resting on the back of his chair.
"Did you call a doctor, Sheriff? Did anybody call a doctor?" asked
Atticus.
"No sir," said Mr. Tate.
"Didn't call a doctor?"
"No sir," repeated Mr. Tate.
"Why not?" There was an edge to Atticus's voice.
"Well I can tell you why I didn't. It wasn't necessary, Mr. Finch.
She was mighty banged up. Something sho' happened, it was obvious."
"But you didn't call a doctor? While you were there did anyone
send for one, fetch one, carry her to one?"
"No sir-"
Judge Taylor broke in. "He's answered the question three times,
Atticus. He didn't call a doctor."
Atticus said, "I just wanted to make sure, Judge," and the judge
smiled.
Jem's hand, which was resting on the balcony rail, tightened
around it. He drew in his breath suddenly. Glancing below, I saw no
corresponding reaction, and wondered if Jem was trying to be dramatic.
Dill was watching peacefully, and so was Reverend Sykes beside him.
"What is it?" I whispered, and got a terse, "Sh-h!"
"Sheriff," Atticus was saying, "you say she was mighty banged up. In
what way?"
"Well-"
"Just describe her injuries, Heck."
"Well, she was beaten around the head. There was already bruises
comin' on her arms, and it happened about thirty minutes before-"
"How do you know?"
Mr. Tate grinned. "Sorry, that's what they said. Anyway, she was
pretty bruised up when I got there, and she had a black eye comin'."
"Which eye?"
Mr. Tate blinked and ran his hands through his hair. "Let's see," he
said softly, then he looked at Atticus as if he considered the
question childish. "Can't you remember?" Atticus asked.
Mr. Tate pointed to an invisible person five inches in front of
him and said, "Her left."
"Wait a minute, Sheriff," said Atticus. "Was it her left facing
you or her left looking the same way you were?"
Mr. Tate said, "Oh yes, that'd make it her right. It was her right
eye, Mr. Finch. I remember now, she was bunged up on that side of
her face...."
Mr. Tate blinked again, as if something had suddenly been made plain
to him. Then he turned his head and looked around at Tom Robinson.
As if by instinct, Tom Robinson raised his head.
Something had been made plain to Atticus also, and it brought him to
his feet. "Sheriff, please repeat what you said."
"It was her right eye, I said."
"No..." Atticus walked to the court reporter's desk and bent down to
the furiously scribbling hand. It stopped, flipped back the
shorthand pad, and the court reporter said, "'Mr. Finch. I remember
now she was bunged up on that side of the face.'"
Atticus looked up at Mr. Tate. "Which side again, Heck?"
"The right side, Mr. Finch, but she had more bruises- you wanta hear
about 'em?"
Atticus seemed to be bordering on another question, but he thought
better of it and said, "Yes, what were her other injuries?" As Mr.
Tate answered, Atticus turned and looked at Tom Robinson as if to
say this was something they hadn't bargained for.
"...her arms were bruised, and she showed me her neck. There were
definite finger marks on her gullet-"
"All around her throat? At the back of her neck?"
"I'd say they were all around, Mr. Finch."
"You would?"
"Yes sir, she had a small throat, anybody could'a reached around
it with-"
"Just answer the question yes or no, please, Sheriff," said
Atticus dryly, and Mr. Tate fell silent.
Atticus sat down and nodded to the circuit solicitor, who shook
his head at the judge, who nodded to Mr. Tate, who rose stiffly and
stepped down from the witness stand.
Below us, heads turned, feet scraped the floor, babies were
shifted to shoulders, and a few children scampered out of the
courtroom. The Negroes behind us whispered softly among themselves;
Dill was asking Reverend Sykes what it was all about, but Reverend
Sykes said he didn't know. So far, things were utterly dull: nobody
had thundered, there were no arguments between opposing counsel, there
was no drama; a grave disappointment to all present, it seemed.
Atticus was proceeding amiably, as if he were involved in a title
dispute. With his infinite capacity for calming turbulent seas, he
could make a rape case as dry as a sermon. Gone was the terror in my
mind of stale whiskey and barnyard smells, of sleepy-eyed sullen
men, of a husky voice calling in the night, "Mr. Finch? They gone?"
Our nightmare had gone with daylight, everything would come out all
right.
All the spectators were as relaxed as Judge Taylor, except Jem.
His mouth was twisted into a purposeful half-grin, and his eyes
happy about, and he said something about corroborating evidence, which
made me sure he was showing off.
"...Robert E. Lee Ewell!"
In answer to the clerk's booming voice, a little bantam cock of a
man rose and strutted to the stand, the back of his neck reddening
at the sound of his name. When he turned around to take the oath, we
saw that his face was as red as his neck. We also saw no resemblance
to his namesake. A shock of wispy new-washed hair stood up from his
forehead; his nose was thin, pointed, and shiny; he had no chin to
speak of- it seemed to be part of his crepey neck.
"-so help me God," he crowed.
Every town the size of Maycomb had families like the Ewells. No
economic fluctuations changed their status- people like the Ewells
lived as guests of the county in prosperity as well as in the depths
of a depression. No truant officers could keep their numerous
offspring in school; no public health officer could free them from
congenital defects, various worms, and the diseases indigenous to
filthy surroundings.
Maycomb's Ewells lived behind the town garbage dump in what was once
a Negro cabin. The cabin's plank walls were supplemented with sheets
of corrugated iron, its roof shingled with tin cans hammered flat,
so only its general shape suggested its original design: square,
with four tiny rooms opening onto a shotgun hall, the cabin rested
uneasily upon four irregular lumps of limestone. Its windows were
merely open spaces in the walls, which in the summertime were
covered with greasy strips of cheesecloth to keep out the varmints
that feasted on Maycomb's refuse.
The varmints had a lean time of it, for the Ewells gave the dump a
thorough gleaning every day, and the fruits of their industry (those
that were not eaten) made the plot of ground around the cabin look
like the playhouse of an insane child: what passed for a fence was
bits of tree-limbs, broomsticks and tool shafts, all tipped with rusty
hammer-heads, snaggle-toothed rake heads, shovels, axes and grubbing
hoes, held on with pieces of barbed wire. Enclosed by this barricade
was a dirty yard containing the remains of a Model-T Ford (on blocks),
a discarded dentist's chair, an ancient icebox, plus lesser items: old
shoes, worn-out table radios, picture frames, and fruit jars, under
which scrawny orange chickens pecked hopefully.
One corner of the yard, though, bewildered Maycomb. Against the
fence, in a line, were six chipped-enamel slop jars holding
brilliant red geraniums, cared for as tenderly as if they belonged
to Miss Maudie Atkinson, had Miss Maudie deigned to permit a
geranium on her premises. People said they were Mayella Ewell's.
Nobody was quite sure how many children were on the place. Some
people said six, others said nine; there were always several
dirty-faced ones at the windows when anyone passed by. Nobody had
occasion to pass by except at Christmas, when the churches delivered
baskets, and when the mayor of Maycomb asked us to please help the
garbage collector by dumping our own trees and trash.
Atticus took us with him last Christmas when he complied with the
mayor's request. A dirt road ran from the highway past the dump,
down to a small Negro settlement some five hundred yards beyond the
Ewells'. It was necessary either to back out to the highway or go
the full length of the road and turn around; most people turned around
in the Negroes' front yards. In the frosty December dusk, their cabins
looked neat and snug with pale blue smoke rising from the chimneys and
doorways glowing amber from the fires inside. There were delicious
smells about: chicken, bacon frying crisp as the twilight air. Jem and
I detected squirrel cooking, but it took an old countryman like
Atticus to identify possum and rabbit, aromas that vanished when we
rode back past the Ewell residence.
All the little man on the witness stand had that made him any better
than his nearest neighbors was, that if scrubbed with lye soap in very
hot water, his skin was white.
"Mr. Robert Ewell?" asked Mr. Gilmer.
"That's m'name, cap'n," said the witness.
Mr. Gilmer's back stiffened a little, and I felt sorry for him.
Perhaps I'd better explain something now. I've heard that lawyers'
children, on seeing their parents in court in the heat of argument,
get the wrong idea: they think opposing counsel to be the personal
enemies of their parents, they suffer agonies, and are surprised to
see them often go out arm-in-arm with their tormenters during the
first recess. This was not true of Jem and me. We acquired no
traumas from watching our father win or lose. I'm sorry that I can't
provide any drama in this respect; if I did, it would not be true.
We could tell, however, when debate became more acrimonious than
professional, but this was from watching lawyers other than our
father. I never heard Atticus raise his voice in my life, except to
a deaf witness. Mr. Gilmer was doing his job, as Atticus was doing
his. Besides, Mr. Ewell was Mr. Gilmer's witness, and he had no
business being rude to him of all people.
"Are you the father of Mayella Ewell?" was the next question.
"Well, if I ain't I can't do nothing about it now, her ma's dead,"
was the answer.
Judge Taylor stirred. He turned slowly in his swivel chair and
looked benignly at the witness. "Are you the father of Mayella Ewell?"
he asked, in a way that made the laughter below us stop suddenly.
"Yes sir," Mr. Ewell said meekly.
Judge Taylor went on in tones of good will: "This the first time
you've ever been in court? I don't recall ever seeing you here." At
the witness's affirmative nod he continued, "Well, let's get something
