Flora listened, and she could feel Ulysses, his body tense and expectant, listening, too.
Her mother spoke. She said, “Yes, it will go like this: ‘Frederico, I have dreamed of you for eons.’”
“No,” said another voice, a high, thin, and extremely annoying voice. “‘I’ve dreamed of you for all eternity.’”
“Ooooh,” said Flora’s mother. “‘For all eternity.’ That’s good. More poetic.”
Ulysses shifted his position on Flora’s shoulder. He nodded.
“Yes, exactly,” said William Spiver. “More poetic. ‘Eons’ sounds too geological. There’s nothing romantic about geology, I assure you.”
“Okay, okay,” said Flora’s mother. “Right. What’s next, William?”
“Actually,” said William Spiver, “if you don’t mind, I would prefer to be called William Spiver.”
“Of course,” said Flora’s mother. “I’m sorry. What’s next, William Spiver?”
“Let me see,” said William Spiver. “I suppose Frederico would say, ‘And I have dreamed of you, Angelique. My darling! I must tell you that they were dreams so vivid and beautiful that I am loath to wake to reality.’”
“Ooooh, that’s good. Hold on a sec.”
The typewriter keys came to clacking life. The carriage return dinged.
“Do you think that’s good?” Flora whispered to Ulysses. “Do you think that’s good writing?”
Ulysses shook his head. His whiskers brushed against her cheek.
“I don’t think so, either,” she said.
Actually, she thought it was terrible. It was sickly sweet nonsense. There was a word for that. What was it?
Treacle. That was it.
Having located the correct word, Flora felt a sudden need to say the word aloud. And so she did. She pushed open the kitchen door. She stepped forward.
“Treacle!” she shouted.
“Flora?” said her mother.
“Treacle?” said William Spiver.
“Yes!” said Flora.
She was pleased that with one simple word she had answered two very important questions.
Yes, she was Flora.
And yes, it was treacle.
William Spiver was wearing his dark glasses. There was a Pitzer Pop in his mouth. He was smiling.
He looked exactly like a villain.
That’s what Flora’s brain thought.
But her heart, her treacherous heart, rose up joyfully inside of her at the sight of him. Flora’s heart was actually glad to see William Spiver.
There was so much she wanted to talk to him about: Pascal’s Wager, Dr. Meescham, the other Dr. Meescham, giant squids, giant donuts (and who was dunking them), if he had ever heard of a place called Blundermeecen, if he had ever sat on a horsehair sofa.
But William Spiver was sitting beside Ulysses’s arch-nemesis. Smiling.
Obviously he could not be trusted.
“Flora Belle?” said William Spiver.
“It’s me,” said Flora. “I’m surprised you don’t smell me, William Spiver. Since you can smell everything.”
“I have never claimed to be able to smell everything; however, it is true that right now I am smelling squirrel. And there is another odor. It is something sweet, some scent redolent of school lunchrooms on rainy Thursdays. What is it? Jelly. Yes, grape jelly. I smell squirrel and grape jelly.”
“Squirrel?” said Flora’s mother. She turned away from the typewriter. She looked at Flora. “Squirrel!” she said. “What in the world are you doing back here with that squirrel? I told your father —”
“This malfeasance must be stopped!” shouted Flora.
Her mother, hands still poised over the keys of the typewriter, stared at Flora with her mouth open.
William Spiver, for once, was silent.
On Flora’s shoulder, the squirrel trembled.
Flora slowly raised her left arm. She pointed at her mother. She said, “What did you tell my father to do to the squirrel?”
Her mother cleared her throat. “I told your father —”
But the sentence remained unfinished, the truth unuttered, because the kitchen door suddenly swung open to reveal Flora’s father.
“George Buckman,” he said to the room at large. “How do you do?”
He walked into the kitchen. He stood beside Flora.
“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.