“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 vanquishes 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.”