An Uncle Toby McCarley Porch Story

Night Fourteen: The Votes That Didn’t Count

By the fourteenth evening, the Porch Club had become so large that somebody suggested appointing officers. The suggestion was immediately rejected. Mostly because nobody trusted Beulah Mae with authority. Especially Beulah Mae.

Uncle Toby settled into the peacock chair. The crowd quieted. Not because they were polite. Because they were curious. Curiosity will accomplish things manners never will. Earl pointed.

“The Bulldog votes.”

The old man nodded.

“The Bulldog votes.”

“Would they have changed the outcome?”

Toby took a sip of tea. The crowd groaned. He ignored them.

“Yes.”

The yard instantly erupted. Pearl slapped her knee. Sheriff Booker sat upright. Three children gasped dramatically despite having no idea why.

⁂

September, 1948.

The election had ended. Sam Mickelsen had won. The handshakes were underway. The congratulations had begun. Yet a knot remained. A little knot. The sort of knot that refuses to untie itself.

The five Bulldog ballots. Mayor Pritchard stood once more. Raised his hands. And called for attention. Reluctantly, Piedmont provided it.

“Before we adjourn…”

A terrible phrase. Nothing good has ever followed those words.

“…the committee wishes to address the Bulldogs ballots.”

The room groaned. Half the crowd had hoped the matter was settled. The other half had spent the evening preparing arguments. Wilbur Crenshaw adjusted his glasses.

“The committee has reviewed the ballots.” A pause.

“Had they been counted…” Another pause.

The room leaned forward.

“…the Piedmont Bulldogs would’ve won the election.”

Silence. Perfect silence. Then Horace Blalock muttered:

“Well, I’ll be.”

Back on Hughes Street, Earl laughed.

“Tied the whole town in knots, didn’t it?”

“It surely did.”

In 1948, the room erupted. Again. People argued. People objected. People defended the boys. People defended the rules. People defended positions they’d only adopted fifteen minutes earlier.

Young Toby watched all of it. Fascinated. Because something peculiar was happening. The adults were no longer discussing football. Or awards. Or even fairness.

They were discussing meaning. What did the award represent? Achievement? Service? Popularity? Sacrifice? Leadership?

Everybody had a different answer. Meanwhile, near the back wall, Clayton Reynolds stood quietly. Listening. Not speaking. Just listening.

Young Maybelline stood beside him. As always. Finally, she tugged gently on his sleeve.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Should the Bulldogs have won?”

⁂

The crowd on Hughes Street grew still. The old Toby smiled softly. The kind of smile that appears when memory reaches across decades.

Clayton thought for a moment. Not because the answer was difficult. Because he wanted the right words. Then he knelt beside her. So they were eye to eye. And he said:

“The boys deserved the uniforms.” A pause.

“But the award ain’t for football.” Another pause.

“It’s for servin’ others.”

Young Maybelline nodded. Trying to understand. Then she asked:

“Did the winner deserve it?”

The room faded. The voices faded. Everything seemed to fade. Except Clayton Reynolds.

The old man on the porch looked away toward the darkness. Toward Terrapin Creek. Toward seventy-eight years of memory. Then quietly he said:

“That’s the moment I remember best.”

Pearl frowned.

“Why?”

Toby smiled sadly.

“Because Clayton could’ve answered a hundred different ways.”

A pause. “He could’ve complained.” Another pause.

“He could’ve blamed somebody.”

Another. “He could’ve said life wasn’t fair.”

The porch remained silent.

Instead, Clayton looked at his daughter and said:

“Yes.”

“Sam deserves it.”

Nobody spoke. Not even Beulah Mae.

⁂

The cicadas hummed. The lanterns glowed. The summer air settled over Hughes Street. Finally, Earl whispered:

“Dang.”

The old man nodded.

“Dang is about right.”

He stood. Slowly. Carefully. The crowd didn’t even protest this time. They were still sitting with the answer. At the screen door, he paused. Looked back. And said:

“The trouble is…”

“Maybelline heard that answer, too.”

The screen door closed. And for the first time since the story began, nobody immediately got up to leave. They simply sat there. Thinking about a good man. And a little girl who loved him very much.

⁂