Flora & Ulysses

Flora’s mother was sitting on the horsehair sofa. Flora’s father was sitting next to her. He was holding her hand. Or she was holding his. In any case, her mother and her father were holding on to each other.

Dr. Meescham was putting alcohol on Flora’s mother’s bites and scratches. “Ouch, ouch, oooooh,” said Flora’s mother.

“Come,” said Dr. Meescham to Flora. She patted the horsehair sofa. “Sit down. Here. Beside your mother.”

Flora sat down on the couch and immediately started to slide off it. Was there a trick to sitting on the horsehair sofa? Because she certainly hadn’t mastered it.

And then William Spiver sat down beside her so that she was wedged in between her mother and him.

Flora stopped sliding.

“And I went up to your room,” said Flora’s mother. “I climbed the stairs to your room, and you weren’t there.”

“I was out looking for Ulysses,” said Flora. “I thought you had kidnapped him.”

“It’s true,” confessed her mother. “I did.”

Ulysses, sitting on Flora’s shoulder, nodded. His whiskers brushed her cheek.

“I wanted to make things right somehow. I wanted to make things normal,” said Flora’s mother.

“Normalcy is an illusion, of course,” said William Spiver. “There is no normal.”

“Hush up, William,” said Tootie.

“And when I returned and you weren’t there . . .” said Flora’s mother. She started to cry again. “I don’t care about normal. I just wanted you back. I needed to find you.”

“And here she is, Mrs. Buckman,” said William Spiver in a very gentle voice.

Here I am, thought Flora. And my mother loves me. Holy bagumba.

And then she thought, Oh, no, I’m going to cry.

And she did cry. Big, fat tears rolled down her face and landed on the horsehair sofa and trembled there for a second before they rolled off.

“You see?” said Dr. Meescham. She smiled at Flora. “I told you. This is how it is with this sofa.”

“Mrs. Buckman,” said William Spiver, “what is that that you are holding in your hand? What is that piece of paper?”

“It’s a poem,” said Flora’s mother, “by Ulysses. It’s for Flora.”

“Look at this!” said Tootie.

They all turned and looked at Tootie. She was standing by the headless Mary Ann, who was plugged in and shining. “It still works. Isn’t that something?”

“Why don’t you read the poem, Phyllis?” said Flora’s father.

“Oh, goody,” said Tootie, “a poetry reading.”

“It’s a squirrel poem,” said Flora’s mother. “But it’s a good one.”

Ulysses puffed out his chest.

“‘Words for Flora,’” her mother said. “That’s the title.”

“I like that title,” said William Spiver.

He took hold of Flora’s hand. He squeezed it.

“Don’t squeeze my hand,” said Flora.

But she held on tightly to William Spiver, and she listened as her mother read the poem that Ulysses had written.