Free Between Wrecks by George Singleton

state line. I’ll eat them here. Anyway, my wife introduced me to a woman who told me a wild story about two young boys being missing some thirty-odd years back, and a pile of bones the state investigators said came from here. Do you know this story?” I mentioned Abby because any single male strangers are, in the sloppy dialect of the locals, “quiz.”
    â€œMy name’s Cook,” the cook said. “Raymus Cook. Y’all hear that? Fellow wants to know if I heard about them missing boys back then. Can you believe that?” To me he said, “You the second person today to ask. Some fellow from down Mississippi called earlier asking if it was some kind of made-up story.”
    I thought, Goddamn parasite Theron Crowther. “I’ll be doggone,” I said. “What’d you tell him?”
    â€œThat’ll be five and a quarter, counting tax.” Raymus Cook handed over two sandwiches on a paper plate and took my money. “I told him my daddy’d be the one to talk to, but Daddy’s been dead eight years. I told him what I believed—that somebody paid somebody, and that those boys’ families will never rest in peace.”
    People from two tables got up from the seats, shot Raymus Cook mean looks, and left the premises. One of them said, “We been through this enough. I’mo take my bidness to Ola’s now on.”
    Raymus Cook held his head back somewhat and called out, “This ain’t the world it used to be. You just can’t go decide to secede every other minute things don’t turn out like you want them.” At this precise moment I knew that, later in life, I would regale friends and colleagues alike about how I “stumbled upon” something. Raymus Cook turned his head halfway to the open kitchen and said, “Ain’t that right, Ms. Hattie?”
    A black woman stuck her face my way and said, “Datboutright, huh-huh,” just like that, fast, as if she waited to say her lines all night long.
    â€œYou can’t cook barbecue correct without the touch of a black woman’s hands,” Raymus said to me in not much more than a whisper. “All these chains got white people smoking out back. Won’t work, I’ll be the first to admit.”
    I thought, Fuck, this is going to turn out to be just another one of those stories that’ve bloated the South for 150 years. I didn’t want that to happen. I said, “I’m starting a master’s degree on Southern culture, and I need to write a paper on something that happened a while back that maybe ain’t right. You got any stories you could help me out with?”
    I sat down at the first table and unwrapped a sandwich. I got up and poured my own tea. Raymus Cook smiled. He picked up a flyswatter and nailed his prey. “Southern culture?” He laughed. “I don’t know that much about Southern culture, even though I got raised right here.” To a family off in the corner he yelled, “Y’all want any sweet potato casserole?” Back to me he said, “That’s one big piece of flypaper hanging, Southern culture. It might be best to accidentally graze a wing to it every once in a while, but mostly buzz around.”
    I said, of course, “Man, that’s a nice analogy.” I tried to think up one to match him, something about river rocks. I couldn’t.
    â€œWait a minute,” Raymus Cook said. “I might be thinking about Southern literature. Like Faulkner. Is that what you’re talking about?”
    I thought, This guy’s going to help me get through my thesis one day. “Hey, can I get a large rack of ribs to go? I’ll get a large rack and a small rack.” I looked up at the menu board. I said, “Can I get a ‘Willie’ and an ‘Archie’?”
    It took me a minute to remember those two poor black kids’ names. I thought, This isn’t funny, and took off out