An Uncle Toby McCarley Porch Story

Night Twelve: Two Good Men

The twelfth evening brought the largest crowd yet. Somebody had painted a sign. Nobody admitted responsibility. The sign leaned against a pecan tree and read:

PORCH CLUB

MEETINGS NIGHTLY

BRING YOUR OWN CHAIR

Uncle Toby stared at it for a long moment. Then shook his head.

“Y’all have organized.”

The crowd applauded. The old man looked genuinely disappointed. He settled into the peacock chair. The wicker groaned. The crowd quieted. A child in the front row pointed.

“Mr. Toby?”

“Yes?”

“Who won?”

The old man smiled. “You’re askin’ the wrong question.” A collective groan swept through the yard.

“That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell y’all.”

He took a sip of tea. Then another. The crowd waited. And the years rolled backward once again.

⁂

September, 1948.

The community room remained packed. The argument over the Bulldogs ballots had finally subsided. Not because anyone agreed. Simply because everyone had become tired. Mayor Pritchard unfolded the next ballot, cleared his throat, and read the name aloud.

“Sam Mickelsen.”

A few people nodded. Nobody seemed surprised. Another ballot.

“Sam Mickelsen.”

Another.

“Sam Mickelsen.”

The room grew quieter. The race was tightening. Fast. Clayton Reynolds remained against the back wall. Arms folded. Expression calm. The sort of calm men wear when they’re trying not to influence events.

Young Toby watched the count. The numbers. The committee. The crowd. Everything. Then he noticed something. Not at the front. At the back. Sam Mickelsen. The man stood near a window. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Well dressed. Looking profoundly uncomfortable.

Back on Hughes Street, Earl frowned. “Uncomfortable?”

“Very.”

“Why?”

The old man pointed toward him. “Because, unlike most folks, Sam never expected to win.”

In 1948, another ballot was opened.

“Sam Mickelsen.”

The crowd murmured. Sam looked down at the floor. Almost embarrassed. Young Toby found this confusing. People usually enjoyed praise. Adults seemed especially fond of it. Yet Sam looked like a man hoping nobody noticed him.

Another ballot.

Another vote.

Another mention of his name.

Finally, the coach walked over. Clapped Sam on the shoulder. And offered congratulations. Sam actually winced.

“Told you.”

The old Toby smiled.

“Good man.”

⁂

Back in 1948, Sam leaned toward the coach. Young Toby couldn’t hear every word. Only pieces.

“…ain’t over yet…”

“…don’t count chickens…”

“…Clayton deserves…”

That last part caught Toby’s attention. The coach laughed. Sam didn’t. A few moments later, Clayton crossed the room. The two men shook hands. Exchanged a few quiet words. Then smiled. Genuinely smiled. No tension. No resentment. No rivalry. Just two men behaving like friends.

The crowd on Hughes Street had grown unusually quiet.

“See, that’s important.”

Toby’s voice softened.

“Because folks spent years tellin’ the story wrong.”

Nobody interrupted. “They acted like Sam and Clayton were opponents.” He shook his head.

“They weren’t.”

A pause.

“The town turned ’em into opponents.”

The yard remained silent. The only sound came from cicadas beyond the streetlights.

⁂

Back in 1948, the counting continued. The final totals drew closer. Closer. Closer still. And all the while, young Maybelline stood beside her father. Watching. Listening. Remembering. Then, for just a moment, Clayton looked down. Not angry. Not worried. Not frustrated. Just tired. The sort of tired that settles into a person after weeks of meetings. Fundraisers. Committees. Arguments. And responsibility.

Young Maybelline saw it. Young Toby saw it too. Though neither understood it. Not yet. Years later, both would remember that exact moment. For entirely different reasons.

Back on Hughes Street, Uncle Toby stared out toward the darkness. Toward memories only he could see.

“That was the first time I ever wondered somethin’.”

Pearl leaned forward.

“What?”

The old man smiled sadly. Not his mischievous smile. A different one. Older somehow.

“I wondered if winnin’ and deservin’ were the same thing.”

Nobody spoke. Not right off. Even Beulah Mae was quiet. Which may have been a first. Then Earl cleared his throat.

“Well?”

The dangerous grin returned. The crowd groaned instantly.

“Tobe.”

“No.”

“Tobe.”

The old man rose from the peacock chair.

Slowly. Deliberately. Cruelly. At the screen door, he paused. Turned. And said:

“The next ballot decided the election.”

Then he disappeared inside. Leaving a yard full of people staring at one another and wondering which name was about to be called.