“George, what in the world?” said Flora’s mother. “You look like you’ve been in a battle.”
“I am fine, just fine. I was saved by the squirrel.”
“What?” said Flora’s mother.
“I was attacked by Mr. Klaus. He landed on my head. And —”
“This is fascinating,” said William Spiver. “But may I interrupt for a moment?”
“Absolutely.”
“Who is Mr. Klaus?”
“Mr. Klaus is a landlord and also a cat. A large cat. Usually he attacks ankles. This time it was the head. My head. It was a very surprising attack. I wasn’t prepared.”
“And?” said William Spiver.
“Oh, yes. And. And Mr. Klaus bit my ear. And there was a lot of pain. And the squirrel rescued me.”
“Have. You. Lost. Your. Mind?” said Flora’s mother.
“I don’t think so,” said Flora’s father. He smiled hopefully.
“Can’t you handle the smallest task? I asked you to take care of the squirrel situation.”
Flora felt a wave of anger roll through her. “Quit speaking euphemistically,” she said. “Quit calling it ‘the squirrel situation.’ You asked him to kill. You asked him to murder my squirrel!”
Ulysses let out a chirp of agreement.
And then the kitchen became as silent as the tomb.
It’s the truth,” Flora said. “You told Pop to kill Ulysses.”
Having denounced her mother, Flora now turned her attention to William Spiver and his betrayal.
“What are you even doing here, William Spiver? Why are you in the kitchen? With my mother?”
“He’s assisting me with my novel.”
William Spiver blushed a bright and otherworldly red. “I’m delighted that you find me of some assistance, Mrs. Buckman,” he said. He took the Pitzer Pop out of his mouth and bowed in the direction of Flora’s mother. “I must admit that I have always had a certain facility with words. And I am terribly fond of the novel form. Though my interests lie less in the area of romance and more in the speculative nature of things. Science fiction, if you will. Fact blended with fantasy, an extended meditation on the nature of the universe. Quarks, dwarf stars, black holes, and the like. Do you know, for instance, that the universe is expanding as we speak?”
Only Ulysses responded to this question. The squirrel shook his head vigorously, obviously amazed.
William Spiver pushed his dark glasses up higher on his nose. He took a deep breath. “Speaking of expansion, did you know that there are now something like ninety billion galaxies in the universe? In such a universe, it seems ridiculous and foolhardy to attempt a creation of one’s own, but still, I persevere. I persevere.”
“You didn’t answer my question, William Spiver,” said Flora.
“Let me try again,” he said.
“No,” said Flora. “You’re a traitor. And you” — she wheeled and pointed at her mother — “are an arch-nemesis, a true villain.”
Flora’s mother crossed her arms. She said, “I’m someone who wants what’s best for you. If that makes me a villain, fine.”
Flora took a deep breath. “I’m moving in with Pop,” she said.
“What?” said her mother.
“Really?” said her father.
“Your father,” said her mother, “doesn’t know how to take care of himself, much less someone else.”
“At least he doesn’t wish he had a lamp for a daughter,” said Flora.
“I feel like I’m missing something,” said William Spiver.
“I want to live with Pop,” said Flora.
“Really?” said her father again.
“Go right ahead,” said her mother. “It would certainly make my life easier.”
Make my life easier.
Those four words (so small, so simple, so ordinary) came flying at Flora like enormous slabs of stone. She actually felt herself tip sideways as they hit her. She put up a hand and held on to Ulysses. She used the squirrel to steady herself.
“Do not hope,” she whispered. But she wasn’t sure what it was that she wasn’t hoping for.
All she knew was that she was a cynic, and her heart hurt. Cynics’ hearts weren’t supposed to hurt.
William Spiver pushed back his chair. He stood. “Mrs. Buckman,” he said, “perhaps you would like to retract those last words? They seem unnecessarily harsh.”
Flora’s mother said nothing.
William Spiver remained standing. “Okay, then,” he said. “I will speak. I will attempt, yet again, to make myself clear.” He paused. “The only reason I am here, Flora Belle, is that I came looking for you. You were gone a long time and I missed you, and I wondered if you had returned and I came to find you.”
Flora closed her eyes. She saw nothing but darkness. And into this darkness slowly swam the other Dr. Meescham’s giant squid, moving sadly along, flailing its eight lonely and enormous arms.
I came to find you.
What was it with William Spiver and the words he said to her? Why did they make her heart squinch up?
“Seal blubber,” said Flora.
“I beg your pardon?” said William Spiver.
Ulysses gently pushed against Flora’s hand.
And then the squirrel leaped away from her.
“Oh, no,” said Flora’s mother. “No. Not that. No, no . . .”
Ulysses flew over Phyllis Buckman’s head. He went high and then higher still.
“Yes,” said Flora. “Yes.”
Why, Flora wondered, did everything become silent when Ulysses flew?
It had been the same in the Giant Do-Nut (at least until everyone started screaming). It was as if some small peace descended. The world became dreamy, beautiful, slow.
Flora looked around her. She smiled. The sun was shining into the kitchen, illuminating everything: Ulysses’s whiskers, the typewriter keys, her father’s upturned and smiling face, and her mother’s astonished and disbelieving one.
Even William Spiver was illuminated, his white hair glowing like a wild halo.
“What is it?” said William Spiver. “What’s going on?”
Flora’s father laughed. “Do you see, Phyllis? Do you? Anything can happen.”
Ulysses floated above them. He zoomed down to the ground and then went shooting back up to the ceiling. He looked behind him and performed a lazy, midair backflip.
“For the love of Pete,” said Flora’s mother in a strange and wooden voice.
“Someone tell me something,” said William Spiver.
Ulysses dived down again. He flew past William Spiver’s right ear.
“Acccck,” said William Spiver. “What was that?”
“The squirrel,” said Flora’s mother in her strange, new voice. “He is flying.” She stood up suddenly. “Right,” she said. “Okay. I have to go upstairs and take a nap.”
Which was an odd thing for her to say because Flora’s mother was not, in any way, a napper. In fact, she was an anti-napper. She didn’t believe in naps at all. She often said that they were a big, fat waste of time.
“Yes, a little nap. That is what I need.”
Flora’s mother walked out of the kitchen and closed the door behind her.
Ulysses landed on the table next to the typewriter.
“It’s not that shocking,” said William Spiver. “There are flying squirrels, you know. They exist. In fact, there are some theories that posit that all squirrels are descended from the flying squirrel. In any case, flying squirrels themselves are a documented fact.”
Ulysses looked at William Spiver and then over at Flora.
He reached out a paw and hit a key on the typewriter.
The single clack echoed through the kitchen.
“How about flying squirrels who type?” said Flora.
“Not as well documented,” admitted William Spiver.
Ulysses hit another key. And then another.
“Holy bagumba,” said Flora’s father. “He flies. He van
quishes cats. And he types.”
“He’s a superhero,” said Flora.
“It’s amazing,” said her father. “It’s wonderful. But I think I better go have a quick word with your mother about the whole, um, situation.”
Clack . . . clack . . . clack.
Flora stood silently.
William Spiver stood silently.
The squirrel typed.
“Flora Belle?” said William Spiver.
“Uh-huh?” said Flora.
“I wanted to make sure you were still here.”
“Where else would I be?”
“Well, I don’t know. You did say that you were moving out.”
“My mother wants me to leave,” said Flora.
“I don’t know if that’s exactly what she meant,” said William Spiver. “I think she was surprised. And perhaps her feelings were hurt. She certainly didn’t express herself very well. Shocking, really, that a romance novelist could be so inept at the language of the heart.”
Clack . . . clack . . . clack.
Ulysses had a look of deep and supreme satisfaction on his face.
“She said it would be easier without me,” said Flora.
“Yes, well,” said William Spiver. He pushed his glasses back up on his nose. He pulled out a chair and sat down again at the kitchen table. He sighed a deep sigh.
“My lips are numb,” said Flora.
“I know that feeling,” said William Spiver. “Having suffered through several traumatic episodes myself, I am very familiar with the bodily manifestations of grief.”
“What happened to you?” asked Flora.
“I was banished.”
Banished.
It was a word that Flora could feel in the pit of her stomach, a small, cold stone of a word.
“Why were you banished?”
“I think the more relevant question would be: Who banished me?”
“Okay,” said Flora. “Who banished you?”
“My mother,” said William Spiver.
Flora felt another stone fall to the bottom of her stomach.
“Why?” she said.
“There was an unfortunate incident involving my mother’s new husband, a man who is not my father. A man who bears the idiotic appellation Tyrone.”
“Where’s your father?” said Flora.
“He died.”
“Oh.”
One more stone sank to the bottom of Flora’s stomach.
“My father, my real father, was a man of great humanity and intelligence,” said William Spiver. “Also, he had delicate feet. Very, very tiny feet. I, too, am small of foot.”
Flora looked at William Spiver’s feet. They did seem extremely small.
“Not that that is particularly relevant information. In any case, my father was a man who could play the piano wonderfully well. He had an in-depth knowledge of astronomy. He liked to consider the stars. His name was William.
“But he’s dead. And now my mother is married to a man named Tyrone, who does not have delicate feet and who is supremely unaware that there are stars in the sky. The mysteries of the universe mean nothing to him. He sold my father’s piano. He is a man who refuses to call me William. Instead, this man refers to me as Billy.
“My name, as you know, is not now, nor has it ever been, nor will it ever be, Billy. I took issue with being so addressed. I repeatedly took issue. And after repeatedly taking issue and repeatedly being ignored, one thing led to another and some irrevocable acts occurred. And thus, I was banished.”
“What thing led to another thing?” said Flora. “What irrevocable acts occurred?”
“It’s complicated,” said William Spiver. “I don’t want to talk about it right now. But as long as we are asking each other questions of an emotionally fraught nature, why did you say that your mother wanted a lamp for a daughter?”
“It’s complicated,” said Flora.
“I’m certain that it is. And I empathize.”
There was another long silence punctuated by the clacking of typewriter keys.
“The squirrel is working on another poem, I suppose,” said William Spiver.
“I guess,” said Flora.
“It sounds like a long one. Epic in nature. What in the world would a squirrel have to write about at such length?”
“A lot happened today,” said Flora.
It was late afternoon. The shadows of the elm and the maple in the backyard entered the kitchen and flung themselves in purple lines across the floor.
Flora would miss those shadows when she moved away.
She would miss the trees.
She supposed she would even miss William Spiver.
And then, almost as if he were reading her mind, William Spiver said, “I meant what I said. I’m here because I was looking for you. I missed you.”
Flora’s heart, the lonely, many-armed squid of it, flipped and flailed inside of her.
She opened her mouth to say that it didn’t matter, not really, not now. But as usual, what she intended to say to William Spiver and what she said were two different things.
The sentence Flora intended to say was “It doesn’t matter.”
The sentence she said was “Have you ever heard of a place called Blundermeecen?”
“Pardon me,” said William Spiver. He held up his right hand. “I don’t mean to alarm you. But do you smell smoke?”
Flora sniffed. She did smell smoke.
Now there was going to be a fire? On top of everything else?
For the love of Pete.
Flora’s mother and father entered the kitchen together. Her mother had a cigarette in her mouth.
Her mother was smoking!
Her father had his arm around her mother’s shoulder.
This was almost as alarming as seeing her mother smoke. Her mother and father never touched anymore.
“Good news, Flora Belle!” said her father.
“Really?” said Flora.
She never believed it when someone said there was good news. In her experience, when there was good news, people just said what the good news was. If there was bad news that they wanted you to believe was good news, then they said, “Good news!”
And if there was really bad news, they said, “Good news, Flora Belle!”
“Your mother thinks that it would be wonderful to have the squirrel stay here,” said her father.
“What?” said Flora. “Here? With her? And where am I supposed to stay?”
“Here,” said her father. “With your mother. You, your mother, and the squirrel. That’s what your mother would like.”
Flora looked at her mother. “Mom?” she said.
“I would be honored,” said her mother. She took a long drag on her cigarette. Her hand was trembling.
“Why are you smoking?” said Flora. “I thought you stopped smoking.”
“It seemed like the wrong time to stop,” said her mother. She squinted. “I am under a lot of pressure right now. Speaking of which, I see that the squirrel is typing. On my typewriter. Where I write.”
“He writes poetry,” said William Spiver, “not fiction.”
“Let’s just have a look-see,” said Flora’s mother. She walked over to the typewriter and stood looking down at Ulysses and at the words on the page. “Let’s see what kind of poetry a squirrel types.”
Her voice sounded funny still, tinny and far away, as if she were speaking from the bottom of a dark well. Actually, what she sounded like was a robot, someone pretending to be human and doing a lousy job of it.
Flora felt a little flicker of fear.
“Let me just light another cigarette here,” said her mother in her robot voice.
She lit a new cigarette from the tip of the old one, which was, of course, chain-smoking and dangerous behavior at the best of times.
And this, obviously, was not the best of times.
Her mother inhaled deeply on the cigarette. She exhaled. She said, “Shall I read the squirrel poetry aloud?” br />
Actually, it wasn’t poetry.
Not yet.
So far, it was just a list of words that he wanted to turn into a poem.
The first word on the list was Jelly.
Jelly was followed by Giant donut, which was, in turn, followed by Sprinkle.
The list continued on with these words:
RITA!
Sunny-side up
Pascal
Giant squid
Little shepherdess
Vanquished
Capacious
Quark
Universe (expanding)
Blundermeecen
Banished
The list ended with the words of Dr. Meescham’s good-bye:
I promise to always turn back toward you.
The words were good words, Ulysses felt, maybe even great words, but the list was very incomplete. He was just getting started. The words needed to be arranged, fussed with, put in the order of his heart.
All of this is to say that when Flora’s mother read the list out loud, it didn’t sound terribly impressive.
“Gosh, that’s some swell poetry,” said George Buckman.
“Not really,” said William Spiver. “There’s no point in lying to him, even if he is a squirrel. It’s actually pretty lousy poetry. But I do like the last part, the part about turning back. That has some emotional heft to it.”
“Well, I think it is just great,” said Flora’s mother. “And I’m glad to welcome another writer into the family.”
She patted Ulysses on the head. Too forcefully, he felt. The pat approached violence.
“We are going to be one happy little family,” said Flora’s mother. She gave Ulysses another whack disguised as a pat.
“Really?” said Flora.
“Oh, yes,” said Flora’s mother.
There was a knock at the back door. “Yoo-hoo,” someone called out.
Tootie! thought Ulysses.
“Tootie!” said Flora.
“Mrs. Tickham,” said Flora’s mother. “Do come in. We were just reading some words that the squirrel typed. Ha-ha. We were reading some squirrel poetry.”
“William,” said Tootie, “I’ve been calling and calling you.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Well, I must admit that I wasn’t calling very loudly,” said Tootie. “What did Ulysses type?”