by Ellen Raskin
“Is anything wrong?” Sissie asked.
“I’m thinking,” Mona replied.
“That’s nice, dear,” her mother said, and tapped off to the kitchen to prepare dinner.
★ “Those Newtons,” the people of Pineapple said, “don’t even have carpets like decent folk do. Sister says she can’t tap-dance on carpets. If Newt wanted to marry a dancer he should have picked a ballerina. At least a ballerina wouldn’t make so much noise.”
“Anybody home?” Newt boomed, bouncing through the front door. “What a day. What a glorious spring day.”
“Newt, darling, is that you?” Sissie called from the kitchen. Mona groaned at the silly question; who else would be so disgustingly happy?
Hands behind his back, Newt waited for his wife to make her grand entrance.
“Looky, Looky, Looky, Here Comes Cookie,” sang Sissie, tapping into the living room with a double shuffle. She topped off her performance with a buck and wing and a deep curtsy.
Newt bowed, extended his left hand with a flourish, and presented his wife with a daffodil. “And where’s my beautiful Mona?”
Newt tracked the grunt of disgust to the sofa. He bowed again and presented his daughter with a lilac. “And some spring for my little blossom.”
Mona took the flower with a limp hand, put it on the coffee table and stroked the cat, who was now lying on her stomach.
“Don’t you feel well, princess?” Newt asked.
“She’s thinking,” Sissie explained, and tapped to the kitchen, the daffodil between her teeth.
Mona thought throughout most of dinner, shrugging off questions about school and the book business. Newt finally drew her into the conversation with news of his latest trade: the blue Buick for a raspberry-red Edsel.
“What!” Mona exclaimed.
“Well, I, for one, think it was a wonderful deal,” Sissie said. “Raspberry is such a gay color, and we can always use an Edsel in the Founders’ Day parade.”
“Besides,” Newt explained sheepishly to his disapproving daughter, “money isn’t everything.”
He had used this excuse so often that Mona had a come-back ready. “Money happens to be one of our few compensations in this vale of tears.”
“Why, that’s very clever, princess,” Newt said, impressed with his daughter’s quick wit.
“Say that again, Mona, please,” Sissie pleaded. “I like the sound of those big words.”
“Never mind.”
Sissie, unaware of having ruined Mona’s insult with her praise, chatted happily about her plans for the Founders’ Day parade while her sulking daughter comforted herself with a heaping of mashed potatoes.
★ “Founders’ Day!” the people of Pineapple said. “As if Sister Figg Newton didn’t have enough holidays to dance and prance around in, she has to invent Founders’ Day. And she wasn’t even born here. Wouldn’t be so bad if she knew who the real founders were, but the town records were lost in the fire of ’08. All anybody knows for sure is that Pineapple wasn’t named after pineapples. Pineapples don’t grow within three thousand miles of here.”
Fingers extended, Sissie counted off possible origins for the town’s name that she had compiled with the help of Rebecca Quigley, the public librarian:1. Pine-apple, meaning pine cone. (Lots of pines around here.)
2. Pink-apple. (After all, who would want to name a town Crabapple?)
3. Penelope, the name of a founding mother.
4. Pinnacle. (Because of Grubb Hill, altitude 537 feet.)
Newt offered a fifth possibility: the old trading post was won in a pinochle game.
“That’s wonderful, sweetheart,” Sissie exclaimed. “And we can dress Florence as a one-eyed jack.”
Mona protested so violently that her mother changed the costume to the King of Hearts.
“By the way,” Newt asked, “where is Flo tonight?”
“He’s with Phoebe,” Mona replied furiously. She slathered margarine on a slice of bread with such force that it crumbled in her hand.
Newt was utterly confused by his daughter’s anger. “What’s wrong, princess?” he asked meekly.
“What’s wrong?” Mona replied. “What’s wrong is that I don’t think there is or ever has been a Phoebe. That’s what’s wrong.”
“Don’t be silly, Mona,” Sissie said. “Of course there’s a Phoebe. She’s intelligent and kind and loves books. And she’s four-feet four-inches tall.”
“How do you know?” Mona challenged. “Have you ever seen her?”
“Well, no,” Sissie admitted, “but your Uncle Florence described her to me. He’s good at describing, you know.”
Mona wasn’t convinced. “If there is a Phoebe, how come none of us have met her?”
“Gee, princess, Flo is entitled to some privacy,” Newt said. “Besides, he’s too smart to let Phoebe meet a Figg.”
Newt and Sissie laughed, but Mona didn’t think it was funny.
4. A BAD PRESS
DOTS FOR EYES, a blob for a nose, a line for a mouth. Mona combed the limp mouse-brown hair that refused to grow longer and studied herself in the bathroom mirror. What should have been small was big; what should have been big was small. She looked even worse than her Uncle Kadota, she thought. Kadota didn’t have pimples.
Something worse than her own reflection awaited Mona in the kitchen. Fido was sitting at the breakfast table with her parents, blowing his perpetually runny nose.
“Morning, princess,” Newt said cheerfully. “You made the front page of The Pineapple Weekly Journal.”
Mona read the newspaper her father held before her as she poured dry cereal into her bowl. The Corn Flakes overflowed and sprinkled in her lap.
The Pineapple Weekly Journal
PUBLISHED FIFTY TIMES A YEAR
Rampaging Giant Attacks Pineappler
Has the Figg-Newton giant grown too tall?
“Yes,” says Alma Lumpholtz. “It’s bad for my blood pressure.”
Mrs. Lumpholtz was on her way home from Harriet’s Beauty Salon at four o’clock yesterday afternoon when the Figg-Newton giant appeared. It made threatening gestures and nearly toppled on her head, forcing her to take refuge in the newly installed telephone booth at the corner of Hemlock and Ash, which the giant then proceeded to shake.
“A person is not safe on the streets anymore,” said Mrs. Lumpholtz, who is contributing ten cents to the “Separate the Figg from the Newton,” campaign.
“That’s a lie; Mrs. Lumpholtz bumped into us,” Mona protested, jumping up from her chair. A shower of Corn Flakes rained on the floor.
“Well, I do worry about your getting hurt, princess,” Newt said, placing a comforting arm around Mona’s shoulders. “Maybe you are getting too big for that balancing act. You are taller than Florence now, and it’s a long way down if you fall. Besides, Flo hasn’t been looking at all well lately.”
Mona wrenched out of her father’s hug and ran out of the house, followed by cries of “Mona! Hey, Mona! Wait! ”
Fido caught up with her at the corner. “What in the world’s the matter with you, Mona? That’s not the first bad review a Figg ever got.”
“Just leave me alone, Fido Figg. The answer is no.”
“No, what? I haven’t asked you anything yet.” Fido fumbled for his handkerchief. By the time he had pulled it out of his pocket and blown his nose Mona was two blocks away.
“Hey, Mona! Wait!”
Mona didn’t wait.
“What’s wrong with Mona?” Newt asked. “She’s so touchy these days.”
Sissie replied with a tap-tappity-crunch-crunch as she carried the dishes to the sink over the cereal-studded floor.
At one time early in their marriage Newt had studied Morse code on the chance that Sissie was tapping out messages to him. Occasionally he picked out something like “string bean,” but the rest was nonsense. At least it wasn’t English.
Today’s word was “mousetrap.” Newt shrugged and left for the used-car lot, deciding he wou
ld have to talk to Florence about his moody daughter.
II
1. FABULOUS FIGGS BUS
Florence no longer lived in Acorn Alley, in the house he had built with his own hands. He had lived there for fifteen years; he had raised his little sister there after their parents had died (shuffled off to Buffalo, as Sissie put it); he had held her wedding there. Then Newt moved in. Then Mona was born. The house was not large enough for four people and a library; either Florence or his books had to go. The books stayed. Mona moved into Florence’s bedroom and Florence moved into the Fabulous Figgs bus, permanently parked in Newton (“Newt”) Newton’s used-car lot.
Newt rapped on the dented door of the derelict bus. He rapped again. “Flo,” he called. “Wake up, Flo.” Through a window he could see Florence asleep on his cot, smiling a dream smile.
Newt climbed into the bus and gently, then firmly, shook his brother-in-law. Florence opened his eyes and looked around. His smile faded.
“Morning, Flo. I sure envy you your dreams.”
Groggy with sleep, Florence sat up slowly, painfully. “Morning, Newt. Did Mona get off to school all right?”
“Hardly,” Newt replied. He squeezed into the desk chair opposite the cot and handed Florence a container of coffee. “I’m really worried about Mona, Flo. I can’t figure out what’s going on in her head. She’s so inside herself these days, and so mad at the world. She won’t confide in Sissie. Or me. You’re the only one she talks to lately.”
“I’m afraid she doesn’t confide in me either, Newt. We just talk about the book business. Not about books, unfortunately, just the business.” Florence sipped the lukewarm coffee and shook his head sadly. “I had hoped to teach her to enjoy books, to love books, but maybe that’s something that can’t be taught. Books, to Mona, are just things to be bought and sold.”
“Well, at least she’s interested in something, Flo, thanks to you. Sometimes I think it wasn’t such a good idea, her being put ahead in school. Smart as she is, it must be tough being the youngest in her class. And the smallest.” Newt immediately regretted his words.
Shoulders slumped, feet dangling over the edge of the cot, Florence agreed. “It can be a problem, being the smallest.”
“I’m sorry, Flo. Nothing personal, I mean....” Newt swallowed his clumsy apology and dashed out of the bus on the pretense that a customer had just walked into his office.
Florence was too fond of his brother-in-law to be offended. “Thanks for the coffee, Newt,” he shouted after him. Then, whistling the left-hand piano accompaniment to Schubert’s “Who Is Sylvia?”, he put on his bathrobe and left the bus. In lighter moments he whistled Gilbert and Sullivan.
One of Florence’s dreams had been to become a great pianist. He had traveled too much as a child to take lessons, and when he finally settled down in a house with a piano he discovered that his legs were too short and his hands too small. And now arthritic, he thought. He had also dreamed of becoming a great singer, but his voice was not as gifted as his tapping feet. So the former dancing star, now book dealer, whistled as he crossed the used-car lot.
“Florence I. Figg!” a voice screeched. Florence I. Figg came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the lot. “You’ll catch your death of cold running about half-naked, and in bare feet, too.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Lumpholtz.” Florence pulled his bathrobe tightly around his middle to guard against any indecency, bowed quickly, and trotted off to the shack marked Very Private Office.
Properly dressed in his proper suit, Florence left the miniature bathroom and dressing room Newt had built for him and hobbled back to the bus. His knees were bothering him again. His muscles had never been so sore. Absentmindedly rubbing a tender shoulder, he thought of Mona. He, too, was worried about the troubled, lonely Mona.
Suddenly his body was racked by a paroxysm of coughing.
Mona needed him, and there was so little time before he left for Capri.
The words on the side of the bus, once poster-color bright, could barely be read now. Florence flicked a bit of peeling paint off the word “Baby” and limped up the steps.
The bus served both as his home and his office. Figg’s Fine Books specialized in colorplate books, issuing catalogues four times a year. Honest in his dealings, loving in his descriptions, Florence had built up a steady list of customers over the years. He used to display choice books in the bus, until the day Newt sold a book-buyer’s car by mistake. Now it was strictly a mail-order business.
Las Hazañas Fantásticas lay on the desk. Grimacing with pain, Florence eased himself into the swivel chair, fondly caressed the worn leather binding, and opened the book to the delicately colored map.
Then he smiled his dream smile.
“Did you see the dumb story in The Pineapple Weekly Journal this morning?” Mona had to repeat her question before Florence looked up from his book, baffled. “Mrs. Lumpholtz is going to ruin everything. What if old man Bargain reads it?”
“Eb Bargain only reads obituaries,” her uncle replied seriously. “And I wouldn’t worry about Mrs. Lumpholtz. She means well. But why aren’t you in school?”
“It’s three-thirty,” Mona explained, peering over his shoulder. “Is that the map book for Uncle Romulus?”
Florence covered the book with a protective arm. “I don’t think we should sell this one to Romulus; the map doesn’t appear to be authentic. You remember what happened two years ago.”
Two years ago Romulus conducted a tour to Amoscarl Isle. Only after sailing in circles for ten days, threatened with mutiny, did he realize that the island did not exist. Amos Carlisle was the mapmaker’s signature.
“But I promised Uncle Romulus he could see the book,” Mona complained. It wasn’t her fault her tour-guide uncle was stupid enough to chase after nonexistent islands.
Florence comforted her with a “We’ll see,” and explained that he had not yet catalogued the book. “By the way, what new titles did you find on Bargain’s top shelf?”
“Not much,” Mona replied, meaning neither colorplate books nor books on the “wanted” lists. “One book is called The Romance of Sandwich Glass. Maybe we can interest Sophie Davenport in that one; she collects all kinds of teapots to arrange her flowers in.” Mona was always on the lookout for new customers. “And two other books: Lord Jim and Typhoon.”
“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.”
2. FIDO THE SECOND
WHAT 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.
★ “That Fido’s not really a Figg, you know,” the people of
Pineapple said. “Can tell just by looking at him—so tall and handsome. The best athlete this town’s seen since Newt Newton made All-State. Poor kid, he didn’t pick that dog-trainer for a father or the dog-catcher for a mother. Imagine Kadota and Gracie Jo adopting a baby to take the place of an old bull terrier. It’s a wonder Fido grew up at all, what with walking on all fours until he was six. And eating Ken-L-Ration.”
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.”
