“Help me!” screamed Rita.
And me, thought Ulysses. Help me, too.
But he was quite certain that the man with the knife had no intention of helping him.
And then he heard Flora’s voice. He couldn’t see her because Rita was now spinning around, and everything in the restaurant had become somewhat blurred — all the faces had become one face; all the screams had become one scream.
But Flora’s voice stood out. It was the voice of the person he loved. He concentrated on her words. He worked to understand her.
“Ulysses!” she shouted. “Ulysses! Remember who you are!”
Remember who he was?
Who was he?
As if Flora had heard his unspoken question, she answered him, “You’re Ulysses!”
That’s right, he thought. I am.
“Act!” shouted Flora.
This was good advice. Flora was absolutely right. He was Ulysses, and he must act.
The man with the knife stepped toward Rita.
Ulysses loosened his hold on her hair. He leaped again. This time he leaped with purpose and intent. He leaped with all his strength.
He flew.
Flora watched Ulysses fly over her, his tail extended at full length and his front paws delicately pointed. It was just like her dream. He looked incredibly, undeniably heroic.
“Holy bagumba,” said Flora.
She climbed on top of the booth so that she had a better view.
When Incandesto flew, when he became a brilliant streak of light in the darkness of the world, he was usually headed somewhere, to save someone, and Dolores was always flying at his side, offering advice, encouragement, and wisdom.
Flora wasn’t sure exactly what Ulysses was doing, and it didn’t look like he really knew, either. But he was flying.
“George Buckman,” whispered her father. “How do you do?”
Flora had forgotten about her father. He was looking up at Ulysses. And he was smiling. It wasn’t a sad smile. It was a happy smile.
“Pop?” said Flora.
There was a long, loud scream from Rita. “It was in my hair!” she shouted.
Someone threw a donut at Ulysses.
A baby started to cry.
Flora climbed out of the booth so that she could stand next to her father. She slipped her hand into his.
“Holy unanticipated occurrences,” said Flora’s father in the voice of Dolores.
It had been a long time since Flora had heard her father say those words.
“His name is Ulysses,” she told him.
Her father looked at her. He raised his eyebrows. “Ulysses,” he said. He shook his head. And then he laughed. It was a single syllable. “Ha.”
And then he laughed longer. “Ha-ha-ha.”
Flora’s heart opened up inside of her. “Do not hope,” she whispered to it.
And then she noticed that the cook was leaping and twirling, waving his knife and trying to reach the flying squirrel.
She looked up at her father. She said, “This malfeasance must be stopped. Right?”
“Right,” said her father.
And since her father agreed with her, Flora stuck out her foot and tripped the man with the knife.
His eyes were closed. His head was bleeding. Flora knew from TERRIBLE THINGS CAN HAPPEN TO YOU! that head wounds bleed excessively, whether they are bad or not.
“All head wounds bleed excessively,” she said to her father. “Don’t panic.”
“Okay,” said her father. “Use this.” He handed her his tie.
Flora knelt down. She had a very powerful sense of déjà vu. Was it just yesterday that she had bent over the body of an unknown squirrel in Tootie’s backyard?
“Ulysses?” she said. She dabbed at the blood with the tie.
The squirrel didn’t open his eyes.
An eerie quiet descended. The whole of the Giant Do-Nut became preternaturally calm. Everything — the donuts, the squirrel, her father — seemed to hold its breath.
Flora knew what was happening. She had read about it in TERRIBLE THINGS CAN HAPPEN TO YOU! It was the calm before the storm: The air becomes still. The birds stop singing. The world waits.
And then the storm comes.
Inside the Giant Do-Nut, there was a moment of deep quiet, of collectively held breath. And then someone said, “I think it was a rat.”
“But it was flying,” said another voice.
“It was in my hair,” said Rita.
The cook shouted, “I’m gonna call the cops! That’s what I’m gonna do!”
Rita was right behind him. “Forget about the cops, Ernie. Call the ambulance. I have rabies. It was in my hair.”
“You,” said Ernie. He pointed at Flora with his knife. “You tripped me.”
“That’s her,” said Rita. “She’s the one. Plus she brought that thing in here in the first place. Dressed it up like a baby doll.”
“I did not,” said Flora, “dress him up like a baby doll. And this is all your fault.”
The Criminal Element said that sometimes it was wise to put criminals on the defensive by making “slanderous or blatantly untrue comments. The surprising unfairness of this tactic will often stop criminals in their tracks.”
It seemed to work.
Rita blinked. She opened her mouth and closed it again. “My fault?” she said.
Flora bent over Ulysses and put a finger on his chest. She felt his heart beating in a slow, thoughtful way. Gratitude and relief washed through her. And her own heart, which had been beating much too quickly, slowed inside her chest. It answered the squirrel’s heart with its own measured thud, thud, thud.
Ulysses, her heart seemed to say. Ulysses.
“I’m calling the cops,” said Ernie.
“George Buckman. How do you do!” shouted Flora’s father. “Is there any reason to call the police?”
“Well, for one,” said Rita, “it was in my hair.”
“Do you think that the police should be notified of a squirrel in your hair?” said Flora’s father.
The idiocy of this question, its unsettling logic, made Flora suddenly grateful for her father. She picked up Ulysses and cradled him in her left arm.
“I think I can feel the rabies coming on,” said Rita. “My stomach itches.”
“Does rabies itch?” said Flora’s father.
“I’m gonna call somebody,” said Ernie. “She tripped me.”
“Whom do you think it would be wise to call in this matter of the tripping?” said Flora’s father. He opened the door. He gestured for Flora to walk through it. She did.
The door swung shut behind them.
“Run!” said her father.
And they both began to run.
At some point, Flora’s father started to laugh again. It wasn’t a “ha-ha-ha” kind of laugh. It was a “whooooo-wheeeee” kind of laugh.
Hysteria, thought Flora.
She knew what to do for hysteria. Her father needed to be slapped. Unfortunately, there wasn’t time right now. They had to make their getaway.
Her father laughed all the way to the car. He laughed when they were in the car. He laughed as he placed his hands at ten o’clock and two. He laughed as he backed out of the parking lot and drove away from the Giant Do-Nut.
He stopped laughing only once, long enough for him to shout, “Holy bagumba!” in the voice of Dolores the parakeet.
And then he went back to laughing.
They were making their getaway, but they were making their getaway slowly. Because even when Flora’s father was thinking that things were hilarious, even when he was talking like a parakeet, he still, apparently, did not believe in speeding.