Atticus made his way to the swing and sat down. His hands dangled
limply between his knees. He was looking at the floor. He had moved
with the same slowness that night in front of the jail, when I thought
it took him forever to fold his newspaper and toss it in his chair.
Mr. Tate clumped softly around the porch. "It ain't your decision,
Mr. Finch, it's all mine. It's my decision and my responsibility.
For once, if you don't see it my way, there's not much you can do
about it. If you wanta try, I'll call you a liar to your face. Your
boy never stabbed Bob Ewell," he said slowly, "didn't come near a mile
of it and now you know it. All he wanted to do was get him and his
sister safely home."
Mr. Tate stopped pacing. He stopped in front of Atticus, and his
back was to us. "I'm not a very good man, sir, but I am sheriff of
Maycomb County. Lived in this town all my life an' I'm goin' on
forty-three years old. Know everything that's happened here since
before I was born. There's a black boy dead for no reason, and the man
responsible for it's dead. Let the dead bury the dead this time, Mr.
Finch. Let the dead bury the dead."
Mr. Tate went to the swing and picked up his hat. It was lying
beside Atticus. Mr. Tate pushed back his hair and put his hat on.
"I never heard tell that it's against the law for a citizen to do
his utmost to prevent a crime from being committed, which is exactly
what he did, but maybe you'll say it's my duty to tell the town all
about it and not hush it up. Know what'd happen then? All the ladies
in Maycomb includin' my wife'd be knocking on his door bringing
angel food cakes. To my way of thinkin', Mr. Finch, taking the one man
who's done you and this town a great service an' draggin' him with his
shy ways into the limelight- to me, that's a sin. It's a sin and I'm
not about to have it on my head. If it was any other man, it'd be
different. But not this man, Mr. Finch."
Mr. Tate was trying to dig a hole in the floor with the toe of his
boot. He pulled his nose, then he massaged his left arm. "I may not be
much, Mr. Finch, but I'm still sheriff of Maycomb County and Bob Ewell
fell on his knife. Good night, sir."
Mr. Tate stamped off the porch and strode across the front yard. His
car door slammed and he drove away.
Atticus sat looking at the floor for a long time. Finally he
raised his head. "Scout," he said, "Mr. Ewell fell on his knife. Can
you possibly understand?"
Atticus looked like he needed cheering up. I ran to him and hugged
him and kissed him with all my might. "Yes sir, I understand," I
reassured him. "Mr. Tate was right."
Atticus disengaged himself and looked at me. "What do you mean?"
"Well, it'd be sort of like shootin' a mockingbird, wouldn't it?"
Atticus put his face in my hair and rubbed it. When he got up and
walked across the porch into the shadows, his youthful step had
returned. Before he went inside the house, he stopped in front of
Boo Radley. "Thank you for my children, Arthur," he said.
31
When Boo Radley shuffled to his feet, light from the livingroom
windows glistened on his forehead. Every move he made was uncertain,
as if he were not sure his hands and feet could make proper contact
with the things he touched. He coughed his dreadful raling cough,
and was so shaken he had to sit down again. His hand searched for
his hip pocket, and he pulled out a handkerchief. He coughed into
it, then he wiped his forehead.
Having been so accustomed to his absence, I found it incredible that
he had been sitting beside me all this time, present. He had not
made a sound.
Once more, he got to his feet. He turned to me and nodded toward the
front door.
"You'd like to say good night to Jem, wouldn't you, Mr. Arthur? Come
right in."
I led him down the hall. Aunt Alexandra was sitting by Jem's bed.
"Come in, Arthur," she said. "He's still asleep. Dr. Reynolds gave him
a heavy sedative. Jean Louise, is your father in the livingroom?"
"Yes ma'am, I think so."
"I'll just go speak to him a minute. Dr. Reynolds left some..."
her voice trailed away.
Boo had drifted to a corner of the room, where he stood with his
chin up, peering from a distance at Jem. I took him by the hand, a
hand surprisingly warm for its whiteness. I tugged him a little, and
he allowed me to lead him to Jem's bed.
Dr. Reynolds had made a tent-like arrangement over Jem's arm, to
keep the cover off, I guess, and Boo leaned forward and looked over
it. An expression of timid curiosity was on his face, as though he had
never seen a boy before. His mouth was slightly open, and he looked at
Jem from head to foot. Boo's hand came up, but he let it drop to his
side.
"You can pet him, Mr. Arthur, he's asleep. You couldn't if he was
awake, though, he wouldn't let you..." I found myself explaining.
"Go ahead."
Boo's hand hovered over Jem's head.
"Go on, sir, he's asleep."
His hand came down lightly on Jem's hair.
I was beginning to learn his body English. His hand tightened on
mine and he indicated that he wanted to leave.
I led him to the front porch, where his uneasy steps halted. He
was still holding my hand and he gave no sign of letting me go.
"Will you take me home?"
He almost whispered it, in the voice of a child afraid of the dark.
I put my foot on the top step and stopped. I would lead him
through our house, but I would never lead him home.
"Mr. Arthur, bend your arm down here, like that. That's right, sir."
I slipped my hand into the crook of his arm.
He had to stoop a little to accommodate me, but if Miss Stephanie
Crawford was watching from her upstairs window, she would see Arthur
Radley escorting me down the sidewalk, as any gentleman would do.
We came to the street light on the corner, and I wondered how many
times Dill had stood there hugging the fat pole, watching, waiting,
hoping. I wondered how many times Jem and I had made this journey, but
I entered the Radley front gate for the second time in my life. Boo
and I walked up the steps to the porch. His fingers found the front
doorknob. He gently released my hand, opened the door, went inside,
and shut the door behind him. I never saw him again.
Neighbors bring food with death and flowers with sickness and little
things in between. Boo was our neighbor. He gave us two soap dolls,
a broken watch and chain, a pair of good-luck pennies, and our
lives. But neighbors give in return. We never put back into the tree
what we took out of it: we had given him nothing, and it made me sad.
I turned to go home. Street lights winked down the street all the
way to town. I had never seen our neighborhood from this angle.
There were Miss Maudie's, Miss Stephanie's- there was our house, I
could see the porch swing- Miss Rachel's house was beyond us,
plainly visible. I could even see Mrs. Dubose's.
I looked behind me. To the left of the brown door was a long
shuttered window. I walked to it, stood in front of it, and turned
around. In daylight, I thought, you could see to the postoffice
corner.
Daylight... in my mind, the night faded. It was daytime and the
neighborhood was busy. Miss Stephanie Crawford crossed the street to
tell the latest to Miss Rachel. Miss Maudie bent over her azaleas.
It was summertime, and two children scampered down the sidewalk toward
a man approaching in the distance. The man waved, and the children
raced each other to him.
It was still summertime, and the children came closer. A boy trudged
down the sidewalk dragging a fishingpole behind him. A man stood
waiting with his hands on his hips. Summertime, and his children
played in the front yard with their friend, enacting a strange
little drama of their own invention.
It was fall, and his children fought on the sidewalk in front of
Mrs. Dubose's. The boy helped his sister to her feet, and they made
their way home. Fall, and his children trotted to and fro around the
corner, the day's woes and triumphs on their faces. They stopped at an
oak tree, delighted, puzzled, apprehensive.
Winter, and his children shivered at the front gate, silhouetted
against a blazing house. Winter, and a man walked into the street,
dropped his glasses, and shot a dog.
Summer, and he watched his children's heart break. Autumn again, and
Boo's children needed him.
Atticus was right. One time he said you never really know a man
until you stand in his shoes and walk around in them. Just standing on
the Radley porch was enough.
The street lights were fuzzy from the fine rain that was falling. As
I made my way home, I felt very old, but when I looked at the tip of
my nose I could see fine misty beads, but looking cross-eyed made me
dizzy so I quit. As I made my way home, I thought what a thing to tell
Jem tomorrow. He'd be so mad he missed it he wouldn't speak to me
for days. As I made my way home, I thought Jem and I would get grown
but there wasn't much else left for us to learn, except possibly
algebra.
I ran up the steps and into the house. Aunt Alexandra had gone to
bed, and Atticus's room was dark. I would see if Jem might be
reviving. Atticus was in Jem's room, sitting by his bed. He was
reading a book.
"Is Jem awake yet?"
"Sleeping peacefully. He won't be awake until morning."
"Oh. Are you sittin' up with him?"
"Just for an hour or so. Go to bed, Scout. You've had a long day."
"Well, I think I'll stay with you for a while."
"Suit yourself," said Atticus. It must have been after midnight, and
I was puzzled by his amiable acquiescence. He was shrewder than I,
however: the moment I sat down I began to feel sleepy.
"Whatcha readin'?" I asked.
Atticus turned the book over. "Something of Jem's. Called The
Gray Ghost."
I was suddenly awake. "Why'd you get that one?"
"Honey, I don't know. Just picked it up. One of the few things I
haven't read," he said pointedly.
"Read it out loud, please, Atticus. It's real scary."
"No," he said. "You've had enough scaring for a while. This is too-"
"Atticus, I wasn't scared."
He raised his eyebrows, and I protested: "Leastways not till I
started telling Mr. Tate about it. Jem wasn't scared. Asked him and he
said he wasn't. Besides, nothin's real scary except in books."
Atticus opened his mouth to say something, but shut it again. He
