When I pointed to him his palms slipped slightly, leaving greasy
sweat streaks on the wall, and he hooked his thumbs in his belt. A
strange small spasm shook him, as if he heard fingernails scrape
slate, but as I gazed at him in wonder the tension slowly drained from
his face. His lips parted into a timid smile, and our neighbor's image
blurred with my sudden tears.
"Hey, Boo," I said.
30
"Mr. Arthur, honey," said Atticus, gently correcting me. "Jean
Louise, this is Mr. Arthur Radley. I believe he already knows you."
If Atticus could blandly introduce me to Boo Radley at a time like
this, well- that was Atticus.
Boo saw me run instinctively to the bed where Jem was sleeping,
for the same shy smile crept across his face. Hot with
embarrassment, I tried to cover up by covering Jem up.
"Ah-ah, don't touch him," Atticus said.
Mr. Heck Tate sat looking intently at Boo through his horn-rimmed
glasses. He was about to speak when Dr. Reynolds came down the hall.
"Everybody out," he said, as he came in the door. "Evenin',
Arthur, didn't notice you the first time I was here."
Dr. Reynolds's voice was as breezy as his step, as though he had
said it every evening of his life, an announcement that astounded me
even more than being in the same room with Boo Radley. Of course...
even Boo Radley got sick sometimes, I thought. But on the other hand I
wasn't sure.
Dr. Reynolds was carrying a big package wrapped in newspaper. He put
it down on Jem's desk and took off his coat. "You're quite satisfied
he's alive, now? Tell you how I knew. When I tried to examine him he
kicked me. Had to put him out good and proper to touch him. So
scat," he said to me.
"Er-" said Atticus, glancing at Boo. "Heck, let's go out on the
front porch. There are plenty of chairs out there, and it's still warm
enough."
I wondered why Atticus was inviting us to the front porch instead of
the livingroom, then I understood. The livingroom lights were
awfully strong.
We filed out, first Mr. Tate- Atticus was waiting at the door for
him to go ahead of him. Then he changed his mind and followed Mr.
Tate.
People have a habit of doing everyday things even under the oddest
conditions. I was no exception: "Come along, Mr. Arthur," I heard
myself saying, "you don't know the house real well. I'll just take you
to the porch, sir."
He looked down at me and nodded.
I led him through the hall and past the livingroom.
"Won't you have a seat, Mr. Arthur? This rocking-chair's nice and
comfortable."
My small fantasy about him was alive again: he would be sitting on
the porch... right pretty spell we're having, isn't it, Mr. Arthur?
Yes, a right pretty spell. Feeling slightly unreal, I led him to the
chair farthest from Atticus and Mr. Tate. It was in deep shadow. Boo
would feel more comfortable in the dark.
Atticus was sitting in the swing, and Mr. Tate was in a chair next
to him. The light from the livingroom windows was strong on them. I
sat beside Boo.
"Well, Heck," Atticus was saying, "I guess the thing to do- good
Lord, I'm losing my memory..." Atticus pushed up his glasses and
pressed his fingers to his eyes. "Jem's not quite thirteen... no, he's
already thirteen- I can't remember. Anyway, it'll come before county
court-"
"What will, Mr. Finch?" Mr. Tate uncrossed his legs and leaned
forward.
"Of course it was clear-cut self defense, but I'll have to go to the
office and hunt up-"
"Mr. Finch, do you think Jem killed Bob Ewell? Do you think that?"
"You heard what Scout said, there's no doubt about it. She said
Jem got up and yanked him off her- he probably got hold of Ewell's
knife somehow in the dark... we'll find out tomorrow."
"Mis-ter Finch, hold on," said Mr. Tate. "Jem never stabbed Bob
Ewell."
Atticus was silent for a moment. He looked at Mr. Tate as if he
appreciated what he said. But Atticus shook his head.
"Heck, it's mighty kind of you and I know you're doing it from
that good heart of yours, but don't start anything like that."
Mr. Tate got up and went to the edge of the porch. He spat into
the shrubbery, then thrust his hands into his hip pockets and faced
Atticus. "Like what?" he said.
"I'm sorry if I spoke sharply, Heck," Atticus said simply, "but
nobody's hushing this up. I don't live that way."
"Nobody's gonna hush anything up, Mr. Finch."
Mr. Tate's voice was quiet, but his boots were planted so solidly on
the porch floorboards it seemed that they grew there. A curious
contest, the nature of which eluded me, was developing between my
father and the sheriff.
It was Atticus's turn to get up and go to the edge of the porch.
He said, "H'rm," and spat dryly into the yard. He put his hands in his
pockets and faced Mr. Tate.
"Heck, you haven't said it, but I know what you're thinking. Thank
you for it. Jean Louise-" he turned to me. "You said Jem yanked Mr.
Ewell off you?"
"Yes sir, that's what I thought... I-"
"See there, Heck? Thank you from the bottom of my heart, but I don't
want my boy starting out with something like this over his head.
Best way to clear the air is to have it all out in the open. Let the
county come and bring sandwiches. I don't want him growing up with a
whisper about him, I don't want anybody saying, 'Jem Finch... his
daddy paid a mint to get him out of that.' Sooner we get this over
with the better."
"Mr. Finch," Mr. Tate said stolidly, "Bob Ewell fell on his knife.
He killed himself."
Atticus walked to the corner of the porch. He looked at the wisteria
vine. In his own way, I thought, each was as stubborn as the other.
I wondered who would give in first. Atticus's stubbornness was quiet
and rarely evident, but in some ways he was as set as the Cunninghams.
Mr. Tate's was unschooled and blunt, but it was equal to my father's.
"Heck," Atticus's back was turned. "If this thing's hushed up
it'll be a simple denial to Jem of the way I've tried to raise him.
Sometimes I think I'm a total failure as a parent, but I'm all they've
got. Before Jem looks at anyone else he looks at me, and I've tried to
live so I can look squarely back at him... if I connived at
something like this, frankly I couldn't meet his eye, and the day I
can't do that I'll know I've lost him. I don't want to lose him and
Scout, because they're all I've got."
"Mr. Finch." Mr. Tate was still planted to the floorboards. "Bob
Ewell fell on his knife. I can prove it."
Atticus wheeled around. His hands dug into his pockets. "Heck, can't
you even try to see it my way? You've got children of your own, but
I'm older than you. When mine are grown I'll be an old man if I'm
still around, but right now I'm- if they don't trust me they won't
trust anybody. Jem and Scout know what happened. If they hear of me
saying downtown something different happened- Heck, I won't have
them any more. I can't live one way in town and another way in my
home."
Mr. Tate rocked on his heels and said patiently, "He'd flung Jem
down, he stumbled over a root under that tree and- look, I can show
you."
Mr. Tate reached in his side pocket and withdrew a long
switchblade knife. As he did so, Dr. Reynolds came to the door. "The
son- deceased's under that tree, doctor, just inside the schoolyard.
Got a flashlight? Better have this one."
"I can ease around and turn my car lights on," said Dr. Reynolds,
but he took Mr. Tate's flashlight. "Jem's all right. He won't wake
up tonight, I hope, so don't worry. That the knife that killed him,
Heck?"
"No sir, still in him. Looked like a kitchen knife from the
handle. Ken oughta be there with the hearse by now, doctor, 'night."
Mr. Tate flicked open the knife. "It was like this," he said. He
held the knife and pretended to stumble; as he leaned forward his left
arm went down in front of him. "See there? Stabbed himself through
that soft stuff between his ribs. His whole weight drove it in."
Mr. Tate closed the knife and jammed it back in his pocket. "Scout
is eight years old," he said. "She was too scared to know exactly what
went on."
"You'd be surprised," Atticus said grimly.
"I'm not sayin' she made it up, I'm sayin' she was too scared to
know exactly what happened. It was mighty dark out there, black as
ink. 'd take somebody mighty used to the dark to make a competent
witness..."
"I won't have it," Atticus said softly.
"God damn it, I'm not thinking of Jem!"
Mr. Tate's boot hit the floorboards so hard the lights in Miss
Maudie's bedroom went on. Miss Stephanie Crawford's lights went on.
Atticus and Mr. Tate looked across the street, then at each other.
They waited.
When Mr. Tate spoke again his voice was barely audible. "Mr.
Finch, I hate to fight you when you're like this. You've been under
a strain tonight no man should ever have to go through. Why you
ain't in the bed from it I don't know, but I do know that for once you
haven't been able to put two and two together, and we've got to settle
this tonight because tomorrow'll be too late. Bob Ewell's got a
kitchen knife in his craw."
Mr. Tate added that Atticus wasn't going to stand there and maintain
that any boy Jem's size with a busted arm had fight enough left in him
to tackle and kill a grown man in the pitch dark.
"Heck," said Atticus abruptly, "that was a switchblade you were
waving. Where'd you get it?"
"Took it off a drunk man," Mr. Tate answered coolly.
I was trying to remember. Mr. Ewell was on me... then he went
down.... Jem must have gotten up. At least I thought...
"Heck?"
"I said I took it off a drunk man downtown tonight. Ewell probably
found that kitchen knife in the dump somewhere. Honed it down and
bided his time... just bided his time."
