Holy unanticipated occurrences!
He should have been shocked, but he wasn’t, not really.
It was a sad fact of his existence as a squirrel that there was always someone, somewhere, who wanted him dead. In his short life, Ulysses had been stalked by cats, attacked by raccoons, and shot at with BB guns, slingshots, and a bow and arrow (granted, the arrow was made of rubber — but still, it had hurt). He had been shouted at, threatened, and poisoned. He had been flung ears over tail by the stream of water issuing from a garden hose turned to full force. Once, at the public picnic grounds, a small girl had tried to beat him to death with her enormous teddy bear. And last fall, a pickup truck had run over his tail.
Truthfully, the possibility of getting hit over the head with a shovel didn’t seem that alarming.
Life was dangerous, particularly if you were a squirrel.
In any case, he wasn’t thinking about dying. He was thinking about poetry. That is what Tootie said he had written. Poetry. He liked the word — its smallness, its density, the way it rose up at the end as if it had wings.
Poetry.
“Don’t worry,” said Flora. “You’re a superhero. This malfeasance will be stopped!”
Ulysses dug his claws into Flora’s pajamas to keep his balance on her shoulder.
“Malfeasance,” said Flora again.
Poetry, thought Ulysses.
Flora’s father’s car seats smelled like butterscotch and ketchup, and Flora was in the backseat, where the smell of butterscotch and ketchup was the most powerful. She had a Bootsie Boots shoe box with Ulysses in it on her lap, and she was feeling carsick even though the car wasn’t moving yet. She was also feeling the tiniest bit overwhelmed.
Things, in general, were pretty confusing.
For instance, here was Ulysses, sitting in a shoe box, knowing that there was a shovel in the trunk of the car and that the man driving the car had been instructed to whack him over the head with the shovel, and the squirrel didn’t look worried or afraid. He looked happy.
And then there was Flora’s mother, the person who had given Flora the shoe box. (“To protect your little friend on his journey. We’ll just put this washcloth in here as a comfy blanket.”) She was standing at the door, smiling and waving good-bye to them as if she weren’t truly a murder-planning arch-nemesis. Talk about the Darkness of 10,000 Hands.
Nothing was as it seemed.
Flora looked down at the squirrel. Of course, he was not what he seemed, either. And that was a good thing. An Incandesto thing.
Flora felt a shiver of belief, of possibility, pass through her. Her parents had no idea what kind of squirrel they were dealing with.
Her father put the car in reverse.
As he backed out of the driveway, Flora saw William Spiver standing in Tootie’s front yard. He was looking up at the sky; he turned his head slowly in the direction of the car. His glasses flashed in the sun.
Tootie appeared. She was waving one of the pink gloves as if it were a flag of surrender.
“Stop the car!” she shouted.
“Step on the gas,” Flora said to her father.
She did not want to talk to Tootie. And she definitely did not want to talk to William Spiver. She didn’t want to see herself reflected in his dark glasses. She had her own thoughts about the random and confusing nature of the universe. She didn’t need his, too.
Also, she was in a hurry. There was a murder to stop, a superhero to mentor, villains to vanquish, darkness to eradicate. She couldn’t waste time trading stupid thoughts with William Spiver.
“Flora Belle,” shouted William Spiver, almost as if he were reading her mind. “I’ve had some interesting thoughts.” He ran toward the car and fell into the bushes. “Great-Aunt Tootie,” he shouted, “I need your assistance.”
“What in the world is going on?” said her father. He slammed on the brakes.
“It’s just a temporarily blind boy,” said Flora. “And Mrs. Tickham from next door. She’s his aunt. His great-aunt. Never mind. It doesn’t make any difference. Keep going.”
But it was too late. Tootie had helped William Spiver out of the bushes, and the two of them were walking toward the car.
William Spiver was smiling.
“Hello,” her father called out to them. “I’m George Buckman. How do you do?”
Flora’s father introduced himself to everyone all the time, even if the person was someone he had already met. It was an annoying and extremely persistent habit.
“Hello, sir,” said William Spiver. “I am William Spiver. I would like to speak to your daughter, Flora Belle.”
“I don’t have time to talk to you right now, William Spiver,” said Flora.
“Great-Aunt Tootie, can you assist me? Will you take me to Flora’s side of the vehicle?”
“Please excuse me while I escort this extremely disturbed and neurotic child to the other side of the car,” said Tootie.
“Certainly, certainly,” said Flora’s father. And then he said to absolutely no one, “George Buckman. How do you do?”
Flora sighed. She looked down at Ulysses. Considering the human beings she was surrounded by, believing in a squirrel seemed like an increasingly reasonable plan of action.
“I wanted to apologize,” said William Spiver, who was now standing beside her window.
“For what?” said Flora.
“It wasn’t the worst poetry I’ve ever heard.”
“Oh,” said Flora.
“Also, I’m sorry that I wouldn’t take my glasses off when you asked me to.”
“Take them off now, then,” said Flora.
“I can’t,” said William Spiver. “They’ve been glued to my head by evil forces beyond my control.”
“You lie,” said Flora.
“Yes. No. I don’t. I do. I’m engaging in hyperbole. It seems as if the glasses have been glued to my head.” He lowered his voice. “Actually, I’m afraid that if I take my glasses off, the whole world will unravel.”
“That’s stupid,” said Flora. “There are bigger things to worry about.”
“For instance?”
Flora realized that she was going to say something to William Spiver that she hadn’t intended to say; the words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.
“Do you know what an arch-nemesis is?” she whispered.
“Of course I do,” William Spiver whispered back.
“Right,” said Flora. “Well, Ulysses has got one. It’s my mother.”
William Spiver’s eyebrows rose up above his dark glasses. Flora was pleased to note that he looked properly surprised and shocked.
“Speaking of Ulysses,” said Tootie, “I have some poetry that I would like to recite to him.”
“Are you sure that now is the time for a poetry recitation?” said William Spiver.
Ulysses sat up straighter in his Bootsie Boots shoe box. He looked at Tootie. He nodded.
“I was moved by your poetry,” said Tootie to the squirrel.
Ulysses puffed out his chest.
“And I have some poetry that I would like to recite to you in honor of the recent, um, transformations in your life.” Tootie put a hand on her chest. “This is Rilke,” she said. “‘You, sent out beyond your recall, / go to the limits of your longing. / Embody me. / Flare up like flame / and make big shadows I can move in.’”
Ulysses stared up at Tootie, his eyes bright.
“‘Flare up like flame’!” said Flora’s father from the front seat. “That is moving, yes. That is quite lovely, flaring up like flame. Thank you so much. We have to be on our way now.”
“But will you return?” said William Spiver.
Flora looked up and saw William Spiver’s words hanging in the air above him like a small, tattered flag.