Mrs. Merriweather's large brown eyes always filled with tears when
she considered the oppressed. "Living in that jungle with nobody but
J. Grimes Everett," she said. "Not a white person'll go near 'em but
that saintly J. Grimes Everett."
Mrs. Merriweather played her voice like an organ; every word she
said received its full measure: "The poverty... the darkness... the
immorality- nobody but J. Grimes Everett knows. You know, when the
church gave me that trip to the camp grounds J. Grimes Everett said to
me-"
"Was he there, ma'am? I thought-"
"Home on leave. J. Grimes Everett said to me, he said, 'Mrs.
Merriweather, you have no conception, no con cep tion of what we are
fighting over there.' That's what he said to me."
"Yes ma'am."
"I said to him, 'Mr. Everett,' I said, 'the ladies of the Maycomb
Alabama Methodist Episcopal Church South are behind you one hundred
percent.' That's what I said to him. And you know, right then and
there I made a pledge in my heart. I said to myself, when I go home
I'm going to give a course on the Mrunas and bring J. Grimes Everett's
message to Maycomb and that's just what I'm doing."
"Yes ma'am."
When Mrs. Merriweather shook her head, her black curls jiggled.
"Jean Louise," she said, "you are a fortunate girl. You live in a
Christian home with Christian folks in a Christian town. Out there
in J. Grimes Everett's land there's nothing but sin and squalor."
"Yes ma'am."
"Sin and squalor- what was that, Gertrude?" Mrs. Merriweather turned
on her chimes for the lady sitting beside her. "Oh that. Well, I
always say forgive and forget, forgive and forget. Thing that church
ought to do is help her lead a Christian life for those children
from here on out. Some of the men ought to go out there and tell
that preacher to encourage her."
"Excuse me, Mrs. Merriweather," I interrupted, "are you all
talking about Mayella Ewell?"
"May-? No, child. That darky's wife. Tom's wife, Tom-"
"Robinson, ma'am."
Mrs. Merriweather turned back to her neighbor. "There's one thing
I truly believe, Gertrude," she continued, "but some people just don't
see it my way. If we just let them know we forgive 'em, that we've
forgotten it, then this whole thing'll blow over."
"Ah- Mrs. Merriweather," I interrupted once more, "what'll blow
over?"
Again, she turned to me. Mrs. Merriweather was one of those
childless adults who find it necessary to assume a different tone of
voice when speaking to children. "Nothing, Jean Louise," she said,
in stately largo, "the cooks and field hands are just dissatisfied,
but they're settling down now- they grumbled all next day after that
trial."
Mrs. Merriweather faced Mrs. Farrow: "Gertrude, I tell you there's
nothing more distracting than a sulky darky. Their mouths go down to
here. Just ruins your day to have one of 'em in the kitchen. You
know what I said to my Sophy, Gertrude? I said, 'Sophy,' I said,
'you simply are not being a Christian today. Jesus Christ never went
around grumbling and complaining,' and you know, it did her good.
She took her eyes off that floor and said, 'Nome, Miz Merriweather,
Jesus never went around grumblin'.' I tell you, Gertrude, you never
ought to let an opportunity go by to witness for the Lord."
I was reminded of the ancient little organ in the chapel at
Finch's Landing. When I was very small, and if I had been very good
during the day, Atticus would let me pump its bellows while he
picked out a tune with one finger. The last note would linger as
long as there was air to sustain it. Mrs. Merriweather had run out
of air, I judged, and was replenishing her supply while Mrs. Farrow
composed herself to speak.
Mrs. Farrow was a splendidly built woman with pale eyes and narrow
feet. She had a fresh permanent wave, and her hair was a mass of tight
gray ringlets. She was the second most devout lady in Maycomb. She had
a curious habit of prefacing everything she said with a soft
sibilant sound.
"S-s-s Grace," she said, "it's just like I was telling Brother
Hutson the other day. 'S-s-s Brother Hutson,' I said, 'looks like
we're fighting a losing battle, a losing battle.' I said, 'S-s-s it
doesn't matter to 'em one bit. We can educate 'em till we're blue in
the face, we can try till we drop to make Christians out of 'em, but
there's no lady safe in her bed these nights.' He said to me, 'Mrs.
Farrow, I don't know what we're coming to down here.' S-s-s I told him
that was certainly a fact."
Mrs. Merriweather nodded wisely. Her voice soared over the clink
of coffee cups and the soft bovine sounds of the ladies munching their
dainties. "Gertrude," she said, "I tell you there are some good but
misguided people in this town. Good, but misguided. Folks in this town
who think they're doing right, I mean. Now far be it from me to say
who, but some of 'em in this town thought they were doing the right
thing a while back, but all they did was stir 'em up. That's all
they did. Might've looked like the right thing to do at the time,
I'm sure I don't know, I'm not read in that field, but sulky...
dissatisfied... I tell you if my Sophy'd kept it up another day I'd
have let her go. It's never entered that wool of hers that the only
reason I keep her is because this depression's on and she needs her
dollar and a quarter every week she can get it."
"His food doesn't stick going down, does it?"
Miss Maudie said it. Two tight lines had appeared at the corners
of her mouth. She had been sitting silently beside me, her coffee
cup balanced on one knee. I had lost the thread of conversation long
ago, when they quit talking about Tom Robinson's wife, and had
contented myself with thinking of Finch's Landing and the river.
Aunt Alexandra had got it backwards: the business part of the
meeting was blood-curdling, the social hour was dreary.
"Maudie, I'm sure I don't know what you mean," said Mrs.
Merriweather.
"I'm sure you do," Miss Maudie said shortly.
She said no more. When Miss Maudie was angry her brevity was icy.
Something had made her deeply angry, and her gray eyes were as cold as
her voice. Mrs. Merriweather reddened, glanced at me, and looked away.
I could not see Mrs. Farrow.
Aunt Alexandra got up from the table and swiftly passed more
refreshments, neatly engaging Mrs. Merriweather and Mrs. Gates in
brisk conversation. When she had them well on the road with Mrs.
Perkins, Aunt Alexandra stepped back. She gave Miss Maudie a look of
pure gratitude, and I wondered at the world of women. Miss Maudie
and Aunt Alexandra had never been especially close, and here was Aunty
silently thanking her for something. For what, I knew not. I was
content to learn that Aunt Alexandra could be pierced sufficiently
to feel gratitude for help given. There was no doubt about it, I
must soon enter this world, where on its surface fragrant ladies
rocked slowly, fanned gently, and drank cool water.
But I was more at home in my father's world. People like Mr. Heck
Tate did not trap you with innocent questions to make fun of you; even
Jem was not highly critical unless you said something stupid. Ladies
seemed to live in faint horror of men, seemed unwilling to approve
wholeheartedly of them. But I liked them. There was something about
them, no matter how much they cussed and drank and gambled and chewed;
no matter how undelectable they were, there was something about them
that I instinctively liked... they weren't-
"Hypocrites, Mrs. Perkins, born hypocrites," Mrs. Merriweather was
saying. "At least we don't have that sin on our shoulders down here.
People up there set 'em free, but you don't see 'em settin' at the
table with 'em. At least we don't have the deceit to say to 'em yes
you're as good as we are but stay away from us. Down here we just
say you live your way and we'll live ours. I think that woman, that
Mrs. Roosevelt's lost her mind- just plain lost her mind coming down
to Birmingham and tryin' to sit with 'em. If I was the Mayor of
Birmingham I'd-"
Well, neither of us was the Mayor of Birmingham, but I wished I
was the Governor of Alabama for one day: I'd let Tom Robinson go so
quick the Missionary Society wouldn't have time to catch its breath.
Calpurnia was telling Miss Rachel's cook the other day how bad Tom was
taking things and she didn't stop talking when I came into the
kitchen. She said there wasn't a thing Atticus could do to make
being shut up easier for him, that the last thing he said to Atticus
before they took him down to the prison camp was, "Good-bye, Mr.
Finch, there ain't nothin' you can do now, so there ain't no use
tryin'." Calpurnia said Atticus told her that the day they took Tom to
prison he just gave up hope. She said Atticus tried to explain
things to him, and that he must do his best not to lose hope because
Atticus was doing his best to get him free. Miss Rachel's cook asked
Calpurnia why didn't Atticus just say yes, you'll go free, and leave
it at that- seemed like that'd be a big comfort to Tom. Calpurnia
said, "Because you ain't familiar with the law. First thing you
learn when you're in a lawin' family is that there ain't any
definite answers to anything. Mr. Finch couldn't say somethin's so
when he doesn't know for sure it's so."
The front door slammed and I heard Atticus's footsteps in the
hall. Automatically I wondered what time it was. Not nearly time for
him to be home, and on Missionary Society days he usually stayed
downtown until black dark.
He stopped in the doorway. His hat was in his hand, and his face was
white.
"Excuse me, ladies," he said. "Go right ahead with your meeting,
don't let me disturb you. Alexandra, could you come to the kitchen a
minute? I want to borrow Calpurnia for a while."
He didn't go through the diningroom, but went down the back
hallway and entered the kitchen from the rear door. Aunt Alexandra and
I met him. The diningroom door opened again and Miss Maudie joined us.
Calpurnia had half risen from her chair.
"Cal," Atticus said, "I want you to go with me out to Helen
Robinson's house-"
"What's the matter?" Aunt Alexandra asked, alarmed by the look on my
father's face.
"Tom's dead."
Aunt Alexandra put her hands to her mouth.
"They shot him," said Atticus. "He was running. It was during
their exercise period. They said he just broke into a blind raving
