"Yes sir." I retreated. Jem's room was large and square. Aunt
Alexandra was sitting in a rocking-chair by the fireplace. The man who
brought Jem in was standing in a corner, leaning against the wall.
He was some countryman I did not know. He had probably been at the
pageant, and was in the vicinity when it happened. He must have
heard our screams and come running.
Atticus was standing by Jem's bed.
Mr. Heck Tate stood in the doorway. His hat was in his hand, and a
flashlight bulged from his pants pocket. He was in his working
clothes.
"Come in, Heck," said Atticus. "Did you find anything? I can't
conceive of anyone low-down enough to do a thing like this, but I hope
you found him."
Mr. Tate sniffed. He glanced sharply at the man in the corner,
nodded to him, then looked around the room- at Jem, at Aunt Alexandra,
then at Atticus.
"Sit down, Mr. Finch," he said pleasantly.
Atticus said, "Let's all sit down. Have that chair, Heck. I'll get
another one from the livingroom."
Mr. Tate sat in Jem's desk chair. He waited until Atticus returned
and settled himself. I wondered why Atticus had not brought a chair
for the man in the corner, but Atticus knew the ways of country people
far better than I. Some of his rural clients would park their
long-eared steeds under the chinaberry trees in the back yard, and
Atticus would often keep appointments on the back steps. This one
was probably more comfortable where he was.
"Mr. Finch," said Mr. Tate, "tell you what I found. I found a little
girl's dress- it's out there in my car. That your dress, Scout?"
"Yes sir, if it's a pink one with smockin'," I said. Mr. Tate was
behaving as if he were on the witness stand. He liked to tell things
his own way, untrammeled by state or defense, and sometimes it took
him a while.
"I found some funny-looking pieces of muddy-colored cloth-"
"That's m'costume, Mr. Tate."
Mr. Tate ran his hands down his thighs. He rubbed his left arm and
investigated Jem's mantelpiece, then he seemed to be interested in the
fireplace. His fingers sought his long nose.
"What is it, Heck?" said Atticus.
Mr. Tate found his neck and rubbed it. "Bob Ewell's lyin' on the
ground under that tree down yonder with a kitchen knife stuck up under
his ribs. He's dead, Mr. Finch."
29
Aunt Alexandra got up and reached for the mantelpiece. Mr. Tate
rose, but she declined assistance. For once in his life, Atticus's
instinctive courtesy failed him: he sat where he was.
Somehow, I could think of nothing but Mr. Bob Ewell saying he'd
get Atticus if it took him the rest of his life. Mr. Ewell almost
got him, and it was the last thing he did.
"Are you sure?" Atticus said bleakly.
"He's dead all right," said Mr. Tate. "He's good and dead. He
won't hurt these children again."
"I didn't mean that." Atticus seemed to be talking in his sleep. His
age was beginning to show, his one sign of inner turmoil, the strong
line of his jaw melted a little, one became aware of telltale
creases forming under his ears, one noticed not his jet-black hair but
the gray patches growing at his temples.
"Hadn't we better go to the livingroom?" Aunt Alexandra said at
last.
"If you don't mind," said Mr. Tate, "I'd rather us stay in here if
it won't hurt Jem any. I want to have a look at his injuries while
Scout... tells us about it."
"Is it all right if I leave?" she asked. "I'm just one person too
many in here. I'll be in my room if you want me, Atticus." Aunt
Alexandra went to the door, but she stopped and turned. "Atticus, I
had a feeling about this tonight- I- this is my fault," she began.
"I should have-"
Mr. Tate held up his hand. "You go ahead, Miss Alexandra, I know
it's been a shock to you. And don't you fret yourself about
anything- why, if we followed our feelings all the time we'd be like
cats chasin' their tails. Miss Scout, see if you can tell us what
happened, while it's still fresh in your mind. You think you can?
Did you see him following you?"
I went to Atticus and felt his arms go around me. I buried my head
in his lap. "We started home. I said Jem, I've forgot m'shoes.
Soon's we started back for 'em the lights went out. Jem said I could
get 'em tomorrow...."
"Scout, raise up so Mr. Tate can hear you," Atticus said. I
crawled into his lap.
"Then Jem said hush a minute. I thought he was thinkin'- he always
wants you to hush so he can think- then he said he heard somethin'. We
thought it was Cecil."
"Cecil?"
"Cecil Jacobs. He scared us once tonight, an' we thought it was
him again. He had on a sheet. They gave a quarter for the best
costume, I don't know who won it-"
"Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?"
"Just a little piece from the schoolhouse. I yelled somethin' at
him-"
"You yelled, what?"
"Cecil Jacobs is a big fat hen, I think. We didn't hear nothin'-
then Jem yelled hello or somethin' loud enough to wake the dead-"
"Just a minute, Scout," said Mr. Tate. "Mr. Finch, did you hear
them?"
Atticus said he didn't. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra had hers
going in her bedroom. He remembered because she told him to turn his
down a bit so she could hear hers. Atticus smiled. "I always play a
radio too loud."
"I wonder if the neighbors heard anything...." said Mr. Tate.
"I doubt it, Heck. Most of them listen to their radios or go to
bed with the chickens. Maudie Atkinson may have been up, but I doubt
it."
"Go ahead, Scout," Mr. Tate said.
"Well, after Jem yelled we walked on. Mr. Tate, I was shut up in
my costume but I could hear it myself, then. Footsteps, I mean. They
walked when we walked and stopped when we stopped. Jem said he could
see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some kind of shiny paint on my
costume. I was a ham."
"How's that?" asked Mr. Tate, startled.
Atticus described my role to Mr. Tate, plus the construction of my
garment. "You should have seen her when she came in," he said, "it was
crushed to a pulp."
Mr. Tate rubbed his chin. "I wondered why he had those marks on him,
His sleeves were perforated with little holes. There were one or two
little puncture marks on his arms to match the holes. Let me see
that thing if you will, sir."
Atticus fetched the remains of my costume. Mr. Tate turned it over
and bent it around to get an idea of its former shape. "This thing
probably saved her life," he said. "Look."
He pointed with a long forefinger. A shiny clean line stood out on
the dull wire. "Bob Ewell meant business," Mr. Tate muttered.
"He was out of his mind," said Atticus.
"Don't like to contradict you, Mr. Finch- wasn't crazy, mean as
hell. Low-down skunk with enough liquor in him to make him brave
enough to kill children. He'd never have met you face to face."
Atticus shook his head. "I can't conceive of a man who'd-"
"Mr. Finch, there's just some kind of men you have to shoot before
you can say hidy to 'em. Even then, they ain't worth the bullet it
takes to shoot 'em. Ewell 'as one of 'em."
Atticus said, "I thought he got it all out of him the day he
threatened me. Even if he hadn't, I thought he'd come after me."
"He had guts enough to pester a poor colored woman, he had guts
enough to pester Judge Taylor when he thought the house was empty,
so do you think he'da met you to your face in daylight?" Mr. Tate
sighed. "We'd better get on. Scout, you heard him behind you-"
"Yes sir. When we got under the tree-"
"How'd you know you were under the tree, you couldn't see thunder
out there."
"I was barefooted, and Jem says the ground's always cooler under a
tree."
"We'll have to make him a deputy, go ahead."
"Then all of a sudden somethin' grabbed me an' mashed my
costume... think I ducked on the ground... heard a tusslin' under
the tree sort of... they were bammin' against the trunk, sounded like.
Jem found me and started pullin' me toward the road. Some- Mr. Ewell
yanked him down, I reckon. They tussled some more and then there was
this funny noise- Jem hollered..." I stopped. That was Jem's arm.
"Anyway, Jem hollered and I didn't hear him any more an' the next
thing- Mr. Ewell was tryin' to squeeze me to death, I reckon... then
somebody yanked Mr. Ewell down. Jem must have got up, I guess.
That's all I know..."
"And then?" Mr. Tate was looking at me sharply.
"Somebody was staggerin' around and pantin' and- coughing fit to
die. I thought it was Jem at first, but it didn't sound like him, so I
went lookin' for Jem on the ground. I thought Atticus had come to help
us and had got wore out-"
"Who was it?"
"Why there he is, Mr. Tate, he can tell you his name."
As I said it, I half pointed to the man in the corner, but brought
my arm down quickly lest Atticus reprimand me for pointing. It was
impolite to point.
He was still leaning against the wall. He had been leaning against
the wall when I came into the room, his arms folded across his
chest. As I pointed he brought his arms down and pressed the palms
of his hands against the wall. They were white hands, sickly white
hands that had never seen the sun, so white they stood out garishly
against the dull cream wall in the dim light of Jem's room.
I looked from his hands to his sand-stained khaki pants; my eyes
traveled up his thin frame to his torn denim shirt. His face was as
white as his hands, but for a shadow on his jutting chin. His cheeks
were thin to hollowness; his mouth was wide; there were shallow,
almost delicate indentations at his temples, and his gray eyes were so
colorless I thought he was blind. His hair was dead and thin, almost
feathery on top of his head.
