Tootie smiled a big, fake adult smile back. “Oh,” she said. “I just came to pay Flora a visit.”
“Who?”
“Flora,” said Tootie. “Your daughter.”
“Really?” said Flora’s mother. “You came to see Flora?”
“I’ll be right back,” said Flora.
She ran out of the living room and through the dining room.
“What a truly extraordinary lamp,” she heard Tootie say.
“Oh, do you like it?” said Flora’s mother.
Ha! thought Flora.
And then she was out of the dining room and into the kitchen. She ripped the paper out of the typewriter and looked down at the words; they were absolutely not a hallucination.
“Holy bagumba,” said Flora.
A loud scream echoed through the house.
Flora took the paper and shoved it down the front of her pajamas and ran back into the living room.
Ulysses was sitting on top of Mary Ann.
Or rather, he was trying to sit on top of Mary Ann.
His feet were scrabbling to gain purchase on the little shepherdess’s pink-flowered lampshade. He paused in his efforts and looked at Flora in an apologetic and hopeful way, and then he returned to wobbling back and forth.
“Oh, my goodness,” said Tootie.
“How did it get in here?” shouted Flora’s mother. “It just came flying down the stairs.”
“Yes,” said Tootie. She gave Flora a meaningful look. “Flying.”
“It absolutely scared the living daylights out of me and Mrs. Tickham. We screamed.”
“We did,” said Tootie. “We screamed. There’s just no end to the excitement.”
“If that squirrel breaks my lamp, I don’t know what I’ll do. Mary Ann is very precious to me.”
“Mary Ann?” said Tootie.
“I’ll just get him off the lamp, okay?” said Flora. She put out a hand.
“Don’t touch it!” screamed her mother. “It has a disease.”
The doorbell, as if it were echoing Flora’s mother’s advice, buzzed its terrible warning buzz.
Flora and her mother and Tootie all turned.
A small voice called out.
The voice said, “Great-Aunt Tootie?”
There was a boy at the door.
He was short, and his hair was so blond that it looked almost white. His eyes were hidden behind enormous dark glasses.
In addition to TERRIBLE THINGS CAN HAPPEN TO YOU!, The Illuminated Adventures of the Amazing Incandesto! regularly featured a second bonus comic entitled The Criminal Element Is Among Us. The Criminal Element gave very specific pointers on how to never, ever be fooled by a criminal, and one of the oft-repeated dictums of The Criminal Element was that the best way to get to know a person was to look him or her directly in the eye.
Flora tried to look the boy in the eye, but all she saw was a reflection of herself in his dark glasses.
She looked short and uncertain, like an accordion in pajamas.
“William,” said Tootie, “I told you to stay put.”
“I heard screaming,” said the boy. His voice was high and thin. “I was concerned. I came as fast as I could. Unfortunately, on the way over here, I had a small but extremely violent encounter with some variety of shrub. And now I’m bleeding. I think I’m bleeding. I’m pretty sure I smell blood. But no one should be concerned. Please, don’t overreact.”
“This,” said Tootie, “is my nephew.”
“Great-nephew,” said the boy. “And I hope I don’t need stitches. Do you think I need stitches?”
“His name is William,” said Tootie.
“William Spiver, actually,” said Tootie’s nephew. “I prefer to be called William Spiver. It distinguishes me from the multiplicity of Williams in the world.” He smiled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, whoever you are. I would shake your hand, but as I said, I think I’m bleeding. Also, I’m blind.”
“You are not blind,” said Tootie.
“I am suffering from a temporary blindness induced by trauma,” said William Spiver.
Temporary blindness induced by trauma.
The words sent a chill down Flora’s spine.
Seemingly, there was no end to the things that could go wrong with human beings. Why hadn’t TERRIBLE THINGS CAN HAPPEN TO YOU! done an issue on temporary blindness induced by trauma? Or, for that matter, one on extended hallucinations?
“I am temporarily blind,” said William Spiver again.
“How unfortunate,” said Flora’s mother.
“He’s not blind,” said Tootie. “But as of this morning, he is staying with me for the summer. Imagine my surprise and excitement.”
“I have nowhere else to go, Great-Aunt Tootie,” said William Spiver. “You know that. I am at the mercy of the winds of fate.”
“Oh,” said Flora’s mother. She clapped her hands. “How wonderful. A little friend for Flora.”
“I don’t need a little friend,” said Flora.
“Of course you do,” said her mother. She turned to Tootie. “Flora is very lonely. She spends far too much time reading comics. I’ve tried to break her of the habit, but I’m very busy with my novel writing and she is alone a lot. I’m worried that it has made her strange.”
“I’m not strange,” said Flora. This seemed like a safe statement to make when someone as truly, profoundly strange as William Spiver was standing beside her.
“I would be happy to be your friend,” said William Spiver. “Honored.” He bowed.
“How lovely,” said Flora’s mother.
“Yes,” said Flora. “How lovely.”
“The blind,” said William Spiver, “even the temporarily blind, have an excellent sense of smell.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Tootie. “Here we go.”
“I have to tell you that I smell something out of the ordinary, something that is not usually smelled within the confines of the human domestic sphere,” said William Spiver. He cleared his throat. “I smell squirrel.”
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 ha
nd 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.
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.
&nbs
p; “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?