TERRIBLE THINGS CAN HAPPEN TO YOU! did not, however, detail exactly how someone was supposed to give CPR to a squirrel.
“I’ll figure it out,” said Flora.
“What will you figure out?” said Mrs. Tickham.
Flora didn’t answer her. Instead, she bent down and put her mouth on the squirrel’s mouth.
It tasted funny.
If she were forced to describe it, she would say that it tasted exactly like squirreclass="underline" fuzzy, damp, slightly nutty.
“Have you lost your mind?” said Mrs. Tickham.
Flora ignored her.
She breathed into the squirrel’s mouth. She pushed down on his small chest.
She started to count.
Something strange had happened to the squirrel’s brain.
Things had gone blank, black. And then, into this black blankness, there came a light so beautiful, so bright, that the squirrel had to turn away.
A voice spoke to him.
“What’s that?” said the squirrel.
The light shone brighter.
The voice spoke again.
“Okay,” said the squirrel. “You bet!”
He wasn’t sure what, exactly, he was agreeing to, but it didn’t matter. He was just so happy. He was floating in a great lake of light, and the voice was singing to him. Oh, it was wonderful. It was the best thing ever.
And then there was a loud noise.
The squirrel heard another voice. This voice was counting. The light receded.
“Breathe!” the new voice shouted.
The squirrel obliged. He took a deep, shuddering breath. And then another. And another.
The squirrel returned.
Well, he’s breathing,” said Mrs. Tickham.
“Yes,” said Flora. “He is.” She felt a swell of pride.
The squirrel rolled over onto his stomach. He raised his head. His eyes were glazed.
“For heaven’s sake,” said Mrs. Tickham. “Look at him.”
She chuckled quietly. She shook her head. And then she laughed out loud. She kept laughing. She laughed and laughed and laughed. She laughed so hard that she started to shake.
Was she having some kind of fit?
Flora tried to remember what TERRIBLE THINGS CAN HAPPEN TO YOU! advised in the event of a seizure. It had something to do with moving the tongue out of the way or stabilizing it with a stick. Or something.
Flora had saved the squirrel’s life; she didn’t see any reason she couldn’t save Mrs. Tickham’s tongue.
The sun sank a little lower in the sky. Mrs. Tickham continued to laugh hysterically.
And Flora Belle Buckman started looking around the Tickhams’ backyard for a stick.
The squirrel was a little unsteady on his feet.
His brain felt larger, roomier. It was as if several doors in the dark room of his self (doors he hadn’t even known existed) had suddenly been flung wide.
Everything was shot through with meaning, purpose, light.
However, the squirrel was still a squirrel.
And he was hungry. Very.
Flora and Mrs. Tickham noticed at the same time.
“The squirrel,” said Flora.
“The vacuum cleaner,” said Mrs. Tickham.
Together, they stared at the Ulysses 2000X and at the squirrel, who was holding it over his head with one paw.
“That can’t be,” said Mrs. Tickham.
The squirrel shook the vacuum cleaner.
“That can’t be,” said Mrs. Tickham.
“You already said that,” said Flora.
“I’m repeating myself?”
“You’re repeating yourself.”
“Maybe I have a brain tumor,” said Mrs. Tickham.
It was certainly possible that Mrs. Tickham had a brain tumor. Flora knew from reading TERRIBLE THINGS CAN HAPPEN TO YOU! that a surprising number of people were walking around with tumors in their brains and didn’t even know it. That was the thing about tragedy. It was just sitting there, keeping you company, waiting. And you had absolutely no idea.
This was the kind of helpful information you could get from the comics if you paid attention.
The other kind of information that you absorbed from the regular reading of comics (most particularly from the regular reading of The Illuminated Adventures of the Amazing Incandesto!) was that impossible things happened all the time.
For instance, heroes — superheroes — were born of ridiculous and unlikely circumstances: spider bites, chemical spills, planetary dislocation, and, in the case of Alfred T. Slipper, from accidental submersion in an industrial-size vat of cleaning solution called Incandesto! (The Cleaning Professional’s Hardworking Friend).
“I don’t think you have a brain tumor,” said Flora. “There might be another explanation.”
“Uh-huh,” said Mrs. Tickham. “What’s the other explanation?”
“Have you ever heard of Incandesto?”
“What?” said Mrs. Tickham.
“Who,” said Flora. “Incandesto is a who. He’s a superhero.”
“Right,” said Mrs. Tickham. “And your point is?”
Flora raised her right hand. She pointed with a single finger at the squirrel.
“Surely you’re not implying . . .” said Mrs. Tickham.
The squirrel lowered the vacuum cleaner to the ground. He held himself very still. He considered both of them. His whiskers twitched and trembled. There were cracker crumbs on his head.
He was a squirrel.
Could he be a superhero, too? Alfred T. Slipper was a janitor. Most of the time, people looked right past him. Sometimes (often, in fact) they treated him with disdain. They had no idea of the astonishing acts of heroism, the blinding light, contained within his outward, humdrum disguise.
Only Alfred’s parakeet, Dolores, knew who he was and what he could do.
“The world will misunderstand him,” said Flora.
“You bet it will,” said Mrs. Tickham.
“Tootie?” shouted Mr. Tickham from the back door. “Tootie, I’m hungry!”
Tootie?
What a ridiculous name.
Flora couldn’t resist the urge to say it out loud. “Tootie,” she said. “Tootie Tickham. Listen, Tootie. Go inside. Feed your husband. Say nothing to him or to anyone else about any of this.”
“Right,” said Tootie. “Say nothing. Feed my husband. Okay, right.” She began walking slowly toward the house.
Mr. Tickham called out, “Are you done vacuuming? What about the Ulysses? Are you just going to leave it sitting there?”
“Ulysses,” whispered Flora. She felt a shiver run from the back of her head to the base of her spine. She might be a natural-born cynic, but she knew the right word when she heard it.
“Ulysses,” she said again.
She bent down and held out her hand to the squirrel.
“Come here, Ulysses,” she said.
She spoke to him.
And he understood her.
What the girl said was “Ulysses. Come here, Ulysses.”
And without thinking, he moved toward her.
“It’s okay,” she said.
And he believed her. It was astonishing. Everything was astonishing. The setting sun was illuminating each blade of grass. It was reflecting off the girl’s glasses, making a halo of light around the girl’s round head, setting the whole world on fire.