Figgs & Phantoms (4 page)

“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 would have to talk to Florence about his moody daughter.

F
lorence 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.”