Flora & Ulysses

It was dark — very, very dark.

And there was the smell of smoke.

Flora’s mother had him in a sack and the sack was flung over her back, and she was walking somewhere and it was very, very dark. At the last minute, Flora’s mother had picked up the piece of paper with his poem on it and thrown it into the sack along with him.

Was this meant as a kindness?

Was she mocking him?

Or was she merely covering her tracks?

The squirrel didn’t know, but he held the crumpled ball of paper to his chest and tried to comfort himself. He thought, Worse things have happened to me.

He tried to think of what they were.

There was the time the pickup truck had run over his tail. That had hurt very much. There was also the incident with the BB gun. And the teddy bear. And the garden hose. The slingshot. The bow and (rubber) arrow.

But everything that had happened before paled in comparison to this because there was so much more to lose now: Flora and her round and lovable head. Cheese puffs. Poetry. Giant donuts.

Shoot! He was going to leave the world without ever having tried a giant donut.

And Tootie! Tootie had said that she was going to read poetry out loud to him. That would never happen now, either.

It was very dark in the sack.

It was very dark everywhere.

I’m going to die, thought the squirrel. He hugged his poem closer, and the paper crackled and sighed.

“This is nothing personal, Mr. Squirrel,” said Flora’s mother.

Ulysses held himself very still. He found this sentiment difficult to believe.

“It really has nothing to do with you,” said Flora’s mother. “It’s about Flora. Flora Belle. She is a strange child. And the world is not kind to the strange. She was strange before, and she’s stranger now. Now she is walking around with a squirrel on her shoulder. Talking to a squirrel. Talking to a typing, flying squirrel. Not good. Not good at all.”

Was Flora strange?

He supposed so.

But what was wrong with that?

She was strange in a good way. She was strange in a lovable way. Her heart was so big. It was capacious. Just like George Buckman’s heart.

“Do you know what I want?” said Flora’s mother.

Ulysses couldn’t imagine.

“I want things to be normal. I want a daughter who is happy. I want her to have friends who aren’t squirrels. I don’t want her to end up unloved and all alone in the world. But it doesn’t matter, does it?”

It does matter, thought Ulysses.

“It’s time to do what needs to be done,” said Flora’s mother.

She stopped walking.

Uh-oh, thought Ulysses.