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           Itwasaveryhardrecordtoget.Itwasaboutalittlekidthatwouldn’tgooutofthehousebecausetwoofherfrontteethwereoutandshewasashamedto.IhearditatPencey.Aboythatlivedonthenextfloorhadit,andItriedtobuyitoffhimbecauseIknewitwouldknockoldPhoebeout,buthewouldn’tsellit.Itwasaveryold,terrificrecordthatthiscoloredgirlsinger,EstelleFletcher,madeabouttwentyyearsago.ShesingsitveryDixielandandwhorehouse,anditdoesn’tsoundatallmushy.Ifawhitegirlwassingingit,she’dmakeitsoundcuteashell,butoldEstelleFletcherknewwhatthehellshewasdoing,anditwasoneofthebestrecordsIeverheard.IfiguredI’dbuyitinsomestorethatwasopenonSundayandthenI’dtakeituptotheparkwithme.ItwasSundayandPhoebegoesrollerskatingintheparkonSundaysquitefrequently.Iknewwhereshehungoutmostly.

           Itwasn’tascoldasitwasthedaybefore,butthesunstillwasn’tout,anditwasn’ttooniceforwalking.Buttherewasonenicething.Thisfamilythatyoucouldtelljustcameoutofsomechurchwerewalkingrightinfrontofme—afather,amother,andalittlekidaboutsixyearsold.Theylookedsortofpoor.Thefatherhadononeofthosepearl-grayhatsthatpoorguyswearalotwhentheywanttolooksharp.Heandhiswifewerejustwalkingalong,talking,notpayinganyattentiontotheirkid.Thekidwasswell.Hewaswalkinginthestreet,insteadofonthesidewalk,butrightnexttothecurb.Hewasmakingoutlikehewaswalkingaverystraightline,thewaykidsdo,andthewholetimehekeptsingingandhumming.IgotupclosersoIcouldhearwhathewassinging.Hewassingingthatsong,"Ifabodycatchabodycomingthroughtherye."Hehadaprettylittlevoice,too.Hewasjustsingingforthehellofit,youcouldtell.