation, and already I'm treating you as an intimate. But I do feel as if we've been friends forever.”

“It's not that,” said Franny. “I would love to meet your family! I mean no offense, Fleabrain. But if my mother finds out there's been another flea infestation in the house, she'll start spraying again with Be-Gone-with-Them.”

Fleabrain leaped with joy. “You'd love to meet my family? Huzzah! Franny, I give you my word of honor. I am the sole flea in this house, as far as I'm aware. My ‘people' live elsewhere in the neighborhood. If you've no other plans, we can leave right away on our adventure. To celebrate your toe and foot wiggles this evening!”

Franny giggled. “ ‘Leave right away'? Haven't you noticed? I still can't walk.”

“Not a problem,” said Fleabrain. “We'll bring your wheelchair.”

Franny giggled again, then began to laugh harder. She fell back onto her pillow, gasping for breath. It felt wonderful to laugh like that. She was happy to know she still could.

She felt a bit light-headed, and suddenly she realized she was levitating several inches above her sheets, then floating sideways. She seemed to be headed toward her wheelchair, parked at the side of her bed.

Franny dropped gently into a seated position in the wheelchair. The yellow afghan from her bed drifted toward her, then wrapped itself around her shoulders and across her lap.

“I'll be right back,” said Fleabrain.

Floating snake-like above her head, Franny's red winter cap and matching scarf soon appeared, which Fleabrain had retrieved from the hall closet.

“There!” she heard him say, his tinny voice slightly muffled by the scarf as he wound it around Franny's neck. “Comfy?”

“How … ?”

“
Was mich nicht umbringt, macht mich stärker,
” said Fleabrain. “ ‘What doesn't destroy me, makes me stronger.' Not to belabor the
point, but one could also opine: ‘What fire doesn't destroy, it hardens,' in the words of my favorite Irish playwright and author, Oscar Wilde, born October 16, 1854, died November 30, 1900. I'll explain in greater detail soon. Whew! My exertions have left me a bit out of breath. And I still have to get you out the window.”

Fleabrain hopped to the sill, raised the large window, then jumped down to the floor beneath the wheelchair. Franny grasped the arms of the chair as she was lifted, chair and all, and carried over the windowsill to the other side. She and the wheelchair landed on the lawn with a gentle thump. Alf followed.

The night sky blazed with red and orange flames from the J & L Steel Mill on the banks of the Monongahela. Street lamps glowed up and down Shady Avenue.

“We'll go for a little jaunt around the neighborhood. Follow the dog!” Fleabrain yelled from Alf's tail.

A Ride in the Night

T
heir route was winding and hilly. Fleabrain alternated his position between Alf's tail and Franny's shoulder. When they came to a particularly hilly section, she could feel Fleabrain push and accelerate her chair. Going down, he helped brake the speed. It was as if she were perched atop the Pippin at Kennywood Park, bumping and whizzing along. Of course, Franny didn't scream her head off, as she used to do on that roller coaster. Before. Now she just sat back and enjoyed the ride, all the dips and turns in the bracing night air.

After a while it began to seem unfair to have Fleabrain do all the work. Franny began pushing the wheels herself at the uphill mounts, to make things easier for the flea.

“Lovely of you to help,” said Fleabrain, panting. “My strength is boundless, but I do feel the strain. The more I exercise, the more flexible my limbs will become.”

“That's what Nurse Olivegarten always says. I hadn't realized my arms had become so strong.”

But Franny didn't want to think about Nurse Olivegarten. She didn't want to think about exercises and the smell of hot, wet, woolen packs and being stuck in the house. She only wanted to think about this extraordinary ride in the night through the quiet streets of Squirrel Hill.

Most of the homes were darkened, their window blinds like closed eyelids. Every now and then, a loud snore and whistle erupted beyond a window. At a corner house on Hobart Street, Walter Walter's dad opened his bedroom window to throw a shoe at a yowling cat. Rolling along Phillips Avenue, she saw Teresa's mother, up late—or early, as the case may be—folding a towering pile of laundry on the dining room table. Several dogs inside their homes greeted Alf with surprised yelps, most likely inhaling the odor of Alf's excitement as he sped by. The air was cool and damp on her cheeks, but the afghan kept her warm, as did the exertion of climbing the hilly terrain, with Fleabrain's help.

Up and down, up and down, they rolled through the streets branching off Shady Avenue, finally circling back to Nicholson Street, heading toward Frick Park.

“Now that you know how strong your arms are, let's try a bigger challenge,” Fleabrain said.

“Nicholson Street is very steep!” said Franny.

“We can do it.” Fleabrain whistled an inspiring yet familiar tune in her ear. The sound of the wheelchair gliding smoothly up the hilly street made for a pleasant accompaniment to the music.

“You whistle very well,” Franny said. “So many talents! And I recognize that tune.”

“Thank you, Francine. But only the violin does this piece real justice. It's from the second movement of the Polish composer Henryk Wieniawski's Violin Concerto No. 2 in D minor. Born July 10, 1835, died March 31, 1880. Such a superb concerto! I much prefer Wieniawski's second movement to the first, don't you?” said Fleabrain.

“I guess I've only heard a snippet of the second movement,” Franny said. “It's the opening theme to
The Guiding Light
, my mother's favorite soap opera on the radio.”

“Oh, do have a listen to the entire recording when you can!” exclaimed Fleabrain.

They had reached the top of Nicholson at Beechwood Boulevard.

“We did it!” cried Franny.

“Of course,” said Fleabrain. “Never any doubt in my mind.”

Beechwood Boulevard's wide expanse was silent and empty of cars.

“Let's rest a bit and catch our breath before we cross this big street,” said Fleabrain.

Fleabrain had thought of everything. Tucked in a corner at the back of her seat was a small bag of popcorn and an apple. She'd forgotten how good a sour-sweet apple tasted outdoors, crisp and chilled.

As Franny munched, Fleabrain explained as much as he could.

“It seems that a second dose of Be-Gone-with-Them, to which I was subjected, as you are well aware, has the paradoxical effect of bestowing extraordinary powers upon those who have survived a first dose. I don't know if this has ever happened. There had never before
been
any survivors of the first dose, as far as I know, although,
of course, I am going by purely anecdotal evidence. But I surmise that I developed powerful antibodies, which, when fighting the poison a second time, in some way affected my resilin. Resilin is the rubbery protein in a flea's limbs, which explains my amazing jumping ability under normal conditions. My unfortunate experience with Be-Gone-with-Them helped concentrate my resilin so that it became even more effective. I didn't think I could become stronger and smarter, but here I am.”

“I'm not sure I understand all that, but it sounds wonderful,” said Franny.

“ ‘Ah! Sweet Mystery of Life.' Sweet mysteries of the molecules and atoms of which we are composed. Never, ever underestimate them. Small is great, I am learning.”

“
You
are great, Fleabrain,” said Franny. “And kind, too.”

“I meant ‘great' in the ‘powerful' sense,” said Fleabrain, “as opposed to the ‘wonderful' sense, although small
can
be wonderful, of course. Small is great. Invisible is great. The atom is great. Antibodies are great! I'm sure the German-born physicist Albert Einstein—born March 14, 1879—and I are in accord about all this, as we are about many things, although I've never quite reconciled myself to his vegetarianism. And as the Roman philosopher Lucretius—born 99 BC, died 55 BC—suggested …”

At this point Franny couldn't suppress a yawn, which she tried to hide with her apple core.

“Oh, dear,” cried Fleabrain. “I'm prattling on and on! I just find everything so fascinating, and, before meeting you, I haven't been able to share it with anyone.”

“You're not boring me, Fleabrain. I'm just sleepy and comfortable,” said Franny. “Small is great. I will remember that. But what about viruses? The poliovirus, for instance.”

Fleabrain paused briefly. A flea-millisecond of a pause, but Franny noticed.

“Not so great,” he admitted ruefully. “Powerful, yes. But not wonderful. Anyway, let's not talk about viruses. It's time to cross the boulevard and meet a couple of fellows who are very important to me, besides yourself and Alf, of course. And do bring that apple core.”

A police car from the Northumberland station was patrolling the area. Fleabrain and Franny and Alf waited until the coast was clear, hiding behind a big dark tree. Then they scurried across Beechwood Boulevard and along English Lane to the stables.

A joyful whinny soon greeted them—Lightning, stomping about in the second stall. Fleabrain unlatched the gate to the stall, as the other horses watched from theirs. The horse approached Franny, bending down, as he always did, to nuzzle her neck.

“For you,” said Franny, giving him the apple core. “Dear Fleabrain thought of everything.”

Meanwhile, Fleabrain had delved into Lightning's tail and the area around the horse's bottom. “Over here, Francine,” he called in a muffled voice. “Come meet some friends of mine.”

On close inspection with Sparky's Finest, and by the light of the gleaming moon, Franny could see Fleabrain leaping and cavorting with several tiny multilegged insects, who seemed very excited to see him. “I visit the ticks as often as I can,” said Fleabrain, “whenever Alf
takes this particular route. Unfortunately, a few of these cute tykes will be dead by tomorrow.”

“Oh, no!”

Fleabrain sighed. “Well,
c'est la vie
. Excuse me; translation from the French: ‘such is life.' Or such is the life cycle of the ordinary tick. Very, very short. I'm the stablest, most constant part of their lives. They like to tell me old tales they've heard of my father, one lonely flea wandering among their own tick ancestors, long, long ago, before he jumped onto Alf's tail to join my mother. ‘Long ago' in relative terms, of course, considering their short lives. I think of them as my adopted family. To them, I am their dear Uncle Fleabrain.”

“Fleabrain, you are so kind and good and generous. I am very, very glad to know you, especially in person.”

“Well …” Fleabrain covered the sides of his face with his front legs, where Franny supposed his eyes were, but they were so tiny, she could hardly see them, even with Sparky's Finest. “This is embarrassing to admit, but since we've met in ‘person,' I'm realizing I have to be honest with you. If we're going to be true friends, that is.” His breath caught in a sob.

“Fleabrain, what's wrong?” Franny asked.

“Oh, it's Charlotte. It's always Charlotte, bug it!”

“You mean Charlotte, the spider from
Charlotte's Web
?”

“Of course I mean
that
Charlotte! Who else?”

“I don't understand …”

“I could never fathom her appeal, quite frankly. But after pondering on it, I sense she is lovable for her motherly quality toward all. So I wanted you to know that I've got some of that quality, too.
Up you go, kiddies! Uncle Fleabrain will give you a ride!” Fleabrain bounced several ticks on his back boisterously—a difficult task, since they were larger than he was. “I've actually learned to enjoy myself around these young 'uns.”