Free Hound Dog True by Linda Urban

say
done,
then I'll listen until you say
done,
okay?" Silence. "Done, I mean. Okay? Done."
    Mattie puts the can to her mouth. "Okay," she says. "Done."
    "Okay." Mama's voice sounds far away—farther than just upstairs—but Mattie can make out her words. "When I was a girl, it was so noisy in this house. Sometimes I felt like nobody was listening. You know?" she says. "Done."
    Mattie nods. Says "uh-huh" into the can. "Done."
    "I thought it was different for you. I always ask how you are and how your day was." Mattie feels the can pull in her hand. The string tightens. "But then Potluck pointed out that you don't answer. You say you're fine or you change the subject."
    The can makes Mama's words fuzzy and hard to figure out. Even through the fuzz, Mattie hears a familiar tone. A tone she has heard when Mama's hands were piccolo-ing. A planning sound, a fixing sound, Mattie always thought. But now it just sounds sad.
    "Anyway, Mattie," Mama says. "I have something I have to tell you ... done."
    Done.
    Even before Mama says it, Mattie knows it is done. It is all done. Feels her hand shaking, feels the can shaking against her cheek.
    "We're moving," Mattie says. She moves the can to catch her words, says them before Mama has the chance. "We're moving," Mattie says again, and it comes to her full force why. "I hurt Uncle Potluck and I ruined everything. I hurt his knee and he can't work and we can't stay, and it is my fault."
    Her hand shakes. Her legs shake, bend, lower her to sitting on her bed.
    Not her bed.
The
bed.
    Not her room. Not her house. Not her yard or rock or garden. None of it is hers. They are moving, and this is not her house.
    The soup can tugs in her hand. Tugs. Tugs. Then the string goes slack.
    Done.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
    "M ATTIE, " Mama says.
    She is at the door of Mattie's bedroom—
the
bedroom—marching in, already talking. "We are not moving. I promised Potluck—"
    "When he's better." Mattie says what she knows Mama is about to tell her. "When he's better, after his surgery, then we'll move."
    "Not that either. I promised ... Your uncle made me promise we'd stick around at least until you're in high school. He said it was hard on you, all the moving."
    Mama sits on the bed. "Mattie, each time we moved, it was for a reason. I could see things were going to get harder. Jobs that were going to go south or bosses that—it just seemed best to move on, you know? Best for both of us. But Potluck didn't think it was best for you. He thought—he said you were pretending everything was okay for my sake, and that I was pretending I didn't know you were pretending."
    "Uncle Potluck said that?"
    "Yes," says Mama. "And I
so
did not want to believe he was right. That's why I got you the diary."
    Diary? What did her notebook have to do with moving?
    "I figured you'd write in it and say you were fine and prove me right. Or not write in it and prove me right. Or write in it and prove Potluck right, I guess—but I wouldn't tell him so. Thing is, you wrote in it, but it didn't prove anything. You just wrote janitor stuff. And that button story. It didn't prove..."
    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