Kate DiCamillo - Flora & Ulysses

Squirrel!

Confronted with the spectacle of William Spiver, they had forgotten about Ulysses.

Flora and her mother and Tootie all turned and looked at Ulysses. He was still on top of Mary Ann. He had managed to balance himself on the small blue-and-green globe that was at the center of the lampshade.

“That squirrel,” said Flora’s mother. “He’s rabid, diseased. He’s got to go.”

Why don’t you let me take the squirrel?” Tootie said to Flora’s mother. “I’ll just return him to the wild.”

“If you can call the backyard the wild,” said William Spiver.

“Hush up, William,” said Tootie. She reached out for Ulysses.

“Don’t touch it!” shrieked Flora’s mother. “Not without gloves. It has some sort of disease.”

“If you could just get me some gloves, then,” said Tootie, “I’ll pluck the squirrel off the lampshade and whisk him out of here and set him free. The kids can come along. It will be a scientific adventure.”

“It doesn’t sound very scientific to me,” said William Spiver.

“Well,” said Flora’s mother, “I don’t know. Flora Belle’s father is coming to pick her up for their Saturday visit. He’ll be here any minute now. And she’s still in her pajamas.”

“Flora Belle?” said William Spiver. “What a lovely, melodious name.”

“It will all take just a minute,” said Tootie in a low, soothing voice. “The kids can get to know each other.”

“I’ll get you some gloves,” said Flora’s mother.

And so now here they were, walking over to Tootie’s, getting to know each other. Or something.

Tootie had on a pair of dishwashing gloves that went all the way up to her elbows. The gloves were bright pink, and they glowed in a cheery, radioactive sort of way.

In Tootie’s gloved hands was Ulysses. Behind Tootie was Flora.

And next to Flora was William Spiver. His left hand rested on her shoulder.

“Do you mind, Flora Belle?” he had said. “Would it trouble you terribly if I put my hand on your shoulder and allowed you to guide me back to Great-Aunt Tootie’s house? The world is a treacherous place when you can’t see.”

Flora didn’t bother pointing out to him that the world was a treacherous place when you could see.

And speaking of treacherousness, things were not, in any way, progressing as Flora had planned. She had envisioned Ulysses fighting crime, criminals, villainy, darkness, treachery; she had imagined him flying (holy bagumba!) through the world with her (Flora Buckman!) at his side. Instead, here she was leading a temporarily blind boy through her own backyard. It was anticlimactic, to say the least.

“Have you released the squirrel yet, Great-Aunt Tootie?”

“No,” said Tootie, “I have not.”

“Why do I sense that there is more going on here than meets the eye?” said William Spiver.

“Just keep quiet until we get back to the house, William,” said Tootie. “Can you do that? Keep quiet for a minute?”

“Of course I can,” said William Spiver. He sighed. “I’m an old pro at keeping quiet.”

Flora doubted, very much, that this was true.

William Spiver squeezed her shoulder. “May I inquire how old you are, Flora Belle?”

“Don’t squeeze my shoulder. I’m ten.”

“I am eleven years old,” said William Spiver. “Which surprises me, I must say. I feel much, much older than eleven. Also, I know for a fact that I am smaller than your average eleven-year-old. It may even be that I’m shrinking. Excessive trauma can retard growth. I’m not certain, however, if it can cause actual shrinkage.”

“What was the traumatic event that turned you blind?” said Flora.

“I’d prefer not to discuss it right now. I don’t want to alarm you.”

“It’s not possible to alarm me,” said Flora. “I’m a cynic. Nothing in human nature surprises a cynic.”

“So you say,” said William Spiver.

The word cryptic popped into Flora’s head. It was preceded by the word unnecessarily.

“Unnecessarily cryptic,” said Flora out loud.

“I beg your pardon?” said William Spiver.

But then they were at Tootie’s house. They were walking through her backyard and into her kitchen, which smelled like bacon and lemons.

Tootie put Ulysses down on the table.

“I don’t understand,” said William Spiver. “We’re back at your house, but I can still smell the squirrel.”

Flora took the paper out of her pajamas. She handed it to Tootie. She felt like a spy, a successful spy, a triumphant spy. Albeit, a spy in pajamas.

“What’s this?” said Tootie.

“It’s proof that you aren’t the victim of an extended hallucination,” said Flora.

Tootie held the paper with both hands. She stared at it. “‘Squirtel!’” she said.

“Squirtel?” said William Spiver.

“Keep reading,” said Flora.

“‘Squirtel!’” said Tootie. “‘I am. Ulysses. Born anew.’”

“See?” said Flora.

“What does that prove?” said William Spiver. “What does it even mean?”

“The squirrel’s name is Ulysses,” said Tootie.

“Wait a minute,” said William Spiver. “Are you positing that the squirrel typed those words?”

Positing? Positing?

“Yes,” said Flora. “That’s exactly what I’m positing.”

“The hallucination extends,” said Tootie.

“What hallucination?” said William Spiver.

“The squirrel as a superhero hallucination,” said Tootie.

“Surely you jest,” said William Spiver.

Ulysses sat up on his hind legs. He looked at William Spiver and then at Tootie, and finally he turned his eyes to Flora. He raised his eyebrows and gave her a look full of questions, full of hope.

Flora felt a pang of doubt. He was, after all, just a squirrel. She had no proof that he was a superhero. What if there was some other explanation for those words? Also, there was Tootie’s disturbing point to consider: What kind of superhero types?

And then she thought about Alfred, how everyone doubted him, how no one (except the parakeet Dolores) knew that he was Incandesto, and how no one (except Dolores) truly believed in him.

Was it Flora’s job to believe in Ulysses?

And what did that make her? A parakeet?

“Let me get this straight,” said William Spiver. “You, a self-professed cynic, are positing that the squirrel is a superhero.”

The words “Do not hope; instead, observe” flitted through Flora’s brain.

She took a deep breath; she brushed the phrase away.

“The squirrel typed those words,” she said.

“Well,” said William Spiver, whose hand was still on Flora’s shoulder. Why didn’t he move his hand? “Let’s just approach this scientifically. We’ll put the squirrel in front of Great-Aunt Tootie’s computer, and we’ll ask him to type. Again.”

He sat in front of the machine. It was different from Flora’s mother’s typewriter. There was a blank screen instead of paper, and the whole contraption glowed, emitting a warm but not entirely friendly smell.

The keyboard was familiar, though. Each of the letters was there, each of them in the same place.

Flora and Tootie stood behind him, and William Spiver, the boy with dark glasses, stood behind him, too.

This was an important moment. Ulysses understood that very well. Everything depended on him typing something. He had to do it for Flora.