No More Learning

“There now,” he said. “You’ll have a very unladylike scar on your wedding-ring finger. ”
“Thank you sir. Uncle Jack? ” “Ma’am? ”
“What’s a whore-lady? ”
Uncle Jack plunged into another long tale about an old Prime Minister who sat in the House of Commons and blew feathers in the air and tried to keep them there when all about him men were losing their heads. I guess he was trying to answer my question, but he made no sense whatsoever.
Later, when I was supposed to be in bed, I went down the hall for a drink of water and heard Atticus and Uncle Jack in the livingroom:
“I shall never marry, Atticus. ”
“Why? ”
“I might have children. ”
Atticus said, “You’ve a lot to learn, Jack. ”
“I know. Your daughter gave me my first lessons this afternoon. She said I didn’t understand children much and told me why. She was quite right. Atticus, she told me how I should have treated her—oh dear, I’m so sorry I romped on her. ”
Atticus chuckled. “She earned it, so don’t feel too remorseful. ”
I waited, on tenterhooks, for Uncle Jack to tell Atticus my side of it. But he didn’t. He simply murmured, “Her use of bathroom invective leaves nothing to the imagination. But she doesn’t know the meaning of half she says—she asked me what a whore-lady was. . . ”
“Did you tell her? ”
“No, I told her about Lord Melbourne. ”
“Jack! When a child asks you something, answer him, for goodness’ sake. But don’t make a production of it. Children are children, but they can spot an evasion quicker than adults, and evasion simply muddles ‘em. No,” my father mused, “you had the right answer this afternoon, but the wrong reasons. Bad language is a stage all children go through, and it dies with time when they learn they’re not attracting attention with it. Hotheadedness isn’t. Scout’s got to learn to keep her head and learn soon, with what’s in store for her these next few months. She’s coming along, though. Jem’s getting older and she follows his example a good bit now. All she needs is assistance sometimes. ”
“Atticus, you’ve never laid a hand on her. ”
“I admit that. So far I’ve been able to get by with threats. Jack, she minds me as well as she can. Doesn’t come up to scratch half the time, but she tries. ”
“That’s not the answer,” said Uncle Jack.
“No, the answer is she knows I know she tries. That’s what makes the difference. What bothers me is that she and Jem will have to absorb some ugly things pretty soon. I’m not worried about Jem keeping his head, but Scout’d just as soon jump on someone as look at him if her pride’s at stake. . . ”
I waited for Uncle Jack to break his promise. He still didn’t.
“Atticus, how bad is this going to be? You haven’t had too much chance to discuss it. ”
“It couldn’t be worse, Jack. The only thing we’ve got is a black man’s word against the Ewells‘. The evidence boils down to you-did—I-didn’t. The jury couldn’t possibly be expected to take Tom Robinson’s word against the Ewells’— are you acquainted with the Ewells? ”
Uncle Jack said yes, he remembered them. He described them to Atticus, but Atticus said, “You’re a generation off. The present ones are the same, though. ”
“What are you going to do, then? ”
“Before I’m through, I intend to jar the jury a bit—I think we’ll have a reasonable chance on appeal, though. I really can’t tell at this stage, Jack. You know, I’d hoped to get through life without a case of this kind, but John Taylor pointed at me and said, ‘You’re It. ’”
“Let this cup pass from you, eh? ”
“Right. But do you think I could face my children otherwise? You know what’s going to happen as well as I do, Jack, and I hope and pray I can get Jem and Scout through it without bitterness, and most of all, without catching Maycomb’s usual disease. Why reasonable people go stark raving mad when anything involving a Negro comes up, is something I don’t pretend to understand. . . I just hope that Jem and Scout come to me for their answers instead of listening to the town. I hope they trust me enough. . . Jean Louise? ”
My scalp jumped. I stuck my head around the corner. “Sir? ”
“Go to bed. ”
I scurried to my room and went to bed. Uncle Jack was a prince of a fellow not to let me down. But I never figured out how Atticus knew I was listening, and it was not until many years later that I realized he wanted me to hear every word he said.
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Chapter 10
Atticus was feeble: he was nearly fifty. When Jem and I asked him why he was so old, he said he got started late, which we felt reflected upon his abilities and manliness. He was much older than the parents of our school contemporaries, and there was nothing Jem or I could say about him when our classmates said, “My father—”
Jem was football crazy. Atticus was never too tired to play keep-away, but when Jem wanted to tackle him Atticus would say, “I’m too old for that, son. ”
Our father didn’t do anything. He worked in an office, not in a drugstore. Atticus did not drive a dump-truck for the county, he was not the sheriff, he did not farm, work in a garage, or do anything that could possibly arouse the admiration of anyone.
Besides that, he wore glasses. He was nearly blind in his left eye, and said left eyes were the tribal curse of the Finches. Whenever he wanted to see something well, he turned his head and looked from his right eye.
He did not do the things our schoolmates’ fathers did: he never went hunting, he did not play poker or fish or drink or smoke. He sat in the livingroom and read.
With these attributes, however, he would not remain as inconspicuous as we wished him to: that year, the school buzzed with talk about him defending Tom Robinson, none of which was complimentary. After my bout with Cecil Jacobs when I committed myself to a policy of cowardice, word got around that Scout Finch wouldn’t fight any more, her daddy wouldn’t let her. This was not entirely correct: I wouldn’t fight publicly for Atticus, but the family was private ground. I would fight anyone from a third cousin upwards tooth and nail. Francis Hancock, for example, knew that.
When he gave us our air-rifles Atticus wouldn’t teach us to shoot. Uncle Jack instructed us in the rudiments thereof; he said Atticus wasn’t interested in guns. Atticus said to Jem one day, “I’d rather you shot at tin cans in the back yard, but I
know you’ll go after birds. Shoot all the bluejays you want, if you can hit ‘em, but remember it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird. ”
That was the only time I ever heard Atticus say it was a sin to do something, and I asked Miss Maudie about it.
“Your father’s right,” she said. “Mockingbirds don’t do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corncribs, they don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird. ”
“Miss Maudie, this is an old neighborhood, ain’t it? ”
“Been here longer than the town. ”
“Nome, I mean the folks on our street are all old. Jem and me’s the only children around here. Mrs. Dubose is close on to a hundred and Miss Rachel’s old and so are you and Atticus. ”
“I don’t call fifty very old,” said Miss Maudie tartly. “Not being wheeled around yet, am I? Neither’s your father. But I must say Providence was kind enough to burn down that old mausoleum of mine, I’m too old to keep it up—maybe you’re right, Jean Louise, this is a settled neighborhood. You’ve never been around young folks much, have you? ”
“Yessum, at school. ”
“I mean young grown-ups. You’re lucky, you know. You and Jem have the benefit of your father’s age. If your father was thirty you’d find life quite different. ”
“I sure would. Atticus can’t do anything. . . ”
“You’d be surprised,” said Miss Maudie. “There’s life in him yet. ”
“What can he do? ”
“Well, he can make somebody’s will so airtight can’t anybody meddle with it. ” “Shoot. . . ”
“Well, did you know he’s the best checker-player in this town? Why, down at the Landing when we were coming up, Atticus Finch could beat everybody on both sides of the river. ”
“Good Lord, Miss Maudie, Jem and me beat him all the time. ”
“It’s about time you found out it’s because he lets you. Did you know he can play a Jew’s Harp? ”
This modest accomplishment served to make me even more ashamed of him. “Well. . . ” she said.
“Well, what, Miss Maudie? ”
“Well nothing. Nothing—it seems with all that you’d be proud of him. Can’t everybody play a Jew’s Harp. Now keep out of the way of the carpenters. You’d better go home, I’ll be in my azaleas and can’t watch you. Plank might hit you. ”
I went to the back yard and found Jem plugging away at a tin can, which seemed stupid with all the bluejays around. I returned to the front yard and busied myself for two hours erecting a complicated breastworks at the side of the porch, consisting of a tire, an orange crate, the laundry hamper, the porch chairs, and a small U. S. flag Jem gave me from a popcorn box.
When Atticus came home to dinner he found me crouched down aiming across the street. “What are you shooting at? ”
“Miss Maudie’s rear end. ”
Atticus turned and saw my generous target bending over her bushes. He pushed his hat to the back of his head and crossed the street. “Maudie,” he called, “I thought I’d better warn you. You’re in considerable peril. ”
Miss Maudie straightened up and looked toward me. She said, “Atticus, you are a devil from hell. ”
When Atticus returned he told me to break camp. “Don’t you ever let me catch you pointing that gun at anybody again,” he said.
I wished my father was a devil from hell. I sounded out Calpurnia on the subject. “Mr. Finch? Why, he can do lots of things. ”
“Like what? ” I asked.
Calpurnia scratched her head. “Well, I don’t rightly know,” she said.
Jem underlined it when he asked Atticus if he was going out for the Methodists and Atticus said he’d break his neck if he did, he was just too old for that sort of
thing. The Methodists were trying to pay off their church mortgage, and had challenged the Baptists to a game of touch football. Everybody in town’s father was playing, it seemed, except Atticus. Jem said he didn’t even want to go, but he was unable to resist football in any form, and he stood gloomily on the sidelines with Atticus and me watching Cecil Jacobs’s father make touchdowns for the Baptists.
One Saturday Jem and I decided to go exploring with our air-rifles to see if we could find a rabbit or a squirrel. We had gone about five hundred yards beyond the Radley Place when I noticed Jem squinting at something down the street. He had turned his head to one side and was looking out of the corners of his eyes.
“Whatcha looking at? ”
“That old dog down yonder,” he said. “That’s old Tim Johnson, ain’t it? ” “Yeah. ”
Tim Johnson was the property of Mr. Harry Johnson who drove the Mobile bus and lived on the southern edge of town. Tim was a liver-colored bird dog, the pet of Maycomb.
“What’s he doing? ”
“I don’t know, Scout. We better go home. ”
“Aw Jem, it’s February. ”
“I don’t care, I’m gonna tell Cal. ”
We raced home and ran to the kitchen.
“Cal,” said Jem, “can you come down the sidewalk a minute? ”
“What for, Jem?
I can’t come down the sidewalk every time you want me. ”
“There’s somethin‘ wrong with an old dog down yonder. ”
Calpurnia sighed. “I can’t wrap up any dog’s foot now. There’s some gauze in the bathroom, go get it and do it yourself. ”
Jem shook his head. “He’s sick, Cal. Something’s wrong with him. ” “What’s he doin‘, trying to catch his tail? ”
“No, he’s doin‘ like this. ”
Jem gulped like a goldfish, hunched his shoulders and twitched his torso. “He’s goin‘ like that, only not like he means to. ”
“Are you telling me a story, Jem Finch? ” Calpurnia’s voice hardened.
“No Cal, I swear I’m not. ”
“Was he runnin‘? ”
“No, he’s just moseyin‘ along, so slow you can’t hardly tell it. He’s comin’ this way. ”
Calpurnia rinsed her hands and followed Jem into the yard. “I don’t see any dog,” she said.
She followed us beyond the Radley Place and looked where Jem pointed. Tim Johnson was not much more than a speck in the distance, but he was closer to us. He walked erratically, as if his right legs were shorter than his left legs. He reminded me of a car stuck in a sandbed.
“He’s gone lopsided,” said Jem.
Calpurnia stared, then grabbed us by the shoulders and ran us home. She shut the wood door behind us, went to the telephone and shouted, “Gimme Mr. Finch’s office! ”
“Mr. Finch! ” she shouted. “This is Cal. I swear to God there’s a mad dog down the street a piece—he’s comin‘ this way, yes sir, he’s—Mr. Finch, I declare he is —old Tim Johnson, yes sir. . . yessir. . . yes—”
She hung up and shook her head when we tried to ask her what Atticus had said. She rattled the telephone hook and said, “Miss Eula May—now ma’am, I’m through talkin‘ to Mr. Finch, please don’t connect me no more—listen, Miss Eula May, can you call Miss Rachel and Miss Stephanie Crawford and whoever’s got a phone on this street and tell ’em a mad dog’s comin‘? Please ma’am! ”
Calpurnia listened. “I know it’s February, Miss Eula May, but I know a mad dog when I see one. Please ma’am hurry! ”
Calpurnia asked Jem, “Radleys got a phone? ”
Jem looked in the book and said no. “They won’t come out anyway, Cal. ” “I don’t care, I’m gonna tell ‘em. ”
She ran to the front porch, Jem and I at her heels. “You stay in that house! ” she yelled.
Calpurnia’s message had been received by the neighborhood. Every wood door within our range of vision was closed tight. We saw no trace of Tim Johnson. We watched Calpurnia running toward the Radley Place, holding her skirt and apron above her knees. She went up to the front steps and banged on the door. She got no answer, and she shouted, “Mr. Nathan, Mr. Arthur, mad dog’s comin‘! Mad dog’s comin’! ”
“She’s supposed to go around in back,” I said.
Jem shook his head. “Don’t make any difference now,” he said.
Calpurnia pounded on the door in vain. No one acknowledged her warning; no one seemed to have heard it.
As Calpurnia sprinted to the back porch a black Ford swung into the driveway. Atticus and Mr. Heck Tate got out.
Mr. Heck Tate was the sheriff of Maycomb County. He was as tall as Atticus, but thinner. He was long-nosed, wore boots with shiny metal eye-holes, boot pants and a lumber jacket. His belt had a row of bullets sticking in it. He carried a heavy rifle. When he and Atticus reached the porch, Jem opened the door.
“Stay inside, son,” said Atticus. “Where is he, Cal? ”
“He oughta be here by now,” said Calpurnia, pointing down the street. “Not runnin‘, is he? ” asked Mr. Tate.
“Naw sir, he’s in the twitchin‘ stage, Mr. Heck. ”
“Should we go after him, Heck? ” asked Atticus.
“We better wait, Mr. Finch. They usually go in a straight line, but you never can tell. He might follow the curve—hope he does or he’ll go straight in the Radley back yard. Let’s wait a minute. ”
“Don’t think he’ll get in the Radley yard,” said Atticus. “Fence’ll stop him. He’ll probably follow the road. . . ”
I thought mad dogs foamed at the mouth, galloped, leaped and lunged at throats, and I thought they did it in August. Had Tim Johnson behaved thus, I would have
been less frightened.
Nothing is more deadly than a deserted, waiting street. The trees were still, the mockingbirds were silent, the carpenters at Miss Maudie’s house had vanished. I heard Mr. Tate sniff, then blow his nose. I saw him shift his gun to the crook of his arm. I saw Miss Stephanie Crawford’s face framed in the glass window of her front door. Miss Maudie appeared and stood beside her. Atticus put his foot on the rung of a chair and rubbed his hand slowly down the side of his thigh.
“There he is,” he said softly.
Tim Johnson came into sight, walking dazedly in the inner rim of the curve parallel to the Radley house.
“Look at him,” whispered Jem. “Mr. Heck said they walked in a straight line. He can’t even stay in the road. ”
“He looks more sick than anything,” I said.
“Let anything get in front of him and he’ll come straight at it. ”
Mr. Tate put his hand to his forehead and leaned forward. “He’s got it all right, Mr. Finch. ”
Tim Johnson was advancing at a snail’s pace, but he was not playing or sniffing at foliage: he seemed dedicated to one course and motivated by an invisible force that was inching him toward us. We could see him shiver like a horse shedding flies; his jaw opened and shut; he was alist, but he was being pulled gradually toward us.
“He’s lookin‘ for a place to die,” said Jem.
Mr. Tate turned around. “He’s far from dead, Jem, he hasn’t got started yet. ”
Tim Johnson reached the side street that ran in front of the Radley Place, and what remained of his poor mind made him pause and seem to consider which road he would take. He made a few hesitant steps and stopped in front of the Radley gate; then he tried to turn around, but was having difficulty.
Atticus said, “He’s within range, Heck. You better get him before he goes down the side street—Lord knows who’s around the corner. Go inside, Cal. ”
Calpurnia opened the screen door, latched it behind her, then unlatched it and held onto the hook. She tried to block Jem and me with her body, but we looked out
from beneath her arms.
“Take him, Mr. Finch. ” Mr. Tate handed the rifle to Atticus; Jem and I nearly fainted.
“Don’t waste time, Heck,” said Atticus. “Go on. ” “Mr. Finch, this is a one-shot job. ”
Atticus shook his head vehemently: “Don’t just stand there, Heck! He won’t wait all day for you—”
“For God’s sake, Mr. Finch, look where he is! Miss and you’ll go straight into the Radley house! I can’t shoot that well and you know it! ”
“I haven’t shot a gun in thirty years—”
Mr. Tate almost threw the rifle at Atticus. “I’d feel mighty comfortable if you did now,” he said.
In a fog, Jem and I watched our father take the gun and walk out into the middle of the street. He walked quickly, but I thought he moved like an underwater swimmer: time had slowed to a nauseating crawl.
When Atticus raised his glasses Calpurnia murmured, “Sweet Jesus help him,” and put her hands to her cheeks.
Atticus pushed his glasses to his forehead; they slipped down, and he dropped them in the street. In the silence, I heard them crack. Atticus rubbed his eyes and chin; we saw him blink hard.
In front of the Radley gate, Tim Johnson had made up what was left of his mind. He had finally turned himself around, to pursue his original course up our street. He made two steps forward, then stopped and raised his head. We saw his body go rigid.
With movements so swift they seemed simultaneous, Atticus’s hand yanked a ball- tipped lever as he brought the gun to his shoulder.
The rifle cracked. Tim Johnson leaped, flopped over and crumpled on the sidewalk in a brown-and-white heap. He didn’t know what hit him.
Mr. Tate jumped off the porch and ran to the Radley Place. He stopped in front of the dog, squatted, turned around and tapped his finger on his forehead above his
left eye. “You were a little to the right, Mr. Finch,” he called.
“Always was,” answered Atticus. “If I had my ‘druthers I’d take a shotgun. ”
He stooped and picked up his glasses, ground the broken lenses to powder under his heel, and went to Mr. Tate and stood looking down at Tim Johnson.
Doors opened one by one, and the neighborhood slowly came alive. Miss Maudie walked down the steps with Miss Stephanie Crawford.
Jem was paralyzed. I pinched him to get him moving, but when Atticus saw us coming he called, “Stay where you are. ”
When Mr. Tate and Atticus returned to the yard, Mr. Tate was smiling. “I’ll have Zeebo collect him,” he said. “You haven’t forgot much, Mr. Finch. They say it never leaves you. ”
Atticus was silent. “Atticus? ” said Jem. “Yes? ”
“Nothin‘. ”
“I saw that, One-Shot Finch! ”
Atticus wheeled around and faced Miss Maudie. They looked at one another without saying anything, and Atticus got into the sheriff’s car. “Come here,” he said to Jem. “Don’t you go near that dog, you understand? Don’t go near him, he’s just as dangerous dead as alive. ”
“Yes sir,” said Jem. “Atticus—”
“What, son? ”
“Nothing. ”
“What’s the matter with you, boy, can’t you talk? ” said Mr. Tate, grinning at Jem. “Didn’t you know your daddy’s—”
“Hush, Heck,” said Atticus, “let’s go back to town. ”
When they drove away, Jem and I went to Miss Stephanie’s front steps.