olbigjim

An Uncle Toby McCarley Porch Story

Night Eight: The Alley Behind the Newspaper

By the eighth evening, somebody had strung lanterns along Uncle Toby's porch. Nobody admitted doing it. The old man certainly hadn't. At ninety-one, he considered climbing ladders an activity best left to younger fools. The lanterns glowed softly against the gathering darkness. The crowd had grown again. So had the anticipation. Earl was already leaning forward before Toby reached the peacock chair.

"You heard somethin'."

Toby sat down.

"I did."

"What was it?"

The old man took a sip of tea. The crowd groaned immediately.

"You ain't even started yet."

"I know."

"Then why are you drinkin' tea?"

"Because I'm thirsty."

No one could argue with that. Though several tried.

* * *

Summer of 1948. Twelve-year-old Toby McCarley stood motionless in the alley behind the Piedmont Journal. One foot rested beside a stack of discarded newspapers. The other stood in something he preferred not to identify. The voices drifted through an open window. One voice belonged to Wilbur Crenshaw. Editor. Publisher. Reporter. Professional collector of information. The second voice belonged to a man Toby couldn't identify. Yet.

"You can't change it now," Wilbur said.

The other man snorted.

"Watch me."

"You'll cause a riot."

"Then maybe folks oughta riot."

Young Toby crept closer. A decision he would later describe as educational. His mother described it differently. Inside the office, papers rustled. A chair scraped. Then the unfamiliar voice spoke again.

"Everybody knows who's gonna win."

Wilbur sighed.

"That ain't the point."

"It certainly is."

"No."

A pause.

"The point is the vote."

* * *

Back on Hughes Street, Uncle Toby nodded.

"That right there was the first lesson."

"What lesson?" asked Pearl.

The old man pointed toward her.

"Adults say one thing."

Then toward Earl.

"Mean another."

The crowd laughed. Earl objected. Nobody listened.

* * *

In 1948, the argument continued. The unknown man sounded increasingly irritated.

"Clayton Reynolds already has it locked up."

Wilbur didn't answer.

"Everybody knows it."

Still nothing. The silence itself seemed to aggravate the fellow.

"He's in every article."

"Because he organized the fundraiser."

"Exactly."

The voice lowered. Almost to a growl.

"People vote for names they recognize."

Young Toby frowned. That thought had never occurred to him. Adults, he assumed, simply voted for whoever deserved winning. That belief lasted approximately four more minutes. Wilbur finally spoke.

"What exactly are you suggesting?"

The answer arrived immediately.

"I'm suggestin' maybe some folks have gotten more publicity than others."

The room fell quiet. A dangerous quiet. The kind that tells you somebody is standing near a line they're thinking about crossing. Then Wilbur laughed. Not a happy laugh. The other kind.

"Lord help me."

"What?"

"You think newspaper stories decide everything."

"They help."

"They don't decide."

The man snorted.

"You keep tellin' yourself that."

Young Toby shifted his weight. A loose board creaked beneath him. Loudly. Far louder than any board had a right to creak. The voices stopped. Immediately.

* * *

"Oh no," murmured Pearl from the porch.

* * *

Inside the newspaper office, silence fell. Then:

"Did you hear that?"

Young Toby's heart stopped. Or at least paused for maintenance. The chair scraped. Footsteps approached. Slowly. Deliberately. Toward the back door. Toward the alley. Toward Toby. The boy looked left. A brick wall. Right. A stack of newspapers. Neither offered much hope. The doorknob rattled. Young Toby made a decision. A poor one. But a decision. He dove behind the newspaper stack.

* * *

Back on Hughes Street, laughter broke out.

"Tobe!"

"You hid behind newspapers?"

"They were available."

"That's your defense?"

"It worked."

The old man sounded insulted.

* * *

The back door opened. A beam of light stretched across the alley. Footsteps emerged. Heavy footsteps. Adult footsteps. Young Toby held his breath. The shadow moved closer. Closer. Closer still. Until finally it stopped. Right beside the newspapers. The unknown man sighed.

"Probably a cat."

Wilbur grunted.

"Probably."

The footsteps retreated. The door closed. The alley fell silent once more. Young Toby remained frozen. For nearly a minute. Then two. Then three. He wasn't brave. He was terrified. Sometimes those things look remarkably similar. Finally, he crawled out. Slowly. Carefully. Then glanced toward the office window. The argument had resumed. Only now the voices were lower. Too low to hear clearly. Except for one sentence. One sentence that stuck with him for the next seventy-eight years. The unknown man said:

"If Clayton Reynolds wins that squirrel, it'll be because somebody arranged it."

* * *

The crowd on Hughes Street sat silent. The words seemed to linger in the warm night air. Even Beulah Mae wasn't writing.

* * *

Uncle Toby slowly finished his tea. Then stood. The crowd immediately protested.

"Tobe!"

"You can't stop there."

"Who was it?"

The old man smiled. A slow smile. A dangerous smile. The smile of a man holding all the cards.

"I spent the next three days trying to figure that out."

He shuffled toward the screen door. Then paused.

"And on the fourth day…"