MANNERS (Short Fiction by Daniel Fitzpatrick)
Pud was born into the school. His grandfather had founded it, bought the old thieves’ den up the lake in what was still farmland and hammered out a cinder block and sheet metal haven of education. Pud’s earliest memory was of running across a terrazzo kitchen floor into a dark den to jump into his grandfather’s lap. His grandfather had died just after Pud turned two.
But the rest of his life had been spent in and around the school. His aunt was the
principal. His father chaired the science department and the fitness program. His mother taught math. Both knew when Pud was in trouble before he did himself, having gotten the word straight from his teachers. Or they would have gotten it had Pud ever gotten in trouble. He was quiet, and his errors only ever amounted to embarrassments. Like the time he’d led a new kid from the pre- kindergarten classroom and, finding the boys’ room full, had nudged open the door of the girls’. No one had been inside, but, suddenly flustered, he’d backed out and hurried away, and the class, who’d been watching through one of the windowed walls, had roared with laughter as he and his charge walked in again, hand in hand.
That was pre-k, though. Now he was in first grade. It was just past three on the first
Thursday of September, and he twisted the rectangular name tag hanging from his neck as he waited in line for the water fountain. He knew just how to twist the tag so that when he looked down he would see ‘Patrick ‘Pud’ Schiro. 1-A. Mrs. Graves,’ with the string crossing right over 1-A. 1-A, the best. Cream of the crop. Every time a teacher said it his mouth seemed to fill with all the effervescent goodness of the earth.
The water fountain between K-D and K-B was the best in the school. It was near 1-A,
and it was near the ground—he was small for six—and it was cold.
The line shifted up. Now there were just two kids ahead of him, a kindergartener and his
third-grade brother. The younger one was taking his time, gulping from the stream then pausing to gasp and then drinking again, water flowing over his cheek.
‘One, two, three, that’s enough for me,’ said Pud.
The older brother glanced over his shoulder. Pud turned and peered through the screened
window of K-B. A dark figure in a floor-length dress—he imagined it was green with white
flowers—swayed against a chalkboard full of words.
‘Hey, come on, it’s my turn.’
The small one kept drinking.
‘Stop or I’m gonna tell.’
The brother turned and, catching Pud by the collar with both hands, pressed him to the
window.
‘Shut up, kid. Don’t tell. Don’t tell.’
Pud tucked his chin into the sweaty knuckles at his neck. The screen pressed into the
back of his head. Then the boys were gone and the tears started down his cheeks. He left the water fountain and took the breezeway between the pre-k and first grade classrooms toward the asphalt courtyard where the yellow buses waited during the day. His uncle Patty, the
disciplinarian, was crossing the courtyard and caught sight of him and turned, effortlessly
shifting the immense trajectory of his swagger.
‘What’s wrong, Pud?’
He leaned over toward the shaded walk where Pud stood, one hand on an iron pole
painted green. The shade just covered Uncle Patty’s face, but the sun illuminated a yellow
cowlick on his forehead.
‘I told a kid, it was my turn, at the water, fountain, and his brother, grabbed me, like this.’
He reached up and took his own collar, crossing his hands at the wrists.
‘Where?’
Pud pointed and his uncle stalked off. Pud held onto the pole, fingers picking at cracks in
the paint. His uncle returned.
‘Do you know who it was, buddy?’
‘Mm-m.’
Pud shook his head. The tears were coming again.
‘Alright, well, I’ll keep an eye out. You ok?’
‘M-hm.’
He didn’t look up.
‘Your mom’s waiting.’
And Pud walked, head down, to the white Dodge minivan.
II
After dinner Pud’s dad took him into the office and bent toward him.
‘Show me how he grabbed you.’
Pud put his hands to his father’s collar.
‘If anybody every does that to you, just go like this.’ And his hands rushed up between
Pud’s and knocked them aside.
‘You try.’
Pud tried.
‘You ok?’
“M-hm.’ Over his dad’s shoulder the computer screen was blank.
III
Pud fell asleep late, did not dream, and woke early. He was silent through class. At lunch
a fly landed on his pizza and he pulled the coagulate cheese off and contemplated the red triangle and then threw it away. When the bell rang at three he marched to the water fountain. No one was there, and the long breezeway running between the kindergarten classrooms to the girls’ swimming pool was empty. He took a sip of water and then walked through the courtyard toward the minivan. Uncle Patty was passing.
‘Any trouble today, Pud?’
‘No, sir.’
And he walked on over the acorns the buses had crushed that morning, telling himself not
to cry.
About The Author
Daniel Fitzpatrick is the author of two novels, two poetry collections, a translation of Dante's Divine Comedy, and many essays. He lives in New Orleans, where he edits a journal called Joie de Vivre.