Hound Dog True (9 page)

Mama goes on talking, but Mattie does not hear. She is stuck hearing
that button story that button story that button story.
Feels like twenty days pass or four seconds or both, Mattie hearing
that button story
before she figures why that matters.

Mama might know about the custodial wisdom from Uncle Potluck, but to know about Moe...

"You read my notebook," Mattie says.

"Yes," Mama says. "And I'm sorry. That's why I put up this can phone thing. I wanted to apologize."

"From upstairs?"

"I didn't want to see your expression when I told you, I guess. Maybe I was still trying to pretend." Mama looks like she wants to stand up and leave, but instead she stays sitting. Turns her head so she can look Mattie in the eye. "And now I have to apologize for all the moving, too. I'm sorry, Mattie. I'm sorry I was selfish. I'm sorry I made things so hard for you. I'm sorry I made you think we were moving. We are not moving."

Mattie cannot help but ask. "What about when the going gets tough?"

"The tough are going to have to stick around and face things." Mama pats Mattie's hand, then holds it, her fingers still and warm. "Is there anything else you want to ask?"

Mattie shakes her head, then stops.

"When did you read my notebook?"

"When?" Mama seems surprised. "Yesterday morning. After you and Potluck went to work."

"Was it under my pillow?"

"Yes. I searched around for it, and I found it under your pillow."

If Mama read Mattie's notebook, that meant Quincy Sweet didn't.

"I'm sorry," Mama says again.

"It's okay," Mattie says. Quincy Sweet hadn't read her notebook. And Mama had. And now Mama knows.
She knows,
Mattie thinks, but she does not feel a panicky feeling. Mama knows about Mattie's writing. About Moe. About Mattie worrying about things.

And she has said they would be staying.

Together, they would be staying.

"At least I know how to caulk a window now," Mama says. "You were very detailed about it. I actually learned a lot from your writing. Who knew it took three hundred sheets to fill a paper towel dispenser?"

"Uncle Potluck knew," says Mattie.

"Yes," Mama says slowly. "Yes, he did."

Mama picks up the tomato can. "I'll get some scissors and take this thing down. And I'll figure some way to cover up the hole, too, so you can have some privacy."

"Could we leave it up?" Mattie asks. "Maybe we could use it again sometime to talk about something else? Or just to say hello?"

Mama smiles like this is the best plan she has heard in a long time.

"Done," she says.

T
HEY WOULD BE STAYING.
For a long time, too.

Mattie flops back on her pillow. Feels the edge of her notebook underneath. Her custodial wisdom notes would be useless now. Uncle Potluck would not be at the school when Mattie started next week. She would not be spending her lunches and recesses as his apprentice. She does not need the notebook anymore.

What she needs is a friend.

Mattie sits up. If Quincy Sweet had not sneak-read Mattie's notebook, then she had not been faking. Maybe it's even like Mama thinks. Maybe Quincy is a friend. Or the beginnings of one, anyway.

Which means all Mattie has to do is not mess anything up. Not say anything stupid or baby for one more day, and then Quincy will go home to Nicolette and Duey and her hernia brother, and Mattie can say that she has a friend.

It wouldn't be a lie.

She might be alone at Mitchell P. Anderson Elementary—in the cafeteria or on the playground—but she could say to herself that she has a friend somewhere. Could do that all the way up till Halloween, when Quincy is supposed to visit Crystal. Then Mattie'd have to not mess up all over again—but that she could think about later.

Right now what she has to think about is how to get out of talking to the moon in front of Quincy.

Mattie listens for kitchen sounds. Hears Mama laughing with Uncle Tommy. She can hear Uncle Potluck, too, sounding the same as if he never did have to go to the hospital. Hears Miss Sweet's glass-shatter laugh. "I know!" she says. "I know!"

Probably Quincy is in the kitchen, too, though Mattie doesn't hear any plunking. She should go out there. Should walk right in and say hello and smile a friend smile at Quincy. Except maybe she'd look too stupid or eager.

It is just dark enough outside for Mattie to see her reflection in the window. She tries smiling at it. Big smiles. Little smiles. Stretched-tight smiles like Quincy wears. Makes her look worried, that last one. Mattie shifts her gaze past the window glass to the sky. The moon sits silent by the treetops, like a schoolyard kid hoping someone will ask her to play.

"I'm sorry," Mattie whispers.

More laughter from the kitchen. "Wait a minute, Potluck, that's not how it goes. Listen..." That was Uncle Tommy. He'd tell whatever story Uncle Potluck had just finished. Tell it his way. It would be funny, too, maybe even funnier than Uncle Potluck's. The two of them could go on all night like that.

Which gives Mattie an idea. A very good idea.

All she needs to do is ask Uncle Potluck about his childhood days, or get Uncle Tommy talking about fishing trips or old girlfriends, and just like that the kitchen would fill up with stories, each one tugging at the clock hands until it got so late that Mattie and Quincy would be half-asleep in their chairs. No time left for anything but getting in their sleeping bags and saying
Good night.
She could manage
good night
without messing up.

For a second, Mattie sees her reflection again. The stretched-tight smile is still there, flashing worry back at her. "It will be okay," she tells her window face.

"I'm sorry," she tells the moon again. Listens then, just in case the moon wants to say she understands. But the moon stays mum.

It sits on the edge of the clouds and waits.

O
UT IN THE KITCHEN
Uncle Potluck is sitting on one chair, his traitorous knee pillowed up on another. Miss Sweet and Uncle Tommy are at the table, too. Mama stands by the stove, a wooden spoon in her hand. Quincy is not there.

"Plant yourself here by me, won't you, Mattie Mae?" Uncle Potluck says, pulling a chair close up by his side. He has to lean to grab it, and the leaning makes him hoot.

"I'm sorry," she says, so quiet only Uncle Potluck can hear.

"You have apologized enough, Mattie Mae," Uncle Potluck says quiet back. "It's okay."

But it is not okay. "It's in my notebook: unplug cords as soon as you are done using them. It's my fault you tripped."

Uncle Potluck nods, thinking. "Will you add something else to your notebook for me?" he asks. "Add this: if you are going to practice your fox trot while on the job, first examine the area for potential hazards. Mattie Mae, if I had not been so involved in my singing and dancing extravaganza, I would have seen that vacuum cord right off. I believe we share the blame for this one."

Miss Sweet has been listening. Butts in. "You were dancing?"

"A little," Uncle Potluck says. "There are people who inspire dancing in me. It cannot be helped." He leans then. Kisses Mattie on the top of her head, drops his hat over the kiss spot. It feels good. Like having a Band-Aid on a paper cut.

"Look," Miss Sweet says to Mama. She has pulled out her cell phone. On the little screen is a picture of Miss Sweet in her cotton-candy dress. Next to her is a lady in a purple dress. The lady has on even more makeup than Miss Sweet does, and her hair is tornadoed up exactly to match. "Doesn't Quincy look fabulous?"

The lady is Quincy.

"Yesterday I was telling her all about prom and decided we'd get dressed up in my old gowns and go out on the town." Miss Sweet looks through her eyelashes at Uncle Potluck. "The waiter said we looked like sisters. He's the one who took the picture."

Mattie looks at the picture again. Miss Sweet is grinning. Quincy is not. She looks matter-of-fact. Or maybe bored. Or embarrassed. Makes sense she didn't want Mattie coming along. Or even anyone to see her.

"I did her up again today. You'll see when she comes over. I don't know what's taking her so long."

Uncle Potluck whispers to Mattie, "Would you retrieve our wayward guest? I'm hungry, and your mother refuses to dish out even a spoonful of stew until all are present and accounted for."

Mattie nods and Uncle Potluck's hat tips over her eyes, but she pushes it back up. Goes to get Quincy. Except Quincy doesn't really need getting because just as Mattie reaches the rental house, the door opens and Quincy steps out. Her face is red, Mattie notices, and not made up.

"I've figured out what I'm going to tell the moon," Quincy says. "Have you?"

"Yes," Mattie says. It is not a lie.

In the kitchen, Uncle Potluck is telling another story. "Unleashed," he says as Mattie and Quincy come in. It's the end of the Stella story, the part where Stella takes off and Uncle Potluck is left alone in the rain.

Miss Sweet pouts when she sees Quincy. "You washed off the makeup."

"It felt fake."

Miss Sweet matches her pout with an arm cross. "You get used to it."

"To continue," Uncle Potluck says.

To continue? There is more to the Stella story?

"I must have passed out, because the next thing I know, it is night and there's a terrible crashing sound not twenty yards away. I was certain it was a bear."

"And you with no birthday cake," says Uncle Tommy.

Uncle Potluck throws a hush-up look at Uncle Tommy. Goes on with his story.

"There I was, hurt and defenseless. I reached for a stout branch, though I knew I could not fight off a bear in my pitiful condition. Closer the sound came. Closer..."

Mattie feels herself lean forward. Sees Mama do the same.

"...when out of the woods charged that goofball dog, galloping full speed, jumping right into my lap, and howling like one of Tommy's fire trucks." Mama laughs and Uncle Tommy laughs and even Quincy laughs. "A couple seconds later, two of my fellow MPs struggled through the bushes. Stella had led them straight to me."

"Lazy dog," says Miss Sweet. "She tricked you! She knew how to track all along."

"Maybe she wasn't lazy. Maybe people just didn't understand her," Quincy says.

Mattie thinks about this. About tricks and understanding. Thinks, too, about how maybe even Stella didn't know what she could do. How maybe she didn't know the truth until she had to.

"Hound dog true," Mattie says quietly. Uncle Potluck smiles. Takes his hat from Mattie's head and drops it back on his own.

M
ATTIE
IS
HALFWAY THROUGH EATING
her supper when she hears a rumbling sound.

A shiny black car rumbles up the gravel drive, parks next to Crystal Sweet's orange one.

"Who's that?" Miss Sweet asks.

Uncle Potluck sets his corncob down, leans far around Miss Sweet to see out the kitchen window. Soon as he sees, he shoots back to sitting straight. It is Principal Bonnet.

Mama taps Mattie to get the door.

Principal Bonnet has regular shoes on. And regular jeans. She is not dressed like a principal. Or a mountain climber. Just a regular person. "Hello, Mattie. I wanted to check on your uncle. May I come in?"

Mattie lets Principal Bonnet in. It is weird having a principal in your house—even a regular-looking one. Everybody at the table sits taller, Mattie notices. Uncle Potluck. Everyone.

"Hello," Mama says.

"Hello," Principal Bonnet says. Then she turns to Uncle Potluck. "Sir," she says. And she salutes.

Before Mattie has time to ponder the spirit in which the salute is meant, Uncle Potluck laughs a big laugh, one that shakes his shoulders and his belly and even his knee, so he has to put a hand to it to keep it from hurting. "You know about that?" he asks.

"Of course I know, Robert. I am the principal. I see all."

Miss Sweet humphs, unimpressed. "Potluck can see the future in an ear of corn."

Uncle Tommy slaps the table. "Caught!" He laughs. "Let's see you hound dog true your way out of this one."

For a second, Uncle Potluck is silent. Nervous, Mattie thinks. Can't think of anything to say with Principal Bonnet right here in his kitchen.

But then he does say something. Clears his throat and tilts his hat and says, "Tommy, your lack of faith is a sorry disappointment. Sylvie, would you do me the honor of allowing me to examine your cob?"

Mama pushes her plate to Uncle Potluck. Uncle Tommy waves Principal Bonnet to an empty chair. "Sit," he says. "This might take a while."

Uncle Potluck looks around the table, though Mattie notices he skips looking at Principal Bonnet. Just looks at everyone else and then at the cob on the plate.

"Hmmmmm," he says, lifting Mama's corn with a fork. "Before I begin, it is important that everyone present understand that these readings are merely snapshots, rather than complete prognostication. The cob tells us about this moment, offering a keen and discerning reader clues about the future."

"Get on with it," Uncle Tommy says.

Uncle Potluck holds the corn up high, studies it up and down and around. "I see," he says, and "Very interesting" and "Well, now, how about that?" and, finally, "And there you go."

"Where do I go?" Mama asks.

Uncle Potluck raises his knife, points it at the base of the cob. "See how these large bottom kernels are nibbled clean off? That indicates a person who is taking root. While these here"—he points to the tip of the ear, where the tiny kernels are bit off willy-nilly—"show hope."

Mattie steals a look at Quincy. She looks bored, Mattie thinks. Everyone else is leaning in, listening. Especially Mama.

"Yes, indeed," says Uncle Potluck. "This is a sign of good fortune. The beginning of a new and satisfying adventure for anyone willing to stand firm and face it."

Uncle Potluck sets the cob down on the plate. Everyone claps, including Principal Bonnet. Uncle Potluck's ears red up.

"Thank you, Potluck," Mama says.