Figgs & Phantoms

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  I

  1. THE FIGG-NEWTON GIANT

  2. ALMOST A MIDGET

  3. TAP-DANCING MOTHER

  4. A BAD PRESS

  II

  1. FABULOUS FIGGS BUS

  2. FIDO THE SECOND

  3. PLOTS AND PLANS

  4. THE POTATO DANCE

  III

  1. THE THIEF

  2. CAPRIFICATION

  3. GOING, GOING...

  4. GONE!

  IV

  1. MONA MOURNS

  2. THREE KEYS

  3. CREEPING, CRAWLING

  4. A GARISH FACSIMILE

  V

  1. THE PINK PALM

  2. THE GREEN DUNGEON

  3. SOMEONE ELSE’S DREAM

  4. THE LAST DANCE

  VI

  1. WELCOME HOME

  2. FIDO’S DISEASE

  3. PARADE WATCHING

  4. SAINTS GO MARCHING IN

  Teaser chapter

  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.

  NOVELS BY ELLEN RASKIN

  The Mysterious Disappearance of Leon (I mean Noel)

  Figgs & Phantoms

  The Tattooed Potato and other clues

  The Westing Game

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue,

  Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in the United States of America by E. P. Dutton,

  a division of NAL Penguin Inc., 1974

  Published by Puffin Books, 1989

  This edition published simultaneously by Puffin Books and Dutton Children’s Books,

  divisions of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2011

  Copyright © Ellen Raskin, 1974

  All rights reserved

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE PUFFIN EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

  eISBN : 978-1-101-48600-9

  eISBN : 978-1-101-48600-9

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  I

  1. THE FIGG-NEWTON GIANT

  THE BLACK-CLAD GIANT moved slowly, silently, like a grotesque late-afternoon shadow, past the shops on Hemlock Street. Head erect, shaded eyes unseeing, the monstrous, hovering creature seemed to defy nature as it balanced its teetering bulk on two small feet.

  Suddenly the giant stumbled. Its head whipped backward, forward; its flailing arms thrashed the air. The huge, distorted body threatened to break in two as it writhed and swooped, twisting and lurching in ragged circles. At last it jackknifed to a stop atop the telephone booth where Mrs. Lumpholtz had run for cover.

  “Figgs!” hissed Mrs. Lumpholtz.

  The giant pushed against the booth and straightened to its more than nine feet. A dime clinked into the coin-return slot.

  “We’re so sorry, Mrs. Lumpholtz,” the giant apologized. The muffled voice seemed to come from the fourth button of its tattered cloak.

  “You’re too old for such childishness, Mr. Florence I. Figg,” Mrs. Lumpholtz snarled back at the fourth button. Pocketing the dime, she squeezed out of the booth, shook a fist at the scowl under the wide black hat, and spluttered, “And you’re getting too ... too big, Mona Lisa Newton!”

  The scowl deepened. Mona struggled to think of a cutting reply equal to her bruised feelings. Words tumbled around in her head, stumbled and bumped into one another and lay dead, unspoken. Mrs. Lumpholtz huffed off to the office of The Pineapple Weekly Journal (published fifty times a year) as Mona watched in dumb anguish.

  ★ “Figgs!” the people of Pineapple said. “And that Mona Newton’s the worst of the lot. Just look at her balancing up there like Truman the Human Pretzel. She’s a Figg, all right, even if she can’t tap-dance.”

  Mona adjusted her feet on the shoulders of her Uncle Florence and released her grip on the telephone booth. “Ready,” she called.

  Knees buckling, the Figg-Newton giant staggered on its unsteady way toward Bargain Books.

  “You are growing up, Mona,” Uncle Florence mumbled. “You are growing up, and I am growing old.”

  Mona dipped her knees and ducked her head as Uncle Florence stepped through the doorway of the bookshop. The giant paused to adjust to the dim dustiness, then shuffled toward the rear wall, past Ebenezer Bargain perched on a tall stool behind his high desk. The wizened bookseller was bent over a book, thick glasses weighing heavily on his beaked nose.

  Mona bit hard on her upper lip, trying to stifle a sneeze as she stared down from the dizzying height at the small bald spot on top of the old man’s head. The bald spot reflected the shop’s one hanging bulb; and it seemed to Mona that years of sitting in the same position must have burned this desert patch in his thicket of silver hair.

  Then Mona sneezed. Jolted, Uncle Florence gripped his niece’s ankles firmly as she flapped her arms like a landing goose. The giant reeled giddily, slammed into book bins and stumbled against the shelves. Clutching a bracketed support, Uncle Florence gasped for breath. Mona glanced around furtively.

  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.

  LAS HAZAÑAS FANTÁSTICAS

  Historia de la vida y hechos

  del

  Pirata Supuesto

  MDCCX Madrid

  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.

  2. ALMOST A MIDGET

  HEY, 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.’ ”

  Tap-tappity-tap-tap. Mona was home.

  ★ “A crazy lot, those Figgs,” the people of Pineapple said. “Not our kind at all. How Newt Newton, the best high school quarterback this town’s ever had, could have married the likes of that tap-dancing Sister Figg is more than a person can imagine. Serves him right, his one and only child turning into such a misfit.”

  3. TAP-DANCING MOTHER

  TAPPING. Resounding, ear-shattering tap-tap-tap-tapping. Mona had grown used to her mother’s incessant tap-dancing, but this sounded like a buffalo stampede. Even the front stoop where she was sitting shook as the thundering herd stamped and sang “Take Me Out to the Ball-game.

  Shutting her ears, closing her eyes, Mona tried to concentrate on the new additions she had discovered on Bargain’s top shelf.

  ★ “That Mona Newton is a Figg, all right,” the people of
Pineapple said. “Looks like a Figg, acts like a Figg. Balances like her uncle Truman the Human Pretzel. Memorizes like Romulus, the Walking Book of Knowledge. Figures like Remus, the Talking Adding Machine. Short, too, like Florence, though she’s still growing-both ways. Wouldn’t be so bad if she took after her cute mother, but she’s going to end up looking like Kadota, and she doesn’t even like dogs.”

  Deep in thought, Mona was almost trampled by the Pineapple Slicers. Rehearsal over, the high school baseball team bounded through the front door, laughing, punching, clowning. Mona darted around to the side of the house and waited until she heard Fido Figg, boisterous star pitcher, leave. If there was one person Mona truly hated in that hateful town, it was her cousin Fido Figg.

  “There you are, Mona,” Sissie Newton said, tap-dancing toward her daughter with welcoming arms. “Fido was disappointed he didn’t see you.”

  Mona ducked, successfully eluding her mother’s kiss, and plopped down into the old couch.

  Sissie shrugged off the now-familiar rejection and began tap-dancing the furniture back into place. “Mona, dear, please give me a hand.”

  Sighing, Mona rose, pushed the sofa to the center of the room, then slumped back into its sagging springs. Noodles, her cat, missed being squashed by a hair. He sprang off the couch and meowed a complaint from under the piano.