“I know. It’s amazing. I read the article. Your mother was quoted saying it was peaceful. They ate and left, but the owner asked both your mother and the men to please never return. They had made their point and to please leave him alone so the KKK wouldn’t target him.”

“Who are the two men?” My heart sped up and I squinted back into the view, attempting to make them turn around in my mind, to see their faces.

“It doesn’t say.” He paused and stood up so fast that his chair fell backward, slamming onto the floor. He reached behind and picked it up while he spoke. “I have the best idea. Come with me.” He pushed “print” on the machine, and while two copies of the article printed out, he gathered his things. “You’re coming with me.”

“Okay … where are we going?”

He handed me the photocopied article. “Here.” He pointed to the café. “That’s where.”

Murphy’s Café could still be on a postcard from the 1960s with the blinking neon sign and the vinyl red-checkered table coverings and booths set up against the window. The long bar faced the kitchen with salt and pepper shakers in metal holders, rice inside the salt to prevent clumping. The plastic place mats on the counter had an Alabama State map and the words Sweet Home Alabama scrawled across the bottom. The logo on my place mat was scarred with a coffee stain, changing the “e” in Sweet to an “a.”

“Look,” I said to Hutch as we sat. “Sweat Home Alabama.”

He laughed. “In late June, I think that’s the only proper thing to call it.”

The waitress came over to us, wearing a white apron with ruffles. I felt as if I were in a black-and-white TV set. “What can I get ya?” she asked.

I glanced at the laminated menu, which had pictures. “Patty melt looks good,” I said. “With fries and a Coca-Cola.”

Hutch ordered a cheeseburger and excused himself to the men’s room. I settled into the stool, reading the ancient but local sports news in clippings framed around the room. There were stories of touchdowns and home runs and state championships.

“Ellie …” Hutch called my name, and I glanced over my shoulder.

A flash went off. I blinked and a confetti of light was tossed through the air. “Hey,” I hollered. “No paparazzi.”

He sat next to me, shouldering his camera. “Couldn’t help it.”

Our food showed up, and I pulled out the newspaper clipping about the sit-in. “Okay, so they sat right here. I wonder who these two guys are.”

“They wouldn’t talk to the paper, but my God, Ellie, your mother would. She gave her name and the reason for being here. She wasn’t scared of anyone or anything … it seems.”

“And”—I laughed through my words—“she was obviously totally inappropriate.”

“Huh?”