Free Fleabrain Loves Franny by Joanne Rocklin Page A

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.
    â€œLovely 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.”
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œNow that you know how strong your arms are, let’s try a bigger challenge,” Fleabrain said.
    â€œNicholson Street is very steep!” said Franny.
    â€œWe 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.
    â€œYou whistle very well,” Franny said. “So many talents! And I recognize that tune.”
    â€œThank 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.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œOh, do have a listen to the entire recording when you can!” exclaimed Fleabrain.
    They had reached the top of Nicholson at Beechwood Boulevard.
    â€œWe did it!” cried Franny.
    â€œOf course,” said Fleabrain. “Never any doubt in my mind.”
    Beechwood Boulevard’s wide expanse was silent and empty of cars.
    â€œLet’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.
    â€œIt seems that a second dose of Be-Gone-with-Them, to which I was subjected, as you are well aware, has the