Flora & Ulysses: The Illuminated Adventures

by Kate DiCamillo

  Her father.

  She loved him. She wanted to see his face.

  “I know where we should go,” said Flora.

  A squirrel flies in,” said Dr. Meescham. “This I did not expect at all. It is what I love about life, that things happen which I do not expect. When I was a girl in Blundermeecen, we left the window open for this very reason, even in the winter. We did it because we believed something wonderful might make its way to us through the open window. Did wonderful things find us? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. But tonight it has happened! Something wonderful!” Dr. Meescham clapped her hands. “A window has been left open. A squirrel flies in the window. The heart of an old woman rejoices!”

  Ulysses’s heart rejoiced, too. He wasn’t lost anymore. Dr. Meescham would help him find Flora.

  Also, Dr. Meescham might make him a jelly sandwich.

  “Imagine,” said Dr. Meescham. “Imagine if I had been sleeping, what I would have missed. But then, always and forever, I have been an insomniac. You know what this is? Insomnia?”

  Ulysses shook his head.

  “It means I do not sleep. When I was a girl in Blundermeecen, I did not sleep. Who knows why? It could be some existential terror related to the trolls. Or it could be simply because I do not sleep. Sometimes there are no reasons. Often, most of the time, there are no reasons. The world cannot be explained. But I talk too much. I digress. I need to say to you: Why are you here? And where is your Flora Belle?”

  Ulysses looked at Dr. Meescham.

  He made his eyes very big.

  If only there were some way to tell her everything that had happened: Flora’s mother saying that life would be easier without her, the universe expanding, William Spiver’s banishment, Flora’s homesickness, the writing of his poem, the typing of the untrue words, the stone squirrel, the sack, the woods, the shovel . . .

  The squirrel was overwhelmed by everything there was to say and his inability to say it.

  He looked down at his front paws.

  He looked back up at Dr. Meescham.

  “Ah,” she said, “there is too much to say. You do not know where to begin.”

  Ulysses nodded.

  “Perhaps it would be good to begin with a little snack?”

  Ulysses nodded again.

  “When the other Dr. Meescham was alive and I could not sleep, do you know what he would do for me? This man would put on his slippers and he would go out into the kitchen and he would fix for me sardines on crackers. You know sardines?”

  Ulysses shook his head.

  “Little fishes in a can. He would put these little fishes onto crackers for me, and then I would hear him coming back down the hallway, carrying the sardines and humming, returning to me.” Dr. Meescham sighed. “Such tenderness. To have someone get out of bed and bring you little fishes and sit with you as you eat them in the dark of night. To hum to you. This is love.”

  Dr. Meescham wiped at her eyes. She smiled at Ulysses. “So,” she said, “I will make for you what my beloved made for me: sardines on crackers. Does this seem like a good thing?”

  Ulysses nodded. It seemed like a very good thing.

  “We will eat, because this is important, to eat. And then, even though it is the middle of the night, we will go and knock on the door of Mr. George Buckman. And he will open the door to us because he is capacious of heart. And then George Buckman and I will figure out together why you are here and where our Flora Belle is.”

  Ulysses nodded.

  Dr. Meescham went into the kitchen, and the squirrel sat on the windowsill and looked out into the dark world.

  Flora was out there somewhere.

  He would find her. She would find him. They would find each other. And then he would write her another poem. This one would be about little fishes and humming in the dark of the night.

  Flora was on the side of the highway.

  There were, she had discovered, all kinds of ridiculous things strewn along the side of a road. Shoes, for one thing. And balled-up knee-high stockings. And polyester slacks, baby-blue ones, with a permanent crease. Did people undress as they drove down the road?

  There were metal objects: hubcaps, a pair of rusty scissors, a sparkplug. And there were truly inexplicable things. For instance: a plastic banana, glowing a bright and unreal yellow in the dark. That one was interesting. Flora bent down to examine it more closely.

  “What are you doing?” said William Spiver. He stopped, too, because she was attached to him and he was attached to her. Which is to say that William Spiver and Flora Belle Buckman were, unbelievably, still holding hands.

  “I’m looking at a banana,” said Flora.

  Tootie was marching ahead of them, holding the little shepherdess out in front of her and shouting Ulysses’s name.

  William Spiver’s hand was getting kind of sweaty. Or maybe it was Flora’s hand that was getting sweaty. It was hard to say. William Spiver was still crying (silently) and Ulysses was still missing, and here they were walking along a highway behind an unlit lamp, stopping occasionally to look at knee-high stockings and plastic bananas.

  It all must mean something.

  But what?

  Flora mentally flipped through every issue of The Illuminated Adventures of the Amazing Incandesto!, every issue of TERRIBLE THINGS CAN HAPPEN TO YOU! and The Criminal Element Is Among Us, that she had ever read. She searched for some kind of advice, acknowledgment, the tiniest clue about what to do in this situation.

  She came up empty-handed. She was on her own.

  She laughed.

  “What are you laughing about?” said William Spiver.

  Flora laughed louder. William Spiver laughed along with her.

  “What’s so funny back there?” said Tootie.

  “Everything,” said Flora.

  “Wheeee,” said Tootie.

  And then they were all laughing. Except for Mary Ann, who couldn’t laugh because she was inanimate. But even if she had been capable of laughing, she probably wouldn’t have done it. She just wasn’t that kind of lamp.

  They were all still laughing when the temporarily blind William Spiver stepped on the cord of the little shepherdess and tripped.

  And because he refused to let go of Flora’s hand (or did she refuse to let go of his?), Flora fell, too. She landed on top of William Spiver.

  There was a crunch and then a tinkle.

  “Oh, no,” said William Spiver, “my glasses! They’re broken!”

  “For heaven’s sake, William,” said Tootie. “You don’t even need those glasses.”

  Flora was so close to William Spiver that she could feel his heart beating wildly somewhere inside of him. She thought, I sure have felt a lot of hearts recently.

  “Wait a minute,” said William Spiver. He held his head up. “Everyone be quiet. Shhh. What are those tiny pinpricks of light?”

  Flora looked where William Spiver was looking. “Those are stars, William Spiver.”

  “I can see the stars! I can see! Great-Aunt Tootie! Flora Belle, I can see!”

  “It’s a miracle,” said Tootie.

  “Or something,” said Flora.

  The hallway of the Blixen Arms emitted the same green gloomy light no matter the time of day or night.

  “Watch out for the cat,” said Flora.

  “The infamous Mr. Klaus,” said William Spiver. He looked around. He was smiling. “The cat who was defeated by a superhero squirrel. I will certainly keep an eye out for him. And I hate to sound like a broken record, but may I just say again what a delight it is to see? Talk about being born anew. Nothing, nothing, will ever again escape my notice.”

  “Goody,” said Tootie.

  “I’m not kidding,” said Flora. “Mr. Klaus could be anywhere.”

  “Yes,” said William Spiver. “My eyes are open. They are open, indeed.”

  “Knock again,” said Tootie.

  Flora knocked again.

  Where could her father be in the middle of the night? Had someone ki
dnapped him, too? Was it kidnapping if it was an adult? Or was that adult-napping? George Buckman–napping?

  And then she heard her father laugh.

  But the laugh wasn’t coming from his apartment. It was coming from apartment 267.

  “Dr. Meescham!” said Flora.

  “Who?” said William Spiver.

  “Dr. Meescham. Knock on that door, quick,” said Flora to William Spiver. She pointed, and William Spiver raised his hand to knock just as the door to Dr. Meescham’s apartment swung wide.

  “Flora Belle,” said Dr. Meescham. “My little flower, our beloved.” She was smiling very big. Her teeth were glowing. Ulysses was sitting on her shoulder.

  Behind Ulysses and Dr. Meescham was Flora’s father. He was wearing his pajamas. His hat was on his head.

  “George Buckman,” said her father, slowly raising his hat to them all. “How do you do?”

  “Ulysses?” said Flora.

  She said his name like a question.

  And he answered her.

  He flew to her; his small, warm, hopeful body hit her with a thud that almost knocked her off her feet. She wrapped her arms, her hands, her self around him.

  “Ulysses,” she said. “I love you.”

  “So much happiness!” said Dr. Meescham. “This is how it was when I was a girl in Blundermeecen. Like this. Always opening the door in the middle of the night and finding the face of someone you wanted to see. Well, not always. Sometimes it was the face of someone you did not want to see.

  “But always, always in Blundermeecen, you opened the door because you could not stop hoping that on the other side of it would be the face of someone you loved.” Dr. Meescham looked at William Spiver and then at Tootie. She smiled. “And maybe, too, the face of someone you did not yet know but might come to love.”

  “Tootie Tickham,” said Tootie. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. And this is my nephew, William. I would shake your hand, but as you can see I am in charge of this lamp.”

  “Actually,” said William Spiver, “I am her great-nephew. And my name is William Spiver. And I realize that it is early in our acquaintance for me to be revealing such astonishing and deeply personal information, but I must tell you that I was temporarily blind and now I can see! Also, I feel compelled to say that your face is beautiful to me. In fact, every face is beautiful to me.” He turned. “Your face, Flora Belle, is particularly beautiful. Even the sepulchral gloom of this hallway cannot dim your loveliness.”

  “Sepulchral gloom?” said Flora.

  “That’s because she is a flower,” said Flora’s father, “my lovely flower.”

  Flora felt herself blushing.

  “It is a lovely face, the face of Flora Belle Buckman,” said Dr. Meescham. “It is truly beautiful. But you have all stood long enough outside; you must come inside now. Come.”

  So,” said Dr. Meescham, “we have been speaking with Ulysses. We have been working to understand his story. From what we have put together so far, it involves a shovel and a sack. And the woods. And a poem.”

  “And a giant donut,” said Flora’s father.

  Ulysses, sitting on Flora’s shoulder, nodded vigorously. A distinctly fishy smell emanated from his whiskers.

  Flora turned to him. “Where’s my mother?” she said.

  Ulysses shook his head.

  “Pop?” said Flora. “Where’s Mom?”

  “I’m not certain,” said her father. He adjusted his hat. He tried to put his hands in his pockets, and then he realized he was wearing pajamas and had no pockets. He laughed. “Holy bagumba,” he said softly.

  “We need a typewriter,” said Flora.

  Ulysses nodded.

  “We need a typewriter so that we can get to the truth,” said Flora.

  “The truth,” said William Spiver, “is a slippery thing. I doubt that you will ever get to The Truth. You may get to a version of the truth. But The Truth? I doubt it very seriously.”

  “Will you please, please shut up, William Spiver?” said Flora.

  “Shhh,” said Dr. Meescham. “Calm, calm. You should maybe sit and eat a sardine.”

  “I don’t want a sardine,” said Flora. “I want to know what happened. I want to know where my mother is.”

  Just as she said these words, there was a bang, which was followed by a long, bone-chilling yowl, which was, in turn, followed by a very loud scream.

  “What was that?” said William Spiver.

  “That’s Mr. Klaus,” said Flora. “He’s attacking someone.”

  There was another scream, and then came the words, “George, George!”

  “Uh-oh,” said Flora’s father. “It’s Phyllis.”

  “Mom,” said Flora.

  Ulysses tensed. He dug his claws into Flora’s shoulder.

  Flora looked at him.

  He nodded.

  And then Flora’s father was running out the door, and Flora was behind him and William Spiver was behind her. Another of her mother’s screams echoed down the hallway. “George, George,” she shouted, “please tell me that my baby is here!”

  Flora turned and said to Tootie, “Bring the lamp! She’s worried about Mary Ann.”

  There was another scream.

  Me? thought Flora.

  “She’s here,” said Flora’s father.

  Flora’s mother started to cry.

  “Everyone needs to calm down,” said Tootie. “I’ve got it.” She waded into the fray and whacked Mr. Klaus over the head with Mary Ann.

  The cat fell to the ground, and the little shepherdess, as if she were astonished by her own act of violence, crumbled. Her face — her beautiful, perfect pink face — broke. There was a tinkle and a crash as the pieces of Mary Ann’s head hit the floor.

  “Oops,” said Tootie. “I broke her.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Flora.

  But her mother wasn’t looking at the lamp or what was left of the lamp. She was looking at Flora.

  “Flora,” her mother said. “Flora. I went home, and you weren’t there. I was terrified.”

  “Here she is,” said William Spiver. He gave Flora a gentle shove toward her mother.

  “Here I am,” said Flora.

  Her mother stepped over the pieces of the broken little shepherdess. She took Flora in her arms.

  “My baby,” said her mother.

  “Me?” said Flora.

  “You,” said her mother.

  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 h
ere 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.

  This poem was just the beginning, of course.

  There would be more.

  He needed to write about how they always, always answered the door in Blundermeecen. He needed to write about the saving of Phyllis Buckman from Mr. Klaus. He needed to write about Mary Ann’s broken, still-shining self. And little fishes.

  He needed to write a poem about little fishes.

  Also, he wanted to write about things that hadn’t happened yet. For instance, he wanted to write a poem where William Spiver’s mother called and asked for him to come home. And a poem where the other Dr. Meescham came and visited this Dr. Meescham and sat beside her and hummed to her and watched her sleep. And maybe there would be a poem about a horsehair sofa. And one about a vacuum cleaner.