Figgs & Phantoms (20 page)

“Look, Mona.” Miss Quigley pointed to the passing parade.

“Hooray!” shouted Mrs. Lumpholtz and Miss Quigley.

“Hooray!” Mona shouted, waving to her beaming parents. She clutched the would-be pirate's book to her breast and stared long and hard at the gay float as it drove past the cheering people of Pineapple. Mona wanted to remember this happy scene forever.

Mona had a lot of remembering to do, a lot of living and learning and loving to do, before she left once more for Caprichos. Before she returned to
their
dream.

“REALLY NOW, TRUMAN,” I SAID. “THAT'S GOING TOO FAR.
IT'S SUPPOSED TO SAY ‘END,' NOT ‘AND.' ”
“I LIKE IT BETTER THIS WAY,” HE REPLIED.
MAYBE HE'S RIGHT.

Ellen Raskin
lived in many worlds: in the world of books, in the world of dreams, and in New York City, where she wrote and illustrated in an 1820 haunted house.

 

Ellen Raskin was born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and grew up during the Great Depression. She is the author of several other novels, including the Newbery Award—winning
The Westing Game
, the Newbery Honor—winning
Figgs & Phantoms,
and
The Tattooed Potato and other clues.
She also wrote and illustrated many picture books, and was an accomplished graphic artist. She designed dust jackets for dozens of books, including the first edition of Madeleine L'Engle's classic
A Wrinkle in Time
. Ms. Raskin died at the age of fifty-six on August 8, 1984, in New York City.

 

Ellen Raskin made the illustrations in this book. She also designed this book with the patient assistance of Riki Levinson and Susan Shapiro (who is not responsible for Truman Figg's misspellings).

 

The typefaces were chosen to reflect the content of the words, to point up the contrast of old books with vaudeville. The text was set in Janson, a beautiful seventeenth-century old-style face. The display type is the theatrical Playbill. Truman's signs are composed of Chisel, Playbill, and News Gothic. The ampersand is Garamond. This sign represents the word “and” and is derived from the Latin
et
, which also means “and.”

 

 

THE SUN SETS in the west (just about everyone knows that), but Sunset Towers faced east. Strange!

Sunset Towers faced east and had no towers. This glittery, glassy apartment house stood alone on the Lake Michigan shore five stories high. Five empty stories high.

Then one day (it happened to be the Fourth of July), a most uncommon-looking delivery boy rode around town slipping letters under the doors of the chosen tenants-to-be. The letters were signed
Barney Northrup
.

The delivery boy was sixty-two years old, and there was no such person as Barney Northrup.

Six letters were delivered, just six. Six appointments were made, and one by one, family by family, talk, talk, talk, Barney Northrup led the tours around and about Sunset Towers.

“Take a look at all that glass. One-way glass,” Barney Northrup said. “You can see out, nobody can see in.”

Looking up, the Wexlers (the first appointment of the day) were blinded by the blast of morning sun that flashed off the face of the building.

“See those chandeliers? Crystal!” Barney Northrup said, slicking his black moustache and straightening his hand-painted tie in the lobby's mirrored wall. “How about this carpeting? Three inches thick!”

“Gorgeous,” Mrs. Wexler replied, clutching her husband's arm as her high heels wobbled in the deep plush pile. She, too, managed an approving glance in the mirror before the elevator door opened.

“You're really in luck,” Barney Northrup said. “There's only one apartment left, but you'll love it. It was meant for you.” He flung open the door to 3D. “Now, is that breathtaking, or is that breathtaking?”

Mrs. Wexler gasped; it was breathtaking, all right. Two walls of the living room were floor-to-ceiling glass. Following Barney Northrup's lead, she ooh-ed and aah-ed her joyous way through the entire apartment.

Her trailing husband was less enthusiastic. “What's this, a bedroom or a closet?” Jake Wexler asked, peering into the last room.

“It's a bedroom, of course,” his wife replied.

“It looks like a closet.”

“Oh Jake, this apartment is perfect for us, just perfect,” Grace Wexler argued in a whining coo. The third bedroom was a trifle small, but it would do just fine for Turtle. “And think what it means having your office in the lobby, Jake; no more driving to and from work, no more mowing the lawn or shoveling snow.”