Flora & Ulysses

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.