Flora & Ulysses

When he was finished, Flora’s mother stood over his shoulder, reading and nodding and saying, “That’s right, that’s right. That ought to do it. There are a few misspellings. But then, you’re a squirrel. Of course you’re going to misspell things.”

She lit another cigarette and leaned against the kitchen table and considered him. “I guess it’s time,” she said. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

And he did as she said. He waited.

She left the kitchen, and he simply sat there, unmoving. It was as if she had put a spell on him; it was as if typing the lies, the wrong words, had depleted him of all ability to act.

Once, long ago, in a garden in springtime, Ulysses had seen a squirrel made of stone: gray, hollow eyed, frozen. In his stone paws, he held a stone acorn that he would never get to consume. That squirrel was probably in the garden now, still holding that acorn, still waiting.

I am a stone squirrel, thought Ulysses. I can’t move.

He looked over at the words he had typed. They were untrue words. Several of them were misspelled. There was no joy in them, no love. And worst of all, they were words that would hurt Flora.

He turned slowly. He sniffed his tail. And as he sniffed, he remembered the words that Flora had shouted at him in the Giant Do-Nut. “Remember who you are! You’re Ulysses.”

This helpful advice had been followed by a single, powerful word: “Act.”

He heard the sound of footsteps.

What should he do? What action should he take?

He should type.

He should type a word.

But what word?