Kate DiCamillo - Flora & Ulysses

FLORA’S FATHER: I wonder why she said that.

And then he started to cry.

Spies probably didn’t cry. But still.

“There’s a sack and a shovel in the trunk of the car, Pop,” said Flora.

“Is there?” said her father.

“I saw you put them in there.”

“It’s true. I did put a sack and a shovel in the trunk of the car.”

The Criminal Element said that it was a good idea to engage in relentless, open-ended questioning. “If you question with enough ferocity, people are sometimes surprised into answering questions that they do not intend to answer. When in doubt, question. Question more. Question faster.”

“Why?” said Flora.

“I intend to dig a hole,” said her father.

“For what?” said Flora.

“A thing that I am going to bury.”

“What thing are you going to bury?”

“A sack!”

“Why are you burying a sack?”

“Because your mother asked me to.”

“Why did she ask you to bury a sack?”

Her father tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He stared straight ahead. “Why did she ask me to bury a sack? Why did she ask me to bury a sack? That’s a good one. Hey, I know! Do you want to get something to eat?”

“What?” said Flora.

“How about some lunch?” said her father.

“For the love of Pete!” said Flora.

“Or some breakfast? How about we stop and eat a meal, any meal?”

Flora sighed.

The Criminal Element advised “stalling, delaying, and obfuscation of every possible sort” when it came to dealing with a criminal.

Her father wasn’t a criminal. Not exactly. But he had been enlisted in the service of villainy — basically, he was in cahoots with an arch-nemesis. So maybe it would be good to stall, to delay the inevitable showdown, by going into a restaurant.

Besides, the squirrel was hungry, and he would need to be strong for the battle ahead.

“Okay,” said Flora. “Okay. Sure. Let’s eat.”

O kay. Sure. Let’s eat.

What wonderful words those are, thought Ulysses.

Let’s eat.

Talk about poetry.

The squirrel was happy.

He was happy because he was with Flora.

He was happy because he had the words from Tootie’s poem flowing through his head and heart.

He was happy because he was going to be fed soon.

And he was happy because he was, well, happy.

He climbed out of the shoe box and put his front paws on the door and his nose out the open window.

He was a squirrel riding in a car on a summer day with someone he loved. His whiskers and nose were in the breeze.

And there were so many smells!

Overflowing trash cans, just-cut grass, sun-warmed patches of pavement, the loamy richness of dirt, earthworms (loamy-smelling, too; often difficult to distinguish from the smell of dirt), dog, more dog, dog again (Oh, dogs! Small dogs, large dogs, foolish dogs; the torturing of dogs was the one reliable pleasure of a squirrel’s existence), the tang of fertilizer, a faint whiff of birdseed, something baking, the hidden hint of nuttiness (pecan, acorn), the small, apologetic, don’t-mind-me odor of mouse, and the ruthless stench of cat. (Cats were terrible; cats were never to be trusted. Never.)

The world in all its smelly glory, in all its treachery and joy and nuttiness, washed over Ulysses, ran through him, filled him. He could smell everything. He could even smell the blue of the sky.

He wanted to capture it. He wanted to write it down. He wanted to tell Flora. He turned and looked at her.

“Keep your eyes open for malfeasance,” she said to him.

Ulysses nodded.

The words from Tootie’s poem sounded in his head. “‘Flare up like flame’!”

Yes, he thought. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll flare up like flame, and I’ll write it all down.

You’ll have to leave the squirrel in the car,” said Flora’s father as he pulled into the parking lot of the Giant Do-Nut.

“No,” said Flora. “It’s too hot.”

“I’ll leave the windows down,” said her father.

“Someone will steal him.”

“You think someone would steal him?” Her father sounded doubtful, but hopeful. “Who would steal a squirrel?”

“A criminal,” said Flora.

The Criminal Element spoke often, and passionately, about the nefarious activities that every human being is capable of. Not only did it insist that the human heart was dark beyond all reckoning; it also likened the heart to a river. And further, it said, “If we are not careful, that river can carry us along in its hidden currents of want and anger and need, and transform each of us into the very criminal we fear.”

“The human heart is a deep, dark river with hidden currents,” Flora said to her father. “Criminals are everywhere.”

Her father tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “I wish I could disagree with you, but I can’t.”

Ulysses sneezed.

“Bless you,” said her father.

“I’m not leaving him,” said Flora.

Alfred T. Slipper took his parakeet, Dolores, with him everywhere, sometimes even to the offices of the Paxatawket Life Insurance Company. “Not without my parakeet.” That was what Alfred said.

“Not without my squirrel,” said Flora.

If her father recognized the sentence, if the words reminded him of their time together reading about Incandesto, he didn’t show it. He merely sighed. “Bring him in, then,” he said. “But keep the lid on the shoe box.”

Ulysses climbed into the shoe box, and Flora dutifully lowered the lid on his small face.

“Okay,” she said. “All right.”

She climbed out of the car, and then she stood and looked up at the Giant Do-Nut sign.

GIANT DO-NUTS INSIDE! the sign screamed in neon letters, while an extremely large donut disappeared over and over again into a cup of coffee.

But there was no hand on the donut. Who, Flora wondered, is doing the dunking? A small shiver ran down her spine.

What if we are all donuts just waiting to be dunked? she thought.

It was the kind of question that William Spiver would ask. She could hear him asking it. It was also the kind of question that William Spiver would have an answer for. That was the thing about William Spiver. He always had an answer, even if it was an annoying one.

“Listen to me,” she whispered to the shoe box. “You are not a donut waiting to be dunked. You are a superhero. Do not let yourself be tricked or fooled. Remember the shovel. Keep an eye on George Buckman.”

Her father got out of the car. He put his hands in his pockets and jingled his change. “Shall we?” he said.

Stall! Delay! Obfuscate!

“Let’s,” said Flora.

The Giant Do-Nut smelled like fried eggs and donuts and other people’s closets. The dining room was full of laughter and donut dunking.

A waitress sat Flora and her father at a booth in the corner and handed them glossy, enormous menus. Flora surreptitiously ( The Criminal Element recommended surreptitious action at all possible junctures) removed the lid from the shoe box. Ulysses poked his head out and looked around the restaurant. And then he turned his attention to the menu. He stared at it with a dreamy look on his face.