Fleabrain Loves Franny (5 page)

There were so many possibilities to believe in.

There were so many things, good and bad, that nobody could prove or understand.

But Franny believed—she
knew
—that there were invisible alien viruses that could turn you into another person one fine morning, a person who could no longer walk. Nothing ever again could surprise her as much as knowing that.

So Franny believed in a tiny flea, mutated and transmogrified into a writer of splendid notes.

Fleabrain.

At 5:30 p.m. the next evening, Franny checked the tip of Alf's tail. Alf lay patiently stretched out on Franny's coverlet, big head on big front paws. There had been no mention of a particular hair at which to meet, tip or otherwise. Franny combed through Alf's entire bushy tail with her fingers. Unfortunately, Alf's tail was darker in color than the rest of him. Something unusual would be difficult to spot. At one point Franny thought she saw a speck flit across one hair, but she couldn't find it again.

That night Franny whispered into the darkness, “Are you there? Will we ever meet? Are you really just a flea?”

At the bottom of the bed, Alf didn't stir, as if he knew Franny's three questions were not for him.

By the Light of the Moon

F
leabrain had hollered. He had leaped. He had shaken his tibiae, frantic to communicate. He'd tried clapping his tarsi, clattering his mouthparts, and frantically raising the short hairs on his back, the latter considered an impertinent gesture among his kind. He had been desperate for Franny's attention and was weak from his exertions.

Fleabrain heard Franny whispering her three lonely questions into the darkness. Replenished after supping on Alf, he was inspired to write a poem in Franny's journal by the light of the moon. How gratifying it felt to translate his angst into a creative endeavor!

Unfortunately, by daybreak he realized his creation was not up to his usual standards. To wit, it was a very bad poem, and it was too late to revise it. It had been written in haste and frustration, though not without love.

Nevertheless, in his heart he knew Franny would understand and perhaps even appreciate his literary effort.

Franny—

I wail

To no avail

From a hair on Alf's tail
.

Yes! Three times yes!

But to hear me, you fail
.

P.S. My dear Franny, the above is a work in progress. There is, one might say, “avail” available. So, yes, three times yes, to your questions
.

We will find a way
.

Yours,

FB

P.S. Hopefully, you will eventually think of me as more than “just a flea”

and

as a cherished friend
.

The Bookcase

T
he day after receiving the very bad poem, which (as Fleabrain had hoped) she enjoyed for its clarity and honesty, Franny wheeled herself to the entry-hall bookcase, hoping to spot Fleabrain among its “plethora” of books.

Like Fleabrain, Franny loved the books in that bookcase. Some of the books used to belong to Franny's deceased grandparents and great-grandparents; others her parents had bought cheaply in used bookstores. They had their own odor, ancient and mysteriously adult, smelling of woolen blankets and socks and soup and exhaust fumes and classrooms. That's because the books were read in all sorts of places before they ended up in the bookcase. Many, many people had loved them.

Franny's parents had read most of the books in high school and college. They often said they hardly remembered what was in them, even though all of their schooling had been an “enlightening experience.” Mr. and Mrs. Katzenback preferred reading about current events in newspapers. But her mother respectfully dusted off the tops
of the books once a year, and both of her parents said the tall, lofty bookcase made for a handsome entryway.

Franny didn't really understand how her parents' schooling could have been enlightening if they'd forgotten almost all of it. She herself resolved to remember every bit of the higher learning of her life. The lower learning, too. Why else bother learning? Her parents didn't want her nosing around “adult” books, which, of course, made the books more enticing, even though she hardly understood most of them.

“Hello, hello,” Franny whispered, opening a few books at random. She imagined letters and words and paragraphs dancing in a dusty, happy cloud from the yellowing pages, grateful to be alive again.
Wheeee! We're free-eeeee! Hello, hello to you, too!
She hoped that Fleabrain would emerge from one of the books. But if he did, she didn't see him.

As she didn't know German, Franny had never read
Die Verwandlung
, the book Fleabrain had deemed “buggist” and overrated. But she did know it for its strange and deliciously horrifying book jacket. She decided to build up the courage to face the frightening jacket by first leafing through the French texts from her parents' college days. Many of the books in the bookshelves had underlining and circled phrases and cryptic comments in the margins. But the French texts contained the love notes.

Je t'adore, Muriel
.

Je t'adore, Sammy
.

Sammy. Mon cher. Muriel
.

Mon petit choux
.

There were lots more mushy-sounding notes scribbled in the margins of the books. Franny's parents, Muriel and Sammy, had fallen in love during university French class. They'd given their daughters French names, Minot and Francine, to commemorate their love. Franny enjoyed discovering those notes. They made her think of chocolate-covered caramels and lacy valentines. Although sometimes she wished her parents had written on a variety of topics in order to practice their French. Then they could have passed on that fluency to their offspring.

Finally, her hand trembling, Franny reached for the small, thin book with the faded red spine.

DIE VERWANDLUNG
. Franz Kafka.

What did
Die Verwandlung
mean, anyway?
Die? Wand? Lung?

There were penciled exclamation marks scattered in the margins, and someone had scribbled
Kafka has the answers
in a margin. Another person had excitedly responded,
HE DOES! HE DOES!

The book had been purchased in a used bookstore by Sam Katzenback, but he'd never read it, having dropped German literature and conversation for French literature and conversation after his first day of class, in order to meet the lovely Muriel, he said. Franny wished he'd remained in the class so that he'd be able to translate this strange book for his future daughter. Of course, if he'd remained in the German class and never met Muriel, his future daughter wouldn't have been Franny.

Franny forced herself to carefully examine the Kafka book jacket again.

A giant-size insect lay on its back, waving its scaly tentacles. Its eyes were unseeing mounds in its forehead. Its mouth was a grimacing circle of sharp fangs.

But what made the illustration peculiarly horrifying was that the giant-size insect was lying on a four-poster bed, covered by a blue and white checkered quilt. A man's brown leather slippers, toes touching, were by the bed, waiting for a man's feet to slip into them. Newspapers were scattered on the patterned rug. A jug of water sat on a night table, and a white shirt and brown suspenders were draped over a chair.

Horrifying! Deliciously, shiver-inspiringly horrifying. Almost funny.

And yet.

So, so sad.

Why was the bug lying in bed? Why did the bug own human clothes?

Franny stared intently at the illustration. The more she looked at it, the more fascinating and interesting it became. The bug's fanged mouth opened wide, then snapped shut. Franny blinked.
Open, snap!
As if the bug were trying to answer her questions!

“Oh!” cried Franny, startled. The book dropped from her hands to the floor. Straining forward to reach for it, she toppled to the floor herself.

“For goodness' sake, girl!”

Nurse Olivegarten raced down the hall from the bathroom, where she'd been smoking a cigarette. She probably thought no
one knew, but Franny sure did. Franny could smell that cigarette no matter how much lilac perfume and peppermint mouthwash Nurse Olivegarten used.

“I told you to wait by the bathroom door,” said Nurse Olivegarten into Franny's ear. She pulled her back into her wheelchair, squeezing Franny's shoulders, hard.

“What was that thump?” asked Franny's mother, emerging from the kitchen, Alf bounding behind her. “Franny, are you hurt?”

“I'm fine.” Franny quickly hid
Die Verwandlung
behind her back and then sat on it. Suddenly she realized who could translate it for her. “It's a nice day,” she said. “Can't we go out for a walk and meet Dad at the streetcar stop?”

Her father had taken the streetcar downtown to work that day because the family car was in the shop. It was Professor Doctor Gutman's stop, too, and he and her father sometimes strolled home together. Professor Doctor Gutman spoke English with what sounded to Franny like a German accent! On the walk back to Shady Avenue she could casually ask him about
Die Verwandlung
and find out why Kafka had all the answers. Or at least invite him for supper one evening to discuss the book further, after which she could discuss it with Fleabrain.

“A walk! Impossible!” said Nurse Olivegarten, her mouth twisting into a fake smile, as if a joke had been made about Franny's ability to walk. “We've done too much today. My shift is over, and I must start home.”

“Franny, it's almost dusk,” said her mother.

“We can all go with Nurse Olivegarten. Then we can walk home with Dad!” said Franny. “Alf, too.”

“I suppose Alf could use an airing,” said her mother. “I just don't want you to get chilled and overtired.”

“I'm feeling strong. Really, I am. Please, Mom,” Franny pleaded. “I'll bundle up.”

Her mother knelt down and took Franny's hands in hers. “You haven't truly wanted to go outside in a long time, darling.”

Franny could hear the scratch of skates on sidewalks, and the shouts on Nicholson Street, where traffic thinned out and games were played. Dusk was always the best time for games—Red Rover and Kick the Can and catch—because kids knew their time outside was limited. That made the minutes (the seconds!) as precious as emeralds. But nobody was calling for Franny to come out. They used to call for Franny all the time.

“I'm feeling strong,” Franny repeated.

“All right,” said her mom, standing up. “Let's go.”

Alf scampered around Franny's wheelchair, his toenails clattering on the hardwood floor. Suddenly he stopped to scratch vigorously behind his left ear.

“I hope that's not a flea he's after,” said Nurse Olivegarten.

“Oh, I'm sure it's not,” Franny said.

The Vista from Alf's Left Ear

A
lthough he preferred the thick tangle and privacy of Alf's tail hairs when he was awake and jumping, Fleabrain liked to snooze just behind his host's left ear, where the hairs thinned out, silken and warm.

And he always got very drowsy during Alf's walks outdoors. That four-legged rhythm,
pad-paddy-pad, pad-paddy-pad
. The shifting, gorgeous kaleidoscope of color. The honks and shouts and whooshes and tweets becoming one long, humming note. A bug's lullaby.

But no, no! Mustn't sleep, he admonished himself. He must keep his eyes open, his brain alert on this wonderful outdoor jaunt. Look and listen, but not like a bug. Focus the kaleidoscope, separate the sounds. Take it all in.

He sensed Alf's excitement rising. Instinct to instinct, he, Fleabrain, must calm him!

“Streetcar's coming! Smell it, flea? Hear the clanging bells?”

“Pipe down, dog. You'll cause some trouble.”

“Can't help it, flea! The dad's coming home! Supper! Oh, joy!”

“Get ahold of yourself, dog. I warn you, I'll bite!”

“OK, I'm heeling. I'm a good boy. I'm a good boy now!”

Fleabrain pitied dumb Alf so.

The dog responded only to basic threats or treats.

Life would be unbearably boring if you couldn't read or discuss books. Or discuss anything, for that matter.

Of course “dumb” was a relative term, too, not to mention a cruel one, when referring to IQ.

Franny would say that he, Fleabrain, was being critical and ungrateful to his host. She'd point out that her dog was “smart,” even though he could neither talk nor read.

“Alf can shake hands!” she'd say. “Alf can roll over!”

Such puny talents, in Fleabrain's opinion. Roll over? For what purpose? A dog could roll over and roll over and roll over ad nauseam, but who benefited?

The dog! The dog got a slice of liverwurst. The dog was beside himself with joy.

The dog didn't even
know
his life was boring.

Yes, Fleabrain supposed he was jealous again. He couldn't help it. He and Alf loved the same girl.

But now … the red and white streetcar had arrived at the stop at the corner of Phillips and Murray, as had Franny, her mother, and Nurse Olivegarten.

Focus the kaleidoscope, Fleabrain. Separate the sounds. Enjoy the ride
.

With a loud screech, the doors opened. There was the dad, descending the stairs. And there was that grouchy neighbor behind
him, Gutman, Ph.D., M.D., E.R.U.D.I.T.E., or whatever the letters attached to his name were.

OK, he was jealous again, Fleabrain admitted to himself. And his pride was hurt, as well. He himself could have translated that book for Franny, even though Kafka had written a ridiculous story, in his opinion. Answers, shmancers. What answers? A man turns into a bug? No matter how hard Fleabrain put his great mind to it, he just couldn't figure out that book.