Figgs & Phantoms (2 page)

The bald spot shone as if with a light of its own. Ebenezer Bargain was still bent over his book, avidly reading. He swore softly at the disturbance and turned a page, but he did not look up. The crotchety shopkeeper had no need to look up. His valuable books were secure from all browsers, he thought, safely out of sight and out of reach on the tall stacks on the back wall. On the very top shelf.

Masked in shadows, the giant stood tall before the tall stacks on the back wall. Silently, Mona removed a book from the very top shelf.

On the first day of every month Ebenezer Bargain rearranged the books in his shop. He placed slow-selling items in sale bins to make room for newly acquired books and added one or two rare or unusual books to the top-shelf collection, his “retirement investment.”

On the second day of every month the Figg-Newton giant appeared.

Three years ago Mona had convinced her Uncle Florence, who was also a bookseller, that if old man Bargain had not yet retired, he never would. He was then ninety-three years old. Besides, she had argued, books should not be hoarded. There were surely some books gathering dust on the top shelf that her uncle's customers would pay dearly to own. Florence reluctantly agreed, on one condition: they would take no more than the number added. So every month Ebenezer Bargain added one or two books to his top shelf, and the next day the Figg-Newton giant removed one or two books from the top shelf. The old shopkeeper never seemed to notice that the length of his “retirement investment” remained the same.

Teetering on her uncle's shoulders, Mona flipped through the worn book to make certain it was the same book she had seen and described to him last month. She found the delicately colored, decorative map, then hastily turned to the title page.

Mona bent her knees and cautiously placed the Spanish book into the upraised hand protruding through two buttons of the shabby cloak. Uncle Florence placed the book on the third shelf from the bottom, and the giant continued its slow progress along the back wall.

Three times more Mona nudged her uncle with her toe, and each time he stopped, allowing her to examine the new addition and commit details to memory. At last the giant reached the end of the row. Mona looked around for the all-clear signal. The shopkeeper's bald spot beamed like a lighthouse in a fog: old man Bargain was still bent over his book. The Figg-Newton giant emerged from the shadows and shuffled out of the shop into the sun.

H
EY, FIGG-NEWTON. I sure could use you on my basket-ball team,” Bump Popham shouted as the giant staggered past Benckendorf's Drugs and Sodas (Booths in the Back).

Florence, deep in the folds of the long cloak, was panting too hard to greet the athletic coach.

Mona, too, remained silent, bitterly silent; she teetered on her uncle's shoulders, arms thrashing, cheeks burning with rage. Bump Popham was making fun of them, she thought. Just because they were Figgs, she thought. Just because Uncle Florence was short, she thought. And now Bump Popham will tell everybody his joke,
ha! ha!
And everybody will laugh,
ha! ha!
That's all the people of Pine-apple did these days was laugh and gossip about Figgs, she thought. Figgs. Figgs. The funny Figgs. The poor, funny, freaky Figgs.

 

★
“Poor Florence Italy Figg,” the people of Pineapple said. “Forty-five years old next week and still only four-feet six-inches tall. As if it wasn't bad enough having to go through life with a name like that, he has to be almost a midget. Still, as Figgs go, he's the best of the lot, by far.”

 

The glum giant flapped around the corner and disappeared into a small shack on Newt Newton's used-car lot. Seconds later a little man scurried out, retracing the giant's steps. He patted his graying hair into place, tugged down his tight vest, hiked his overlong shirt sleeves up over the yellow garters Sister had given him last Christmas, and slipped into the jacket of his once-elegant suit. Then, wincing as he threw back his sore shoulders, Florence Italy Figg stepped into Hemlock Street, proud and dignified, as if to cheat the curious out of a lingering stare.

“Hello, Bump,” he said as he passed Benckendorf's Drugs. The coach was still leaning in front of the streamered window display. “No baseball game today?”

“Team's rehearsing for the parade,” Bump Popham explained. “Are you going to be in it, Flo?”

“I hope not,” Flo replied. “I'm getting a bit old and creaky.”

“You're as young as you feel, I always say.” The coach reinforced his adage with a mock jab to the little man's ribs. “But you're welcome to ride on the float with me.”

“Thanks, Bump,” Florence said, “but you know Sister.” He continued on his way with a smile that never quite disguised the sadness in his eyes, and entered Bargain's dark shop, where he would spend the rest of the afternoon dickering over the price of a book he had just happened to find on the third shelf.

Giant Day was a busy day for Newton (“Newt”) Newton. Strangers driving through Pineapple were so fascinated by the gargantuan creature that they followed it straight into the used-car lot. “Cheap advertising stunt,” some said when they realized where the trip had taken them, but a few remained to trade in their cars. Somehow Newt managed to lose money in almost every deal.

Mona emerged from the shack dressed in her usual uniform of a pea jacket, an old shirt, and jeans, as Newt was halfheartedly describing the merits of a Buick convertible to a potential buyer, who kicked a half-inflated tire and frowned.

“Great little car,” Mona said in passing. “Tires just need some air.”

“That's my daughter,” Newt explained proudly.

Mona clumped into Newt's Office (Everybody Welcome), and dialed a familiar telephone number. She had a more important sales pitch to make.

“AAAA Universal Travel Bureau,” a strained falsetto voice answered.

“May I speak to Romulus Figg, please. This is Ms. Newton calling.”

“One minute, please, I will see if Mr. Romulus Figg, proprietor, travel expert, and tour guide extraordinaire is in. ”

Mona waited out her Uncle Romulus' pretense. Exactly one minute later he replied in his natural baritone.

“Hello, hello, Romulus Figg here.”

“Uncle Romulus, I've just found the perfect book for you. Uncle Florence has two or three customers just begging for it, but I wanted you to have first choice.”

“How much is it going to set me back this time?”

“Whatever it costs, it will be worth it. I'm sure it's a very rare book. It's by someone named Supuesto, and it has the strangest map....”

“Map of what?”

“Las Hazanas Fantasticas. That's probably Havana. Fantastic Havana,” Mona translated, incorrectly.

“Havana is Havana, and Hazanas is Hazanas, except there is no such place as Hazanas,” Romulus (Ask Me Anything) Figg replied. “Never mind, when can I see the book?”

“Tomorrow, I guess, or the next day.” Mona's voice faltered. “Tonight is Phoebe night, so Uncle Florence won't be over for dinner.”

Romulus softened his tone. “Thanks, Mona, I really would like to take a look at the book. Tell me, how's my favorite niece these days? How's the diet coming?”

Mona slammed the receiver in her uncle's ear. Favorite niece, indeed. She was the only niece he had.

Diet!

Phoebe!

Newt leaned through the office door. “Want to come along on a demonstration ride, Mona? I'll drop you off at home on the way back.”

Mona brushed past her father without a word and stamped out of the car lot, fists in her pockets, chin on her chest, propelled by an inner fury.

Phoebe! Why did Uncle Florence have to have a date with Phoebe on Giant Day? Giant Day was her day, hers and Uncle Florence's together. Everyone wanted to spoil it. Bump Popham. Mrs. Lumpholtz. “I should have said: ‘Five cents of that is mine, Mrs. Lumpholtz.' I should have shouted: ‘Mrs. Lumpholtz, five cents of that dime you stole from the telephone company is mine.' ”