Flora & Ulysses

Clack . . . clack . . . clack.

Flora stood silently.

William Spiver stood silently.

The squirrel typed.

“Flora Belle?” said William Spiver.

“Uh-huh?” said Flora.

“I wanted to make sure you were still here.”

“Where else would I be?”

“Well, I don’t know. You did say that you were moving out.”

“My mother wants me to leave,” said Flora.

“I don’t know if that’s exactly what she meant,” said William Spiver. “I think she was surprised. And perhaps her feelings were hurt. She certainly didn’t express herself very well. Shocking, really, that a romance novelist could be so inept at the language of the heart.”

Clack . . . clack . . . clack.

Ulysses had a look of deep and supreme satisfaction on his face.

“She said it would be easier without me,” said Flora.

“Yes, well,” said William Spiver. He pushed his glasses back up on his nose. He pulled out a chair and sat down again at the kitchen table. He sighed a deep sigh.

“My lips are numb,” said Flora.

“I know that feeling,” said William Spiver. “Having suffered through several traumatic episodes myself, I am very familiar with the bodily manifestations of grief.”

“What happened to you?” asked Flora.

“I was banished.”

Banished.

It was a word that Flora could feel in the pit of her stomach, a small, cold stone of a word.

“Why were you banished?”

“I think the more relevant question would be: Who banished me?”

“Okay,” said Flora. “Who banished you?”

“My mother,” said William Spiver.

Flora felt another stone fall to the bottom of her stomach.

“Why?” she said.

“There was an unfortunate incident involving my mother’s new husband, a man who is not my father. A man who bears the idiotic appellation Tyrone.”

“Where’s your father?” said Flora.

“He died.”

“Oh.”

One more stone sank to the bottom of Flora’s stomach.

“My father, my real father, was a man of great humanity and intelligence,” said William Spiver. “Also, he had delicate feet. Very, very tiny feet. I, too, am small of foot.”

Flora looked at William Spiver’s feet. They did seem extremely small.

“Not that that is particularly relevant information. In any case, my father was a man who could play the piano wonderfully well. He had an in-depth knowledge of astronomy. He liked to consider the stars. His name was William.

“But he’s dead. And now my mother is married to a man named Tyrone, who does not have delicate feet and who is supremely unaware that there are stars in the sky. The mysteries of the universe mean nothing to him. He sold my father’s piano. He is a man who refuses to call me William. Instead, this man refers to me as Billy.

“My name, as you know, is not now, nor has it ever been, nor will it ever be, Billy. I took issue with being so addressed. I repeatedly took issue. And after repeatedly taking issue and repeatedly being ignored, one thing led to another and some irrevocable acts occurred. And thus, I was banished.”

“What thing led to another thing?” said Flora. “What irrevocable acts occurred?”

“It’s complicated,” said William Spiver. “I don’t want to talk about it right now. But as long as we are asking each other questions of an emotionally fraught nature, why did you say that your mother wanted a lamp for a daughter?”

“It’s complicated,” said Flora.

“I’m certain that it is. And I empathize.”

There was another long silence punctuated by the clacking of typewriter keys.

“The squirrel is working on another poem, I suppose,” said William Spiver.

“I guess,” said Flora.

“It sounds like a long one. Epic in nature. What in the world would a squirrel have to write about at such length?”

“A lot happened today,” said Flora.

It was late afternoon. The shadows of the elm and the maple in the backyard entered the kitchen and flung themselves in purple lines across the floor.

Flora would miss those shadows when she moved away.

She would miss the trees.

She supposed she would even miss William Spiver.

And then, almost as if he were reading her mind, William Spiver said, “I meant what I said. I’m here because I was looking for you. I missed you.”

Flora’s heart, the lonely, many-armed squid of it, flipped and flailed inside of her.

She opened her mouth to say that it didn’t matter, not really, not now. But as usual, what she intended to say to William Spiver and what she said were two different things.

The sentence Flora intended to say was “It doesn’t matter.”

The sentence she said was “Have you ever heard of a place called Blundermeecen?”

“Pardon me,” said William Spiver. He held up his right hand. “I don’t mean to alarm you. But do you smell smoke?”

Flora sniffed. She did smell smoke.

Now there was going to be a fire? On top of everything else?

For the love of Pete.