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“May I have a ith you for a moment, sir?” he asked

“Well, of course,” I said “Come have a seat”

“I’m sorry, Mr Corbett, I can’t That park is White Only”

I had forgotten—or maybe I’d never realized—that the old wooden benches, the little fountain, the shade of the big old eudoras, all were reserved for the exclusive use of white Eudora

I walked across the grass to the man and extended my hand “Ben Corbett”

“I’m a correspondent for the Indianapolis Cross,” he said

“Ah yes,” I said “I’ve read your paper Y’all have published soeneral reports I’ve seen on the question of lynching”

“Why, thank you, sir,” he said “I’m honored that you’ve heard of us”

“Welcome to Eudora,” I said

“Oh, it’s not rew up in Eudora”

I looked at him harder I rattled around in my memory, but I couldn’t place where I had seen him before

“I used to work for Mr Jenkins at the mercantile store,” he said

All at once I knew him

I said “Is that—Marcus? Is that you?”

His eyes lit up “You remember me?”