Yesterday, 1964

Tatty Baker crouched down behind a large rock and watched the two white men argue. The big man was wearin’ a smooth white shirt under his ’spenders and dark pants that had a crease in ’em sharp as a butcher’s knife. The other man was dressed far less grand, in dingy pants with uneven cuffs and a yellowed shirt that was smudged with something dark. He seemed to be getting’ the worst of the arguin’. The little guy just stood his ground while the other man poked a thick finger into his scrawny chest over and over, and he didn’t punch back. Tatty would have. In his opinion there was nothin’ worse than somebody pokin’ that bone. Tatty knew from experience. He had brothers.

Tatty was too far away to hear what the men were arguing about. The big man had his face close to the other guy’s and was talking real low. Tatty could just hear the rumble of his deep voice as he gave the other guy what for.

Tatty had seen the men before, downtown. They worked in the red brick building on Main Street and had somethin’ to do with tellin’ stories. Least that’s what Tatty’s mama told him. Tatty always thought it would be a fine way to earn your supper…tellin’ stories. He got lots of practice doin’ that every day when his mama asked him where he’d been when he was s’posed to be doin’ his chores.

Tatty figured someday he’d wear a smooth white shirt and fancy pants and tell stories to earn his keep. In the meantime, he wanted to know what the two men was doin’ out in the middle of nowhere. And he really wanted to know what those big stacks of paper was. The small man had unloaded ’em from a dented pickup truck and dumped ’em in the middle of the mayor’s field.

Tatty knew he shouldn’t be there. His instructions was to just leave the jar of peaches with mayor Bethesda’s maid, Wilma, and get on back home, fast as ever. But Tatty had a natural curiosity and when he spotted the truck and the two men he’d just had to hunker down and check it out. Mama always told him his nosiness was gonna land him right in the devil’s lap some day. But Tatty liked to think he had a nose for trouble. He of a certain created enough of it himself.

That’s why Tatty knew them men was doin’ something bad out there.

So he crouched behind that rock and watched. A few minutes later the big man gave the little guy a final poke and turned away. He headed toward the truck and stopped, turning to call out, “…and make sure it all burns. Or we’ll both be out of a job tomorrow.”

Tatty’s eyes widened. They was gonna burn the stacks of paper. Damn but he wished he had a stick and a frankfurter with him. His mouth watered on the thought as the man lit a match and dropped it onto the stacks of paper. He waited and watched for a minute, until the stacks flared into a hardy flame and a dense coil of smoke slipped silently upward, toward a cloudless sky lit by a near-full moon.

Tatty’s nose twitched on the scent of burning paper and he sighed. His brother Will would have loved to see the fire. It was a dandy. The men climbed inside the truck and drove off, bumpin’ and rollin’ on the uneven turf of the freshly turned corn field.

After a minute, Tatty gave in to the urge to move closer to the fire. He picked up a long stick and carried it with him, hoping to have some fun pokin’ at the burning embers to make ’em flare. But as he approached, a soft wind slipped across the field, spicy with the scent of rain, and a hunk of the paper broke loose and flew in his direction.

Tatty dropped the stick and caught the paper, swearing like he shouldn’t as the smoldering edge burned the top of his arm. The words on the paper were small and black and perfect, and Tatty had never seen anything so wonderful in all his life.

Stories.

He clasped the slightly charred treasure to his chest and started to run, determined to take the stories home to Mama. She liked to read ’em after dinner at night. The thought made Tatty’s smile widen, showing a full mouth of white teeth as he ran through the dark night.

Brilliant white, like the big man’s shirt.