An Uncle Toby McCarley Porch Story
Night Twenty-Seven: Maybelline Becomes Dangerous
The twenty-seventh evening found Hughes Street crowded enough that somebody had started directing parking. Nobody knew who had appointed him. He didn’t know either. But he was doing an excellent job.
Uncle Toby emerged from the house carrying his sweet tea. The crowd applauded. Again. The old man looked toward heaven.
“I should’ve stopped this weeks ago.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” Pearl answered.
“No,” he admitted.
“I surely shouldn’t.”
He lowered himself into the creaky ol’ peacock chair. The wicker voiced its displeasure. The crowd leaned forward. And Toby smiled.
“All right.”
“Dangerous.”
The audience immediately grew attentive. Because nobody in Piedmont had ever used that word to describe Maybelline Reynolds. And Hughes Street slipped away.
Autumn, 1987. The scrapbook remained open on the dining room table. The letter lay beside it. Maybelline had read it six times. Possibly seven.
Not because she’d forgotten the words. Because she’d remembered the voice. That was the difference.
Back on Hughes Street, nobody spoke. Everybody understood.
In 1987, Maybelline slowly turned pages. The fundraiser. The uniforms. The creek rescue. The coat drive. The church repairs. The storm cleanup. The photographs. The articles. The names.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
Years upon years of them. And as she looked through the collection, a realization settled over her. A simple realization. A dangerous realization.
Nobody else had this. Nobody. Not the library. Not the newspaper. Not the historical society. Not the church. Only her.
Back on Hughes Street, Toby nodded.
“That’s when it hit her.”
“What?” Asked Earl.
The old man pointed into the darkness.
“She wasn’t keepin’ memories anymore.”
A pause.
“She was the memories.”
The crowd fell silent. Because they understood exactly what that meant.
In 1987, Maybelline sat at the table until well after midnight. Reading. Sorting. Remembering.
Then she did something she’d never done before. She started writing. Not notes. Not captions. Not reminders. Stories.
The story of the uniforms. The story of the fence. The story of Tommy Green. The story of the church roof. The stories behind the clippings. The things newspapers never captured.
The laughter. The conversations. The reasons. The people.
Back on Hughes Street, Pearl smiled.
“She became a storyteller.”
The old man smiled back.
“Exactly.”
A pause.
“And every storyteller is dangerous.”
The crowd laughed. Even Beulah Mae.
In 1987, Maybelline filled notebooks. Then more notebooks. Then still more.
The archive grew. The stories grew. The memories deepened. Years passed.
The Golden Squirrel changed hands. Again. And again. And again.
More names appeared on the walnut base. More winners. More banquets. More speeches.
Meanwhile, Maybelline kept writing.
And every year one sentence appeared somewhere in her notes. Sometimes exactly. Sometimes differently. But always the same thought.
Don’t forget.
Back on Hughes Street, the lanterns flickered softly. The old man stared into his tea.
Then quietly said: “The funny thing is… she never meant to steal that squirrel.”
The crowd sat up.
“What?”
The old man nodded.
“Not then.”
A pause.
“Not for decades.”
Another.
“She had an entirely different plan.”
The audience leaned forward. Every last one of them.
“What plan?” whispered Pearl.
The grin returned. The dangerous one. The one that had tormented Hughes Street for twenty-seven nights.
Uncle Toby slowly stood.
The crowd erupted.
“Tobe!”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Come on.”
The old man shuffled toward the screen door. Paused. One hand on the handle. Then looked back.
And said: “Tomorrow night…”
“Maybelline asks the Golden Squirrel Committee a question.”
“A question they should’ve answered.”
“And didn’t.”
The screen door closed.
olbigjim 