Kate DiCamillo - Flora & Ulysses

His whiskers trembled. He could feel them trembling. He could see them trembling.

What could he do?

He turned and sniffed his tail.

There was nothing he could do except to be himself, to try to make the letters on the keyboard speak the truth of his heart, to work to make them reveal the essence of the squirrel he was.

But what was the truth?

And what kind of squirrel was he?

He looked around the room. There was a tall window, and outside the window was the green, green world and the blue sky. Inside, there were shelves and shelves of books. And on the wall above the keyboard was a picture of a man and woman floating over a city. They were suspended in a golden light. The man was holding the woman, and she had one arm flung out in front of her as if she were pointing the way home. Ulysses liked the woman’s face. She reminded him of Flora.

Looking at the painting made the squirrel feel warm inside, certain of something. Whoever had painted the picture loved the floating man and the floating woman. He loved the city they floated above. He loved the golden light.

Just as Ulysses loved the green world outside. And the blue sky. And Flora’s round head.

His whiskers stopped trembling.

“What’s happening?” asked William Spiver.

“Nothing,” said Flora.

“He’s gone into some kind of trance,” said Tootie.

“Shhh,” said Flora.

Ulysses inched closer to the keyboard.

I love your round head,

the brilliant green,

the watching blue,

these letters,

this world, you.

I am very, very hungry.

They were sitting in Tootie’s office. Tootie was on the couch with a package of frozen peas on her head. She had fainted.

Unfortunately, she had hit her head on the edge of the desk on the way down.

Fortunately, Flora had remembered an issue of TERRIBLE THINGS CAN HAPPEN TO YOU! advising that a bag of frozen peas made an excellent cold compress to “provide comfort and reduce swelling.”

“Read it one more time,” said William Spiver to Flora.

Flora read Ulysses’s words aloud again.

“The squirrel wrote poetry,” said Tootie in a voice filled with wonder.

“Keep those peas on your head,” said Flora.

“I don’t get the last part,” said William Spiver, “the part about hunger. What does that mean?”

Flora turned away from the computer and looked at William Spiver’s dark glasses and saw, again, her round-headed pajama-ed self reflected there. “It means he’s hungry,” she said. “He hasn’t had any breakfast.”

“Oh,” said William Spiver. “I see. It’s literal.”

Ulysses was sitting on his hind legs beside the computer. He nodded hopefully.

“It’s poetry,” said Tootie from the couch.

Ulysses puffed out his chest the tiniest bit.

“Well, it might be poetry,” said William Spiver, “but it’s not great poetry. It’s not even good poetry.”

“But what does this all mean?” said Tootie.

“Why does it have to mean something?” said William Spiver. “The universe is a random place.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, William,” said Tootie.

Flora felt something well up inside of her. What was it? Pride in the squirrel? Annoyance at William Spiver? Wonder? Hope?

Suddenly, she remembered the words that appeared over Alfred T. Slipper’s head when he was submerged in the vat of Incandesto!

“Do you doubt him?” said Flora.

“Of course I doubt him!” said William Spiver.

“Do not,” said Flora.

“Why?” said William Spiver.

She stared at him.

“Take off your glasses,” she said. “I want to see your eyes.”

“No,” said William Spiver.

“Take them off.”

“I won’t.”

“Children,” said Tootie. “Please.”

Who was William Spiver really?

Yes, yes, he was the great-nephew of Tootie Tickham suddenly (suspiciously) come to stay the summer. But who was he really? What if he was some kind of comic-book character himself? What if he was a villain whose powers were depleted as soon as the light of the world hit his eyes?

Incandesto was forever being attacked by his arch-nemesis, the Darkness of 10,000 Hands.

Every superhero had an arch-nemesis.

What if Ulysses’s arch-nemesis was William Spiver?

“The truth must be known!” said Flora. She stepped forward. She reached out her hand to remove William Spiver’s glasses.

And then she heard her name. “Floooooorrrrrrraaaaaaa Belllllllle, your father is here!”

“Flora Belle,” said William Spiver in a gentle voice.

Ulysses was still sitting on his hind legs. His ears were pricked. He looked back and forth between Flora and William Spiver.

“We have to go,” said Flora.

“Wait,” said William Spiver.

Flora picked Ulysses up by the scruff of his neck. She put him under her pajama top.

“Will I ever see you again?” said William Spiver.

“The universe is a random place, William Spiver,” said Flora. “Who can say whether we will meet again or not?”

Her father was standing on the top step in front of the open door. He was wearing a dark suit and a tie and a hat with a brim, even though it was Saturday and summertime.

Flora’s father was an accountant at the firm Flinton, Flosston, and Frick.

Flora wasn’t sure, but she thought it was possible that her father was the world’s loneliest man. He didn’t even have Incandesto and Dolores to keep him company anymore.

“Hi, Pop,” she said.

“Flora,” said her father. He smiled at her, and then he sighed.

“I’m not ready yet.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” said her father. He sighed again. “I’ll wait.”

He walked with Flora into the living room. He sat down on the couch. He took off his hat and balanced it on his knee.

“Are you in the house now, George?” Flora’s mother shouted from the kitchen. “Is Flora with you?”

“I am inside!” shouted Flora’s father. “Flora is with me!”

The clack-clack-clack of the typewriter echoed through the house. Silverware rattled. And then there was silence.

“What are you doing, George?” her mother shouted.

“I am sitting on the couch, Phyllis. I am waiting for my daughter!” Flora’s father moved his hat from his left knee to his right knee and then back to his left knee again.

Ulysses shifted underneath Flora’s pajamas.

“What are you two going to do today?” Flora’s mother shouted.

“I don’t know, Phyllis!”

“I can hear you perfectly well, George,” said Flora’s mother as she came into the living room. “You don’t need to shout. Flora, what have you got under your pajama top?”

“Nothing,” said Flora.