So,” said Dr. Meescham, “we have been speaking with Ulysses. We have been working to understand his story. From what we have put together so far, it involves a shovel and a sack. And the woods. And a poem.”
“And a giant donut,” said Flora’s father.
Ulysses, sitting on Flora’s shoulder, nodded vigorously. A distinctly fishy smell emanated from his whiskers.
Flora turned to him. “Where’s my mother?” she said.
Ulysses shook his head.
“Pop?” said Flora. “Where’s Mom?”
“I’m not certain,” said her father. He adjusted his hat. He tried to put his hands in his pockets, and then he realized he was wearing pajamas and had no pockets. He laughed. “Holy bagumba,” he said softly.
“We need a typewriter,” said Flora.
Ulysses nodded.
“We need a typewriter so that we can get to the truth,” said Flora.
“The truth,” said William Spiver, “is a slippery thing. I doubt that you will ever get to The Truth. You may get to a version of the truth. But The Truth? I doubt it very seriously.”
“Will you please, please shut up, William Spiver?” said Flora.
“Shhh,” said Dr. Meescham. “Calm, calm. You should maybe sit and eat a sardine.”
“I don’t want a sardine,” said Flora. “I want to know what happened. I want to know where my mother is.”
Just as she said these words, there was a bang, which was followed by a long, bone-chilling yowl, which was, in turn, followed by a very loud scream.
“What was that?” said William Spiver.
“That’s Mr. Klaus,” said Flora. “He’s attacking someone.”
There was another scream, and then came the words, “George, George!”
“Uh-oh,” said Flora’s father. “It’s Phyllis.”
“Mom,” said Flora.
Ulysses tensed. He dug his claws into Flora’s shoulder.
Flora looked at him.
He nodded.
And then Flora’s father was running out the door, and Flora was behind him and William Spiver was behind her. Another of her mother’s screams echoed down the hallway. “George, George,” she shouted, “please tell me that my baby is here!”
Flora turned and said to Tootie, “Bring the lamp! She’s worried about Mary Ann.”
There was another scream.
Me? thought Flora.
“She’s here,” said Flora’s father.
Flora’s mother started to cry.
“Everyone needs to calm down,” said Tootie. “I’ve got it.” She waded into the fray and whacked Mr. Klaus over the head with Mary Ann.
The cat fell to the ground, and the little shepherdess, as if she were astonished by her own act of violence, crumbled. Her face — her beautiful, perfect pink face — broke. There was a tinkle and a crash as the pieces of Mary Ann’s head hit the floor.
“Oops,” said Tootie. “I broke her.”
“Uh-oh,” said Flora.
But her mother wasn’t looking at the lamp or what was left of the lamp. She was looking at Flora.
“Flora,” her mother said. “Flora. I went home, and you weren’t there. I was terrified.”
“Here she is,” said William Spiver. He gave Flora a gentle shove toward her mother.
“Here I am,” said Flora.
Her mother stepped over the pieces of the broken little shepherdess. She took Flora in her arms.
“My baby,” said her mother.
“Me?” said Flora.
“You,” said her mother.
Flora’s mother was sitting on the horsehair sofa. Flora’s father was sitting next to her. He was holding her hand. Or she was holding his. In any case, her mother and her father were holding on to each other.
Dr. Meescham was putting alcohol on Flora’s mother’s bites and scratches. “Ouch, ouch, oooooh,” said Flora’s mother.
“Come,” said Dr. Meescham to Flora. She patted the horsehair sofa. “Sit down. Here. Beside your mother.”
Flora sat down on the couch and immediately started to slide off it. Was there a trick to sitting on the horsehair sofa? Because she certainly hadn’t mastered it.
And then William Spiver sat down beside her so that she was wedged in between her mother and him.
Flora stopped sliding.
“And I went up to your room,” said Flora’s mother. “I climbed the stairs to your room, and you weren’t there.”
“I was out looking for Ulysses,” said Flora. “I thought you had kidnapped him.”
“It’s true,” confessed her mother. “I did.”
Ulysses, sitting on Flora’s shoulder, nodded. His whiskers brushed her cheek.
“I wanted to make things right somehow. I wanted to make things normal,” said Flora’s mother.
“Normalcy is an illusion, of course,” said William Spiver. “There is no normal.”
“Hush up, William,” said Tootie.
“And when I returned and you weren’t there . . .” said Flora’s mother. She started to cry again. “I don’t care about normal. I just wanted you back. I needed to find you.”
“And here she is, Mrs. Buckman,” said William Spiver in a very gentle voice.
Here I am, thought Flora. And my mother loves me. Holy bagumba.
And then she thought, Oh, no, I’m going to cry.
And she did cry. Big, fat tears rolled down her face and landed on the horsehair sofa and trembled there for a second before they rolled off.
“You see?” said Dr. Meescham. She smiled at Flora. “I told you. This is how it is with this sofa.”
“Mrs. Buckman,” said William Spiver, “what is that that you are holding in your hand? What is that piece of paper?”
“It’s a poem,” said Flora’s mother, “by Ulysses. It’s for Flora.”
“Look at this!” said Tootie.
They all turned and looked at Tootie. She was standing by the headless Mary Ann, who was plugged in and shining. “It still works. Isn’t that something?”
“Why don’t you read the poem, Phyllis?” said Flora’s father.
“Oh, goody,” said Tootie, “a poetry reading.”
“It’s a squirrel poem,” said Flora’s mother. “But it’s a good one.”
Ulysses puffed out his chest.
“‘Words for Flora,’” her mother said. “That’s the title.”
“I like that title,” said William Spiver.
He took hold of Flora’s hand. He squeezed it.
“Don’t squeeze my hand,” said Flora.
But she held on tightly to William Spiver, and she listened as her mother read the poem that Ulysses had written.
This poem was just the beginning, of course.
There would be more.
He needed to write about how they always, always answered the door in Blundermeecen. He needed to write about the saving of Phyllis Buckman from Mr. Klaus. He needed to write about Mary Ann’s broken, still-shining self. And little fishes.
He needed to write a poem about little fishes.
Also, he wanted to write about things that hadn’t happened yet. For instance, he wanted to write a poem where William Spiver’s mother called and asked for him to come home. And a poem where the other Dr. Meescham came and visited this Dr. Meescham and sat beside her and hummed to her and watched her sleep. And maybe there would be a poem about a horsehair sofa. And one about a vacuum cleaner.
He would write and write. He would make wonderful things happen. Some of it would be true. All of it would be true.
Most of it would be true.