“Of course I can,” said William Spiver. He sighed. “I’m an old pro at keeping quiet.”
Flora doubted, very much, that this was true.
William Spiver squeezed her shoulder. “May I inquire how old you are, Flora Belle?”
“Don’t squeeze my shoulder. I’m ten.”
“I am eleven years old,” said William Spiver. “Which surprises me, I must say. I feel much, much older than eleven. Also, I know for a fact that I am smaller than your average eleven-year-old. It may even be that I’m shrinking. Excessive trauma can retard growth. I’m not certain, however, if it can cause actual shrinkage.”
“What was the traumatic event that turned you blind?” said Flora.
“I’d prefer not to discuss it right now. I don’t want to alarm you.”
“It’s not possible to alarm me,” said Flora. “I’m a cynic. Nothing in human nature surprises a cynic.”
“So you say,” said William Spiver.
The word cryptic popped into Flora’s head. It was preceded by the word unnecessarily.
“Unnecessarily cryptic,” said Flora out loud.
“I beg your pardon?” said William Spiver.
But then they were at Tootie’s house. They were walking through her backyard and into her kitchen, which smelled like bacon and lemons.
Tootie put Ulysses down on the table.
“I don’t understand,” said William Spiver. “We’re back at your house, but I can still smell the squirrel.”
Flora took the paper out of her pajamas. She handed it to Tootie. She felt like a spy, a successful spy, a triumphant spy. Albeit, a spy in pajamas.
“What’s this?” said Tootie.
“It’s proof that you aren’t the victim of an extended hallucination,” said Flora.
Tootie held the paper with both hands. She stared at it. “‘Squirtel!’” she said.
“Squirtel?” said William Spiver.
“Keep reading,” said Flora.
“‘Squirtel!’” said Tootie. “‘I am. Ulysses. Born anew.’”
“See?” said Flora.
“What does that prove?” said William Spiver. “What does it even mean?”
“The squirrel’s name is Ulysses,” said Tootie.
“Wait a minute,” said William Spiver. “Are you positing that the squirrel typed those words?”
Positing? Positing?
“Yes,” said Flora. “That’s exactly what I’m positing.”
“The hallucination extends,” said Tootie.
“What hallucination?” said William Spiver.
“The squirrel as a superhero hallucination,” said Tootie.
“Surely you jest,” said William Spiver.
Ulysses sat up on his hind legs. He looked at William Spiver and then at Tootie, and finally he turned his eyes to Flora. He raised his eyebrows and gave her a look full of questions, full of hope.
Flora felt a pang of doubt. He was, after all, just a squirrel. She had no proof that he was a superhero. What if there was some other explanation for those words? Also, there was Tootie’s disturbing point to consider: What kind of superhero types?
And then she thought about Alfred, how everyone doubted him, how no one (except the parakeet Dolores) knew that he was Incandesto, and how no one (except Dolores) truly believed in him.
Was it Flora’s job to believe in Ulysses?
And what did that make her? A parakeet?
“Let me get this straight,” said William Spiver. “You, a self-professed cynic, are positing that the squirrel is a superhero.”
The words “Do not hope; instead, observe” flitted through Flora’s brain.
She took a deep breath; she brushed the phrase away.
“The squirrel typed those words,” she said.
“Well,” said William Spiver, whose hand was still on Flora’s shoulder. Why didn’t he move his hand? “Let’s just approach this scientifically. We’ll put the squirrel in front of Great-Aunt Tootie’s computer, and we’ll ask him to type. Again.”
He sat in front of the machine. It was different from Flora’s mother’s typewriter. There was a blank screen instead of paper, and the whole contraption glowed, emitting a warm but not entirely friendly smell.
The keyboard was familiar, though. Each of the letters was there, each of them in the same place.
Flora and Tootie stood behind him, and William Spiver, the boy with dark glasses, stood behind him, too.
This was an important moment. Ulysses understood that very well. Everything depended on him typing something. He had to do it for Flora.
His whiskers trembled. He could feel them trembling. He could see them trembling.
What could he do?
He turned and sniffed his tail.
There was nothing he could do except to be himself, to try to make the letters on the keyboard speak the truth of his heart, to work to make them reveal the essence of the squirrel he was.
But what was the truth?
And what kind of squirrel was he?
He looked around the room. There was a tall window, and outside the window was the green, green world and the blue sky. Inside, there were shelves and shelves of books. And on the wall above the keyboard was a picture of a man and woman floating over a city. They were suspended in a golden light. The man was holding the woman, and she had one arm flung out in front of her as if she were pointing the way home. Ulysses liked the woman’s face. She reminded him of Flora.
Looking at the painting made the squirrel feel warm inside, certain of something. Whoever had painted the picture loved the floating man and the floating woman. He loved the city they floated above. He loved the golden light.
Just as Ulysses loved the green world outside. And the blue sky. And Flora’s round head.
His whiskers stopped trembling.
“What’s happening?” asked William Spiver.
“Nothing,” said Flora.
“He’s gone into some kind of trance,” said Tootie.
“Shhh,” said Flora.
Ulysses inched closer to the keyboard.
I love your round head,
the brilliant green,
the watching blue,
these letters,
this world, you.
I am very, very hungry.
They were sitting in Tootie’s office. Tootie was on the couch with a package of frozen peas on her head. She had fainted.
Unfortunately, she had hit her head on the edge of the desk on the way down.
Fortunately, Flora had remembered an issue of TERRIBLE THINGS CAN HAPPEN TO YOU! advising that a bag of frozen peas made an excellent cold compress to “provide comfort and reduce swelling.”
“Read it one more time,” said William Spiver to Flora.
Flora read Ulysses’s words aloud again.
“The squirrel wrote poetry,” said Tootie in a voice filled with wonder.
“Keep those peas on your head,” said Flora.
“I don’t get the last part,” said William Spiver, “the part about hunger. What does that mean?”
Flora turned away from the computer and looked at William Spiver’s dark glasses and saw, again, her round-headed pajama-ed self reflected there. “It means he’s hungry,” she said. “He hasn’t had any breakfast.”
“Oh,” said William Spiver. “I see. It’s literal.”
Ulysses was sitting on his hind legs beside the computer. He nodded hopefully.
“It’s poetry,” said Tootie from the couch.
Ulysses puffed out his chest the tiniest bit.
“Well, it might be poetry,” said William Spiver, “but it’s not great poetry. It’s not even good poetry.”