Hound Dog True (3 page)

Quincy looks older than twelve. She probably knows lots of sleepover things that Mattie doesn't. Knows things you are supposed to talk about and things you aren't. Maybe Quincy is the kind who'd come over and change into her pajamas right in front of you, and then you'd have to do the same.

No.

No sleepovers.

Besides, Mattie has other things to do. She has decided she will not only write her custodial wisdom notes, she will memorize them. Then, should anything happen to her notebook, she will still be ready.

Mattie gets the silver notebook from the bureau top, flicks on a flashlight she has borrowed from the kitchen drawer. Holds the book close, whispers her words back into the pages.

Do not let mops sit overnight in water.
Rinse twice.
Wring out.
Let dry in the sun.

Sometime during her whispering, Mama's light goes out above. Even Miss Sweet's TV light goes black. She should rest, Mattie tells herself. Rest up for tomorrow. Quiet, she lifts her pillow, slides the notebook snug underneath. Safe.

She pulls the covers up. Imagines the custodial wisdom in her notebook rising up like the heat from Uncle Potluck's rock, rising through the pillow and into her, filling her up with everything she needs to know.

T
HERE ARE TEACHERS
at the school today. Mattie did not think there would be. Not yet, anyway. Thought maybe teachers would show up when school started next week. Thought she and Uncle Potluck would have Mitchell P. Anderson Elementary to themselves.

The teachers stop by Authorized Personnel, asking about Uncle Potluck's summer, laughing when he tells them about the prizewinning fish he caught in a backyard puddle or how in July he had visited a barbeque joint in Franklin County and met the queen of England. "Dainty thing, the queen. Ate spare ribs with her gloves on," he says. "Hound dog true."

Some of the teachers tell stories—though most tell them skinny and pale, finishing quick so Uncle Potluck will have time to tell another.

Some of them talk about janitorial issues. Classroom windows that won't budge and furniture that needs moving. Mattie writes those parts down in her notebook, filling up a whole page with things that need doing.

"And who is this?" the teachers ask. Mattie keeps her face to the notebook page, but she knows they mean her.

Uncle Potluck knows, too. Says, "This is my niece Mattie Mae. She'll be starting in Paula's class next week."

And they say,
Welcome
and
Too bad Paula won't be here until Friday
and
It's nice to meet you,
and Mattie says,
Thank you.

They favor sneakers, the teachers do, most of them wearing white ones with blue or pink trim. One teacher—a man—wears flip-flops. He has hair on his toes. Mattie is glad she will not be in his class. Seems wrong to know your teacher has hair on his toes.

Every teacher who stops by says how lucky Uncle Potluck is to have a helper, and every time he says they are right. Then a pair of high heels clicks up to the Authorized Personnel doorway.

"I see you're a writer," the high-heeled person says. Mattie's heart thumps
how does she know
and
not anymore
at the same time. "I used to carry a notebook when I was your age. I wrote a great many stories in it."

"Mattie Mae," says Uncle Potluck, "this is Principal Bonnet." Mattie waits for Uncle Potluck to say more, but he does not.

"We are very glad you'll be joining us this year, Mattie," says Principal Bonnet. "I try to have lunch with each of our new students. Maybe you could read me some of your stories then?"

Mattie shakes her head at the shoes. "I don't have stories."

Principal Bonnet doesn't say
Speak up
or
Louder
or
Come again.
She just stands there awhile, like Mattie's words are taking their time getting over to her. She imagines that, Mattie does, a picture so strong she looks up to check, half expecting to see her words floating cloudlike in the air.

Principal Bonnet is shorter than she looks in the principal portrait. In the picture, her eyes are crinkle-edged and one of her hands is resting under her chin, but now both her hands are cupped in front of her and filled with doorknobs.

"Robert, the painters took these off when they did the offices, but they forgot to put them back on. Could you?"

Robert is Uncle Potluck. Takes Mattie a second to remember.

"Yes," he says. "When would be convenient?" He sounds funny, and Mattie turns to look to him. He is standing, formal, his hat wheeling in his hands.

"Anytime. It's not urgent," Principal Bonnet says. "Though if you'd prefer to work without me getting in your way, you could try Thursday. I'll be in a staff meeting in the morning and the office will be empty."

"Thursday morning." Uncle Potluck does not laugh or say that Thursdays are usually when he trains circus lions. He just says, "Thursday morning."

Principal Bonnet clicks inside Authorized Personnel just far enough to hand Uncle Potluck the doorknobs. He has to put his hat on before he can take them, and he does it quick, landing it sideways. He'd like to adjust it, Mattie thinks, but he can't with his hands full of doorknobs. "I look forward to our lunch, Mattie, stories or not," Principal Bonnet says, and away she clicks down the hall.

It is strange-quiet in Authorized Personnel, like rather than leaving doorknobs, Principal Bonnet took something with her when she left. Uncle Potluck drops the doorknobs onto his desk. Sits, the
DIRECTOR OF CUSTODIAL ARTS
chair squeaking under him. "So, so, so," he says, filling up the quiet of the room. "Distracting day, this one. Makes it difficult for a man of janitorial disposition to concentrate on the multitude of tasks at hand. What was it I was about to do?"

Mattie checks her notebook. "Third grade window?" she says.

Uncle Potluck raises an eyebrow. "You've been taking notes?"

Mattie nods.

"May I see?"

Mama had asked to see Mattie's old yellow notebook once but had turned her mind to something else before Mattie could show it to her. She hadn't shown it to Mrs. D'Angelo, either. Star had read it, but Mattie had never shown it to anyone.

Mattie sets her janitorial notebook on the desk, turns it so Uncle Potluck can see the list of things that need doing. And he looks so pleased, she shows him other pages, too, notes about toilets and fire alarms and how many classrooms are in the school. Shows him a page she wrote while he was checking his e-mail, about how the whole school was dark-silent this morning until Uncle Potluck jingled his keys in the doors and flipped on the lights. How he checked all the hallways and warmed them up, singing about
eloquence escaping
and
da-doo-doo-doo,
and, even with his traitorous knee, dancing a few steps in each hallway.

Mattie does not show him the front page, the one where she has written Mattie Breen, and Custodial Apprentice underneath.

Not yet.

Uncle Potluck rubs his chin. "I shall have to watch myself now that I know you are recording our custodial endeavors for posterity."

"What is posterity?" Mattie asks.

Uncle Potluck pulls a dictionary off a shelf marked
WISDOM
and hands it to her.

Posterity
is future generations.

Mattie looks up
custodial,
too. It doesn't say anything about doorknobs or mopping or leaky pipes. It says this:

Care or supervision, rather than efforts to cure.
and

Guarding or maintaining.

Mattie likes the idea of caring for the school. Of guarding it. Making it safe.

Uncle Potluck picks up his toolbox. "You coming, Mattie Mae?"

"Just a second," Mattie says. Doorknobs, she writes. Thursday, she writes. Safe and square.

A
LL DAY
M
ATTIE FOLLOWS
Uncle Potluck close, watching, making notes for the posterity people best she can. A few times she has to set her notebook aside-like for helping set up the playhouse in the kindergarten and for sink-cleaning in the girls' restroom. It is hard writing neat with rubber gloves on.

She stays close after work, too. Stays close finding radio stations in the pickup truck and plucking garden beans and hunting softball-size pumpkins in the tangle patch. So close, Uncle Potluck turns and bumps her smack into the stone rabbit, toppling both of them to the dirt.

"Mattie Mae," Uncle Potluck says, pulling her back up to standing. "I believe you have earned yourself a rest."

"I'm not tired," Mattie says. Not too tired, anyway.

Uncle Potluck sets the stone rabbit to rights, tugs his hat down low. "What I am about to do, I must do alone," he says.

Mattie blushes thinking maybe he means the bathroom but turns out Uncle Potluck has a report to fill out for Principal Bonnet. "As I'm sure you are aware, great writing is a solitary pursuit."

Mattie nods. She is aware. And she has writing to do, too. Custodial notes she could not write down earlier. "Okay," she says.

Mattie nabs her notebook from its safe spot under the pillow and carries it out to the rise, to Uncle Potluck's rock. She can see Miss Sweet's house from there—its doors all shut and shades pulled down. The yard is quiet.

Mattie lays herself flat on the rock. Lays the notebook flat, too.

Custodial Wisdom: Day Two
Fifteen times thirty

They had been to the cafeteria today. You had to go through the cafeteria to get to the big garbage bins outside, and Uncle Potluck had two trash cans for emptying.

Mattie had tried helping, tried grabbing a handle and rolling a trash can herself, but Uncle Potluck had said no. Said the cans were too heavy and should Mattie try rolling one she might lose hold and get squished and then none of her school clothes would fit right. Instead Mattie followed, looking ahead for obstacles she might move from Uncle Potluck's path.

"There are things you need to know about the Mitchell P. Anderson cafeteria," Uncle Potluck had said.

He was right. There were things Mattie needed to know.

"Tuesdays are pizza days," he said. "That's a single compost bucket day. The gourmands of Mitchell P. Anderson favor pizza, and it is the rare lunch tray that has even a crust left for disposal. Spaghetti and meatballs—that's the same. One bucket. Tacos, submarine sandwiches. All fine." Uncle Potluck adjusted his grip on a can, then kept rolling. "Third Thursday of the month, though, that's Punxsutawney Filet. 'Turkey Drummettes,' Chef DeSmet calls it, but I have seen him out back on many a Wednesday evening armed with a gopher call and a two-by-four. We need two, maybe three buckets on Filet Day."

"Maybe we could bring a bag lunch that day, too?" Mattie said.

Uncle Potluck winked. "Wise choice. Now, could you get that door for me?"

Mattie scooted around him to open the cafeteria door. It was huge, the cafeteria was, with yellow tables jack-knifed in half and pushed against the walls. Fifteen yellow tables. Maybe thirty seats at each.

 

is four hundred and fifty, Mattie writes in her notebook.

Four hundred and fifty seats. Seems like that would be enough so everybody has a place, but Mattie knows different. Knows there can be a thousand seats and still you might not find the place you belong.

O
G-REE,
S
TAR WOULD SAY.

It wasn't bullying. Not like the bullying on the videos they showed at every school Mattie ever went to. Not something she could tell a teacher or the principal or even Mama. How could any of them understand? It was just one word.

One magic word.

Og-ree,
Star would say.

And Mattie would move. Even if she had been sitting with someone nice, Mattie would pick up her lunch and move to another table. Or leave the swings to sit by the kindergarten sandbox. Move to another spot, a spot that was not the one Star wanted.

One little word.

 

"I said hello."

Mattie jumps. That Quincy Sweet is standing there by Uncle Potluck's rock, staring at her. Staring, Mattie is certain, even though she isn't looking at Quincy's face. Even though she is looking only at the toolbox Quincy Sweet bounce-bounce-bounces against her thigh.

"Hello," Mattie says. It comes out croaky, like her voice forgot how words get made.

"I tried to be noisy coming up, so I wouldn't freak you out," Quincy says. Quincy's voice is not croaky. It is flat and bored sounding, like she has said these words a billion times before, even though she hasn't.

Mattie rolls off the rock. Pulls her notebook to her lap.
It's okay,
she thinks to say, but Quincy is talking again before Mattie's words come out. "What are you writing?"

Custodial wisdom,
Mattie thinks.

Nothing,
she thinks.

I can't say that
and
take a look
and
go away
thoughts shuffle like playing cards. Before Mattie can pick one, Quincy is talking again. "Don't you know?"

Mattie shrugs. She knows. Of course she knows. It's just...

"Writer's block, right? I heard about that. That's what's good about drawing. You don't get drawer's block." Quincy sets her toolbox on Uncle Potluck's rock. Spreads her brown papers across it, too. "I draw still life. Everything you need to know is right there." A stack of carrots thuds on the rock. "Potluck said I could draw these if you and I peel them later." Mattie kneels tall on the grass. She can see the edge of the papers just beyond the stack of carrots.

"Crystal doesn't have any drawing paper," Quincy says. Mattie isn't looking, but she swears she hears Quincy rolling her eyes. "I mean, of course I brought supplies, but I forgot my sketchbook. What kind of person doesn't even have paper?"

Mattie does not know. She also does not know what kind of person calls her aunt by her first name only.

Quincy flips a latch on the toolbox, lifts the top. Instead of wrenches and hammers, there are pencils and paints and art things inside.