Meta Ad Library · GB,DE,FR,BR
What competitors are running.
Active Facebook + Instagram + Messenger ads from this app’s developer (and lookalike pages). Spend and impressions only show for EU/UK/BR-targeted ads under DSA disclosure.
Active Facebook + Instagram + Messenger ads from this app’s developer (and lookalike pages). Spend and impressions only show for EU/UK/BR-targeted ads under DSA disclosure.
Part Two, Chapter Thirty “My dear, you should call him Mr. Arthur,” Atticus gently corrected me. “Joan Louise, and this is Mr. Arthur Radley. I think he already knows you.” Atticus’s ability to introduce me to the strange man so politely at a time like this—well, that’s Atticus for you. The strange man saw me instinctively run to Jem’s bedside, a shy smile returning to his face. I blushed with embarrassment and pretended to cover Jem with the blanket to hide my awkwardness. “Ah—don’t touch him,” Atticus stopped me. Mr. Heck Tate sat there impassively, watching the strange man from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Just as he was about to speak, Dr. Reynolds walked down the aisle. “Everyone, please leave,” he said as he entered the room. “Good evening, Arthur. I didn’t notice you the first time I came.” Dr. Reynolds’ tone was as light as his footsteps, as if he greeted me like this every night. This casual remark surprised me more than being in the same room as the eccentric Radley. Of course… even the eccentric Radley gets sick sometimes, I thought, but then again, I wasn’t so sure. Dr. Reynolds brought in a large package wrapped in newspaper, placed it on Jem’s desk, and then took off his coat. “He’s alive, you can rest assured now. Let me tell you how I know. When I was examining him, he kicked me. I had to put him in a drowsy state, otherwise I couldn’t touch him at all. You all should leave now,” he said to me. “Oh—” Atticus hesitated, glancing at the strange man. “Heck, let’s all go outside to the front porch. There are plenty of chairs there, and it’s warm enough outside.” This struck me as odd: why didn’t Atticus invite everyone to sit in the living room instead of going to the front porch? But I immediately understood—the living room lights were too bright. We went out one by one, Mr. Tate leading the way. Atticus stood in the doorway, wanting the strange man to go ahead, but then changed his mind and followed Mr. Tate out first. Even in the most unusual circumstances, people still observe everyday etiquette, out of habit. I was no exception. “Come on, Mr. Arthur,” I said naturally, “you’re not very familiar with our house, let me take you to the front porch, sir.” He looked down at me and nodded slightly. I led him through the hallway and across the living room. “Please sit down, Mr. Arthur. This rocking chair is very comfortable.” My little fantasy about him, hidden deep within me, resurfaced: him sitting on the front porch… The weather’s been lovely lately, haven’t you, Mr. Arthur? Yes, the weather is lovely. As if in a dream, I led him to the chair furthest from Atticus and Mr. Tate, a spot shrouded in darkness, where I guessed he’d feel more comfortable. Atticus sat on the swing set, and Mr. Tate settled into a chair beside him. Bright light streamed from the living room window, illuminating them. I sat down next to the strange man. “Oh, Heck,” said Atticus, “I think the most pressing thing is… Good heavens, my memory is getting worse and worse…” Atticus pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “Jem isn’t even thirteen yet… no, he’s thirteen—I can’t even remember that. Anyway, this case will be heard in county court…” “What case needs to be heard in court, Mr. Finch?” Mr. Tate lowered his legs and leaned toward Atticus. “Of course, it’s clearly self-defense, but I still need to check the files in my office…” “Mr. Finch, you believe Jem killed Bob Ewell? Is that your opinion?” “You heard what Scout said, there’s no doubt about it. She said Jem got up from the ground and suddenly pulled Bob Ewell off her—maybe he took the knife from Ewell in the dark…we’ll find out that tomorrow.” “Mr. Finch, wait a minute,” Mr. Tate said, “Jem didn’t stab Ewell at all.” Atticus was silent for a moment. He looked at Mr. Tate, seemingly very grateful for what he had said. But Atticus still shook his head. “Heck, I know you mean well, and I appreciate it, but this must never be allowed to begin.” Mr. Tate stood up, walked to the front porch, spat into the bushes, and then put his hands in his back pockets, facing Atticus. “Begin what?” he asked. “Heck, don’t blame me for being blunt,” Atticus said directly, “but this is not something anyone can hide. That’s not my style.” “No one is hiding anything, Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate’s voice was calm, his boots firmly planted on the floor as if rooted to the ground. A strange confrontation was brewing between my father and the sheriff, a confrontation I couldn’t quite fathom. Now it was Atticus’s turn to stand up and walk to the front porch. He cleared his throat and spat into the yard. He, too, put his hands in his back pockets, facing Mr. Tate. “Heck, though you haven’t said it clearly, I know what you’re thinking. Thank you for your kindness. Joan Louise…” He turned to me and said, “You just said that Jem pulled Mr. Ewell away from you, didn’t you?” “Yes, that’s what I think… I…” “Heck, you heard me? I appreciate you from the bottom of my heart, but I don’t want my son to start his life with such a shadow over him. The best way to dispel the shadow is to put everything in the open. Let the whole county bring sandwiches to the trial. I don’t want him to grow up amidst people’s whispers, I don’t want to hear anyone say, ‘Jem Finch… his old man spent a fortune to get him out of trouble.’ The sooner this chapter is over, the better.” “Mr. Finch,” Mr. Tate said calmly, “Bob Ewell died by his own hand. He killed himself.” Atticus walked to a corner of the front porch, his eyes fixed on the wisteria. I think they were both stubborn, though stubborn in their own unique ways. I truly don't know who will give in first. Atticus's stubbornness is calm and almost imperceptible, but when it strikes, it's quite similar to the Cunningham family. Mr. Tate's stubbornness is direct and somewhat rough, but he's my father's equal. “Heck,” Atticus said, turning away, “if we cover up the truth, it would be a complete betrayal of the principles I’ve always taught Jem how to be a person. Sometimes I feel like a failure as a father, utterly worthless, yet I am all they have. In this world, Jem looks at me first, then at everyone else, and I’ve always tried to live with dignity, to be able to look him in the eye… If I condone this, frankly, I will never be able to look him in the eye again, and if that happens, I will know I have lost him forever. I don’t want to lose him and Scout, because they are everything to me.” “Mr. Finch,” Mr. Tate remained firmly planted on the floor, “Bob Ewell fell into the line of fire. I can attest to that.” Atticus turned around. His hands were deeply in his pockets. “Heck, can’t you think about things from my perspective? You have children too, though I’m older than you. By the time my children are grown, if I’m still alive, I’ll be an old man, but right now I—if they don’t trust me, they won’t trust anyone. Jem and Scout know what happened. If they hear me telling a different story in town—Heck—I’ll lose them forever. I absolutely can’t have one story at home and another outside.” Mr. Tate shuffled his heel across the floor patiently. “After he threw Jem to the ground, he tripped over a tree root and fell to the ground himself—you see, I can show you.” Mr. Tate reached into his side pocket and pulled out a long switchblade. Just then, Dr. Reynolds came to the door. “Doctor, that son of a bitch—died under that tree on campus. Do you have a flashlight? You'd better take this.” “I can manage to get around it and turn on the headlights,” Dr. Reynolds said, but he took the flashlight from Mr. Tate anyway. “Jem is fine. I don’t think he’ll wake up tonight, so don’t worry. Was Bob Ewell killed with this knife, Heck?” “No, the knife is still in his body. Judging from the handle, it’s a kitchen knife. Ken should have already sent the coffin over. Goodnight, Doctor.” Mr. Tate snapped the switchblade open. “Like this,” he said. He gripped the handle, pretended to trip, and as he leaned forward, he extended his left arm under his chest. “See? He just stabbed himself in the ribs like that. All his weight was on the blade, and the knife went in.” Mr. Tate closed the switchblade and put it back in his pocket. “Scooter was only eight,” he said. “She was terrified and had no idea what was happening.” “You’d be surprised,” Atticus said coldly. “I’m not saying she’s making it up; I’m saying she was too panicked to understand what was going on. Besides, it was pitch black. Unless someone is very accustomed to the dark, they’re not qualified to be a witness…” “I can’t accept that explanation,” Atticus said softly. “Damn it, I wasn’t thinking about Jem!” Mr. Tate’s boots slammed on the floor with an unusually loud thud, and the light in Miss Mordy’s bedroom came on. The light in Miss Stephanie’s house also came on. Atticus and Mr. Tate glanced across the street, then exchanged a look. They waited quietly for things to calm down. When Mr. Tate spoke again, his voice was almost inaudible. “Mr. Finch, I don’t want to argue with you at a time like this. You’ve been under too much pressure tonight; no one should have gone through that. I don’t know how you managed to hold on and not collapse in bed. But I’m quite certain now that you haven’t reasoned from the facts this time, and we must resolve this tonight, because it will be too late by tomorrow. Bob Ewell still has a knife stuck in his stomach.” Mr. Tate then asked Atticus if he intended to stand in court and insist that a boy of Jem’s build could fight an adult in complete darkness, dragging a broken arm, and ultimately kill him. “Heck,” Atticus suddenly asked, “where did you get that switchblade you were waving around in just now?” “Confiscated from a drunkard,” Mr. Tate replied casually. I tried to recall the scene. Mr. Ewell choked me so hard I couldn’t breathe…and then he fell down…Jem must have gotten up. At least that's what I think… “Heck?” “Like I said, I confiscated it from a drunkard in town tonight. Bob Ewell probably found that kitchen knife somewhere in the junkyard, sharpened it to a razor's edge, and then waited for the right moment… waited for the right moment to strike.” Atticus walked heavily to the swing set and sat down. His hands hung limply between his knees, his eyes fixed on the floor. His movements were unusually slow, just like that night in front of the jail, when I watched him fold up the newspaper and toss it onto the chair, and it seemed like this slow motion would never stop. Mr. Tate paced back and forth on the front porch, trying to be as quiet as possible. “This isn’t your decision, Mr. Finch. It’s all up to me. This is my decision, and my responsibility. At least this time, you have to see things from my perspective, otherwise you won’t be able to argue with me. If you insist on trying, I’ll confront you and tell you you’re lying, that your son didn’t stab Bob Ewell to death.” He said slowly, “This has nothing to do with him, and you know that perfectly well. He just wanted to get himself and his sister home safely.” Mr. Tate stopped and stood in front of Atticus, his back to us. “Sir, I’m not exactly a good man, but I’m the sheriff of Maycomb County. I’ve lived in this town my whole life, and I’m forty-three years old now. I know everything that’s happened here, from before I was born until now. There’s nothing I don’t know. A young black man lost his life for no reason, and the guy who was supposed to be responsible for it is dead too. Let the dead bury the dead, Mr. Finch. Let the dead bury the dead.” Mr. Tate walked to the swing set, picked up the hat he had placed next to Atticus, smoothed his hair back, and put the hat on his head. “I’ve never heard of a citizen going to great lengths to prevent a crime from happening being against the law—that’s exactly what he did. You might say I have a responsibility to tell everyone in town the truth, that I shouldn’t hide anything. But do you know what the consequences will be? All the women in Maycomb, including my wife, will be knocking on his door with angel cakes. Mr. Finch, in my opinion, this man has done a great service for you and for the whole town, and if people ignore his reclusive lifestyle and force him into the spotlight—I think that’s a crime. I don’t want to bear that kind of guilt. If it were anyone else, it would be a different story. But he’s different, Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate looked as if he wanted to drill a hole in the floor with the tip of his boot. He twitched his nose and then rubbed his left arm a few times. “Mr. Finch, I may not be much of a figure, but I am, after all, the sheriff of Maycomb County. I told you, Bob Ewell died on his own. Goodnight, sir.” Mr. Tate thumped down the porch and strode across the front yard. He slammed the car door shut and drove off. Atticus sat there, staring at the floor, silent for a long time. Finally, he looked up. “Scooter,” he said, “Mr. Ewell died on his own. Do you understand?” Atticus looked like he needed someone to cheer him up. I ran over, hugged him tightly, and kissed him. “Yes, I understand,” I reassured him. “Mr. Tate is right.” Atticus pulled away and looked at me earnestly. “What do you mean?” “Well, it’s like killing a robin, isn’t it?” Atticus buried his face in my hair and rubbed it against me gently for a moment. He rose and walked across the front porch into the shadows, his steps regaining their usual lightness. Before entering the house, he paused in front of the strange Radley. "Arthur, thank you for saving my child." The strange Radley slowly rose to his feet, the light flickering through the living room window, casting an unpredictable glow on his forehead. Every movement he made seemed hesitant, as if unsure whether his limbs could still properly touch things. Another bout of agonizing coughing erupted, accompanied by a terrifying guttural sound. He coughed so violently that his whole body trembled, and he had no choice but to sit back down. He fumbled in his back pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and coughed frantically into it before wiping his forehead. Tonight, he had actually sat beside me for so long, which I found unbelievable, because I had long been accustomed to his invisible state. During this time, he had remained completely silent. He stood up again, facing me, and nodded towards the door. “Mr. Arthur, you want to say goodnight to Jem, don’t you? Then come inside.” I led him into the hallway, where Aunt Alexandra was sitting beside Jem’s bed. “Come in, Arthur,” she said. “He’s still asleep. Dr. Reynolds gave him a strong sedative. Joan Louise, is your father in the living room?” “Yes, I think so.” “I need to talk to him about something. Dr. Reynolds left some…” Her voice trailed off with her footsteps. The strange man had silently moved to the corner, chin tilted back, gazing at Jem from afar. I took his hand; the pale hand was surprisingly warm. I gently tugged at him, and he followed me to Jem’s bedside. Dr. Reynolds had erected something like a tent above Jem’s arm, I guessed, to cover the blanket. The strange man leaned in, scrutinizing Jem closely. His expression was a mixture of shyness and curiosity, as if he had never seen a boy before. He opened his mouth slightly, looking Jem up and down. Then he raised one hand, but it fell to his side. “You can touch him, Mr. Arthur, he’s asleep. He won’t let you touch him when he’s awake…” I said to him. “Go ahead and touch him.” The strange man’s hand hesitated above Jem’s head. “Go ahead and touch him, Mr. Arthur, he’s asleep.” His hand gently landed on Jem’s hair. At this moment, I began to understand his body language. He squeezed my hand tightly, meaning he wanted to go home. When I led him to the front porch, his hesitant steps stopped, but he still held my hand, showing no intention of letting go. “Can you take me home?” His voice was so soft it was almost a whisper, like a child afraid of the dark pleading. My foot had just touched the top step when I stopped. I could hold his hand and walk around our house, but I absolutely couldn’t take him home like this. “Mr. Arthur, bend your arm, like this. Okay, sir.” I put my hand in the crook of his arm. He had to stoop slightly to walk arm-in-arm with me, but if Miss Stephanie happened to be looking down from her upstairs window, she would see Mr. Arthur Radley walking with me like a gentleman on the sidewalk. As we reached the streetlamp at the corner, I couldn't help but think of how many times Dill had stood here, clinging to this thick pillar, watching, waiting, hoping; and how many times Jem and I had passed by here, but this was only the second time in my life I had stepped into the Radley's yard. The oddball and I climbed the steps to the front porch. His hand fumbled for the doorknob, then he gently released my arm, opened the door, went inside, and casually closed it behind him. I never saw him again. Among the neighbors, if someone died, people would bring food; if someone was sick, people would bring flowers; for any event, big or small, people would give small gifts. The oddball was also our neighbor. He gave us two soap dolls, a broken pocket watch with its chain, two lucky coins, and our lives. Neighbors are always expected to exchange gifts, but we had only taken gift after gift from that tree hollow, without putting anything back in return—we had given him nothing, and this saddened me. I turned to go home. The streetlights twinkled, stretching all the way into town. It was the first time I had ever looked around this familiar neighborhood from this angle. Over there were Miss Mordy's and Miss Stephanie's houses, and over here was ours—I could see the swing set on the front porch, Miss Rachel's house was a little behind ours, and even Mrs. Dubose's house was clearly visible. I looked behind me again. To the left of the brown door was a long, narrow shuttered window. I went over, stood in front of it, and turned back to look around. I thought that in daylight, I could see all the way to the corner where the post office was from here. In the bright sunlight… the night was dispelled by my imagination, and it was broad daylight; the whole neighborhood was bustling with activity. Miss Stephanie was crossing the street to tell Miss Rachel the latest news. Miss Moody was bending over, tending to her beloved azaleas. It was summer, and two children skipped and jumped on the sidewalk to greet a man approaching from afar. The man waved, and the two children chased each other, neither giving way, all the way to him. It was still summer, and the children drew closer. The boy hesitated, dragging a fishing rod behind him. The man stood there, hands on his hips, waiting for him. It was still summer, and his children were playing with their friends in the front yard, improvising and acting out a nonsensical little play. In autumn, his two children were fighting on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Dubose's house. The boy helped his sister up, and the two walked home together. That autumn, his two children ran back and forth across that street corner, their faces etched with the day's worries and joys. They stopped before a large oak tree, their faces flashing with surprise, confusion, and a touch of fear. That winter, his two children shivered in front of the gate, a house ablaze, the firelight casting their small silhouettes. Also in winter, the man walked into the street, threw down his glasses, and shot a rabid dog. Another summer came, and he watched his children's hearts shatter. Another autumn arrived, and the oddball's friend needed his help. Atticus was right. He once told me, "You can never truly understand a person unless you put on their shoes and walk around in their shoes, and see things from their perspective." For me, standing on the Radley's front porch was enough. The streetlights glowed dimly in the quietly falling drizzle. I walked home, feeling as if I were already very old. I stared intently at the tip of my nose, trying to see the tiny water droplets falling on it, but this made me cross-eyed and dizzy, so I stopped looking. Walking home, I thought about how I was supposed to tell Jem something so important tomorrow, and he'd missed it tonight; he'd definitely be angry and ignore me for days. Walking home, I thought about how Jem and I would grow up day by day, and how there wouldn't be much left to learn, except perhaps algebra. I ran up the steps and went inside. Aunt Alexandra was already in bed, and the light was off in Atticus's room. I wanted to check if Jem was awake, and when I entered, I found Atticus in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed reading a book. "Is Jem awake?" "He's sleeping soundly. He won't wake up until tomorrow morning." "Oh, are you going to stay up with him?" "I'll just stay here for about an hour. Go to sleep, Scout. You've had a tough day." "Oh, I'd like to stay with you for a while." "Suit yourself," Atticus said. It must have been past midnight by then, and I was quite surprised that he readily agreed to my request. But he was more cunning than I was: I'd only been sitting for a short while when I started to feel sleepy. "What are you reading?" Atticus glanced at the book cover. "It's one of Jem's books, called *The Grey Ghost*." I suddenly snapped awake. "Why are you reading this?" "Honey, I don't know. I just picked it up; it's one I haven't read yet," he said frankly. "Atticus, please read it aloud. This book is really scary." "No," he said, "you've had enough frights lately. This is too..." "Atticus, I'm not scared." He raised an eyebrow, and I quickly protested: "At least I wasn't scared before I told Mr. Tate. Jem wasn't scared either. I asked him, and he said he wasn't. Besides, there's nothing particularly scary about it except what's written in the book." Atticus opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again. He removed his thumb from the book and turned back to the first page. I leaned closer and rested my head on his knee. “Hmm,” he read, “The Grey Ghost, by Sexterry Hawkins. Chapter One…” I tried to stay awake, but the rain outside was so soft, the room so warm, his voice so deep, and resting my head on his lap so comforting, that I drifted off to sleep. It seemed like only a few seconds had passed when I felt his shoe lightly brush against my ribs. He helped me up and guided me into my bedroom. “I heard every word you read,” I mumbled, “…I wasn’t asleep at all. It’s about a boat and Three-Fingered Fred, and Stoner Boy…” He unhooked my overalls, let me lean against him, and helped me take them off. Then, supporting me with one hand, he reached for my pajamas with the other. “Yes, they all thought it was Stoner who caused trouble at their club, spilling ink everywhere, and…” He led me to the bedside, sat me up, lifted my legs onto the bed, and then covered me with the blanket. “And then, they were chasing Stoner everywhere, but they just couldn't catch him because they didn't even know what he looked like. Atticus, then they finally found him, and realized he hadn't done anything wrong at all… Atticus, he's actually a very kind person…” He reached under my chin, pulled the blanket up, and tucked me in. “Scooter, most people are kind. You'll find out once you get to know them.” He turned off the light and went back to Jem's room. He would stay there all night, keeping watch by Jem's bedside when he woke up the next morning.
Part Two, Chapter Thirty “My dear, you should call him Mr. Arthur,” Atticus gently corrected me. “Joan Louise, and this is Mr. Arthur Radley. I think he already knows you.” Atticus’s ability to introduce me to the strange man so politely at a time like this—well, that’s Atticus for you. The strange man saw me instinctively run to Jem’s bedside, a shy smile returning to his face. I blushed with embarrassment and pretended to cover Jem with the blanket to hide my awkwardness. “Ah—don’t touch him,” Atticus stopped me. Mr. Heck Tate sat there impassively, watching the strange man from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Just as he was about to speak, Dr. Reynolds walked down the aisle. “Everyone, please leave,” he said as he entered the room. “Good evening, Arthur. I didn’t notice you the first time I came.” Dr. Reynolds’ tone was as light as his footsteps, as if he greeted me like this every night. This casual remark surprised me more than being in the same room as the eccentric Radley. Of course… even the eccentric Radley gets sick sometimes, I thought, but then again, I wasn’t so sure. Dr. Reynolds brought in a large package wrapped in newspaper, placed it on Jem’s desk, and then took off his coat. “He’s alive, you can rest assured now. Let me tell you how I know. When I was examining him, he kicked me. I had to put him in a drowsy state, otherwise I couldn’t touch him at all. You all should leave now,” he said to me. “Oh—” Atticus hesitated, glancing at the strange man. “Heck, let’s all go outside to the front porch. There are plenty of chairs there, and it’s warm enough outside.” This struck me as odd: why didn’t Atticus invite everyone to sit in the living room instead of going to the front porch? But I immediately understood—the living room lights were too bright. We went out one by one, Mr. Tate leading the way. Atticus stood in the doorway, wanting the strange man to go ahead, but then changed his mind and followed Mr. Tate out first. Even in the most unusual circumstances, people still observe everyday etiquette, out of habit. I was no exception. “Come on, Mr. Arthur,” I said naturally, “you’re not very familiar with our house, let me take you to the front porch, sir.” He looked down at me and nodded slightly. I led him through the hallway and across the living room. “Please sit down, Mr. Arthur. This rocking chair is very comfortable.” My little fantasy about him, hidden deep within me, resurfaced: him sitting on the front porch… The weather’s been lovely lately, haven’t you, Mr. Arthur? Yes, the weather is lovely. As if in a dream, I led him to the chair furthest from Atticus and Mr. Tate, a spot shrouded in darkness, where I guessed he’d feel more comfortable. Atticus sat on the swing set, and Mr. Tate settled into a chair beside him. Bright light streamed from the living room window, illuminating them. I sat down next to the strange man. “Oh, Heck,” said Atticus, “I think the most pressing thing is… Good heavens, my memory is getting worse and worse…” Atticus pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “Jem isn’t even thirteen yet… no, he’s thirteen—I can’t even remember that. Anyway, this case will be heard in county court…” “What case needs to be heard in court, Mr. Finch?” Mr. Tate lowered his legs and leaned toward Atticus. “Of course, it’s clearly self-defense, but I still need to check the files in my office…” “Mr. Finch, you believe Jem killed Bob Ewell? Is that your opinion?” “You heard what Scout said, there’s no doubt about it. She said Jem got up from the ground and suddenly pulled Bob Ewell off her—maybe he took the knife from Ewell in the dark…we’ll find out that tomorrow.” “Mr. Finch, wait a minute,” Mr. Tate said, “Jem didn’t stab Ewell at all.” Atticus was silent for a moment. He looked at Mr. Tate, seemingly very grateful for what he had said. But Atticus still shook his head. “Heck, I know you mean well, and I appreciate it, but this must never be allowed to begin.” Mr. Tate stood up, walked to the front porch, spat into the bushes, and then put his hands in his back pockets, facing Atticus. “Begin what?” he asked. “Heck, don’t blame me for being blunt,” Atticus said directly, “but this is not something anyone can hide. That’s not my style.” “No one is hiding anything, Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate’s voice was calm, his boots firmly planted on the floor as if rooted to the ground. A strange confrontation was brewing between my father and the sheriff, a confrontation I couldn’t quite fathom. Now it was Atticus’s turn to stand up and walk to the front porch. He cleared his throat and spat into the yard. He, too, put his hands in his back pockets, facing Mr. Tate. “Heck, though you haven’t said it clearly, I know what you’re thinking. Thank you for your kindness. Joan Louise…” He turned to me and said, “You just said that Jem pulled Mr. Ewell away from you, didn’t you?” “Yes, that’s what I think… I…” “Heck, you heard me? I appreciate you from the bottom of my heart, but I don’t want my son to start his life with such a shadow over him. The best way to dispel the shadow is to put everything in the open. Let the whole county bring sandwiches to the trial. I don’t want him to grow up amidst people’s whispers, I don’t want to hear anyone say, ‘Jem Finch… his old man spent a fortune to get him out of trouble.’ The sooner this chapter is over, the better.” “Mr. Finch,” Mr. Tate said calmly, “Bob Ewell died by his own hand. He killed himself.” Atticus walked to a corner of the front porch, his eyes fixed on the wisteria. I think they were both stubborn, though stubborn in their own unique ways. I truly don't know who will give in first. Atticus's stubbornness is calm and almost imperceptible, but when it strikes, it's quite similar to the Cunningham family. Mr. Tate's stubbornness is direct and somewhat rough, but he's my father's equal. “Heck,” Atticus said, turning away, “if we cover up the truth, it would be a complete betrayal of the principles I’ve always taught Jem how to be a person. Sometimes I feel like a failure as a father, utterly worthless, yet I am all they have. In this world, Jem looks at me first, then at everyone else, and I’ve always tried to live with dignity, to be able to look him in the eye… If I condone this, frankly, I will never be able to look him in the eye again, and if that happens, I will know I have lost him forever. I don’t want to lose him and Scout, because they are everything to me.” “Mr. Finch,” Mr. Tate remained firmly planted on the floor, “Bob Ewell fell into the line of fire. I can attest to that.” Atticus turned around. His hands were deeply in his pockets. “Heck, can’t you think about things from my perspective? You have children too, though I’m older than you. By the time my children are grown, if I’m still alive, I’ll be an old man, but right now I—if they don’t trust me, they won’t trust anyone. Jem and Scout know what happened. If they hear me telling a different story in town—Heck—I’ll lose them forever. I absolutely can’t have one story at home and another outside.” Mr. Tate shuffled his heel across the floor patiently. “After he threw Jem to the ground, he tripped over a tree root and fell to the ground himself—you see, I can show you.” Mr. Tate reached into his side pocket and pulled out a long switchblade. Just then, Dr. Reynolds came to the door. “Doctor, that son of a bitch—died under that tree on campus. Do you have a flashlight? You'd better take this.” “I can manage to get around it and turn on the headlights,” Dr. Reynolds said, but he took the flashlight from Mr. Tate anyway. “Jem is fine. I don’t think he’ll wake up tonight, so don’t worry. Was Bob Ewell killed with this knife, Heck?” “No, the knife is still in his body. Judging from the handle, it’s a kitchen knife. Ken should have already sent the coffin over. Goodnight, Doctor.” Mr. Tate snapped the switchblade open. “Like this,” he said. He gripped the handle, pretended to trip, and as he leaned forward, he extended his left arm under his chest. “See? He just stabbed himself in the ribs like that. All his weight was on the blade, and the knife went in.” Mr. Tate closed the switchblade and put it back in his pocket. “Scooter was only eight,” he said. “She was terrified and had no idea what was happening.” “You’d be surprised,” Atticus said coldly. “I’m not saying she’s making it up; I’m saying she was too panicked to understand what was going on. Besides, it was pitch black. Unless someone is very accustomed to the dark, they’re not qualified to be a witness…” “I can’t accept that explanation,” Atticus said softly. “Damn it, I wasn’t thinking about Jem!” Mr. Tate’s boots slammed on the floor with an unusually loud thud, and the light in Miss Mordy’s bedroom came on. The light in Miss Stephanie’s house also came on. Atticus and Mr. Tate glanced across the street, then exchanged a look. They waited quietly for things to calm down. When Mr. Tate spoke again, his voice was almost inaudible. “Mr. Finch, I don’t want to argue with you at a time like this. You’ve been under too much pressure tonight; no one should have gone through that. I don’t know how you managed to hold on and not collapse in bed. But I’m quite certain now that you haven’t reasoned from the facts this time, and we must resolve this tonight, because it will be too late by tomorrow. Bob Ewell still has a knife stuck in his stomach.” Mr. Tate then asked Atticus if he intended to stand in court and insist that a boy of Jem’s build could fight an adult in complete darkness, dragging a broken arm, and ultimately kill him. “Heck,” Atticus suddenly asked, “where did you get that switchblade you were waving around in just now?” “Confiscated from a drunkard,” Mr. Tate replied casually. I tried to recall the scene. Mr. Ewell choked me so hard I couldn’t breathe…and then he fell down…Jem must have gotten up. At least that's what I think… “Heck?” “Like I said, I confiscated it from a drunkard in town tonight. Bob Ewell probably found that kitchen knife somewhere in the junkyard, sharpened it to a razor's edge, and then waited for the right moment… waited for the right moment to strike.” Atticus walked heavily to the swing set and sat down. His hands hung limply between his knees, his eyes fixed on the floor. His movements were unusually slow, just like that night in front of the jail, when I watched him fold up the newspaper and toss it onto the chair, and it seemed like this slow motion would never stop. Mr. Tate paced back and forth on the front porch, trying to be as quiet as possible. “This isn’t your decision, Mr. Finch. It’s all up to me. This is my decision, and my responsibility. At least this time, you have to see things from my perspective, otherwise you won’t be able to argue with me. If you insist on trying, I’ll confront you and tell you you’re lying, that your son didn’t stab Bob Ewell to death.” He said slowly, “This has nothing to do with him, and you know that perfectly well. He just wanted to get himself and his sister home safely.” Mr. Tate stopped and stood in front of Atticus, his back to us. “Sir, I’m not exactly a good man, but I’m the sheriff of Maycomb County. I’ve lived in this town my whole life, and I’m forty-three years old now. I know everything that’s happened here, from before I was born until now. There’s nothing I don’t know. A young black man lost his life for no reason, and the guy who was supposed to be responsible for it is dead too. Let the dead bury the dead, Mr. Finch. Let the dead bury the dead.” Mr. Tate walked to the swing set, picked up the hat he had placed next to Atticus, smoothed his hair back, and put the hat on his head. “I’ve never heard of a citizen going to great lengths to prevent a crime from happening being against the law—that’s exactly what he did. You might say I have a responsibility to tell everyone in town the truth, that I shouldn’t hide anything. But do you know what the consequences will be? All the women in Maycomb, including my wife, will be knocking on his door with angel cakes. Mr. Finch, in my opinion, this man has done a great service for you and for the whole town, and if people ignore his reclusive lifestyle and force him into the spotlight—I think that’s a crime. I don’t want to bear that kind of guilt. If it were anyone else, it would be a different story. But he’s different, Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate looked as if he wanted to drill a hole in the floor with the tip of his boot. He twitched his nose and then rubbed his left arm a few times. “Mr. Finch, I may not be much of a figure, but I am, after all, the sheriff of Maycomb County. I told you, Bob Ewell died on his own. Goodnight, sir.” Mr. Tate thumped down the porch and strode across the front yard. He slammed the car door shut and drove off. Atticus sat there, staring at the floor, silent for a long time. Finally, he looked up. “Scooter,” he said, “Mr. Ewell died on his own. Do you understand?” Atticus looked like he needed someone to cheer him up. I ran over, hugged him tightly, and kissed him. “Yes, I understand,” I reassured him. “Mr. Tate is right.” Atticus pulled away and looked at me earnestly. “What do you mean?” “Well, it’s like killing a robin, isn’t it?” Atticus buried his face in my hair and rubbed it against me gently for a moment. He rose and walked across the front porch into the shadows, his steps regaining their usual lightness. Before entering the house, he paused in front of the strange Radley. "Arthur, thank you for saving my child." The strange Radley slowly rose to his feet, the light flickering through the living room window, casting an unpredictable glow on his forehead. Every movement he made seemed hesitant, as if unsure whether his limbs could still properly touch things. Another bout of agonizing coughing erupted, accompanied by a terrifying guttural sound. He coughed so violently that his whole body trembled, and he had no choice but to sit back down. He fumbled in his back pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and coughed frantically into it before wiping his forehead. Tonight, he had actually sat beside me for so long, which I found unbelievable, because I had long been accustomed to his invisible state. During this time, he had remained completely silent. He stood up again, facing me, and nodded towards the door. “Mr. Arthur, you want to say goodnight to Jem, don’t you? Then come inside.” I led him into the hallway, where Aunt Alexandra was sitting beside Jem’s bed. “Come in, Arthur,” she said. “He’s still asleep. Dr. Reynolds gave him a strong sedative. Joan Louise, is your father in the living room?” “Yes, I think so.” “I need to talk to him about something. Dr. Reynolds left some…” Her voice trailed off with her footsteps. The strange man had silently moved to the corner, chin tilted back, gazing at Jem from afar. I took his hand; the pale hand was surprisingly warm. I gently tugged at him, and he followed me to Jem’s bedside. Dr. Reynolds had erected something like a tent above Jem’s arm, I guessed, to cover the blanket. The strange man leaned in, scrutinizing Jem closely. His expression was a mixture of shyness and curiosity, as if he had never seen a boy before. He opened his mouth slightly, looking Jem up and down. Then he raised one hand, but it fell to his side. “You can touch him, Mr. Arthur, he’s asleep. He won’t let you touch him when he’s awake…” I said to him. “Go ahead and touch him.” The strange man’s hand hesitated above Jem’s head. “Go ahead and touch him, Mr. Arthur, he’s asleep.” His hand gently landed on Jem’s hair. At this moment, I began to understand his body language. He squeezed my hand tightly, meaning he wanted to go home. When I led him to the front porch, his hesitant steps stopped, but he still held my hand, showing no intention of letting go. “Can you take me home?” His voice was so soft it was almost a whisper, like a child afraid of the dark pleading. My foot had just touched the top step when I stopped. I could hold his hand and walk around our house, but I absolutely couldn’t take him home like this. “Mr. Arthur, bend your arm, like this. Okay, sir.” I put my hand in the crook of his arm. He had to stoop slightly to walk arm-in-arm with me, but if Miss Stephanie happened to be looking down from her upstairs window, she would see Mr. Arthur Radley walking with me like a gentleman on the sidewalk. As we reached the streetlamp at the corner, I couldn't help but think of how many times Dill had stood here, clinging to this thick pillar, watching, waiting, hoping; and how many times Jem and I had passed by here, but this was only the second time in my life I had stepped into the Radley's yard. The oddball and I climbed the steps to the front porch. His hand fumbled for the doorknob, then he gently released my arm, opened the door, went inside, and casually closed it behind him. I never saw him again. Among the neighbors, if someone died, people would bring food; if someone was sick, people would bring flowers; for any event, big or small, people would give small gifts. The oddball was also our neighbor. He gave us two soap dolls, a broken pocket watch with its chain, two lucky coins, and our lives. Neighbors are always expected to exchange gifts, but we had only taken gift after gift from that tree hollow, without putting anything back in return—we had given him nothing, and this saddened me. I turned to go home. The streetlights twinkled, stretching all the way into town. It was the first time I had ever looked around this familiar neighborhood from this angle. Over there were Miss Mordy's and Miss Stephanie's houses, and over here was ours—I could see the swing set on the front porch, Miss Rachel's house was a little behind ours, and even Mrs. Dubose's house was clearly visible. I looked behind me again. To the left of the brown door was a long, narrow shuttered window. I went over, stood in front of it, and turned back to look around. I thought that in daylight, I could see all the way to the corner where the post office was from here. In the bright sunlight… the night was dispelled by my imagination, and it was broad daylight; the whole neighborhood was bustling with activity. Miss Stephanie was crossing the street to tell Miss Rachel the latest news. Miss Moody was bending over, tending to her beloved azaleas. It was summer, and two children skipped and jumped on the sidewalk to greet a man approaching from afar. The man waved, and the two children chased each other, neither giving way, all the way to him. It was still summer, and the children drew closer. The boy hesitated, dragging a fishing rod behind him. The man stood there, hands on his hips, waiting for him. It was still summer, and his children were playing with their friends in the front yard, improvising and acting out a nonsensical little play. In autumn, his two children were fighting on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Dubose's house. The boy helped his sister up, and the two walked home together. That autumn, his two children ran back and forth across that street corner, their faces etched with the day's worries and joys. They stopped before a large oak tree, their faces flashing with surprise, confusion, and a touch of fear. That winter, his two children shivered in front of the gate, a house ablaze, the firelight casting their small silhouettes. Also in winter, the man walked into the street, threw down his glasses, and shot a rabid dog. Another summer came, and he watched his children's hearts shatter. Another autumn arrived, and the oddball's friend needed his help. Atticus was right. He once told me, "You can never truly understand a person unless you put on their shoes and walk around in their shoes, and see things from their perspective." For me, standing on the Radley's front porch was enough. The streetlights glowed dimly in the quietly falling drizzle. I walked home, feeling as if I were already very old. I stared intently at the tip of my nose, trying to see the tiny water droplets falling on it, but this made me cross-eyed and dizzy, so I stopped looking. Walking home, I thought about how I was supposed to tell Jem something so important tomorrow, and he'd missed it tonight; he'd definitely be angry and ignore me for days. Walking home, I thought about how Jem and I would grow up day by day, and how there wouldn't be much left to learn, except perhaps algebra. I ran up the steps and went inside. Aunt Alexandra was already in bed, and the light was off in Atticus's room. I wanted to check if Jem was awake, and when I entered, I found Atticus in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed reading a book. "Is Jem awake?" "He's sleeping soundly. He won't wake up until tomorrow morning." "Oh, are you going to stay up with him?" "I'll just stay here for about an hour. Go to sleep, Scout. You've had a tough day." "Oh, I'd like to stay with you for a while." "Suit yourself," Atticus said. It must have been past midnight by then, and I was quite surprised that he readily agreed to my request. But he was more cunning than I was: I'd only been sitting for a short while when I started to feel sleepy. "What are you reading?" Atticus glanced at the book cover. "It's one of Jem's books, called *The Grey Ghost*." I suddenly snapped awake. "Why are you reading this?" "Honey, I don't know. I just picked it up; it's one I haven't read yet," he said frankly. "Atticus, please read it aloud. This book is really scary." "No," he said, "you've had enough frights lately. This is too..." "Atticus, I'm not scared." He raised an eyebrow, and I quickly protested: "At least I wasn't scared before I told Mr. Tate. Jem wasn't scared either. I asked him, and he said he wasn't. Besides, there's nothing particularly scary about it except what's written in the book." Atticus opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again. He removed his thumb from the book and turned back to the first page. I leaned closer and rested my head on his knee. “Hmm,” he read, “The Grey Ghost, by Sexterry Hawkins. Chapter One…” I tried to stay awake, but the rain outside was so soft, the room so warm, his voice so deep, and resting my head on his lap so comforting, that I drifted off to sleep. It seemed like only a few seconds had passed when I felt his shoe lightly brush against my ribs. He helped me up and guided me into my bedroom. “I heard every word you read,” I mumbled, “…I wasn’t asleep at all. It’s about a boat and Three-Fingered Fred, and Stoner Boy…” He unhooked my overalls, let me lean against him, and helped me take them off. Then, supporting me with one hand, he reached for my pajamas with the other. “Yes, they all thought it was Stoner who caused trouble at their club, spilling ink everywhere, and…” He led me to the bedside, sat me up, lifted my legs onto the bed, and then covered me with the blanket. “And then, they were chasing Stoner everywhere, but they just couldn't catch him because they didn't even know what he looked like. Atticus, then they finally found him, and realized he hadn't done anything wrong at all… Atticus, he's actually a very kind person…” He reached under my chin, pulled the blanket up, and tucked me in. “Scooter, most people are kind. You'll find out once you get to know them.” He turned off the light and went back to Jem's room. He would stay there all night, keeping watch by Jem's bedside when he woke up the next morning.
Part Two, Chapter Thirty “My dear, you should call him Mr. Arthur,” Atticus gently corrected me. “Joan Louise, and this is Mr. Arthur Radley. I think he already knows you.” Atticus’s ability to introduce me to the strange man so politely at a time like this—well, that’s Atticus for you. The strange man saw me instinctively run to Jem’s bedside, a shy smile returning to his face. I blushed with embarrassment and pretended to cover Jem with the blanket to hide my awkwardness. “Ah—don’t touch him,” Atticus stopped me. Mr. Heck Tate sat there impassively, watching the strange man from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Just as he was about to speak, Dr. Reynolds walked down the aisle. “Everyone, please leave,” he said as he entered the room. “Good evening, Arthur. I didn’t notice you the first time I came.” Dr. Reynolds’ tone was as light as his footsteps, as if he greeted me like this every night. This casual remark surprised me more than being in the same room as the eccentric Radley. Of course… even the eccentric Radley gets sick sometimes, I thought, but then again, I wasn’t so sure. Dr. Reynolds brought in a large package wrapped in newspaper, placed it on Jem’s desk, and then took off his coat. “He’s alive, you can rest assured now. Let me tell you how I know. When I was examining him, he kicked me. I had to put him in a drowsy state, otherwise I couldn’t touch him at all. You all should leave now,” he said to me. “Oh—” Atticus hesitated, glancing at the strange man. “Heck, let’s all go outside to the front porch. There are plenty of chairs there, and it’s warm enough outside.” This struck me as odd: why didn’t Atticus invite everyone to sit in the living room instead of going to the front porch? But I immediately understood—the living room lights were too bright. We went out one by one, Mr. Tate leading the way. Atticus stood in the doorway, wanting the strange man to go ahead, but then changed his mind and followed Mr. Tate out first. Even in the most unusual circumstances, people still observe everyday etiquette, out of habit. I was no exception. “Come on, Mr. Arthur,” I said naturally, “you’re not very familiar with our house, let me take you to the front porch, sir.” He looked down at me and nodded slightly. I led him through the hallway and across the living room. “Please sit down, Mr. Arthur. This rocking chair is very comfortable.” My little fantasy about him, hidden deep within me, resurfaced: him sitting on the front porch… The weather’s been lovely lately, haven’t you, Mr. Arthur? Yes, the weather is lovely. As if in a dream, I led him to the chair furthest from Atticus and Mr. Tate, a spot shrouded in darkness, where I guessed he’d feel more comfortable. Atticus sat on the swing set, and Mr. Tate settled into a chair beside him. Bright light streamed from the living room window, illuminating them. I sat down next to the strange man. “Oh, Heck,” said Atticus, “I think the most pressing thing is… Good heavens, my memory is getting worse and worse…” Atticus pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “Jem isn’t even thirteen yet… no, he’s thirteen—I can’t even remember that. Anyway, this case will be heard in county court…” “What case needs to be heard in court, Mr. Finch?” Mr. Tate lowered his legs and leaned toward Atticus. “Of course, it’s clearly self-defense, but I still need to check the files in my office…” “Mr. Finch, you believe Jem killed Bob Ewell? Is that your opinion?” “You heard what Scout said, there’s no doubt about it. She said Jem got up from the ground and suddenly pulled Bob Ewell off her—maybe he took the knife from Ewell in the dark…we’ll find out that tomorrow.” “Mr. Finch, wait a minute,” Mr. Tate said, “Jem didn’t stab Ewell at all.” Atticus was silent for a moment. He looked at Mr. Tate, seemingly very grateful for what he had said. But Atticus still shook his head. “Heck, I know you mean well, and I appreciate it, but this must never be allowed to begin.” Mr. Tate stood up, walked to the front porch, spat into the bushes, and then put his hands in his back pockets, facing Atticus. “Begin what?” he asked. “Heck, don’t blame me for being blunt,” Atticus said directly, “but this is not something anyone can hide. That’s not my style.” “No one is hiding anything, Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate’s voice was calm, his boots firmly planted on the floor as if rooted to the ground. A strange confrontation was brewing between my father and the sheriff, a confrontation I couldn’t quite fathom. Now it was Atticus’s turn to stand up and walk to the front porch. He cleared his throat and spat into the yard. He, too, put his hands in his back pockets, facing Mr. Tate. “Heck, though you haven’t said it clearly, I know what you’re thinking. Thank you for your kindness. Joan Louise…” He turned to me and said, “You just said that Jem pulled Mr. Ewell away from you, didn’t you?” “Yes, that’s what I think… I…” “Heck, you heard me? I appreciate you from the bottom of my heart, but I don’t want my son to start his life with such a shadow over him. The best way to dispel the shadow is to put everything in the open. Let the whole county bring sandwiches to the trial. I don’t want him to grow up amidst people’s whispers, I don’t want to hear anyone say, ‘Jem Finch… his old man spent a fortune to get him out of trouble.’ The sooner this chapter is over, the better.” “Mr. Finch,” Mr. Tate said calmly, “Bob Ewell died by his own hand. He killed himself.” Atticus walked to a corner of the front porch, his eyes fixed on the wisteria. I think they were both stubborn, though stubborn in their own unique ways. I truly don't know who will give in first. Atticus's stubbornness is calm and almost imperceptible, but when it strikes, it's quite similar to the Cunningham family. Mr. Tate's stubbornness is direct and somewhat rough, but he's my father's equal. “Heck,” Atticus said, turning away, “if we cover up the truth, it would be a complete betrayal of the principles I’ve always taught Jem how to be a person. Sometimes I feel like a failure as a father, utterly worthless, yet I am all they have. In this world, Jem looks at me first, then at everyone else, and I’ve always tried to live with dignity, to be able to look him in the eye… If I condone this, frankly, I will never be able to look him in the eye again, and if that happens, I will know I have lost him forever. I don’t want to lose him and Scout, because they are everything to me.” “Mr. Finch,” Mr. Tate remained firmly planted on the floor, “Bob Ewell fell into the line of fire. I can attest to that.” Atticus turned around. His hands were deeply in his pockets. “Heck, can’t you think about things from my perspective? You have children too, though I’m older than you. By the time my children are grown, if I’m still alive, I’ll be an old man, but right now I—if they don’t trust me, they won’t trust anyone. Jem and Scout know what happened. If they hear me telling a different story in town—Heck—I’ll lose them forever. I absolutely can’t have one story at home and another outside.” Mr. Tate shuffled his heel across the floor patiently. “After he threw Jem to the ground, he tripped over a tree root and fell to the ground himself—you see, I can show you.” Mr. Tate reached into his side pocket and pulled out a long switchblade. Just then, Dr. Reynolds came to the door. “Doctor, that son of a bitch—died under that tree on campus. Do you have a flashlight? You'd better take this.” “I can manage to get around it and turn on the headlights,” Dr. Reynolds said, but he took the flashlight from Mr. Tate anyway. “Jem is fine. I don’t think he’ll wake up tonight, so don’t worry. Was Bob Ewell killed with this knife, Heck?” “No, the knife is still in his body. Judging from the handle, it’s a kitchen knife. Ken should have already sent the coffin over. Goodnight, Doctor.” Mr. Tate snapped the switchblade open. “Like this,” he said. He gripped the handle, pretended to trip, and as he leaned forward, he extended his left arm under his chest. “See? He just stabbed himself in the ribs like that. All his weight was on the blade, and the knife went in.” Mr. Tate closed the switchblade and put it back in his pocket. “Scooter was only eight,” he said. “She was terrified and had no idea what was happening.” “You’d be surprised,” Atticus said coldly. “I’m not saying she’s making it up; I’m saying she was too panicked to understand what was going on. Besides, it was pitch black. Unless someone is very accustomed to the dark, they’re not qualified to be a witness…” “I can’t accept that explanation,” Atticus said softly. “Damn it, I wasn’t thinking about Jem!” Mr. Tate’s boots slammed on the floor with an unusually loud thud, and the light in Miss Mordy’s bedroom came on. The light in Miss Stephanie’s house also came on. Atticus and Mr. Tate glanced across the street, then exchanged a look. They waited quietly for things to calm down. When Mr. Tate spoke again, his voice was almost inaudible. “Mr. Finch, I don’t want to argue with you at a time like this. You’ve been under too much pressure tonight; no one should have gone through that. I don’t know how you managed to hold on and not collapse in bed. But I’m quite certain now that you haven’t reasoned from the facts this time, and we must resolve this tonight, because it will be too late by tomorrow. Bob Ewell still has a knife stuck in his stomach.” Mr. Tate then asked Atticus if he intended to stand in court and insist that a boy of Jem’s build could fight an adult in complete darkness, dragging a broken arm, and ultimately kill him. “Heck,” Atticus suddenly asked, “where did you get that switchblade you were waving around in just now?” “Confiscated from a drunkard,” Mr. Tate replied casually. I tried to recall the scene. Mr. Ewell choked me so hard I couldn’t breathe…and then he fell down…Jem must have gotten up. At least that's what I think… “Heck?” “Like I said, I confiscated it from a drunkard in town tonight. Bob Ewell probably found that kitchen knife somewhere in the junkyard, sharpened it to a razor's edge, and then waited for the right moment… waited for the right moment to strike.” Atticus walked heavily to the swing set and sat down. His hands hung limply between his knees, his eyes fixed on the floor. His movements were unusually slow, just like that night in front of the jail, when I watched him fold up the newspaper and toss it onto the chair, and it seemed like this slow motion would never stop. Mr. Tate paced back and forth on the front porch, trying to be as quiet as possible. “This isn’t your decision, Mr. Finch. It’s all up to me. This is my decision, and my responsibility. At least this time, you have to see things from my perspective, otherwise you won’t be able to argue with me. If you insist on trying, I’ll confront you and tell you you’re lying, that your son didn’t stab Bob Ewell to death.” He said slowly, “This has nothing to do with him, and you know that perfectly well. He just wanted to get himself and his sister home safely.” Mr. Tate stopped and stood in front of Atticus, his back to us. “Sir, I’m not exactly a good man, but I’m the sheriff of Maycomb County. I’ve lived in this town my whole life, and I’m forty-three years old now. I know everything that’s happened here, from before I was born until now. There’s nothing I don’t know. A young black man lost his life for no reason, and the guy who was supposed to be responsible for it is dead too. Let the dead bury the dead, Mr. Finch. Let the dead bury the dead.” Mr. Tate walked to the swing set, picked up the hat he had placed next to Atticus, smoothed his hair back, and put the hat on his head. “I’ve never heard of a citizen going to great lengths to prevent a crime from happening being against the law—that’s exactly what he did. You might say I have a responsibility to tell everyone in town the truth, that I shouldn’t hide anything. But do you know what the consequences will be? All the women in Maycomb, including my wife, will be knocking on his door with angel cakes. Mr. Finch, in my opinion, this man has done a great service for you and for the whole town, and if people ignore his reclusive lifestyle and force him into the spotlight—I think that’s a crime. I don’t want to bear that kind of guilt. If it were anyone else, it would be a different story. But he’s different, Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate looked as if he wanted to drill a hole in the floor with the tip of his boot. He twitched his nose and then rubbed his left arm a few times. “Mr. Finch, I may not be much of a figure, but I am, after all, the sheriff of Maycomb County. I told you, Bob Ewell died on his own. Goodnight, sir.” Mr. Tate thumped down the porch and strode across the front yard. He slammed the car door shut and drove off. Atticus sat there, staring at the floor, silent for a long time. Finally, he looked up. “Scooter,” he said, “Mr. Ewell died on his own. Do you understand?” Atticus looked like he needed someone to cheer him up. I ran over, hugged him tightly, and kissed him. “Yes, I understand,” I reassured him. “Mr. Tate is right.” Atticus pulled away and looked at me earnestly. “What do you mean?” “Well, it’s like killing a robin, isn’t it?” Atticus buried his face in my hair and rubbed it against me gently for a moment. He rose and walked across the front porch into the shadows, his steps regaining their usual lightness. Before entering the house, he paused in front of the strange Radley. "Arthur, thank you for saving my child." The strange Radley slowly rose to his feet, the light flickering through the living room window, casting an unpredictable glow on his forehead. Every movement he made seemed hesitant, as if unsure whether his limbs could still properly touch things. Another bout of agonizing coughing erupted, accompanied by a terrifying guttural sound. He coughed so violently that his whole body trembled, and he had no choice but to sit back down. He fumbled in his back pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and coughed frantically into it before wiping his forehead. Tonight, he had actually sat beside me for so long, which I found unbelievable, because I had long been accustomed to his invisible state. During this time, he had remained completely silent. He stood up again, facing me, and nodded towards the door. “Mr. Arthur, you want to say goodnight to Jem, don’t you? Then come inside.” I led him into the hallway, where Aunt Alexandra was sitting beside Jem’s bed. “Come in, Arthur,” she said. “He’s still asleep. Dr. Reynolds gave him a strong sedative. Joan Louise, is your father in the living room?” “Yes, I think so.” “I need to talk to him about something. Dr. Reynolds left some…” Her voice trailed off with her footsteps. The strange man had silently moved to the corner, chin tilted back, gazing at Jem from afar. I took his hand; the pale hand was surprisingly warm. I gently tugged at him, and he followed me to Jem’s bedside. Dr. Reynolds had erected something like a tent above Jem’s arm, I guessed, to cover the blanket. The strange man leaned in, scrutinizing Jem closely. His expression was a mixture of shyness and curiosity, as if he had never seen a boy before. He opened his mouth slightly, looking Jem up and down. Then he raised one hand, but it fell to his side. “You can touch him, Mr. Arthur, he’s asleep. He won’t let you touch him when he’s awake…” I said to him. “Go ahead and touch him.” The strange man’s hand hesitated above Jem’s head. “Go ahead and touch him, Mr. Arthur, he’s asleep.” His hand gently landed on Jem’s hair. At this moment, I began to understand his body language. He squeezed my hand tightly, meaning he wanted to go home. When I led him to the front porch, his hesitant steps stopped, but he still held my hand, showing no intention of letting go. “Can you take me home?” His voice was so soft it was almost a whisper, like a child afraid of the dark pleading. My foot had just touched the top step when I stopped. I could hold his hand and walk around our house, but I absolutely couldn’t take him home like this. “Mr. Arthur, bend your arm, like this. Okay, sir.” I put my hand in the crook of his arm. He had to stoop slightly to walk arm-in-arm with me, but if Miss Stephanie happened to be looking down from her upstairs window, she would see Mr. Arthur Radley walking with me like a gentleman on the sidewalk. As we reached the streetlamp at the corner, I couldn't help but think of how many times Dill had stood here, clinging to this thick pillar, watching, waiting, hoping; and how many times Jem and I had passed by here, but this was only the second time in my life I had stepped into the Radley's yard. The oddball and I climbed the steps to the front porch. His hand fumbled for the doorknob, then he gently released my arm, opened the door, went inside, and casually closed it behind him. I never saw him again. Among the neighbors, if someone died, people would bring food; if someone was sick, people would bring flowers; for any event, big or small, people would give small gifts. The oddball was also our neighbor. He gave us two soap dolls, a broken pocket watch with its chain, two lucky coins, and our lives. Neighbors are always expected to exchange gifts, but we had only taken gift after gift from that tree hollow, without putting anything back in return—we had given him nothing, and this saddened me. I turned to go home. The streetlights twinkled, stretching all the way into town. It was the first time I had ever looked around this familiar neighborhood from this angle. Over there were Miss Mordy's and Miss Stephanie's houses, and over here was ours—I could see the swing set on the front porch, Miss Rachel's house was a little behind ours, and even Mrs. Dubose's house was clearly visible. I looked behind me again. To the left of the brown door was a long, narrow shuttered window. I went over, stood in front of it, and turned back to look around. I thought that in daylight, I could see all the way to the corner where the post office was from here. In the bright sunlight… the night was dispelled by my imagination, and it was broad daylight; the whole neighborhood was bustling with activity. Miss Stephanie was crossing the street to tell Miss Rachel the latest news. Miss Moody was bending over, tending to her beloved azaleas. It was summer, and two children skipped and jumped on the sidewalk to greet a man approaching from afar. The man waved, and the two children chased each other, neither giving way, all the way to him. It was still summer, and the children drew closer. The boy hesitated, dragging a fishing rod behind him. The man stood there, hands on his hips, waiting for him. It was still summer, and his children were playing with their friends in the front yard, improvising and acting out a nonsensical little play. In autumn, his two children were fighting on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Dubose's house. The boy helped his sister up, and the two walked home together. That autumn, his two children ran back and forth across that street corner, their faces etched with the day's worries and joys. They stopped before a large oak tree, their faces flashing with surprise, confusion, and a touch of fear. That winter, his two children shivered in front of the gate, a house ablaze, the firelight casting their small silhouettes. Also in winter, the man walked into the street, threw down his glasses, and shot a rabid dog. Another summer came, and he watched his children's hearts shatter. Another autumn arrived, and the oddball's friend needed his help. Atticus was right. He once told me, "You can never truly understand a person unless you put on their shoes and walk around in their shoes, and see things from their perspective." For me, standing on the Radley's front porch was enough. The streetlights glowed dimly in the quietly falling drizzle. I walked home, feeling as if I were already very old. I stared intently at the tip of my nose, trying to see the tiny water droplets falling on it, but this made me cross-eyed and dizzy, so I stopped looking. Walking home, I thought about how I was supposed to tell Jem something so important tomorrow, and he'd missed it tonight; he'd definitely be angry and ignore me for days. Walking home, I thought about how Jem and I would grow up day by day, and how there wouldn't be much left to learn, except perhaps algebra. I ran up the steps and went inside. Aunt Alexandra was already in bed, and the light was off in Atticus's room. I wanted to check if Jem was awake, and when I entered, I found Atticus in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed reading a book. "Is Jem awake?" "He's sleeping soundly. He won't wake up until tomorrow morning." "Oh, are you going to stay up with him?" "I'll just stay here for about an hour. Go to sleep, Scout. You've had a tough day." "Oh, I'd like to stay with you for a while." "Suit yourself," Atticus said. It must have been past midnight by then, and I was quite surprised that he readily agreed to my request. But he was more cunning than I was: I'd only been sitting for a short while when I started to feel sleepy. "What are you reading?" Atticus glanced at the book cover. "It's one of Jem's books, called *The Grey Ghost*." I suddenly snapped awake. "Why are you reading this?" "Honey, I don't know. I just picked it up; it's one I haven't read yet," he said frankly. "Atticus, please read it aloud. This book is really scary." "No," he said, "you've had enough frights lately. This is too..." "Atticus, I'm not scared." He raised an eyebrow, and I quickly protested: "At least I wasn't scared before I told Mr. Tate. Jem wasn't scared either. I asked him, and he said he wasn't. Besides, there's nothing particularly scary about it except what's written in the book." Atticus opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again. He removed his thumb from the book and turned back to the first page. I leaned closer and rested my head on his knee. “Hmm,” he read, “The Grey Ghost, by Sexterry Hawkins. Chapter One…” I tried to stay awake, but the rain outside was so soft, the room so warm, his voice so deep, and resting my head on his lap so comforting, that I drifted off to sleep. It seemed like only a few seconds had passed when I felt his shoe lightly brush against my ribs. He helped me up and guided me into my bedroom. “I heard every word you read,” I mumbled, “…I wasn’t asleep at all. It’s about a boat and Three-Fingered Fred, and Stoner Boy…” He unhooked my overalls, let me lean against him, and helped me take them off. Then, supporting me with one hand, he reached for my pajamas with the other. “Yes, they all thought it was Stoner who caused trouble at their club, spilling ink everywhere, and…” He led me to the bedside, sat me up, lifted my legs onto the bed, and then covered me with the blanket. “And then, they were chasing Stoner everywhere, but they just couldn't catch him because they didn't even know what he looked like. Atticus, then they finally found him, and realized he hadn't done anything wrong at all… Atticus, he's actually a very kind person…” He reached under my chin, pulled the blanket up, and tucked me in. “Scooter, most people are kind. You'll find out once you get to know them.” He turned off the light and went back to Jem's room. He would stay there all night, keeping watch by Jem's bedside when he woke up the next morning.
Part Two, Chapter Thirty “My dear, you should call him Mr. Arthur,” Atticus gently corrected me. “Joan Louise, and this is Mr. Arthur Radley. I think he already knows you.” Atticus’s ability to introduce me to the strange man so politely at a time like this—well, that’s Atticus for you. The strange man saw me instinctively run to Jem’s bedside, a shy smile returning to his face. I blushed with embarrassment and pretended to cover Jem with the blanket to hide my awkwardness. “Ah—don’t touch him,” Atticus stopped me. Mr. Heck Tate sat there impassively, watching the strange man from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Just as he was about to speak, Dr. Reynolds walked down the aisle. “Everyone, please leave,” he said as he entered the room. “Good evening, Arthur. I didn’t notice you the first time I came.” Dr. Reynolds’ tone was as light as his footsteps, as if he greeted me like this every night. This casual remark surprised me more than being in the same room as the eccentric Radley. Of course… even the eccentric Radley gets sick sometimes, I thought, but then again, I wasn’t so sure. Dr. Reynolds brought in a large package wrapped in newspaper, placed it on Jem’s desk, and then took off his coat. “He’s alive, you can rest assured now. Let me tell you how I know. When I was examining him, he kicked me. I had to put him in a drowsy state, otherwise I couldn’t touch him at all. You all should leave now,” he said to me. “Oh—” Atticus hesitated, glancing at the strange man. “Heck, let’s all go outside to the front porch. There are plenty of chairs there, and it’s warm enough outside.” This struck me as odd: why didn’t Atticus invite everyone to sit in the living room instead of going to the front porch? But I immediately understood—the living room lights were too bright. We went out one by one, Mr. Tate leading the way. Atticus stood in the doorway, wanting the strange man to go ahead, but then changed his mind and followed Mr. Tate out first. Even in the most unusual circumstances, people still observe everyday etiquette, out of habit. I was no exception. “Come on, Mr. Arthur,” I said naturally, “you’re not very familiar with our house, let me take you to the front porch, sir.” He looked down at me and nodded slightly. I led him through the hallway and across the living room. “Please sit down, Mr. Arthur. This rocking chair is very comfortable.” My little fantasy about him, hidden deep within me, resurfaced: him sitting on the front porch… The weather’s been lovely lately, haven’t you, Mr. Arthur? Yes, the weather is lovely. As if in a dream, I led him to the chair furthest from Atticus and Mr. Tate, a spot shrouded in darkness, where I guessed he’d feel more comfortable. Atticus sat on the swing set, and Mr. Tate settled into a chair beside him. Bright light streamed from the living room window, illuminating them. I sat down next to the strange man. “Oh, Heck,” said Atticus, “I think the most pressing thing is… Good heavens, my memory is getting worse and worse…” Atticus pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “Jem isn’t even thirteen yet… no, he’s thirteen—I can’t even remember that. Anyway, this case will be heard in county court…” “What case needs to be heard in court, Mr. Finch?” Mr. Tate lowered his legs and leaned toward Atticus. “Of course, it’s clearly self-defense, but I still need to check the files in my office…” “Mr. Finch, you believe Jem killed Bob Ewell? Is that your opinion?” “You heard what Scout said, there’s no doubt about it. She said Jem got up from the ground and suddenly pulled Bob Ewell off her—maybe he took the knife from Ewell in the dark…we’ll find out that tomorrow.” “Mr. Finch, wait a minute,” Mr. Tate said, “Jem didn’t stab Ewell at all.” Atticus was silent for a moment. He looked at Mr. Tate, seemingly very grateful for what he had said. But Atticus still shook his head. “Heck, I know you mean well, and I appreciate it, but this must never be allowed to begin.” Mr. Tate stood up, walked to the front porch, spat into the bushes, and then put his hands in his back pockets, facing Atticus. “Begin what?” he asked. “Heck, don’t blame me for being blunt,” Atticus said directly, “but this is not something anyone can hide. That’s not my style.” “No one is hiding anything, Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate’s voice was calm, his boots firmly planted on the floor as if rooted to the ground. A strange confrontation was brewing between my father and the sheriff, a confrontation I couldn’t quite fathom. Now it was Atticus’s turn to stand up and walk to the front porch. He cleared his throat and spat into the yard. He, too, put his hands in his back pockets, facing Mr. Tate. “Heck, though you haven’t said it clearly, I know what you’re thinking. Thank you for your kindness. Joan Louise…” He turned to me and said, “You just said that Jem pulled Mr. Ewell away from you, didn’t you?” “Yes, that’s what I think… I…” “Heck, you heard me? I appreciate you from the bottom of my heart, but I don’t want my son to start his life with such a shadow over him. The best way to dispel the shadow is to put everything in the open. Let the whole county bring sandwiches to the trial. I don’t want him to grow up amidst people’s whispers, I don’t want to hear anyone say, ‘Jem Finch… his old man spent a fortune to get him out of trouble.’ The sooner this chapter is over, the better.” “Mr. Finch,” Mr. Tate said calmly, “Bob Ewell died by his own hand. He killed himself.” Atticus walked to a corner of the front porch, his eyes fixed on the wisteria. I think they were both stubborn, though stubborn in their own unique ways. I truly don't know who will give in first. Atticus's stubbornness is calm and almost imperceptible, but when it strikes, it's quite similar to the Cunningham family. Mr. Tate's stubbornness is direct and somewhat rough, but he's my father's equal. “Heck,” Atticus said, turning away, “if we cover up the truth, it would be a complete betrayal of the principles I’ve always taught Jem how to be a person. Sometimes I feel like a failure as a father, utterly worthless, yet I am all they have. In this world, Jem looks at me first, then at everyone else, and I’ve always tried to live with dignity, to be able to look him in the eye… If I condone this, frankly, I will never be able to look him in the eye again, and if that happens, I will know I have lost him forever. I don’t want to lose him and Scout, because they are everything to me.” “Mr. Finch,” Mr. Tate remained firmly planted on the floor, “Bob Ewell fell into the line of fire. I can attest to that.” Atticus turned around. His hands were deeply in his pockets. “Heck, can’t you think about things from my perspective? You have children too, though I’m older than you. By the time my children are grown, if I’m still alive, I’ll be an old man, but right now I—if they don’t trust me, they won’t trust anyone. Jem and Scout know what happened. If they hear me telling a different story in town—Heck—I’ll lose them forever. I absolutely can’t have one story at home and another outside.” Mr. Tate shuffled his heel across the floor patiently. “After he threw Jem to the ground, he tripped over a tree root and fell to the ground himself—you see, I can show you.” Mr. Tate reached into his side pocket and pulled out a long switchblade. Just then, Dr. Reynolds came to the door. “Doctor, that son of a bitch—died under that tree on campus. Do you have a flashlight? You'd better take this.” “I can manage to get around it and turn on the headlights,” Dr. Reynolds said, but he took the flashlight from Mr. Tate anyway. “Jem is fine. I don’t think he’ll wake up tonight, so don’t worry. Was Bob Ewell killed with this knife, Heck?” “No, the knife is still in his body. Judging from the handle, it’s a kitchen knife. Ken should have already sent the coffin over. Goodnight, Doctor.” Mr. Tate snapped the switchblade open. “Like this,” he said. He gripped the handle, pretended to trip, and as he leaned forward, he extended his left arm under his chest. “See? He just stabbed himself in the ribs like that. All his weight was on the blade, and the knife went in.” Mr. Tate closed the switchblade and put it back in his pocket. “Scooter was only eight,” he said. “She was terrified and had no idea what was happening.” “You’d be surprised,” Atticus said coldly. “I’m not saying she’s making it up; I’m saying she was too panicked to understand what was going on. Besides, it was pitch black. Unless someone is very accustomed to the dark, they’re not qualified to be a witness…” “I can’t accept that explanation,” Atticus said softly. “Damn it, I wasn’t thinking about Jem!” Mr. Tate’s boots slammed on the floor with an unusually loud thud, and the light in Miss Mordy’s bedroom came on. The light in Miss Stephanie’s house also came on. Atticus and Mr. Tate glanced across the street, then exchanged a look. They waited quietly for things to calm down. When Mr. Tate spoke again, his voice was almost inaudible. “Mr. Finch, I don’t want to argue with you at a time like this. You’ve been under too much pressure tonight; no one should have gone through that. I don’t know how you managed to hold on and not collapse in bed. But I’m quite certain now that you haven’t reasoned from the facts this time, and we must resolve this tonight, because it will be too late by tomorrow. Bob Ewell still has a knife stuck in his stomach.” Mr. Tate then asked Atticus if he intended to stand in court and insist that a boy of Jem’s build could fight an adult in complete darkness, dragging a broken arm, and ultimately kill him. “Heck,” Atticus suddenly asked, “where did you get that switchblade you were waving around in just now?” “Confiscated from a drunkard,” Mr. Tate replied casually. I tried to recall the scene. Mr. Ewell choked me so hard I couldn’t breathe…and then he fell down…Jem must have gotten up. At least that's what I think… “Heck?” “Like I said, I confiscated it from a drunkard in town tonight. Bob Ewell probably found that kitchen knife somewhere in the junkyard, sharpened it to a razor's edge, and then waited for the right moment… waited for the right moment to strike.” Atticus walked heavily to the swing set and sat down. His hands hung limply between his knees, his eyes fixed on the floor. His movements were unusually slow, just like that night in front of the jail, when I watched him fold up the newspaper and toss it onto the chair, and it seemed like this slow motion would never stop. Mr. Tate paced back and forth on the front porch, trying to be as quiet as possible. “This isn’t your decision, Mr. Finch. It’s all up to me. This is my decision, and my responsibility. At least this time, you have to see things from my perspective, otherwise you won’t be able to argue with me. If you insist on trying, I’ll confront you and tell you you’re lying, that your son didn’t stab Bob Ewell to death.” He said slowly, “This has nothing to do with him, and you know that perfectly well. He just wanted to get himself and his sister home safely.” Mr. Tate stopped and stood in front of Atticus, his back to us. “Sir, I’m not exactly a good man, but I’m the sheriff of Maycomb County. I’ve lived in this town my whole life, and I’m forty-three years old now. I know everything that’s happened here, from before I was born until now. There’s nothing I don’t know. A young black man lost his life for no reason, and the guy who was supposed to be responsible for it is dead too. Let the dead bury the dead, Mr. Finch. Let the dead bury the dead.” Mr. Tate walked to the swing set, picked up the hat he had placed next to Atticus, smoothed his hair back, and put the hat on his head. “I’ve never heard of a citizen going to great lengths to prevent a crime from happening being against the law—that’s exactly what he did. You might say I have a responsibility to tell everyone in town the truth, that I shouldn’t hide anything. But do you know what the consequences will be? All the women in Maycomb, including my wife, will be knocking on his door with angel cakes. Mr. Finch, in my opinion, this man has done a great service for you and for the whole town, and if people ignore his reclusive lifestyle and force him into the spotlight—I think that’s a crime. I don’t want to bear that kind of guilt. If it were anyone else, it would be a different story. But he’s different, Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate looked as if he wanted to drill a hole in the floor with the tip of his boot. He twitched his nose and then rubbed his left arm a few times. “Mr. Finch, I may not be much of a figure, but I am, after all, the sheriff of Maycomb County. I told you, Bob Ewell died on his own. Goodnight, sir.” Mr. Tate thumped down the porch and strode across the front yard. He slammed the car door shut and drove off. Atticus sat there, staring at the floor, silent for a long time. Finally, he looked up. “Scooter,” he said, “Mr. Ewell died on his own. Do you understand?” Atticus looked like he needed someone to cheer him up. I ran over, hugged him tightly, and kissed him. “Yes, I understand,” I reassured him. “Mr. Tate is right.” Atticus pulled away and looked at me earnestly. “What do you mean?” “Well, it’s like killing a robin, isn’t it?” Atticus buried his face in my hair and rubbed it against me gently for a moment. He rose and walked across the front porch into the shadows, his steps regaining their usual lightness. Before entering the house, he paused in front of the strange Radley. "Arthur, thank you for saving my child." The strange Radley slowly rose to his feet, the light flickering through the living room window, casting an unpredictable glow on his forehead. Every movement he made seemed hesitant, as if unsure whether his limbs could still properly touch things. Another bout of agonizing coughing erupted, accompanied by a terrifying guttural sound. He coughed so violently that his whole body trembled, and he had no choice but to sit back down. He fumbled in his back pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and coughed frantically into it before wiping his forehead. Tonight, he had actually sat beside me for so long, which I found unbelievable, because I had long been accustomed to his invisible state. During this time, he had remained completely silent. He stood up again, facing me, and nodded towards the door. “Mr. Arthur, you want to say goodnight to Jem, don’t you? Then come inside.” I led him into the hallway, where Aunt Alexandra was sitting beside Jem’s bed. “Come in, Arthur,” she said. “He’s still asleep. Dr. Reynolds gave him a strong sedative. Joan Louise, is your father in the living room?” “Yes, I think so.” “I need to talk to him about something. Dr. Reynolds left some…” Her voice trailed off with her footsteps. The strange man had silently moved to the corner, chin tilted back, gazing at Jem from afar. I took his hand; the pale hand was surprisingly warm. I gently tugged at him, and he followed me to Jem’s bedside. Dr. Reynolds had erected something like a tent above Jem’s arm, I guessed, to cover the blanket. The strange man leaned in, scrutinizing Jem closely. His expression was a mixture of shyness and curiosity, as if he had never seen a boy before. He opened his mouth slightly, looking Jem up and down. Then he raised one hand, but it fell to his side. “You can touch him, Mr. Arthur, he’s asleep. He won’t let you touch him when he’s awake…” I said to him. “Go ahead and touch him.” The strange man’s hand hesitated above Jem’s head. “Go ahead and touch him, Mr. Arthur, he’s asleep.” His hand gently landed on Jem’s hair. At this moment, I began to understand his body language. He squeezed my hand tightly, meaning he wanted to go home. When I led him to the front porch, his hesitant steps stopped, but he still held my hand, showing no intention of letting go. “Can you take me home?” His voice was so soft it was almost a whisper, like a child afraid of the dark pleading. My foot had just touched the top step when I stopped. I could hold his hand and walk around our house, but I absolutely couldn’t take him home like this. “Mr. Arthur, bend your arm, like this. Okay, sir.” I put my hand in the crook of his arm. He had to stoop slightly to walk arm-in-arm with me, but if Miss Stephanie happened to be looking down from her upstairs window, she would see Mr. Arthur Radley walking with me like a gentleman on the sidewalk. As we reached the streetlamp at the corner, I couldn't help but think of how many times Dill had stood here, clinging to this thick pillar, watching, waiting, hoping; and how many times Jem and I had passed by here, but this was only the second time in my life I had stepped into the Radley's yard. The oddball and I climbed the steps to the front porch. His hand fumbled for the doorknob, then he gently released my arm, opened the door, went inside, and casually closed it behind him. I never saw him again. Among the neighbors, if someone died, people would bring food; if someone was sick, people would bring flowers; for any event, big or small, people would give small gifts. The oddball was also our neighbor. He gave us two soap dolls, a broken pocket watch with its chain, two lucky coins, and our lives. Neighbors are always expected to exchange gifts, but we had only taken gift after gift from that tree hollow, without putting anything back in return—we had given him nothing, and this saddened me. I turned to go home. The streetlights twinkled, stretching all the way into town. It was the first time I had ever looked around this familiar neighborhood from this angle. Over there were Miss Mordy's and Miss Stephanie's houses, and over here was ours—I could see the swing set on the front porch, Miss Rachel's house was a little behind ours, and even Mrs. Dubose's house was clearly visible. I looked behind me again. To the left of the brown door was a long, narrow shuttered window. I went over, stood in front of it, and turned back to look around. I thought that in daylight, I could see all the way to the corner where the post office was from here. In the bright sunlight… the night was dispelled by my imagination, and it was broad daylight; the whole neighborhood was bustling with activity. Miss Stephanie was crossing the street to tell Miss Rachel the latest news. Miss Moody was bending over, tending to her beloved azaleas. It was summer, and two children skipped and jumped on the sidewalk to greet a man approaching from afar. The man waved, and the two children chased each other, neither giving way, all the way to him. It was still summer, and the children drew closer. The boy hesitated, dragging a fishing rod behind him. The man stood there, hands on his hips, waiting for him. It was still summer, and his children were playing with their friends in the front yard, improvising and acting out a nonsensical little play. In autumn, his two children were fighting on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Dubose's house. The boy helped his sister up, and the two walked home together. That autumn, his two children ran back and forth across that street corner, their faces etched with the day's worries and joys. They stopped before a large oak tree, their faces flashing with surprise, confusion, and a touch of fear. That winter, his two children shivered in front of the gate, a house ablaze, the firelight casting their small silhouettes. Also in winter, the man walked into the street, threw down his glasses, and shot a rabid dog. Another summer came, and he watched his children's hearts shatter. Another autumn arrived, and the oddball's friend needed his help. Atticus was right. He once told me, "You can never truly understand a person unless you put on their shoes and walk around in their shoes, and see things from their perspective." For me, standing on the Radley's front porch was enough. The streetlights glowed dimly in the quietly falling drizzle. I walked home, feeling as if I were already very old. I stared intently at the tip of my nose, trying to see the tiny water droplets falling on it, but this made me cross-eyed and dizzy, so I stopped looking. Walking home, I thought about how I was supposed to tell Jem something so important tomorrow, and he'd missed it tonight; he'd definitely be angry and ignore me for days. Walking home, I thought about how Jem and I would grow up day by day, and how there wouldn't be much left to learn, except perhaps algebra. I ran up the steps and went inside. Aunt Alexandra was already in bed, and the light was off in Atticus's room. I wanted to check if Jem was awake, and when I entered, I found Atticus in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed reading a book. "Is Jem awake?" "He's sleeping soundly. He won't wake up until tomorrow morning." "Oh, are you going to stay up with him?" "I'll just stay here for about an hour. Go to sleep, Scout. You've had a tough day." "Oh, I'd like to stay with you for a while." "Suit yourself," Atticus said. It must have been past midnight by then, and I was quite surprised that he readily agreed to my request. But he was more cunning than I was: I'd only been sitting for a short while when I started to feel sleepy. "What are you reading?" Atticus glanced at the book cover. "It's one of Jem's books, called *The Grey Ghost*." I suddenly snapped awake. "Why are you reading this?" "Honey, I don't know. I just picked it up; it's one I haven't read yet," he said frankly. "Atticus, please read it aloud. This book is really scary." "No," he said, "you've had enough frights lately. This is too..." "Atticus, I'm not scared." He raised an eyebrow, and I quickly protested: "At least I wasn't scared before I told Mr. Tate. Jem wasn't scared either. I asked him, and he said he wasn't. Besides, there's nothing particularly scary about it except what's written in the book." Atticus opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again. He removed his thumb from the book and turned back to the first page. I leaned closer and rested my head on his knee. “Hmm,” he read, “The Grey Ghost, by Sexterry Hawkins. Chapter One…” I tried to stay awake, but the rain outside was so soft, the room so warm, his voice so deep, and resting my head on his lap so comforting, that I drifted off to sleep. It seemed like only a few seconds had passed when I felt his shoe lightly brush against my ribs. He helped me up and guided me into my bedroom. “I heard every word you read,” I mumbled, “…I wasn’t asleep at all. It’s about a boat and Three-Fingered Fred, and Stoner Boy…” He unhooked my overalls, let me lean against him, and helped me take them off. Then, supporting me with one hand, he reached for my pajamas with the other. “Yes, they all thought it was Stoner who caused trouble at their club, spilling ink everywhere, and…” He led me to the bedside, sat me up, lifted my legs onto the bed, and then covered me with the blanket. “And then, they were chasing Stoner everywhere, but they just couldn't catch him because they didn't even know what he looked like. Atticus, then they finally found him, and realized he hadn't done anything wrong at all… Atticus, he's actually a very kind person…” He reached under my chin, pulled the blanket up, and tucked me in. “Scooter, most people are kind. You'll find out once you get to know them.” He turned off the light and went back to Jem's room. He would stay there all night, keeping watch by Jem's bedside when he woke up the next morning.
Part Two, Chapter Thirty “My dear, you should call him Mr. Arthur,” Atticus gently corrected me. “Joan Louise, and this is Mr. Arthur Radley. I think he already knows you.” Atticus’s ability to introduce me to the strange man so politely at a time like this—well, that’s Atticus for you. The strange man saw me instinctively run to Jem’s bedside, a shy smile returning to his face. I blushed with embarrassment and pretended to cover Jem with the blanket to hide my awkwardness. “Ah—don’t touch him,” Atticus stopped me. Mr. Heck Tate sat there impassively, watching the strange man from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Just as he was about to speak, Dr. Reynolds walked down the aisle. “Everyone, please leave,” he said as he entered the room. “Good evening, Arthur. I didn’t notice you the first time I came.” Dr. Reynolds’ tone was as light as his footsteps, as if he greeted me like this every night. This casual remark surprised me more than being in the same room as the eccentric Radley. Of course… even the eccentric Radley gets sick sometimes, I thought, but then again, I wasn’t so sure. Dr. Reynolds brought in a large package wrapped in newspaper, placed it on Jem’s desk, and then took off his coat. “He’s alive, you can rest assured now. Let me tell you how I know. When I was examining him, he kicked me. I had to put him in a drowsy state, otherwise I couldn’t touch him at all. You all should leave now,” he said to me. “Oh—” Atticus hesitated, glancing at the strange man. “Heck, let’s all go outside to the front porch. There are plenty of chairs there, and it’s warm enough outside.” This struck me as odd: why didn’t Atticus invite everyone to sit in the living room instead of going to the front porch? But I immediately understood—the living room lights were too bright. We went out one by one, Mr. Tate leading the way. Atticus stood in the doorway, wanting the strange man to go ahead, but then changed his mind and followed Mr. Tate out first. Even in the most unusual circumstances, people still observe everyday etiquette, out of habit. I was no exception. “Come on, Mr. Arthur,” I said naturally, “you’re not very familiar with our house, let me take you to the front porch, sir.” He looked down at me and nodded slightly. I led him through the hallway and across the living room. “Please sit down, Mr. Arthur. This rocking chair is very comfortable.” My little fantasy about him, hidden deep within me, resurfaced: him sitting on the front porch… The weather’s been lovely lately, haven’t you, Mr. Arthur? Yes, the weather is lovely. As if in a dream, I led him to the chair furthest from Atticus and Mr. Tate, a spot shrouded in darkness, where I guessed he’d feel more comfortable. Atticus sat on the swing set, and Mr. Tate settled into a chair beside him. Bright light streamed from the living room window, illuminating them. I sat down next to the strange man. “Oh, Heck,” said Atticus, “I think the most pressing thing is… Good heavens, my memory is getting worse and worse…” Atticus pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “Jem isn’t even thirteen yet… no, he’s thirteen—I can’t even remember that. Anyway, this case will be heard in county court…” “What case needs to be heard in court, Mr. Finch?” Mr. Tate lowered his legs and leaned toward Atticus. “Of course, it’s clearly self-defense, but I still need to check the files in my office…” “Mr. Finch, you believe Jem killed Bob Ewell? Is that your opinion?” “You heard what Scout said, there’s no doubt about it. She said Jem got up from the ground and suddenly pulled Bob Ewell off her—maybe he took the knife from Ewell in the dark…we’ll find out that tomorrow.” “Mr. Finch, wait a minute,” Mr. Tate said, “Jem didn’t stab Ewell at all.” Atticus was silent for a moment. He looked at Mr. Tate, seemingly very grateful for what he had said. But Atticus still shook his head. “Heck, I know you mean well, and I appreciate it, but this must never be allowed to begin.” Mr. Tate stood up, walked to the front porch, spat into the bushes, and then put his hands in his back pockets, facing Atticus. “Begin what?” he asked. “Heck, don’t blame me for being blunt,” Atticus said directly, “but this is not something anyone can hide. That’s not my style.” “No one is hiding anything, Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate’s voice was calm, his boots firmly planted on the floor as if rooted to the ground. A strange confrontation was brewing between my father and the sheriff, a confrontation I couldn’t quite fathom. Now it was Atticus’s turn to stand up and walk to the front porch. He cleared his throat and spat into the yard. He, too, put his hands in his back pockets, facing Mr. Tate. “Heck, though you haven’t said it clearly, I know what you’re thinking. Thank you for your kindness. Joan Louise…” He turned to me and said, “You just said that Jem pulled Mr. Ewell away from you, didn’t you?” “Yes, that’s what I think… I…” “Heck, you heard me? I appreciate you from the bottom of my heart, but I don’t want my son to start his life with such a shadow over him. The best way to dispel the shadow is to put everything in the open. Let the whole county bring sandwiches to the trial. I don’t want him to grow up amidst people’s whispers, I don’t want to hear anyone say, ‘Jem Finch… his old man spent a fortune to get him out of trouble.’ The sooner this chapter is over, the better.” “Mr. Finch,” Mr. Tate said calmly, “Bob Ewell died by his own hand. He killed himself.” Atticus walked to a corner of the front porch, his eyes fixed on the wisteria. I think they were both stubborn, though stubborn in their own unique ways. I truly don't know who will give in first. Atticus's stubbornness is calm and almost imperceptible, but when it strikes, it's quite similar to the Cunningham family. Mr. Tate's stubbornness is direct and somewhat rough, but he's my father's equal. “Heck,” Atticus said, turning away, “if we cover up the truth, it would be a complete betrayal of the principles I’ve always taught Jem how to be a person. Sometimes I feel like a failure as a father, utterly worthless, yet I am all they have. In this world, Jem looks at me first, then at everyone else, and I’ve always tried to live with dignity, to be able to look him in the eye… If I condone this, frankly, I will never be able to look him in the eye again, and if that happens, I will know I have lost him forever. I don’t want to lose him and Scout, because they are everything to me.” “Mr. Finch,” Mr. Tate remained firmly planted on the floor, “Bob Ewell fell into the line of fire. I can attest to that.” Atticus turned around. His hands were deeply in his pockets. “Heck, can’t you think about things from my perspective? You have children too, though I’m older than you. By the time my children are grown, if I’m still alive, I’ll be an old man, but right now I—if they don’t trust me, they won’t trust anyone. Jem and Scout know what happened. If they hear me telling a different story in town—Heck—I’ll lose them forever. I absolutely can’t have one story at home and another outside.” Mr. Tate shuffled his heel across the floor patiently. “After he threw Jem to the ground, he tripped over a tree root and fell to the ground himself—you see, I can show you.” Mr. Tate reached into his side pocket and pulled out a long switchblade. Just then, Dr. Reynolds came to the door. “Doctor, that son of a bitch—died under that tree on campus. Do you have a flashlight? You'd better take this.” “I can manage to get around it and turn on the headlights,” Dr. Reynolds said, but he took the flashlight from Mr. Tate anyway. “Jem is fine. I don’t think he’ll wake up tonight, so don’t worry. Was Bob Ewell killed with this knife, Heck?” “No, the knife is still in his body. Judging from the handle, it’s a kitchen knife. Ken should have already sent the coffin over. Goodnight, Doctor.” Mr. Tate snapped the switchblade open. “Like this,” he said. He gripped the handle, pretended to trip, and as he leaned forward, he extended his left arm under his chest. “See? He just stabbed himself in the ribs like that. All his weight was on the blade, and the knife went in.” Mr. Tate closed the switchblade and put it back in his pocket. “Scooter was only eight,” he said. “She was terrified and had no idea what was happening.” “You’d be surprised,” Atticus said coldly. “I’m not saying she’s making it up; I’m saying she was too panicked to understand what was going on. Besides, it was pitch black. Unless someone is very accustomed to the dark, they’re not qualified to be a witness…” “I can’t accept that explanation,” Atticus said softly. “Damn it, I wasn’t thinking about Jem!” Mr. Tate’s boots slammed on the floor with an unusually loud thud, and the light in Miss Mordy’s bedroom came on. The light in Miss Stephanie’s house also came on. Atticus and Mr. Tate glanced across the street, then exchanged a look. They waited quietly for things to calm down. When Mr. Tate spoke again, his voice was almost inaudible. “Mr. Finch, I don’t want to argue with you at a time like this. You’ve been under too much pressure tonight; no one should have gone through that. I don’t know how you managed to hold on and not collapse in bed. But I’m quite certain now that you haven’t reasoned from the facts this time, and we must resolve this tonight, because it will be too late by tomorrow. Bob Ewell still has a knife stuck in his stomach.” Mr. Tate then asked Atticus if he intended to stand in court and insist that a boy of Jem’s build could fight an adult in complete darkness, dragging a broken arm, and ultimately kill him. “Heck,” Atticus suddenly asked, “where did you get that switchblade you were waving around in just now?” “Confiscated from a drunkard,” Mr. Tate replied casually. I tried to recall the scene. Mr. Ewell choked me so hard I couldn’t breathe…and then he fell down…Jem must have gotten up. At least that's what I think… “Heck?” “Like I said, I confiscated it from a drunkard in town tonight. Bob Ewell probably found that kitchen knife somewhere in the junkyard, sharpened it to a razor's edge, and then waited for the right moment… waited for the right moment to strike.” Atticus walked heavily to the swing set and sat down. His hands hung limply between his knees, his eyes fixed on the floor. His movements were unusually slow, just like that night in front of the jail, when I watched him fold up the newspaper and toss it onto the chair, and it seemed like this slow motion would never stop. Mr. Tate paced back and forth on the front porch, trying to be as quiet as possible. “This isn’t your decision, Mr. Finch. It’s all up to me. This is my decision, and my responsibility. At least this time, you have to see things from my perspective, otherwise you won’t be able to argue with me. If you insist on trying, I’ll confront you and tell you you’re lying, that your son didn’t stab Bob Ewell to death.” He said slowly, “This has nothing to do with him, and you know that perfectly well. He just wanted to get himself and his sister home safely.” Mr. Tate stopped and stood in front of Atticus, his back to us. “Sir, I’m not exactly a good man, but I’m the sheriff of Maycomb County. I’ve lived in this town my whole life, and I’m forty-three years old now. I know everything that’s happened here, from before I was born until now. There’s nothing I don’t know. A young black man lost his life for no reason, and the guy who was supposed to be responsible for it is dead too. Let the dead bury the dead, Mr. Finch. Let the dead bury the dead.” Mr. Tate walked to the swing set, picked up the hat he had placed next to Atticus, smoothed his hair back, and put the hat on his head. “I’ve never heard of a citizen going to great lengths to prevent a crime from happening being against the law—that’s exactly what he did. You might say I have a responsibility to tell everyone in town the truth, that I shouldn’t hide anything. But do you know what the consequences will be? All the women in Maycomb, including my wife, will be knocking on his door with angel cakes. Mr. Finch, in my opinion, this man has done a great service for you and for the whole town, and if people ignore his reclusive lifestyle and force him into the spotlight—I think that’s a crime. I don’t want to bear that kind of guilt. If it were anyone else, it would be a different story. But he’s different, Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate looked as if he wanted to drill a hole in the floor with the tip of his boot. He twitched his nose and then rubbed his left arm a few times. “Mr. Finch, I may not be much of a figure, but I am, after all, the sheriff of Maycomb County. I told you, Bob Ewell died on his own. Goodnight, sir.” Mr. Tate thumped down the porch and strode across the front yard. He slammed the car door shut and drove off. Atticus sat there, staring at the floor, silent for a long time. Finally, he looked up. “Scooter,” he said, “Mr. Ewell died on his own. Do you understand?” Atticus looked like he needed someone to cheer him up. I ran over, hugged him tightly, and kissed him. “Yes, I understand,” I reassured him. “Mr. Tate is right.” Atticus pulled away and looked at me earnestly. “What do you mean?” “Well, it’s like killing a robin, isn’t it?” Atticus buried his face in my hair and rubbed it against me gently for a moment. He rose and walked across the front porch into the shadows, his steps regaining their usual lightness. Before entering the house, he paused in front of the strange Radley. "Arthur, thank you for saving my child." The strange Radley slowly rose to his feet, the light flickering through the living room window, casting an unpredictable glow on his forehead. Every movement he made seemed hesitant, as if unsure whether his limbs could still properly touch things. Another bout of agonizing coughing erupted, accompanied by a terrifying guttural sound. He coughed so violently that his whole body trembled, and he had no choice but to sit back down. He fumbled in his back pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and coughed frantically into it before wiping his forehead. Tonight, he had actually sat beside me for so long, which I found unbelievable, because I had long been accustomed to his invisible state. During this time, he had remained completely silent. He stood up again, facing me, and nodded towards the door. “Mr. Arthur, you want to say goodnight to Jem, don’t you? Then come inside.” I led him into the hallway, where Aunt Alexandra was sitting beside Jem’s bed. “Come in, Arthur,” she said. “He’s still asleep. Dr. Reynolds gave him a strong sedative. Joan Louise, is your father in the living room?” “Yes, I think so.” “I need to talk to him about something. Dr. Reynolds left some…” Her voice trailed off with her footsteps. The strange man had silently moved to the corner, chin tilted back, gazing at Jem from afar. I took his hand; the pale hand was surprisingly warm. I gently tugged at him, and he followed me to Jem’s bedside. Dr. Reynolds had erected something like a tent above Jem’s arm, I guessed, to cover the blanket. The strange man leaned in, scrutinizing Jem closely. His expression was a mixture of shyness and curiosity, as if he had never seen a boy before. He opened his mouth slightly, looking Jem up and down. Then he raised one hand, but it fell to his side. “You can touch him, Mr. Arthur, he’s asleep. He won’t let you touch him when he’s awake…” I said to him. “Go ahead and touch him.” The strange man’s hand hesitated above Jem’s head. “Go ahead and touch him, Mr. Arthur, he’s asleep.” His hand gently landed on Jem’s hair. At this moment, I began to understand his body language. He squeezed my hand tightly, meaning he wanted to go home. When I led him to the front porch, his hesitant steps stopped, but he still held my hand, showing no intention of letting go. “Can you take me home?” His voice was so soft it was almost a whisper, like a child afraid of the dark pleading. My foot had just touched the top step when I stopped. I could hold his hand and walk around our house, but I absolutely couldn’t take him home like this. “Mr. Arthur, bend your arm, like this. Okay, sir.” I put my hand in the crook of his arm. He had to stoop slightly to walk arm-in-arm with me, but if Miss Stephanie happened to be looking down from her upstairs window, she would see Mr. Arthur Radley walking with me like a gentleman on the sidewalk. As we reached the streetlamp at the corner, I couldn't help but think of how many times Dill had stood here, clinging to this thick pillar, watching, waiting, hoping; and how many times Jem and I had passed by here, but this was only the second time in my life I had stepped into the Radley's yard. The oddball and I climbed the steps to the front porch. His hand fumbled for the doorknob, then he gently released my arm, opened the door, went inside, and casually closed it behind him. I never saw him again. Among the neighbors, if someone died, people would bring food; if someone was sick, people would bring flowers; for any event, big or small, people would give small gifts. The oddball was also our neighbor. He gave us two soap dolls, a broken pocket watch with its chain, two lucky coins, and our lives. Neighbors are always expected to exchange gifts, but we had only taken gift after gift from that tree hollow, without putting anything back in return—we had given him nothing, and this saddened me. I turned to go home. The streetlights twinkled, stretching all the way into town. It was the first time I had ever looked around this familiar neighborhood from this angle. Over there were Miss Mordy's and Miss Stephanie's houses, and over here was ours—I could see the swing set on the front porch, Miss Rachel's house was a little behind ours, and even Mrs. Dubose's house was clearly visible. I looked behind me again. To the left of the brown door was a long, narrow shuttered window. I went over, stood in front of it, and turned back to look around. I thought that in daylight, I could see all the way to the corner where the post office was from here. In the bright sunlight… the night was dispelled by my imagination, and it was broad daylight; the whole neighborhood was bustling with activity. Miss Stephanie was crossing the street to tell Miss Rachel the latest news. Miss Moody was bending over, tending to her beloved azaleas. It was summer, and two children skipped and jumped on the sidewalk to greet a man approaching from afar. The man waved, and the two children chased each other, neither giving way, all the way to him. It was still summer, and the children drew closer. The boy hesitated, dragging a fishing rod behind him. The man stood there, hands on his hips, waiting for him. It was still summer, and his children were playing with their friends in the front yard, improvising and acting out a nonsensical little play. In autumn, his two children were fighting on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Dubose's house. The boy helped his sister up, and the two walked home together. That autumn, his two children ran back and forth across that street corner, their faces etched with the day's worries and joys. They stopped before a large oak tree, their faces flashing with surprise, confusion, and a touch of fear. That winter, his two children shivered in front of the gate, a house ablaze, the firelight casting their small silhouettes. Also in winter, the man walked into the street, threw down his glasses, and shot a rabid dog. Another summer came, and he watched his children's hearts shatter. Another autumn arrived, and the oddball's friend needed his help. Atticus was right. He once told me, "You can never truly understand a person unless you put on their shoes and walk around in their shoes, and see things from their perspective." For me, standing on the Radley's front porch was enough. The streetlights glowed dimly in the quietly falling drizzle. I walked home, feeling as if I were already very old. I stared intently at the tip of my nose, trying to see the tiny water droplets falling on it, but this made me cross-eyed and dizzy, so I stopped looking. Walking home, I thought about how I was supposed to tell Jem something so important tomorrow, and he'd missed it tonight; he'd definitely be angry and ignore me for days. Walking home, I thought about how Jem and I would grow up day by day, and how there wouldn't be much left to learn, except perhaps algebra. I ran up the steps and went inside. Aunt Alexandra was already in bed, and the light was off in Atticus's room. I wanted to check if Jem was awake, and when I entered, I found Atticus in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed reading a book. "Is Jem awake?" "He's sleeping soundly. He won't wake up until tomorrow morning." "Oh, are you going to stay up with him?" "I'll just stay here for about an hour. Go to sleep, Scout. You've had a tough day." "Oh, I'd like to stay with you for a while." "Suit yourself," Atticus said. It must have been past midnight by then, and I was quite surprised that he readily agreed to my request. But he was more cunning than I was: I'd only been sitting for a short while when I started to feel sleepy. "What are you reading?" Atticus glanced at the book cover. "It's one of Jem's books, called *The Grey Ghost*." I suddenly snapped awake. "Why are you reading this?" "Honey, I don't know. I just picked it up; it's one I haven't read yet," he said frankly. "Atticus, please read it aloud. This book is really scary." "No," he said, "you've had enough frights lately. This is too..." "Atticus, I'm not scared." He raised an eyebrow, and I quickly protested: "At least I wasn't scared before I told Mr. Tate. Jem wasn't scared either. I asked him, and he said he wasn't. Besides, there's nothing particularly scary about it except what's written in the book." Atticus opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again. He removed his thumb from the book and turned back to the first page. I leaned closer and rested my head on his knee. “Hmm,” he read, “The Grey Ghost, by Sexterry Hawkins. Chapter One…” I tried to stay awake, but the rain outside was so soft, the room so warm, his voice so deep, and resting my head on his lap so comforting, that I drifted off to sleep. It seemed like only a few seconds had passed when I felt his shoe lightly brush against my ribs. He helped me up and guided me into my bedroom. “I heard every word you read,” I mumbled, “…I wasn’t asleep at all. It’s about a boat and Three-Fingered Fred, and Stoner Boy…” He unhooked my overalls, let me lean against him, and helped me take them off. Then, supporting me with one hand, he reached for my pajamas with the other. “Yes, they all thought it was Stoner who caused trouble at their club, spilling ink everywhere, and…” He led me to the bedside, sat me up, lifted my legs onto the bed, and then covered me with the blanket. “And then, they were chasing Stoner everywhere, but they just couldn't catch him because they didn't even know what he looked like. Atticus, then they finally found him, and realized he hadn't done anything wrong at all… Atticus, he's actually a very kind person…” He reached under my chin, pulled the blanket up, and tucked me in. “Scooter, most people are kind. You'll find out once you get to know them.” He turned off the light and went back to Jem's room. He would stay there all night, keeping watch by Jem's bedside when he woke up the next morning.
Part Two, Chapter Thirty “My dear, you should call him Mr. Arthur,” Atticus gently corrected me. “Joan Louise, and this is Mr. Arthur Radley. I think he already knows you.” Atticus’s ability to introduce me to the strange man so politely at a time like this—well, that’s Atticus for you. The strange man saw me instinctively run to Jem’s bedside, a shy smile returning to his face. I blushed with embarrassment and pretended to cover Jem with the blanket to hide my awkwardness. “Ah—don’t touch him,” Atticus stopped me. Mr. Heck Tate sat there impassively, watching the strange man from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Just as he was about to speak, Dr. Reynolds walked down the aisle. “Everyone, please leave,” he said as he entered the room. “Good evening, Arthur. I didn’t notice you the first time I came.” Dr. Reynolds’ tone was as light as his footsteps, as if he greeted me like this every night. This casual remark surprised me more than being in the same room as the eccentric Radley. Of course… even the eccentric Radley gets sick sometimes, I thought, but then again, I wasn’t so sure. Dr. Reynolds brought in a large package wrapped in newspaper, placed it on Jem’s desk, and then took off his coat. “He’s alive, you can rest assured now. Let me tell you how I know. When I was examining him, he kicked me. I had to put him in a drowsy state, otherwise I couldn’t touch him at all. You all should leave now,” he said to me. “Oh—” Atticus hesitated, glancing at the strange man. “Heck, let’s all go outside to the front porch. There are plenty of chairs there, and it’s warm enough outside.” This struck me as odd: why didn’t Atticus invite everyone to sit in the living room instead of going to the front porch? But I immediately understood—the living room lights were too bright. We went out one by one, Mr. Tate leading the way. Atticus stood in the doorway, wanting the strange man to go ahead, but then changed his mind and followed Mr. Tate out first. Even in the most unusual circumstances, people still observe everyday etiquette, out of habit. I was no exception. “Come on, Mr. Arthur,” I said naturally, “you’re not very familiar with our house, let me take you to the front porch, sir.” He looked down at me and nodded slightly. I led him through the hallway and across the living room. “Please sit down, Mr. Arthur. This rocking chair is very comfortable.” My little fantasy about him, hidden deep within me, resurfaced: him sitting on the front porch… The weather’s been lovely lately, haven’t you, Mr. Arthur? Yes, the weather is lovely. As if in a dream, I led him to the chair furthest from Atticus and Mr. Tate, a spot shrouded in darkness, where I guessed he’d feel more comfortable. Atticus sat on the swing set, and Mr. Tate settled into a chair beside him. Bright light streamed from the living room window, illuminating them. I sat down next to the strange man. “Oh, Heck,” said Atticus, “I think the most pressing thing is… Good heavens, my memory is getting worse and worse…” Atticus pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “Jem isn’t even thirteen yet… no, he’s thirteen—I can’t even remember that. Anyway, this case will be heard in county court…” “What case needs to be heard in court, Mr. Finch?” Mr. Tate lowered his legs and leaned toward Atticus. “Of course, it’s clearly self-defense, but I still need to check the files in my office…” “Mr. Finch, you believe Jem killed Bob Ewell? Is that your opinion?” “You heard what Scout said, there’s no doubt about it. She said Jem got up from the ground and suddenly pulled Bob Ewell off her—maybe he took the knife from Ewell in the dark…we’ll find out that tomorrow.” “Mr. Finch, wait a minute,” Mr. Tate said, “Jem didn’t stab Ewell at all.” Atticus was silent for a moment. He looked at Mr. Tate, seemingly very grateful for what he had said. But Atticus still shook his head. “Heck, I know you mean well, and I appreciate it, but this must never be allowed to begin.” Mr. Tate stood up, walked to the front porch, spat into the bushes, and then put his hands in his back pockets, facing Atticus. “Begin what?” he asked. “Heck, don’t blame me for being blunt,” Atticus said directly, “but this is not something anyone can hide. That’s not my style.” “No one is hiding anything, Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate’s voice was calm, his boots firmly planted on the floor as if rooted to the ground. A strange confrontation was brewing between my father and the sheriff, a confrontation I couldn’t quite fathom. Now it was Atticus’s turn to stand up and walk to the front porch. He cleared his throat and spat into the yard. He, too, put his hands in his back pockets, facing Mr. Tate. “Heck, though you haven’t said it clearly, I know what you’re thinking. Thank you for your kindness. Joan Louise…” He turned to me and said, “You just said that Jem pulled Mr. Ewell away from you, didn’t you?” “Yes, that’s what I think… I…” “Heck, you heard me? I appreciate you from the bottom of my heart, but I don’t want my son to start his life with such a shadow over him. The best way to dispel the shadow is to put everything in the open. Let the whole county bring sandwiches to the trial. I don’t want him to grow up amidst people’s whispers, I don’t want to hear anyone say, ‘Jem Finch… his old man spent a fortune to get him out of trouble.’ The sooner this chapter is over, the better.” “Mr. Finch,” Mr. Tate said calmly, “Bob Ewell died by his own hand. He killed himself.” Atticus walked to a corner of the front porch, his eyes fixed on the wisteria. I think they were both stubborn, though stubborn in their own unique ways. I truly don't know who will give in first. Atticus's stubbornness is calm and almost imperceptible, but when it strikes, it's quite similar to the Cunningham family. Mr. Tate's stubbornness is direct and somewhat rough, but he's my father's equal. “Heck,” Atticus said, turning away, “if we cover up the truth, it would be a complete betrayal of the principles I’ve always taught Jem how to be a person. Sometimes I feel like a failure as a father, utterly worthless, yet I am all they have. In this world, Jem looks at me first, then at everyone else, and I’ve always tried to live with dignity, to be able to look him in the eye… If I condone this, frankly, I will never be able to look him in the eye again, and if that happens, I will know I have lost him forever. I don’t want to lose him and Scout, because they are everything to me.” “Mr. Finch,” Mr. Tate remained firmly planted on the floor, “Bob Ewell fell into the line of fire. I can attest to that.” Atticus turned around. His hands were deeply in his pockets. “Heck, can’t you think about things from my perspective? You have children too, though I’m older than you. By the time my children are grown, if I’m still alive, I’ll be an old man, but right now I—if they don’t trust me, they won’t trust anyone. Jem and Scout know what happened. If they hear me telling a different story in town—Heck—I’ll lose them forever. I absolutely can’t have one story at home and another outside.” Mr. Tate shuffled his heel across the floor patiently. “After he threw Jem to the ground, he tripped over a tree root and fell to the ground himself—you see, I can show you.” Mr. Tate reached into his side pocket and pulled out a long switchblade. Just then, Dr. Reynolds came to the door. “Doctor, that son of a bitch—died under that tree on campus. Do you have a flashlight? You'd better take this.” “I can manage to get around it and turn on the headlights,” Dr. Reynolds said, but he took the flashlight from Mr. Tate anyway. “Jem is fine. I don’t think he’ll wake up tonight, so don’t worry. Was Bob Ewell killed with this knife, Heck?” “No, the knife is still in his body. Judging from the handle, it’s a kitchen knife. Ken should have already sent the coffin over. Goodnight, Doctor.” Mr. Tate snapped the switchblade open. “Like this,” he said. He gripped the handle, pretended to trip, and as he leaned forward, he extended his left arm under his chest. “See? He just stabbed himself in the ribs like that. All his weight was on the blade, and the knife went in.” Mr. Tate closed the switchblade and put it back in his pocket. “Scooter was only eight,” he said. “She was terrified and had no idea what was happening.” “You’d be surprised,” Atticus said coldly. “I’m not saying she’s making it up; I’m saying she was too panicked to understand what was going on. Besides, it was pitch black. Unless someone is very accustomed to the dark, they’re not qualified to be a witness…” “I can’t accept that explanation,” Atticus said softly. “Damn it, I wasn’t thinking about Jem!” Mr. Tate’s boots slammed on the floor with an unusually loud thud, and the light in Miss Mordy’s bedroom came on. The light in Miss Stephanie’s house also came on. Atticus and Mr. Tate glanced across the street, then exchanged a look. They waited quietly for things to calm down. When Mr. Tate spoke again, his voice was almost inaudible. “Mr. Finch, I don’t want to argue with you at a time like this. You’ve been under too much pressure tonight; no one should have gone through that. I don’t know how you managed to hold on and not collapse in bed. But I’m quite certain now that you haven’t reasoned from the facts this time, and we must resolve this tonight, because it will be too late by tomorrow. Bob Ewell still has a knife stuck in his stomach.” Mr. Tate then asked Atticus if he intended to stand in court and insist that a boy of Jem’s build could fight an adult in complete darkness, dragging a broken arm, and ultimately kill him. “Heck,” Atticus suddenly asked, “where did you get that switchblade you were waving around in just now?” “Confiscated from a drunkard,” Mr. Tate replied casually. I tried to recall the scene. Mr. Ewell choked me so hard I couldn’t breathe…and then he fell down…Jem must have gotten up. At least that's what I think… “Heck?” “Like I said, I confiscated it from a drunkard in town tonight. Bob Ewell probably found that kitchen knife somewhere in the junkyard, sharpened it to a razor's edge, and then waited for the right moment… waited for the right moment to strike.” Atticus walked heavily to the swing set and sat down. His hands hung limply between his knees, his eyes fixed on the floor. His movements were unusually slow, just like that night in front of the jail, when I watched him fold up the newspaper and toss it onto the chair, and it seemed like this slow motion would never stop. Mr. Tate paced back and forth on the front porch, trying to be as quiet as possible. “This isn’t your decision, Mr. Finch. It’s all up to me. This is my decision, and my responsibility. At least this time, you have to see things from my perspective, otherwise you won’t be able to argue with me. If you insist on trying, I’ll confront you and tell you you’re lying, that your son didn’t stab Bob Ewell to death.” He said slowly, “This has nothing to do with him, and you know that perfectly well. He just wanted to get himself and his sister home safely.” Mr. Tate stopped and stood in front of Atticus, his back to us. “Sir, I’m not exactly a good man, but I’m the sheriff of Maycomb County. I’ve lived in this town my whole life, and I’m forty-three years old now. I know everything that’s happened here, from before I was born until now. There’s nothing I don’t know. A young black man lost his life for no reason, and the guy who was supposed to be responsible for it is dead too. Let the dead bury the dead, Mr. Finch. Let the dead bury the dead.” Mr. Tate walked to the swing set, picked up the hat he had placed next to Atticus, smoothed his hair back, and put the hat on his head. “I’ve never heard of a citizen going to great lengths to prevent a crime from happening being against the law—that’s exactly what he did. You might say I have a responsibility to tell everyone in town the truth, that I shouldn’t hide anything. But do you know what the consequences will be? All the women in Maycomb, including my wife, will be knocking on his door with angel cakes. Mr. Finch, in my opinion, this man has done a great service for you and for the whole town, and if people ignore his reclusive lifestyle and force him into the spotlight—I think that’s a crime. I don’t want to bear that kind of guilt. If it were anyone else, it would be a different story. But he’s different, Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate looked as if he wanted to drill a hole in the floor with the tip of his boot. He twitched his nose and then rubbed his left arm a few times. “Mr. Finch, I may not be much of a figure, but I am, after all, the sheriff of Maycomb County. I told you, Bob Ewell died on his own. Goodnight, sir.” Mr. Tate thumped down the porch and strode across the front yard. He slammed the car door shut and drove off. Atticus sat there, staring at the floor, silent for a long time. Finally, he looked up. “Scooter,” he said, “Mr. Ewell died on his own. Do you understand?” Atticus looked like he needed someone to cheer him up. I ran over, hugged him tightly, and kissed him. “Yes, I understand,” I reassured him. “Mr. Tate is right.” Atticus pulled away and looked at me earnestly. “What do you mean?” “Well, it’s like killing a robin, isn’t it?” Atticus buried his face in my hair and rubbed it against me gently for a moment. He rose and walked across the front porch into the shadows, his steps regaining their usual lightness. Before entering the house, he paused in front of the strange Radley. "Arthur, thank you for saving my child." The strange Radley slowly rose to his feet, the light flickering through the living room window, casting an unpredictable glow on his forehead. Every movement he made seemed hesitant, as if unsure whether his limbs could still properly touch things. Another bout of agonizing coughing erupted, accompanied by a terrifying guttural sound. He coughed so violently that his whole body trembled, and he had no choice but to sit back down. He fumbled in his back pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and coughed frantically into it before wiping his forehead. Tonight, he had actually sat beside me for so long, which I found unbelievable, because I had long been accustomed to his invisible state. During this time, he had remained completely silent. He stood up again, facing me, and nodded towards the door. “Mr. Arthur, you want to say goodnight to Jem, don’t you? Then come inside.” I led him into the hallway, where Aunt Alexandra was sitting beside Jem’s bed. “Come in, Arthur,” she said. “He’s still asleep. Dr. Reynolds gave him a strong sedative. Joan Louise, is your father in the living room?” “Yes, I think so.” “I need to talk to him about something. Dr. Reynolds left some…” Her voice trailed off with her footsteps. The strange man had silently moved to the corner, chin tilted back, gazing at Jem from afar. I took his hand; the pale hand was surprisingly warm. I gently tugged at him, and he followed me to Jem’s bedside. Dr. Reynolds had erected something like a tent above Jem’s arm, I guessed, to cover the blanket. The strange man leaned in, scrutinizing Jem closely. His expression was a mixture of shyness and curiosity, as if he had never seen a boy before. He opened his mouth slightly, looking Jem up and down. Then he raised one hand, but it fell to his side. “You can touch him, Mr. Arthur, he’s asleep. He won’t let you touch him when he’s awake…” I said to him. “Go ahead and touch him.” The strange man’s hand hesitated above Jem’s head. “Go ahead and touch him, Mr. Arthur, he’s asleep.” His hand gently landed on Jem’s hair. At this moment, I began to understand his body language. He squeezed my hand tightly, meaning he wanted to go home. When I led him to the front porch, his hesitant steps stopped, but he still held my hand, showing no intention of letting go. “Can you take me home?” His voice was so soft it was almost a whisper, like a child afraid of the dark pleading. My foot had just touched the top step when I stopped. I could hold his hand and walk around our house, but I absolutely couldn’t take him home like this. “Mr. Arthur, bend your arm, like this. Okay, sir.” I put my hand in the crook of his arm. He had to stoop slightly to walk arm-in-arm with me, but if Miss Stephanie happened to be looking down from her upstairs window, she would see Mr. Arthur Radley walking with me like a gentleman on the sidewalk. As we reached the streetlamp at the corner, I couldn't help but think of how many times Dill had stood here, clinging to this thick pillar, watching, waiting, hoping; and how many times Jem and I had passed by here, but this was only the second time in my life I had stepped into the Radley's yard. The oddball and I climbed the steps to the front porch. His hand fumbled for the doorknob, then he gently released my arm, opened the door, went inside, and casually closed it behind him. I never saw him again. Among the neighbors, if someone died, people would bring food; if someone was sick, people would bring flowers; for any event, big or small, people would give small gifts. The oddball was also our neighbor. He gave us two soap dolls, a broken pocket watch with its chain, two lucky coins, and our lives. Neighbors are always expected to exchange gifts, but we had only taken gift after gift from that tree hollow, without putting anything back in return—we had given him nothing, and this saddened me. I turned to go home. The streetlights twinkled, stretching all the way into town. It was the first time I had ever looked around this familiar neighborhood from this angle. Over there were Miss Mordy's and Miss Stephanie's houses, and over here was ours—I could see the swing set on the front porch, Miss Rachel's house was a little behind ours, and even Mrs. Dubose's house was clearly visible. I looked behind me again. To the left of the brown door was a long, narrow shuttered window. I went over, stood in front of it, and turned back to look around. I thought that in daylight, I could see all the way to the corner where the post office was from here. In the bright sunlight… the night was dispelled by my imagination, and it was broad daylight; the whole neighborhood was bustling with activity. Miss Stephanie was crossing the street to tell Miss Rachel the latest news. Miss Moody was bending over, tending to her beloved azaleas. It was summer, and two children skipped and jumped on the sidewalk to greet a man approaching from afar. The man waved, and the two children chased each other, neither giving way, all the way to him. It was still summer, and the children drew closer. The boy hesitated, dragging a fishing rod behind him. The man stood there, hands on his hips, waiting for him. It was still summer, and his children were playing with their friends in the front yard, improvising and acting out a nonsensical little play. In autumn, his two children were fighting on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Dubose's house. The boy helped his sister up, and the two walked home together. That autumn, his two children ran back and forth across that street corner, their faces etched with the day's worries and joys. They stopped before a large oak tree, their faces flashing with surprise, confusion, and a touch of fear. That winter, his two children shivered in front of the gate, a house ablaze, the firelight casting their small silhouettes. Also in winter, the man walked into the street, threw down his glasses, and shot a rabid dog. Another summer came, and he watched his children's hearts shatter. Another autumn arrived, and the oddball's friend needed his help. Atticus was right. He once told me, "You can never truly understand a person unless you put on their shoes and walk around in their shoes, and see things from their perspective." For me, standing on the Radley's front porch was enough. The streetlights glowed dimly in the quietly falling drizzle. I walked home, feeling as if I were already very old. I stared intently at the tip of my nose, trying to see the tiny water droplets falling on it, but this made me cross-eyed and dizzy, so I stopped looking. Walking home, I thought about how I was supposed to tell Jem something so important tomorrow, and he'd missed it tonight; he'd definitely be angry and ignore me for days. Walking home, I thought about how Jem and I would grow up day by day, and how there wouldn't be much left to learn, except perhaps algebra. I ran up the steps and went inside. Aunt Alexandra was already in bed, and the light was off in Atticus's room. I wanted to check if Jem was awake, and when I entered, I found Atticus in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed reading a book. "Is Jem awake?" "He's sleeping soundly. He won't wake up until tomorrow morning." "Oh, are you going to stay up with him?" "I'll just stay here for about an hour. Go to sleep, Scout. You've had a tough day." "Oh, I'd like to stay with you for a while." "Suit yourself," Atticus said. It must have been past midnight by then, and I was quite surprised that he readily agreed to my request. But he was more cunning than I was: I'd only been sitting for a short while when I started to feel sleepy. "What are you reading?" Atticus glanced at the book cover. "It's one of Jem's books, called *The Grey Ghost*." I suddenly snapped awake. "Why are you reading this?" "Honey, I don't know. I just picked it up; it's one I haven't read yet," he said frankly. "Atticus, please read it aloud. This book is really scary." "No," he said, "you've had enough frights lately. This is too..." "Atticus, I'm not scared." He raised an eyebrow, and I quickly protested: "At least I wasn't scared before I told Mr. Tate. Jem wasn't scared either. I asked him, and he said he wasn't. Besides, there's nothing particularly scary about it except what's written in the book." Atticus opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again. He removed his thumb from the book and turned back to the first page. I leaned closer and rested my head on his knee. “Hmm,” he read, “The Grey Ghost, by Sexterry Hawkins. Chapter One…” I tried to stay awake, but the rain outside was so soft, the room so warm, his voice so deep, and resting my head on his lap so comforting, that I drifted off to sleep. It seemed like only a few seconds had passed when I felt his shoe lightly brush against my ribs. He helped me up and guided me into my bedroom. “I heard every word you read,” I mumbled, “…I wasn’t asleep at all. It’s about a boat and Three-Fingered Fred, and Stoner Boy…” He unhooked my overalls, let me lean against him, and helped me take them off. Then, supporting me with one hand, he reached for my pajamas with the other. “Yes, they all thought it was Stoner who caused trouble at their club, spilling ink everywhere, and…” He led me to the bedside, sat me up, lifted my legs onto the bed, and then covered me with the blanket. “And then, they were chasing Stoner everywhere, but they just couldn't catch him because they didn't even know what he looked like. Atticus, then they finally found him, and realized he hadn't done anything wrong at all… Atticus, he's actually a very kind person…” He reached under my chin, pulled the blanket up, and tucked me in. “Scooter, most people are kind. You'll find out once you get to know them.” He turned off the light and went back to Jem's room. He would stay there all night, keeping watch by Jem's bedside when he woke up the next morning.
Part Two, Chapter Thirty “My dear, you should call him Mr. Arthur,” Atticus gently corrected me. “Joan Louise, and this is Mr. Arthur Radley. I think he already knows you.” Atticus’s ability to introduce me to the strange man so politely at a time like this—well, that’s Atticus for you. The strange man saw me instinctively run to Jem’s bedside, a shy smile returning to his face. I blushed with embarrassment and pretended to cover Jem with the blanket to hide my awkwardness. “Ah—don’t touch him,” Atticus stopped me. Mr. Heck Tate sat there impassively, watching the strange man from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Just as he was about to speak, Dr. Reynolds walked down the aisle. “Everyone, please leave,” he said as he entered the room. “Good evening, Arthur. I didn’t notice you the first time I came.” Dr. Reynolds’ tone was as light as his footsteps, as if he greeted me like this every night. This casual remark surprised me more than being in the same room as the eccentric Radley. Of course… even the eccentric Radley gets sick sometimes, I thought, but then again, I wasn’t so sure. Dr. Reynolds brought in a large package wrapped in newspaper, placed it on Jem’s desk, and then took off his coat. “He’s alive, you can rest assured now. Let me tell you how I know. When I was examining him, he kicked me. I had to put him in a drowsy state, otherwise I couldn’t touch him at all. You all should leave now,” he said to me. “Oh—” Atticus hesitated, glancing at the strange man. “Heck, let’s all go outside to the front porch. There are plenty of chairs there, and it’s warm enough outside.” This struck me as odd: why didn’t Atticus invite everyone to sit in the living room instead of going to the front porch? But I immediately understood—the living room lights were too bright. We went out one by one, Mr. Tate leading the way. Atticus stood in the doorway, wanting the strange man to go ahead, but then changed his mind and followed Mr. Tate out first. Even in the most unusual circumstances, people still observe everyday etiquette, out of habit. I was no exception. “Come on, Mr. Arthur,” I said naturally, “you’re not very familiar with our house, let me take you to the front porch, sir.” He looked down at me and nodded slightly. I led him through the hallway and across the living room. “Please sit down, Mr. Arthur. This rocking chair is very comfortable.” My little fantasy about him, hidden deep within me, resurfaced: him sitting on the front porch… The weather’s been lovely lately, haven’t you, Mr. Arthur? Yes, the weather is lovely. As if in a dream, I led him to the chair furthest from Atticus and Mr. Tate, a spot shrouded in darkness, where I guessed he’d feel more comfortable. Atticus sat on the swing set, and Mr. Tate settled into a chair beside him. Bright light streamed from the living room window, illuminating them. I sat down next to the strange man. “Oh, Heck,” said Atticus, “I think the most pressing thing is… Good heavens, my memory is getting worse and worse…” Atticus pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “Jem isn’t even thirteen yet… no, he’s thirteen—I can’t even remember that. Anyway, this case will be heard in county court…” “What case needs to be heard in court, Mr. Finch?” Mr. Tate lowered his legs and leaned toward Atticus. “Of course, it’s clearly self-defense, but I still need to check the files in my office…” “Mr. Finch, you believe Jem killed Bob Ewell? Is that your opinion?” “You heard what Scout said, there’s no doubt about it. She said Jem got up from the ground and suddenly pulled Bob Ewell off her—maybe he took the knife from Ewell in the dark…we’ll find out that tomorrow.” “Mr. Finch, wait a minute,” Mr. Tate said, “Jem didn’t stab Ewell at all.” Atticus was silent for a moment. He looked at Mr. Tate, seemingly very grateful for what he had said. But Atticus still shook his head. “Heck, I know you mean well, and I appreciate it, but this must never be allowed to begin.” Mr. Tate stood up, walked to the front porch, spat into the bushes, and then put his hands in his back pockets, facing Atticus. “Begin what?” he asked. “Heck, don’t blame me for being blunt,” Atticus said directly, “but this is not something anyone can hide. That’s not my style.” “No one is hiding anything, Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate’s voice was calm, his boots firmly planted on the floor as if rooted to the ground. A strange confrontation was brewing between my father and the sheriff, a confrontation I couldn’t quite fathom. Now it was Atticus’s turn to stand up and walk to the front porch. He cleared his throat and spat into the yard. He, too, put his hands in his back pockets, facing Mr. Tate. “Heck, though you haven’t said it clearly, I know what you’re thinking. Thank you for your kindness. Joan Louise…” He turned to me and said, “You just said that Jem pulled Mr. Ewell away from you, didn’t you?” “Yes, that’s what I think… I…” “Heck, you heard me? I appreciate you from the bottom of my heart, but I don’t want my son to start his life with such a shadow over him. The best way to dispel the shadow is to put everything in the open. Let the whole county bring sandwiches to the trial. I don’t want him to grow up amidst people’s whispers, I don’t want to hear anyone say, ‘Jem Finch… his old man spent a fortune to get him out of trouble.’ The sooner this chapter is over, the better.” “Mr. Finch,” Mr. Tate said calmly, “Bob Ewell died by his own hand. He killed himself.” Atticus walked to a corner of the front porch, his eyes fixed on the wisteria. I think they were both stubborn, though stubborn in their own unique ways. I truly don't know who will give in first. Atticus's stubbornness is calm and almost imperceptible, but when it strikes, it's quite similar to the Cunningham family. Mr. Tate's stubbornness is direct and somewhat rough, but he's my father's equal. “Heck,” Atticus said, turning away, “if we cover up the truth, it would be a complete betrayal of the principles I’ve always taught Jem how to be a person. Sometimes I feel like a failure as a father, utterly worthless, yet I am all they have. In this world, Jem looks at me first, then at everyone else, and I’ve always tried to live with dignity, to be able to look him in the eye… If I condone this, frankly, I will never be able to look him in the eye again, and if that happens, I will know I have lost him forever. I don’t want to lose him and Scout, because they are everything to me.” “Mr. Finch,” Mr. Tate remained firmly planted on the floor, “Bob Ewell fell into the line of fire. I can attest to that.” Atticus turned around. His hands were deeply in his pockets. “Heck, can’t you think about things from my perspective? You have children too, though I’m older than you. By the time my children are grown, if I’m still alive, I’ll be an old man, but right now I—if they don’t trust me, they won’t trust anyone. Jem and Scout know what happened. If they hear me telling a different story in town—Heck—I’ll lose them forever. I absolutely can’t have one story at home and another outside.” Mr. Tate shuffled his heel across the floor patiently. “After he threw Jem to the ground, he tripped over a tree root and fell to the ground himself—you see, I can show you.” Mr. Tate reached into his side pocket and pulled out a long switchblade. Just then, Dr. Reynolds came to the door. “Doctor, that son of a bitch—died under that tree on campus. Do you have a flashlight? You'd better take this.” “I can manage to get around it and turn on the headlights,” Dr. Reynolds said, but he took the flashlight from Mr. Tate anyway. “Jem is fine. I don’t think he’ll wake up tonight, so don’t worry. Was Bob Ewell killed with this knife, Heck?” “No, the knife is still in his body. Judging from the handle, it’s a kitchen knife. Ken should have already sent the coffin over. Goodnight, Doctor.” Mr. Tate snapped the switchblade open. “Like this,” he said. He gripped the handle, pretended to trip, and as he leaned forward, he extended his left arm under his chest. “See? He just stabbed himself in the ribs like that. All his weight was on the blade, and the knife went in.” Mr. Tate closed the switchblade and put it back in his pocket. “Scooter was only eight,” he said. “She was terrified and had no idea what was happening.” “You’d be surprised,” Atticus said coldly. “I’m not saying she’s making it up; I’m saying she was too panicked to understand what was going on. Besides, it was pitch black. Unless someone is very accustomed to the dark, they’re not qualified to be a witness…” “I can’t accept that explanation,” Atticus said softly. “Damn it, I wasn’t thinking about Jem!” Mr. Tate’s boots slammed on the floor with an unusually loud thud, and the light in Miss Mordy’s bedroom came on. The light in Miss Stephanie’s house also came on. Atticus and Mr. Tate glanced across the street, then exchanged a look. They waited quietly for things to calm down. When Mr. Tate spoke again, his voice was almost inaudible. “Mr. Finch, I don’t want to argue with you at a time like this. You’ve been under too much pressure tonight; no one should have gone through that. I don’t know how you managed to hold on and not collapse in bed. But I’m quite certain now that you haven’t reasoned from the facts this time, and we must resolve this tonight, because it will be too late by tomorrow. Bob Ewell still has a knife stuck in his stomach.” Mr. Tate then asked Atticus if he intended to stand in court and insist that a boy of Jem’s build could fight an adult in complete darkness, dragging a broken arm, and ultimately kill him. “Heck,” Atticus suddenly asked, “where did you get that switchblade you were waving around in just now?” “Confiscated from a drunkard,” Mr. Tate replied casually. I tried to recall the scene. Mr. Ewell choked me so hard I couldn’t breathe…and then he fell down…Jem must have gotten up. At least that's what I think… “Heck?” “Like I said, I confiscated it from a drunkard in town tonight. Bob Ewell probably found that kitchen knife somewhere in the junkyard, sharpened it to a razor's edge, and then waited for the right moment… waited for the right moment to strike.” Atticus walked heavily to the swing set and sat down. His hands hung limply between his knees, his eyes fixed on the floor. His movements were unusually slow, just like that night in front of the jail, when I watched him fold up the newspaper and toss it onto the chair, and it seemed like this slow motion would never stop. Mr. Tate paced back and forth on the front porch, trying to be as quiet as possible. “This isn’t your decision, Mr. Finch. It’s all up to me. This is my decision, and my responsibility. At least this time, you have to see things from my perspective, otherwise you won’t be able to argue with me. If you insist on trying, I’ll confront you and tell you you’re lying, that your son didn’t stab Bob Ewell to death.” He said slowly, “This has nothing to do with him, and you know that perfectly well. He just wanted to get himself and his sister home safely.” Mr. Tate stopped and stood in front of Atticus, his back to us. “Sir, I’m not exactly a good man, but I’m the sheriff of Maycomb County. I’ve lived in this town my whole life, and I’m forty-three years old now. I know everything that’s happened here, from before I was born until now. There’s nothing I don’t know. A young black man lost his life for no reason, and the guy who was supposed to be responsible for it is dead too. Let the dead bury the dead, Mr. Finch. Let the dead bury the dead.” Mr. Tate walked to the swing set, picked up the hat he had placed next to Atticus, smoothed his hair back, and put the hat on his head. “I’ve never heard of a citizen going to great lengths to prevent a crime from happening being against the law—that’s exactly what he did. You might say I have a responsibility to tell everyone in town the truth, that I shouldn’t hide anything. But do you know what the consequences will be? All the women in Maycomb, including my wife, will be knocking on his door with angel cakes. Mr. Finch, in my opinion, this man has done a great service for you and for the whole town, and if people ignore his reclusive lifestyle and force him into the spotlight—I think that’s a crime. I don’t want to bear that kind of guilt. If it were anyone else, it would be a different story. But he’s different, Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate looked as if he wanted to drill a hole in the floor with the tip of his boot. He twitched his nose and then rubbed his left arm a few times. “Mr. Finch, I may not be much of a figure, but I am, after all, the sheriff of Maycomb County. I told you, Bob Ewell died on his own. Goodnight, sir.” Mr. Tate thumped down the porch and strode across the front yard. He slammed the car door shut and drove off. Atticus sat there, staring at the floor, silent for a long time. Finally, he looked up. “Scooter,” he said, “Mr. Ewell died on his own. Do you understand?” Atticus looked like he needed someone to cheer him up. I ran over, hugged him tightly, and kissed him. “Yes, I understand,” I reassured him. “Mr. Tate is right.” Atticus pulled away and looked at me earnestly. “What do you mean?” “Well, it’s like killing a robin, isn’t it?” Atticus buried his face in my hair and rubbed it against me gently for a moment. He rose and walked across the front porch into the shadows, his steps regaining their usual lightness. Before entering the house, he paused in front of the strange Radley. "Arthur, thank you for saving my child." The strange Radley slowly rose to his feet, the light flickering through the living room window, casting an unpredictable glow on his forehead. Every movement he made seemed hesitant, as if unsure whether his limbs could still properly touch things. Another bout of agonizing coughing erupted, accompanied by a terrifying guttural sound. He coughed so violently that his whole body trembled, and he had no choice but to sit back down. He fumbled in his back pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and coughed frantically into it before wiping his forehead. Tonight, he had actually sat beside me for so long, which I found unbelievable, because I had long been accustomed to his invisible state. During this time, he had remained completely silent. He stood up again, facing me, and nodded towards the door. “Mr. Arthur, you want to say goodnight to Jem, don’t you? Then come inside.” I led him into the hallway, where Aunt Alexandra was sitting beside Jem’s bed. “Come in, Arthur,” she said. “He’s still asleep. Dr. Reynolds gave him a strong sedative. Joan Louise, is your father in the living room?” “Yes, I think so.” “I need to talk to him about something. Dr. Reynolds left some…” Her voice trailed off with her footsteps. The strange man had silently moved to the corner, chin tilted back, gazing at Jem from afar. I took his hand; the pale hand was surprisingly warm. I gently tugged at him, and he followed me to Jem’s bedside. Dr. Reynolds had erected something like a tent above Jem’s arm, I guessed, to cover the blanket. The strange man leaned in, scrutinizing Jem closely. His expression was a mixture of shyness and curiosity, as if he had never seen a boy before. He opened his mouth slightly, looking Jem up and down. Then he raised one hand, but it fell to his side. “You can touch him, Mr. Arthur, he’s asleep. He won’t let you touch him when he’s awake…” I said to him. “Go ahead and touch him.” The strange man’s hand hesitated above Jem’s head. “Go ahead and touch him, Mr. Arthur, he’s asleep.” His hand gently landed on Jem’s hair. At this moment, I began to understand his body language. He squeezed my hand tightly, meaning he wanted to go home. When I led him to the front porch, his hesitant steps stopped, but he still held my hand, showing no intention of letting go. “Can you take me home?” His voice was so soft it was almost a whisper, like a child afraid of the dark pleading. My foot had just touched the top step when I stopped. I could hold his hand and walk around our house, but I absolutely couldn’t take him home like this. “Mr. Arthur, bend your arm, like this. Okay, sir.” I put my hand in the crook of his arm. He had to stoop slightly to walk arm-in-arm with me, but if Miss Stephanie happened to be looking down from her upstairs window, she would see Mr. Arthur Radley walking with me like a gentleman on the sidewalk. As we reached the streetlamp at the corner, I couldn't help but think of how many times Dill had stood here, clinging to this thick pillar, watching, waiting, hoping; and how many times Jem and I had passed by here, but this was only the second time in my life I had stepped into the Radley's yard. The oddball and I climbed the steps to the front porch. His hand fumbled for the doorknob, then he gently released my arm, opened the door, went inside, and casually closed it behind him. I never saw him again. Among the neighbors, if someone died, people would bring food; if someone was sick, people would bring flowers; for any event, big or small, people would give small gifts. The oddball was also our neighbor. He gave us two soap dolls, a broken pocket watch with its chain, two lucky coins, and our lives. Neighbors are always expected to exchange gifts, but we had only taken gift after gift from that tree hollow, without putting anything back in return—we had given him nothing, and this saddened me. I turned to go home. The streetlights twinkled, stretching all the way into town. It was the first time I had ever looked around this familiar neighborhood from this angle. Over there were Miss Mordy's and Miss Stephanie's houses, and over here was ours—I could see the swing set on the front porch, Miss Rachel's house was a little behind ours, and even Mrs. Dubose's house was clearly visible. I looked behind me again. To the left of the brown door was a long, narrow shuttered window. I went over, stood in front of it, and turned back to look around. I thought that in daylight, I could see all the way to the corner where the post office was from here. In the bright sunlight… the night was dispelled by my imagination, and it was broad daylight; the whole neighborhood was bustling with activity. Miss Stephanie was crossing the street to tell Miss Rachel the latest news. Miss Moody was bending over, tending to her beloved azaleas. It was summer, and two children skipped and jumped on the sidewalk to greet a man approaching from afar. The man waved, and the two children chased each other, neither giving way, all the way to him. It was still summer, and the children drew closer. The boy hesitated, dragging a fishing rod behind him. The man stood there, hands on his hips, waiting for him. It was still summer, and his children were playing with their friends in the front yard, improvising and acting out a nonsensical little play. In autumn, his two children were fighting on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Dubose's house. The boy helped his sister up, and the two walked home together. That autumn, his two children ran back and forth across that street corner, their faces etched with the day's worries and joys. They stopped before a large oak tree, their faces flashing with surprise, confusion, and a touch of fear. That winter, his two children shivered in front of the gate, a house ablaze, the firelight casting their small silhouettes. Also in winter, the man walked into the street, threw down his glasses, and shot a rabid dog. Another summer came, and he watched his children's hearts shatter. Another autumn arrived, and the oddball's friend needed his help. Atticus was right. He once told me, "You can never truly understand a person unless you put on their shoes and walk around in their shoes, and see things from their perspective." For me, standing on the Radley's front porch was enough. The streetlights glowed dimly in the quietly falling drizzle. I walked home, feeling as if I were already very old. I stared intently at the tip of my nose, trying to see the tiny water droplets falling on it, but this made me cross-eyed and dizzy, so I stopped looking. Walking home, I thought about how I was supposed to tell Jem something so important tomorrow, and he'd missed it tonight; he'd definitely be angry and ignore me for days. Walking home, I thought about how Jem and I would grow up day by day, and how there wouldn't be much left to learn, except perhaps algebra. I ran up the steps and went inside. Aunt Alexandra was already in bed, and the light was off in Atticus's room. I wanted to check if Jem was awake, and when I entered, I found Atticus in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed reading a book. "Is Jem awake?" "He's sleeping soundly. He won't wake up until tomorrow morning." "Oh, are you going to stay up with him?" "I'll just stay here for about an hour. Go to sleep, Scout. You've had a tough day." "Oh, I'd like to stay with you for a while." "Suit yourself," Atticus said. It must have been past midnight by then, and I was quite surprised that he readily agreed to my request. But he was more cunning than I was: I'd only been sitting for a short while when I started to feel sleepy. "What are you reading?" Atticus glanced at the book cover. "It's one of Jem's books, called *The Grey Ghost*." I suddenly snapped awake. "Why are you reading this?" "Honey, I don't know. I just picked it up; it's one I haven't read yet," he said frankly. "Atticus, please read it aloud. This book is really scary." "No," he said, "you've had enough frights lately. This is too..." "Atticus, I'm not scared." He raised an eyebrow, and I quickly protested: "At least I wasn't scared before I told Mr. Tate. Jem wasn't scared either. I asked him, and he said he wasn't. Besides, there's nothing particularly scary about it except what's written in the book." Atticus opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again. He removed his thumb from the book and turned back to the first page. I leaned closer and rested my head on his knee. “Hmm,” he read, “The Grey Ghost, by Sexterry Hawkins. Chapter One…” I tried to stay awake, but the rain outside was so soft, the room so warm, his voice so deep, and resting my head on his lap so comforting, that I drifted off to sleep. It seemed like only a few seconds had passed when I felt his shoe lightly brush against my ribs. He helped me up and guided me into my bedroom. “I heard every word you read,” I mumbled, “…I wasn’t asleep at all. It’s about a boat and Three-Fingered Fred, and Stoner Boy…” He unhooked my overalls, let me lean against him, and helped me take them off. Then, supporting me with one hand, he reached for my pajamas with the other. “Yes, they all thought it was Stoner who caused trouble at their club, spilling ink everywhere, and…” He led me to the bedside, sat me up, lifted my legs onto the bed, and then covered me with the blanket. “And then, they were chasing Stoner everywhere, but they just couldn't catch him because they didn't even know what he looked like. Atticus, then they finally found him, and realized he hadn't done anything wrong at all… Atticus, he's actually a very kind person…” He reached under my chin, pulled the blanket up, and tucked me in. “Scooter, most people are kind. You'll find out once you get to know them.” He turned off the light and went back to Jem's room. He would stay there all night, keeping watch by Jem's bedside when he woke up the next morning.
Part Two, Chapter Thirty “My dear, you should call him Mr. Arthur,” Atticus gently corrected me. “Joan Louise, and this is Mr. Arthur Radley. I think he already knows you.” Atticus’s ability to introduce me to the strange man so politely at a time like this—well, that’s Atticus for you. The strange man saw me instinctively run to Jem’s bedside, a shy smile returning to his face. I blushed with embarrassment and pretended to cover Jem with the blanket to hide my awkwardness. “Ah—don’t touch him,” Atticus stopped me. Mr. Heck Tate sat there impassively, watching the strange man from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Just as he was about to speak, Dr. Reynolds walked down the aisle. “Everyone, please leave,” he said as he entered the room. “Good evening, Arthur. I didn’t notice you the first time I came.” Dr. Reynolds’ tone was as light as his footsteps, as if he greeted me like this every night. This casual remark surprised me more than being in the same room as the eccentric Radley. Of course… even the eccentric Radley gets sick sometimes, I thought, but then again, I wasn’t so sure. Dr. Reynolds brought in a large package wrapped in newspaper, placed it on Jem’s desk, and then took off his coat. “He’s alive, you can rest assured now. Let me tell you how I know. When I was examining him, he kicked me. I had to put him in a drowsy state, otherwise I couldn’t touch him at all. You all should leave now,” he said to me. “Oh—” Atticus hesitated, glancing at the strange man. “Heck, let’s all go outside to the front porch. There are plenty of chairs there, and it’s warm enough outside.” This struck me as odd: why didn’t Atticus invite everyone to sit in the living room instead of going to the front porch? But I immediately understood—the living room lights were too bright. We went out one by one, Mr. Tate leading the way. Atticus stood in the doorway, wanting the strange man to go ahead, but then changed his mind and followed Mr. Tate out first. Even in the most unusual circumstances, people still observe everyday etiquette, out of habit. I was no exception. “Come on, Mr. Arthur,” I said naturally, “you’re not very familiar with our house, let me take you to the front porch, sir.” He looked down at me and nodded slightly. I led him through the hallway and across the living room. “Please sit down, Mr. Arthur. This rocking chair is very comfortable.” My little fantasy about him, hidden deep within me, resurfaced: him sitting on the front porch… The weather’s been lovely lately, haven’t you, Mr. Arthur? Yes, the weather is lovely. As if in a dream, I led him to the chair furthest from Atticus and Mr. Tate, a spot shrouded in darkness, where I guessed he’d feel more comfortable. Atticus sat on the swing set, and Mr. Tate settled into a chair beside him. Bright light streamed from the living room window, illuminating them. I sat down next to the strange man. “Oh, Heck,” said Atticus, “I think the most pressing thing is… Good heavens, my memory is getting worse and worse…” Atticus pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “Jem isn’t even thirteen yet… no, he’s thirteen—I can’t even remember that. Anyway, this case will be heard in county court…” “What case needs to be heard in court, Mr. Finch?” Mr. Tate lowered his legs and leaned toward Atticus. “Of course, it’s clearly self-defense, but I still need to check the files in my office…” “Mr. Finch, you believe Jem killed Bob Ewell? Is that your opinion?” “You heard what Scout said, there’s no doubt about it. She said Jem got up from the ground and suddenly pulled Bob Ewell off her—maybe he took the knife from Ewell in the dark…we’ll find out that tomorrow.” “Mr. Finch, wait a minute,” Mr. Tate said, “Jem didn’t stab Ewell at all.” Atticus was silent for a moment. He looked at Mr. Tate, seemingly very grateful for what he had said. But Atticus still shook his head. “Heck, I know you mean well, and I appreciate it, but this must never be allowed to begin.” Mr. Tate stood up, walked to the front porch, spat into the bushes, and then put his hands in his back pockets, facing Atticus. “Begin what?” he asked. “Heck, don’t blame me for being blunt,” Atticus said directly, “but this is not something anyone can hide. That’s not my style.” “No one is hiding anything, Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate’s voice was calm, his boots firmly planted on the floor as if rooted to the ground. A strange confrontation was brewing between my father and the sheriff, a confrontation I couldn’t quite fathom. Now it was Atticus’s turn to stand up and walk to the front porch. He cleared his throat and spat into the yard. He, too, put his hands in his back pockets, facing Mr. Tate. “Heck, though you haven’t said it clearly, I know what you’re thinking. Thank you for your kindness. Joan Louise…” He turned to me and said, “You just said that Jem pulled Mr. Ewell away from you, didn’t you?” “Yes, that’s what I think… I…” “Heck, you heard me? I appreciate you from the bottom of my heart, but I don’t want my son to start his life with such a shadow over him. The best way to dispel the shadow is to put everything in the open. Let the whole county bring sandwiches to the trial. I don’t want him to grow up amidst people’s whispers, I don’t want to hear anyone say, ‘Jem Finch… his old man spent a fortune to get him out of trouble.’ The sooner this chapter is over, the better.” “Mr. Finch,” Mr. Tate said calmly, “Bob Ewell died by his own hand. He killed himself.” Atticus walked to a corner of the front porch, his eyes fixed on the wisteria. I think they were both stubborn, though stubborn in their own unique ways. I truly don't know who will give in first. Atticus's stubbornness is calm and almost imperceptible, but when it strikes, it's quite similar to the Cunningham family. Mr. Tate's stubbornness is direct and somewhat rough, but he's my father's equal. “Heck,” Atticus said, turning away, “if we cover up the truth, it would be a complete betrayal of the principles I’ve always taught Jem how to be a person. Sometimes I feel like a failure as a father, utterly worthless, yet I am all they have. In this world, Jem looks at me first, then at everyone else, and I’ve always tried to live with dignity, to be able to look him in the eye… If I condone this, frankly, I will never be able to look him in the eye again, and if that happens, I will know I have lost him forever. I don’t want to lose him and Scout, because they are everything to me.” “Mr. Finch,” Mr. Tate remained firmly planted on the floor, “Bob Ewell fell into the line of fire. I can attest to that.” Atticus turned around. His hands were deeply in his pockets. “Heck, can’t you think about things from my perspective? You have children too, though I’m older than you. By the time my children are grown, if I’m still alive, I’ll be an old man, but right now I—if they don’t trust me, they won’t trust anyone. Jem and Scout know what happened. If they hear me telling a different story in town—Heck—I’ll lose them forever. I absolutely can’t have one story at home and another outside.” Mr. Tate shuffled his heel across the floor patiently. “After he threw Jem to the ground, he tripped over a tree root and fell to the ground himself—you see, I can show you.” Mr. Tate reached into his side pocket and pulled out a long switchblade. Just then, Dr. Reynolds came to the door. “Doctor, that son of a bitch—died under that tree on campus. Do you have a flashlight? You'd better take this.” “I can manage to get around it and turn on the headlights,” Dr. Reynolds said, but he took the flashlight from Mr. Tate anyway. “Jem is fine. I don’t think he’ll wake up tonight, so don’t worry. Was Bob Ewell killed with this knife, Heck?” “No, the knife is still in his body. Judging from the handle, it’s a kitchen knife. Ken should have already sent the coffin over. Goodnight, Doctor.” Mr. Tate snapped the switchblade open. “Like this,” he said. He gripped the handle, pretended to trip, and as he leaned forward, he extended his left arm under his chest. “See? He just stabbed himself in the ribs like that. All his weight was on the blade, and the knife went in.” Mr. Tate closed the switchblade and put it back in his pocket. “Scooter was only eight,” he said. “She was terrified and had no idea what was happening.” “You’d be surprised,” Atticus said coldly. “I’m not saying she’s making it up; I’m saying she was too panicked to understand what was going on. Besides, it was pitch black. Unless someone is very accustomed to the dark, they’re not qualified to be a witness…” “I can’t accept that explanation,” Atticus said softly. “Damn it, I wasn’t thinking about Jem!” Mr. Tate’s boots slammed on the floor with an unusually loud thud, and the light in Miss Mordy’s bedroom came on. The light in Miss Stephanie’s house also came on. Atticus and Mr. Tate glanced across the street, then exchanged a look. They waited quietly for things to calm down. When Mr. Tate spoke again, his voice was almost inaudible. “Mr. Finch, I don’t want to argue with you at a time like this. You’ve been under too much pressure tonight; no one should have gone through that. I don’t know how you managed to hold on and not collapse in bed. But I’m quite certain now that you haven’t reasoned from the facts this time, and we must resolve this tonight, because it will be too late by tomorrow. Bob Ewell still has a knife stuck in his stomach.” Mr. Tate then asked Atticus if he intended to stand in court and insist that a boy of Jem’s build could fight an adult in complete darkness, dragging a broken arm, and ultimately kill him. “Heck,” Atticus suddenly asked, “where did you get that switchblade you were waving around in just now?” “Confiscated from a drunkard,” Mr. Tate replied casually. I tried to recall the scene. Mr. Ewell choked me so hard I couldn’t breathe…and then he fell down…Jem must have gotten up. At least that's what I think… “Heck?” “Like I said, I confiscated it from a drunkard in town tonight. Bob Ewell probably found that kitchen knife somewhere in the junkyard, sharpened it to a razor's edge, and then waited for the right moment… waited for the right moment to strike.” Atticus walked heavily to the swing set and sat down. His hands hung limply between his knees, his eyes fixed on the floor. His movements were unusually slow, just like that night in front of the jail, when I watched him fold up the newspaper and toss it onto the chair, and it seemed like this slow motion would never stop. Mr. Tate paced back and forth on the front porch, trying to be as quiet as possible. “This isn’t your decision, Mr. Finch. It’s all up to me. This is my decision, and my responsibility. At least this time, you have to see things from my perspective, otherwise you won’t be able to argue with me. If you insist on trying, I’ll confront you and tell you you’re lying, that your son didn’t stab Bob Ewell to death.” He said slowly, “This has nothing to do with him, and you know that perfectly well. He just wanted to get himself and his sister home safely.” Mr. Tate stopped and stood in front of Atticus, his back to us. “Sir, I’m not exactly a good man, but I’m the sheriff of Maycomb County. I’ve lived in this town my whole life, and I’m forty-three years old now. I know everything that’s happened here, from before I was born until now. There’s nothing I don’t know. A young black man lost his life for no reason, and the guy who was supposed to be responsible for it is dead too. Let the dead bury the dead, Mr. Finch. Let the dead bury the dead.” Mr. Tate walked to the swing set, picked up the hat he had placed next to Atticus, smoothed his hair back, and put the hat on his head. “I’ve never heard of a citizen going to great lengths to prevent a crime from happening being against the law—that’s exactly what he did. You might say I have a responsibility to tell everyone in town the truth, that I shouldn’t hide anything. But do you know what the consequences will be? All the women in Maycomb, including my wife, will be knocking on his door with angel cakes. Mr. Finch, in my opinion, this man has done a great service for you and for the whole town, and if people ignore his reclusive lifestyle and force him into the spotlight—I think that’s a crime. I don’t want to bear that kind of guilt. If it were anyone else, it would be a different story. But he’s different, Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate looked as if he wanted to drill a hole in the floor with the tip of his boot. He twitched his nose and then rubbed his left arm a few times. “Mr. Finch, I may not be much of a figure, but I am, after all, the sheriff of Maycomb County. I told you, Bob Ewell died on his own. Goodnight, sir.” Mr. Tate thumped down the porch and strode across the front yard. He slammed the car door shut and drove off. Atticus sat there, staring at the floor, silent for a long time. Finally, he looked up. “Scooter,” he said, “Mr. Ewell died on his own. Do you understand?” Atticus looked like he needed someone to cheer him up. I ran over, hugged him tightly, and kissed him. “Yes, I understand,” I reassured him. “Mr. Tate is right.” Atticus pulled away and looked at me earnestly. “What do you mean?” “Well, it’s like killing a robin, isn’t it?” Atticus buried his face in my hair and rubbed it against me gently for a moment. He rose and walked across the front porch into the shadows, his steps regaining their usual lightness. Before entering the house, he paused in front of the strange Radley. "Arthur, thank you for saving my child." The strange Radley slowly rose to his feet, the light flickering through the living room window, casting an unpredictable glow on his forehead. Every movement he made seemed hesitant, as if unsure whether his limbs could still properly touch things. Another bout of agonizing coughing erupted, accompanied by a terrifying guttural sound. He coughed so violently that his whole body trembled, and he had no choice but to sit back down. He fumbled in his back pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and coughed frantically into it before wiping his forehead. Tonight, he had actually sat beside me for so long, which I found unbelievable, because I had long been accustomed to his invisible state. During this time, he had remained completely silent. He stood up again, facing me, and nodded towards the door. “Mr. Arthur, you want to say goodnight to Jem, don’t you? Then come inside.” I led him into the hallway, where Aunt Alexandra was sitting beside Jem’s bed. “Come in, Arthur,” she said. “He’s still asleep. Dr. Reynolds gave him a strong sedative. Joan Louise, is your father in the living room?” “Yes, I think so.” “I need to talk to him about something. Dr. Reynolds left some…” Her voice trailed off with her footsteps. The strange man had silently moved to the corner, chin tilted back, gazing at Jem from afar. I took his hand; the pale hand was surprisingly warm. I gently tugged at him, and he followed me to Jem’s bedside. Dr. Reynolds had erected something like a tent above Jem’s arm, I guessed, to cover the blanket. The strange man leaned in, scrutinizing Jem closely. His expression was a mixture of shyness and curiosity, as if he had never seen a boy before. He opened his mouth slightly, looking Jem up and down. Then he raised one hand, but it fell to his side. “You can touch him, Mr. Arthur, he’s asleep. He won’t let you touch him when he’s awake…” I said to him. “Go ahead and touch him.” The strange man’s hand hesitated above Jem’s head. “Go ahead and touch him, Mr. Arthur, he’s asleep.” His hand gently landed on Jem’s hair. At this moment, I began to understand his body language. He squeezed my hand tightly, meaning he wanted to go home. When I led him to the front porch, his hesitant steps stopped, but he still held my hand, showing no intention of letting go. “Can you take me home?” His voice was so soft it was almost a whisper, like a child afraid of the dark pleading. My foot had just touched the top step when I stopped. I could hold his hand and walk around our house, but I absolutely couldn’t take him home like this. “Mr. Arthur, bend your arm, like this. Okay, sir.” I put my hand in the crook of his arm. He had to stoop slightly to walk arm-in-arm with me, but if Miss Stephanie happened to be looking down from her upstairs window, she would see Mr. Arthur Radley walking with me like a gentleman on the sidewalk. As we reached the streetlamp at the corner, I couldn't help but think of how many times Dill had stood here, clinging to this thick pillar, watching, waiting, hoping; and how many times Jem and I had passed by here, but this was only the second time in my life I had stepped into the Radley's yard. The oddball and I climbed the steps to the front porch. His hand fumbled for the doorknob, then he gently released my arm, opened the door, went inside, and casually closed it behind him. I never saw him again. Among the neighbors, if someone died, people would bring food; if someone was sick, people would bring flowers; for any event, big or small, people would give small gifts. The oddball was also our neighbor. He gave us two soap dolls, a broken pocket watch with its chain, two lucky coins, and our lives. Neighbors are always expected to exchange gifts, but we had only taken gift after gift from that tree hollow, without putting anything back in return—we had given him nothing, and this saddened me. I turned to go home. The streetlights twinkled, stretching all the way into town. It was the first time I had ever looked around this familiar neighborhood from this angle. Over there were Miss Mordy's and Miss Stephanie's houses, and over here was ours—I could see the swing set on the front porch, Miss Rachel's house was a little behind ours, and even Mrs. Dubose's house was clearly visible. I looked behind me again. To the left of the brown door was a long, narrow shuttered window. I went over, stood in front of it, and turned back to look around. I thought that in daylight, I could see all the way to the corner where the post office was from here. In the bright sunlight… the night was dispelled by my imagination, and it was broad daylight; the whole neighborhood was bustling with activity. Miss Stephanie was crossing the street to tell Miss Rachel the latest news. Miss Moody was bending over, tending to her beloved azaleas. It was summer, and two children skipped and jumped on the sidewalk to greet a man approaching from afar. The man waved, and the two children chased each other, neither giving way, all the way to him. It was still summer, and the children drew closer. The boy hesitated, dragging a fishing rod behind him. The man stood there, hands on his hips, waiting for him. It was still summer, and his children were playing with their friends in the front yard, improvising and acting out a nonsensical little play. In autumn, his two children were fighting on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Dubose's house. The boy helped his sister up, and the two walked home together. That autumn, his two children ran back and forth across that street corner, their faces etched with the day's worries and joys. They stopped before a large oak tree, their faces flashing with surprise, confusion, and a touch of fear. That winter, his two children shivered in front of the gate, a house ablaze, the firelight casting their small silhouettes. Also in winter, the man walked into the street, threw down his glasses, and shot a rabid dog. Another summer came, and he watched his children's hearts shatter. Another autumn arrived, and the oddball's friend needed his help. Atticus was right. He once told me, "You can never truly understand a person unless you put on their shoes and walk around in their shoes, and see things from their perspective." For me, standing on the Radley's front porch was enough. The streetlights glowed dimly in the quietly falling drizzle. I walked home, feeling as if I were already very old. I stared intently at the tip of my nose, trying to see the tiny water droplets falling on it, but this made me cross-eyed and dizzy, so I stopped looking. Walking home, I thought about how I was supposed to tell Jem something so important tomorrow, and he'd missed it tonight; he'd definitely be angry and ignore me for days. Walking home, I thought about how Jem and I would grow up day by day, and how there wouldn't be much left to learn, except perhaps algebra. I ran up the steps and went inside. Aunt Alexandra was already in bed, and the light was off in Atticus's room. I wanted to check if Jem was awake, and when I entered, I found Atticus in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed reading a book. "Is Jem awake?" "He's sleeping soundly. He won't wake up until tomorrow morning." "Oh, are you going to stay up with him?" "I'll just stay here for about an hour. Go to sleep, Scout. You've had a tough day." "Oh, I'd like to stay with you for a while." "Suit yourself," Atticus said. It must have been past midnight by then, and I was quite surprised that he readily agreed to my request. But he was more cunning than I was: I'd only been sitting for a short while when I started to feel sleepy. "What are you reading?" Atticus glanced at the book cover. "It's one of Jem's books, called *The Grey Ghost*." I suddenly snapped awake. "Why are you reading this?" "Honey, I don't know. I just picked it up; it's one I haven't read yet," he said frankly. "Atticus, please read it aloud. This book is really scary." "No," he said, "you've had enough frights lately. This is too..." "Atticus, I'm not scared." He raised an eyebrow, and I quickly protested: "At least I wasn't scared before I told Mr. Tate. Jem wasn't scared either. I asked him, and he said he wasn't. Besides, there's nothing particularly scary about it except what's written in the book." Atticus opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again. He removed his thumb from the book and turned back to the first page. I leaned closer and rested my head on his knee. “Hmm,” he read, “The Grey Ghost, by Sexterry Hawkins. Chapter One…” I tried to stay awake, but the rain outside was so soft, the room so warm, his voice so deep, and resting my head on his lap so comforting, that I drifted off to sleep. It seemed like only a few seconds had passed when I felt his shoe lightly brush against my ribs. He helped me up and guided me into my bedroom. “I heard every word you read,” I mumbled, “…I wasn’t asleep at all. It’s about a boat and Three-Fingered Fred, and Stoner Boy…” He unhooked my overalls, let me lean against him, and helped me take them off. Then, supporting me with one hand, he reached for my pajamas with the other. “Yes, they all thought it was Stoner who caused trouble at their club, spilling ink everywhere, and…” He led me to the bedside, sat me up, lifted my legs onto the bed, and then covered me with the blanket. “And then, they were chasing Stoner everywhere, but they just couldn't catch him because they didn't even know what he looked like. Atticus, then they finally found him, and realized he hadn't done anything wrong at all… Atticus, he's actually a very kind person…” He reached under my chin, pulled the blanket up, and tucked me in. “Scooter, most people are kind. You'll find out once you get to know them.” He turned off the light and went back to Jem's room. He would stay there all night, keeping watch by Jem's bedside when he woke up the next morning.
Part Two, Chapter Thirty “My dear, you should call him Mr. Arthur,” Atticus gently corrected me. “Joan Louise, and this is Mr. Arthur Radley. I think he already knows you.” Atticus’s ability to introduce me to the strange man so politely at a time like this—well, that’s Atticus for you. The strange man saw me instinctively run to Jem’s bedside, a shy smile returning to his face. I blushed with embarrassment and pretended to cover Jem with the blanket to hide my awkwardness. “Ah—don’t touch him,” Atticus stopped me. Mr. Heck Tate sat there impassively, watching the strange man from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Just as he was about to speak, Dr. Reynolds walked down the aisle. “Everyone, please leave,” he said as he entered the room. “Good evening, Arthur. I didn’t notice you the first time I came.” Dr. Reynolds’ tone was as light as his footsteps, as if he greeted me like this every night. This casual remark surprised me more than being in the same room as the eccentric Radley. Of course… even the eccentric Radley gets sick sometimes, I thought, but then again, I wasn’t so sure. Dr. Reynolds brought in a large package wrapped in newspaper, placed it on Jem’s desk, and then took off his coat. “He’s alive, you can rest assured now. Let me tell you how I know. When I was examining him, he kicked me. I had to put him in a drowsy state, otherwise I couldn’t touch him at all. You all should leave now,” he said to me. “Oh—” Atticus hesitated, glancing at the strange man. “Heck, let’s all go outside to the front porch. There are plenty of chairs there, and it’s warm enough outside.” This struck me as odd: why didn’t Atticus invite everyone to sit in the living room instead of going to the front porch? But I immediately understood—the living room lights were too bright. We went out one by one, Mr. Tate leading the way. Atticus stood in the doorway, wanting the strange man to go ahead, but then changed his mind and followed Mr. Tate out first. Even in the most unusual circumstances, people still observe everyday etiquette, out of habit. I was no exception. “Come on, Mr. Arthur,” I said naturally, “you’re not very familiar with our house, let me take you to the front porch, sir.” He looked down at me and nodded slightly. I led him through the hallway and across the living room. “Please sit down, Mr. Arthur. This rocking chair is very comfortable.” My little fantasy about him, hidden deep within me, resurfaced: him sitting on the front porch… The weather’s been lovely lately, haven’t you, Mr. Arthur? Yes, the weather is lovely. As if in a dream, I led him to the chair furthest from Atticus and Mr. Tate, a spot shrouded in darkness, where I guessed he’d feel more comfortable. Atticus sat on the swing set, and Mr. Tate settled into a chair beside him. Bright light streamed from the living room window, illuminating them. I sat down next to the strange man. “Oh, Heck,” said Atticus, “I think the most pressing thing is… Good heavens, my memory is getting worse and worse…” Atticus pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “Jem isn’t even thirteen yet… no, he’s thirteen—I can’t even remember that. Anyway, this case will be heard in county court…” “What case needs to be heard in court, Mr. Finch?” Mr. Tate lowered his legs and leaned toward Atticus. “Of course, it’s clearly self-defense, but I still need to check the files in my office…” “Mr. Finch, you believe Jem killed Bob Ewell? Is that your opinion?” “You heard what Scout said, there’s no doubt about it. She said Jem got up from the ground and suddenly pulled Bob Ewell off her—maybe he took the knife from Ewell in the dark…we’ll find out that tomorrow.” “Mr. Finch, wait a minute,” Mr. Tate said, “Jem didn’t stab Ewell at all.” Atticus was silent for a moment. He looked at Mr. Tate, seemingly very grateful for what he had said. But Atticus still shook his head. “Heck, I know you mean well, and I appreciate it, but this must never be allowed to begin.” Mr. Tate stood up, walked to the front porch, spat into the bushes, and then put his hands in his back pockets, facing Atticus. “Begin what?” he asked. “Heck, don’t blame me for being blunt,” Atticus said directly, “but this is not something anyone can hide. That’s not my style.” “No one is hiding anything, Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate’s voice was calm, his boots firmly planted on the floor as if rooted to the ground. A strange confrontation was brewing between my father and the sheriff, a confrontation I couldn’t quite fathom. Now it was Atticus’s turn to stand up and walk to the front porch. He cleared his throat and spat into the yard. He, too, put his hands in his back pockets, facing Mr. Tate. “Heck, though you haven’t said it clearly, I know what you’re thinking. Thank you for your kindness. Joan Louise…” He turned to me and said, “You just said that Jem pulled Mr. Ewell away from you, didn’t you?” “Yes, that’s what I think… I…” “Heck, you heard me? I appreciate you from the bottom of my heart, but I don’t want my son to start his life with such a shadow over him. The best way to dispel the shadow is to put everything in the open. Let the whole county bring sandwiches to the trial. I don’t want him to grow up amidst people’s whispers, I don’t want to hear anyone say, ‘Jem Finch… his old man spent a fortune to get him out of trouble.’ The sooner this chapter is over, the better.” “Mr. Finch,” Mr. Tate said calmly, “Bob Ewell died by his own hand. He killed himself.” Atticus walked to a corner of the front porch, his eyes fixed on the wisteria. I think they were both stubborn, though stubborn in their own unique ways. I truly don't know who will give in first. Atticus's stubbornness is calm and almost imperceptible, but when it strikes, it's quite similar to the Cunningham family. Mr. Tate's stubbornness is direct and somewhat rough, but he's my father's equal. “Heck,” Atticus said, turning away, “if we cover up the truth, it would be a complete betrayal of the principles I’ve always taught Jem how to be a person. Sometimes I feel like a failure as a father, utterly worthless, yet I am all they have. In this world, Jem looks at me first, then at everyone else, and I’ve always tried to live with dignity, to be able to look him in the eye… If I condone this, frankly, I will never be able to look him in the eye again, and if that happens, I will know I have lost him forever. I don’t want to lose him and Scout, because they are everything to me.” “Mr. Finch,” Mr. Tate remained firmly planted on the floor, “Bob Ewell fell into the line of fire. I can attest to that.” Atticus turned around. His hands were deeply in his pockets. “Heck, can’t you think about things from my perspective? You have children too, though I’m older than you. By the time my children are grown, if I’m still alive, I’ll be an old man, but right now I—if they don’t trust me, they won’t trust anyone. Jem and Scout know what happened. If they hear me telling a different story in town—Heck—I’ll lose them forever. I absolutely can’t have one story at home and another outside.” Mr. Tate shuffled his heel across the floor patiently. “After he threw Jem to the ground, he tripped over a tree root and fell to the ground himself—you see, I can show you.” Mr. Tate reached into his side pocket and pulled out a long switchblade. Just then, Dr. Reynolds came to the door. “Doctor, that son of a bitch—died under that tree on campus. Do you have a flashlight? You'd better take this.” “I can manage to get around it and turn on the headlights,” Dr. Reynolds said, but he took the flashlight from Mr. Tate anyway. “Jem is fine. I don’t think he’ll wake up tonight, so don’t worry. Was Bob Ewell killed with this knife, Heck?” “No, the knife is still in his body. Judging from the handle, it’s a kitchen knife. Ken should have already sent the coffin over. Goodnight, Doctor.” Mr. Tate snapped the switchblade open. “Like this,” he said. He gripped the handle, pretended to trip, and as he leaned forward, he extended his left arm under his chest. “See? He just stabbed himself in the ribs like that. All his weight was on the blade, and the knife went in.” Mr. Tate closed the switchblade and put it back in his pocket. “Scooter was only eight,” he said. “She was terrified and had no idea what was happening.” “You’d be surprised,” Atticus said coldly. “I’m not saying she’s making it up; I’m saying she was too panicked to understand what was going on. Besides, it was pitch black. Unless someone is very accustomed to the dark, they’re not qualified to be a witness…” “I can’t accept that explanation,” Atticus said softly. “Damn it, I wasn’t thinking about Jem!” Mr. Tate’s boots slammed on the floor with an unusually loud thud, and the light in Miss Mordy’s bedroom came on. The light in Miss Stephanie’s house also came on. Atticus and Mr. Tate glanced across the street, then exchanged a look. They waited quietly for things to calm down. When Mr. Tate spoke again, his voice was almost inaudible. “Mr. Finch, I don’t want to argue with you at a time like this. You’ve been under too much pressure tonight; no one should have gone through that. I don’t know how you managed to hold on and not collapse in bed. But I’m quite certain now that you haven’t reasoned from the facts this time, and we must resolve this tonight, because it will be too late by tomorrow. Bob Ewell still has a knife stuck in his stomach.” Mr. Tate then asked Atticus if he intended to stand in court and insist that a boy of Jem’s build could fight an adult in complete darkness, dragging a broken arm, and ultimately kill him. “Heck,” Atticus suddenly asked, “where did you get that switchblade you were waving around in just now?” “Confiscated from a drunkard,” Mr. Tate replied casually. I tried to recall the scene. Mr. Ewell choked me so hard I couldn’t breathe…and then he fell down…Jem must have gotten up. At least that's what I think… “Heck?” “Like I said, I confiscated it from a drunkard in town tonight. Bob Ewell probably found that kitchen knife somewhere in the junkyard, sharpened it to a razor's edge, and then waited for the right moment… waited for the right moment to strike.” Atticus walked heavily to the swing set and sat down. His hands hung limply between his knees, his eyes fixed on the floor. His movements were unusually slow, just like that night in front of the jail, when I watched him fold up the newspaper and toss it onto the chair, and it seemed like this slow motion would never stop. Mr. Tate paced back and forth on the front porch, trying to be as quiet as possible. “This isn’t your decision, Mr. Finch. It’s all up to me. This is my decision, and my responsibility. At least this time, you have to see things from my perspective, otherwise you won’t be able to argue with me. If you insist on trying, I’ll confront you and tell you you’re lying, that your son didn’t stab Bob Ewell to death.” He said slowly, “This has nothing to do with him, and you know that perfectly well. He just wanted to get himself and his sister home safely.” Mr. Tate stopped and stood in front of Atticus, his back to us. “Sir, I’m not exactly a good man, but I’m the sheriff of Maycomb County. I’ve lived in this town my whole life, and I’m forty-three years old now. I know everything that’s happened here, from before I was born until now. There’s nothing I don’t know. A young black man lost his life for no reason, and the guy who was supposed to be responsible for it is dead too. Let the dead bury the dead, Mr. Finch. Let the dead bury the dead.” Mr. Tate walked to the swing set, picked up the hat he had placed next to Atticus, smoothed his hair back, and put the hat on his head. “I’ve never heard of a citizen going to great lengths to prevent a crime from happening being against the law—that’s exactly what he did. You might say I have a responsibility to tell everyone in town the truth, that I shouldn’t hide anything. But do you know what the consequences will be? All the women in Maycomb, including my wife, will be knocking on his door with angel cakes. Mr. Finch, in my opinion, this man has done a great service for you and for the whole town, and if people ignore his reclusive lifestyle and force him into the spotlight—I think that’s a crime. I don’t want to bear that kind of guilt. If it were anyone else, it would be a different story. But he’s different, Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate looked as if he wanted to drill a hole in the floor with the tip of his boot. He twitched his nose and then rubbed his left arm a few times. “Mr. Finch, I may not be much of a figure, but I am, after all, the sheriff of Maycomb County. I told you, Bob Ewell died on his own. Goodnight, sir.” Mr. Tate thumped down the porch and strode across the front yard. He slammed the car door shut and drove off. Atticus sat there, staring at the floor, silent for a long time. Finally, he looked up. “Scooter,” he said, “Mr. Ewell died on his own. Do you understand?” Atticus looked like he needed someone to cheer him up. I ran over, hugged him tightly, and kissed him. “Yes, I understand,” I reassured him. “Mr. Tate is right.” Atticus pulled away and looked at me earnestly. “What do you mean?” “Well, it’s like killing a robin, isn’t it?” Atticus buried his face in my hair and rubbed it against me gently for a moment. He rose and walked across the front porch into the shadows, his steps regaining their usual lightness. Before entering the house, he paused in front of the strange Radley. "Arthur, thank you for saving my child." The strange Radley slowly rose to his feet, the light flickering through the living room window, casting an unpredictable glow on his forehead. Every movement he made seemed hesitant, as if unsure whether his limbs could still properly touch things. Another bout of agonizing coughing erupted, accompanied by a terrifying guttural sound. He coughed so violently that his whole body trembled, and he had no choice but to sit back down. He fumbled in his back pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and coughed frantically into it before wiping his forehead. Tonight, he had actually sat beside me for so long, which I found unbelievable, because I had long been accustomed to his invisible state. During this time, he had remained completely silent. He stood up again, facing me, and nodded towards the door. “Mr. Arthur, you want to say goodnight to Jem, don’t you? Then come inside.” I led him into the hallway, where Aunt Alexandra was sitting beside Jem’s bed. “Come in, Arthur,” she said. “He’s still asleep. Dr. Reynolds gave him a strong sedative. Joan Louise, is your father in the living room?” “Yes, I think so.” “I need to talk to him about something. Dr. Reynolds left some…” Her voice trailed off with her footsteps. The strange man had silently moved to the corner, chin tilted back, gazing at Jem from afar. I took his hand; the pale hand was surprisingly warm. I gently tugged at him, and he followed me to Jem’s bedside. Dr. Reynolds had erected something like a tent above Jem’s arm, I guessed, to cover the blanket. The strange man leaned in, scrutinizing Jem closely. His expression was a mixture of shyness and curiosity, as if he had never seen a boy before. He opened his mouth slightly, looking Jem up and down. Then he raised one hand, but it fell to his side. “You can touch him, Mr. Arthur, he’s asleep. He won’t let you touch him when he’s awake…” I said to him. “Go ahead and touch him.” The strange man’s hand hesitated above Jem’s head. “Go ahead and touch him, Mr. Arthur, he’s asleep.” His hand gently landed on Jem’s hair. At this moment, I began to understand his body language. He squeezed my hand tightly, meaning he wanted to go home. When I led him to the front porch, his hesitant steps stopped, but he still held my hand, showing no intention of letting go. “Can you take me home?” His voice was so soft it was almost a whisper, like a child afraid of the dark pleading. My foot had just touched the top step when I stopped. I could hold his hand and walk around our house, but I absolutely couldn’t take him home like this. “Mr. Arthur, bend your arm, like this. Okay, sir.” I put my hand in the crook of his arm. He had to stoop slightly to walk arm-in-arm with me, but if Miss Stephanie happened to be looking down from her upstairs window, she would see Mr. Arthur Radley walking with me like a gentleman on the sidewalk. As we reached the streetlamp at the corner, I couldn't help but think of how many times Dill had stood here, clinging to this thick pillar, watching, waiting, hoping; and how many times Jem and I had passed by here, but this was only the second time in my life I had stepped into the Radley's yard. The oddball and I climbed the steps to the front porch. His hand fumbled for the doorknob, then he gently released my arm, opened the door, went inside, and casually closed it behind him. I never saw him again. Among the neighbors, if someone died, people would bring food; if someone was sick, people would bring flowers; for any event, big or small, people would give small gifts. The oddball was also our neighbor. He gave us two soap dolls, a broken pocket watch with its chain, two lucky coins, and our lives. Neighbors are always expected to exchange gifts, but we had only taken gift after gift from that tree hollow, without putting anything back in return—we had given him nothing, and this saddened me. I turned to go home. The streetlights twinkled, stretching all the way into town. It was the first time I had ever looked around this familiar neighborhood from this angle. Over there were Miss Mordy's and Miss Stephanie's houses, and over here was ours—I could see the swing set on the front porch, Miss Rachel's house was a little behind ours, and even Mrs. Dubose's house was clearly visible. I looked behind me again. To the left of the brown door was a long, narrow shuttered window. I went over, stood in front of it, and turned back to look around. I thought that in daylight, I could see all the way to the corner where the post office was from here. In the bright sunlight… the night was dispelled by my imagination, and it was broad daylight; the whole neighborhood was bustling with activity. Miss Stephanie was crossing the street to tell Miss Rachel the latest news. Miss Moody was bending over, tending to her beloved azaleas. It was summer, and two children skipped and jumped on the sidewalk to greet a man approaching from afar. The man waved, and the two children chased each other, neither giving way, all the way to him. It was still summer, and the children drew closer. The boy hesitated, dragging a fishing rod behind him. The man stood there, hands on his hips, waiting for him. It was still summer, and his children were playing with their friends in the front yard, improvising and acting out a nonsensical little play. In autumn, his two children were fighting on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Dubose's house. The boy helped his sister up, and the two walked home together. That autumn, his two children ran back and forth across that street corner, their faces etched with the day's worries and joys. They stopped before a large oak tree, their faces flashing with surprise, confusion, and a touch of fear. That winter, his two children shivered in front of the gate, a house ablaze, the firelight casting their small silhouettes. Also in winter, the man walked into the street, threw down his glasses, and shot a rabid dog. Another summer came, and he watched his children's hearts shatter. Another autumn arrived, and the oddball's friend needed his help. Atticus was right. He once told me, "You can never truly understand a person unless you put on their shoes and walk around in their shoes, and see things from their perspective." For me, standing on the Radley's front porch was enough. The streetlights glowed dimly in the quietly falling drizzle. I walked home, feeling as if I were already very old. I stared intently at the tip of my nose, trying to see the tiny water droplets falling on it, but this made me cross-eyed and dizzy, so I stopped looking. Walking home, I thought about how I was supposed to tell Jem something so important tomorrow, and he'd missed it tonight; he'd definitely be angry and ignore me for days. Walking home, I thought about how Jem and I would grow up day by day, and how there wouldn't be much left to learn, except perhaps algebra. I ran up the steps and went inside. Aunt Alexandra was already in bed, and the light was off in Atticus's room. I wanted to check if Jem was awake, and when I entered, I found Atticus in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed reading a book. "Is Jem awake?" "He's sleeping soundly. He won't wake up until tomorrow morning." "Oh, are you going to stay up with him?" "I'll just stay here for about an hour. Go to sleep, Scout. You've had a tough day." "Oh, I'd like to stay with you for a while." "Suit yourself," Atticus said. It must have been past midnight by then, and I was quite surprised that he readily agreed to my request. But he was more cunning than I was: I'd only been sitting for a short while when I started to feel sleepy. "What are you reading?" Atticus glanced at the book cover. "It's one of Jem's books, called *The Grey Ghost*." I suddenly snapped awake. "Why are you reading this?" "Honey, I don't know. I just picked it up; it's one I haven't read yet," he said frankly. "Atticus, please read it aloud. This book is really scary." "No," he said, "you've had enough frights lately. This is too..." "Atticus, I'm not scared." He raised an eyebrow, and I quickly protested: "At least I wasn't scared before I told Mr. Tate. Jem wasn't scared either. I asked him, and he said he wasn't. Besides, there's nothing particularly scary about it except what's written in the book." Atticus opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again. He removed his thumb from the book and turned back to the first page. I leaned closer and rested my head on his knee. “Hmm,” he read, “The Grey Ghost, by Sexterry Hawkins. Chapter One…” I tried to stay awake, but the rain outside was so soft, the room so warm, his voice so deep, and resting my head on his lap so comforting, that I drifted off to sleep. It seemed like only a few seconds had passed when I felt his shoe lightly brush against my ribs. He helped me up and guided me into my bedroom. “I heard every word you read,” I mumbled, “…I wasn’t asleep at all. It’s about a boat and Three-Fingered Fred, and Stoner Boy…” He unhooked my overalls, let me lean against him, and helped me take them off. Then, supporting me with one hand, he reached for my pajamas with the other. “Yes, they all thought it was Stoner who caused trouble at their club, spilling ink everywhere, and…” He led me to the bedside, sat me up, lifted my legs onto the bed, and then covered me with the blanket. “And then, they were chasing Stoner everywhere, but they just couldn't catch him because they didn't even know what he looked like. Atticus, then they finally found him, and realized he hadn't done anything wrong at all… Atticus, he's actually a very kind person…” He reached under my chin, pulled the blanket up, and tucked me in. “Scooter, most people are kind. You'll find out once you get to know them.” He turned off the light and went back to Jem's room. He would stay there all night, keeping watch by Jem's bedside when he woke up the next morning.
Part Two, Chapter Thirty “My dear, you should call him Mr. Arthur,” Atticus gently corrected me. “Joan Louise, and this is Mr. Arthur Radley. I think he already knows you.” Atticus’s ability to introduce me to the strange man so politely at a time like this—well, that’s Atticus for you. The strange man saw me instinctively run to Jem’s bedside, a shy smile returning to his face. I blushed with embarrassment and pretended to cover Jem with the blanket to hide my awkwardness. “Ah—don’t touch him,” Atticus stopped me. Mr. Heck Tate sat there impassively, watching the strange man from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Just as he was about to speak, Dr. Reynolds walked down the aisle. “Everyone, please leave,” he said as he entered the room. “Good evening, Arthur. I didn’t notice you the first time I came.” Dr. Reynolds’ tone was as light as his footsteps, as if he greeted me like this every night. This casual remark surprised me more than being in the same room as the eccentric Radley. Of course… even the eccentric Radley gets sick sometimes, I thought, but then again, I wasn’t so sure. Dr. Reynolds brought in a large package wrapped in newspaper, placed it on Jem’s desk, and then took off his coat. “He’s alive, you can rest assured now. Let me tell you how I know. When I was examining him, he kicked me. I had to put him in a drowsy state, otherwise I couldn’t touch him at all. You all should leave now,” he said to me. “Oh—” Atticus hesitated, glancing at the strange man. “Heck, let’s all go outside to the front porch. There are plenty of chairs there, and it’s warm enough outside.” This struck me as odd: why didn’t Atticus invite everyone to sit in the living room instead of going to the front porch? But I immediately understood—the living room lights were too bright. We went out one by one, Mr. Tate leading the way. Atticus stood in the doorway, wanting the strange man to go ahead, but then changed his mind and followed Mr. Tate out first. Even in the most unusual circumstances, people still observe everyday etiquette, out of habit. I was no exception. “Come on, Mr. Arthur,” I said naturally, “you’re not very familiar with our house, let me take you to the front porch, sir.” He looked down at me and nodded slightly. I led him through the hallway and across the living room. “Please sit down, Mr. Arthur. This rocking chair is very comfortable.” My little fantasy about him, hidden deep within me, resurfaced: him sitting on the front porch… The weather’s been lovely lately, haven’t you, Mr. Arthur? Yes, the weather is lovely. As if in a dream, I led him to the chair furthest from Atticus and Mr. Tate, a spot shrouded in darkness, where I guessed he’d feel more comfortable. Atticus sat on the swing set, and Mr. Tate settled into a chair beside him. Bright light streamed from the living room window, illuminating them. I sat down next to the strange man. “Oh, Heck,” said Atticus, “I think the most pressing thing is… Good heavens, my memory is getting worse and worse…” Atticus pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “Jem isn’t even thirteen yet… no, he’s thirteen—I can’t even remember that. Anyway, this case will be heard in county court…” “What case needs to be heard in court, Mr. Finch?” Mr. Tate lowered his legs and leaned toward Atticus. “Of course, it’s clearly self-defense, but I still need to check the files in my office…” “Mr. Finch, you believe Jem killed Bob Ewell? Is that your opinion?” “You heard what Scout said, there’s no doubt about it. She said Jem got up from the ground and suddenly pulled Bob Ewell off her—maybe he took the knife from Ewell in the dark…we’ll find out that tomorrow.” “Mr. Finch, wait a minute,” Mr. Tate said, “Jem didn’t stab Ewell at all.” Atticus was silent for a moment. He looked at Mr. Tate, seemingly very grateful for what he had said. But Atticus still shook his head. “Heck, I know you mean well, and I appreciate it, but this must never be allowed to begin.” Mr. Tate stood up, walked to the front porch, spat into the bushes, and then put his hands in his back pockets, facing Atticus. “Begin what?” he asked. “Heck, don’t blame me for being blunt,” Atticus said directly, “but this is not something anyone can hide. That’s not my style.” “No one is hiding anything, Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate’s voice was calm, his boots firmly planted on the floor as if rooted to the ground. A strange confrontation was brewing between my father and the sheriff, a confrontation I couldn’t quite fathom. Now it was Atticus’s turn to stand up and walk to the front porch. He cleared his throat and spat into the yard. He, too, put his hands in his back pockets, facing Mr. Tate. “Heck, though you haven’t said it clearly, I know what you’re thinking. Thank you for your kindness. Joan Louise…” He turned to me and said, “You just said that Jem pulled Mr. Ewell away from you, didn’t you?” “Yes, that’s what I think… I…” “Heck, you heard me? I appreciate you from the bottom of my heart, but I don’t want my son to start his life with such a shadow over him. The best way to dispel the shadow is to put everything in the open. Let the whole county bring sandwiches to the trial. I don’t want him to grow up amidst people’s whispers, I don’t want to hear anyone say, ‘Jem Finch… his old man spent a fortune to get him out of trouble.’ The sooner this chapter is over, the better.” “Mr. Finch,” Mr. Tate said calmly, “Bob Ewell died by his own hand. He killed himself.” Atticus walked to a corner of the front porch, his eyes fixed on the wisteria. I think they were both stubborn, though stubborn in their own unique ways. I truly don't know who will give in first. Atticus's stubbornness is calm and almost imperceptible, but when it strikes, it's quite similar to the Cunningham family. Mr. Tate's stubbornness is direct and somewhat rough, but he's my father's equal. “Heck,” Atticus said, turning away, “if we cover up the truth, it would be a complete betrayal of the principles I’ve always taught Jem how to be a person. Sometimes I feel like a failure as a father, utterly worthless, yet I am all they have. In this world, Jem looks at me first, then at everyone else, and I’ve always tried to live with dignity, to be able to look him in the eye… If I condone this, frankly, I will never be able to look him in the eye again, and if that happens, I will know I have lost him forever. I don’t want to lose him and Scout, because they are everything to me.” “Mr. Finch,” Mr. Tate remained firmly planted on the floor, “Bob Ewell fell into the line of fire. I can attest to that.” Atticus turned around. His hands were deeply in his pockets. “Heck, can’t you think about things from my perspective? You have children too, though I’m older than you. By the time my children are grown, if I’m still alive, I’ll be an old man, but right now I—if they don’t trust me, they won’t trust anyone. Jem and Scout know what happened. If they hear me telling a different story in town—Heck—I’ll lose them forever. I absolutely can’t have one story at home and another outside.” Mr. Tate shuffled his heel across the floor patiently. “After he threw Jem to the ground, he tripped over a tree root and fell to the ground himself—you see, I can show you.” Mr. Tate reached into his side pocket and pulled out a long switchblade. Just then, Dr. Reynolds came to the door. “Doctor, that son of a bitch—died under that tree on campus. Do you have a flashlight? You'd better take this.” “I can manage to get around it and turn on the headlights,” Dr. Reynolds said, but he took the flashlight from Mr. Tate anyway. “Jem is fine. I don’t think he’ll wake up tonight, so don’t worry. Was Bob Ewell killed with this knife, Heck?” “No, the knife is still in his body. Judging from the handle, it’s a kitchen knife. Ken should have already sent the coffin over. Goodnight, Doctor.” Mr. Tate snapped the switchblade open. “Like this,” he said. He gripped the handle, pretended to trip, and as he leaned forward, he extended his left arm under his chest. “See? He just stabbed himself in the ribs like that. All his weight was on the blade, and the knife went in.” Mr. Tate closed the switchblade and put it back in his pocket. “Scooter was only eight,” he said. “She was terrified and had no idea what was happening.” “You’d be surprised,” Atticus said coldly. “I’m not saying she’s making it up; I’m saying she was too panicked to understand what was going on. Besides, it was pitch black. Unless someone is very accustomed to the dark, they’re not qualified to be a witness…” “I can’t accept that explanation,” Atticus said softly. “Damn it, I wasn’t thinking about Jem!” Mr. Tate’s boots slammed on the floor with an unusually loud thud, and the light in Miss Mordy’s bedroom came on. The light in Miss Stephanie’s house also came on. Atticus and Mr. Tate glanced across the street, then exchanged a look. They waited quietly for things to calm down. When Mr. Tate spoke again, his voice was almost inaudible. “Mr. Finch, I don’t want to argue with you at a time like this. You’ve been under too much pressure tonight; no one should have gone through that. I don’t know how you managed to hold on and not collapse in bed. But I’m quite certain now that you haven’t reasoned from the facts this time, and we must resolve this tonight, because it will be too late by tomorrow. Bob Ewell still has a knife stuck in his stomach.” Mr. Tate then asked Atticus if he intended to stand in court and insist that a boy of Jem’s build could fight an adult in complete darkness, dragging a broken arm, and ultimately kill him. “Heck,” Atticus suddenly asked, “where did you get that switchblade you were waving around in just now?” “Confiscated from a drunkard,” Mr. Tate replied casually. I tried to recall the scene. Mr. Ewell choked me so hard I couldn’t breathe…and then he fell down…Jem must have gotten up. At least that's what I think… “Heck?” “Like I said, I confiscated it from a drunkard in town tonight. Bob Ewell probably found that kitchen knife somewhere in the junkyard, sharpened it to a razor's edge, and then waited for the right moment… waited for the right moment to strike.” Atticus walked heavily to the swing set and sat down. His hands hung limply between his knees, his eyes fixed on the floor. His movements were unusually slow, just like that night in front of the jail, when I watched him fold up the newspaper and toss it onto the chair, and it seemed like this slow motion would never stop. Mr. Tate paced back and forth on the front porch, trying to be as quiet as possible. “This isn’t your decision, Mr. Finch. It’s all up to me. This is my decision, and my responsibility. At least this time, you have to see things from my perspective, otherwise you won’t be able to argue with me. If you insist on trying, I’ll confront you and tell you you’re lying, that your son didn’t stab Bob Ewell to death.” He said slowly, “This has nothing to do with him, and you know that perfectly well. He just wanted to get himself and his sister home safely.” Mr. Tate stopped and stood in front of Atticus, his back to us. “Sir, I’m not exactly a good man, but I’m the sheriff of Maycomb County. I’ve lived in this town my whole life, and I’m forty-three years old now. I know everything that’s happened here, from before I was born until now. There’s nothing I don’t know. A young black man lost his life for no reason, and the guy who was supposed to be responsible for it is dead too. Let the dead bury the dead, Mr. Finch. Let the dead bury the dead.” Mr. Tate walked to the swing set, picked up the hat he had placed next to Atticus, smoothed his hair back, and put the hat on his head. “I’ve never heard of a citizen going to great lengths to prevent a crime from happening being against the law—that’s exactly what he did. You might say I have a responsibility to tell everyone in town the truth, that I shouldn’t hide anything. But do you know what the consequences will be? All the women in Maycomb, including my wife, will be knocking on his door with angel cakes. Mr. Finch, in my opinion, this man has done a great service for you and for the whole town, and if people ignore his reclusive lifestyle and force him into the spotlight—I think that’s a crime. I don’t want to bear that kind of guilt. If it were anyone else, it would be a different story. But he’s different, Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate looked as if he wanted to drill a hole in the floor with the tip of his boot. He twitched his nose and then rubbed his left arm a few times. “Mr. Finch, I may not be much of a figure, but I am, after all, the sheriff of Maycomb County. I told you, Bob Ewell died on his own. Goodnight, sir.” Mr. Tate thumped down the porch and strode across the front yard. He slammed the car door shut and drove off. Atticus sat there, staring at the floor, silent for a long time. Finally, he looked up. “Scooter,” he said, “Mr. Ewell died on his own. Do you understand?” Atticus looked like he needed someone to cheer him up. I ran over, hugged him tightly, and kissed him. “Yes, I understand,” I reassured him. “Mr. Tate is right.” Atticus pulled away and looked at me earnestly. “What do you mean?” “Well, it’s like killing a robin, isn’t it?” Atticus buried his face in my hair and rubbed it against me gently for a moment. He rose and walked across the front porch into the shadows, his steps regaining their usual lightness. Before entering the house, he paused in front of the strange Radley. "Arthur, thank you for saving my child." The strange Radley slowly rose to his feet, the light flickering through the living room window, casting an unpredictable glow on his forehead. Every movement he made seemed hesitant, as if unsure whether his limbs could still properly touch things. Another bout of agonizing coughing erupted, accompanied by a terrifying guttural sound. He coughed so violently that his whole body trembled, and he had no choice but to sit back down. He fumbled in his back pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and coughed frantically into it before wiping his forehead. Tonight, he had actually sat beside me for so long, which I found unbelievable, because I had long been accustomed to his invisible state. During this time, he had remained completely silent. He stood up again, facing me, and nodded towards the door. “Mr. Arthur, you want to say goodnight to Jem, don’t you? Then come inside.” I led him into the hallway, where Aunt Alexandra was sitting beside Jem’s bed. “Come in, Arthur,” she said. “He’s still asleep. Dr. Reynolds gave him a strong sedative. Joan Louise, is your father in the living room?” “Yes, I think so.” “I need to talk to him about something. Dr. Reynolds left some…” Her voice trailed off with her footsteps. The strange man had silently moved to the corner, chin tilted back, gazing at Jem from afar. I took his hand; the pale hand was surprisingly warm. I gently tugged at him, and he followed me to Jem’s bedside. Dr. Reynolds had erected something like a tent above Jem’s arm, I guessed, to cover the blanket. The strange man leaned in, scrutinizing Jem closely. His expression was a mixture of shyness and curiosity, as if he had never seen a boy before. He opened his mouth slightly, looking Jem up and down. Then he raised one hand, but it fell to his side. “You can touch him, Mr. Arthur, he’s asleep. He won’t let you touch him when he’s awake…” I said to him. “Go ahead and touch him.” The strange man’s hand hesitated above Jem’s head. “Go ahead and touch him, Mr. Arthur, he’s asleep.” His hand gently landed on Jem’s hair. At this moment, I began to understand his body language. He squeezed my hand tightly, meaning he wanted to go home. When I led him to the front porch, his hesitant steps stopped, but he still held my hand, showing no intention of letting go. “Can you take me home?” His voice was so soft it was almost a whisper, like a child afraid of the dark pleading. My foot had just touched the top step when I stopped. I could hold his hand and walk around our house, but I absolutely couldn’t take him home like this. “Mr. Arthur, bend your arm, like this. Okay, sir.” I put my hand in the crook of his arm. He had to stoop slightly to walk arm-in-arm with me, but if Miss Stephanie happened to be looking down from her upstairs window, she would see Mr. Arthur Radley walking with me like a gentleman on the sidewalk. As we reached the streetlamp at the corner, I couldn't help but think of how many times Dill had stood here, clinging to this thick pillar, watching, waiting, hoping; and how many times Jem and I had passed by here, but this was only the second time in my life I had stepped into the Radley's yard. The oddball and I climbed the steps to the front porch. His hand fumbled for the doorknob, then he gently released my arm, opened the door, went inside, and casually closed it behind him. I never saw him again. Among the neighbors, if someone died, people would bring food; if someone was sick, people would bring flowers; for any event, big or small, people would give small gifts. The oddball was also our neighbor. He gave us two soap dolls, a broken pocket watch with its chain, two lucky coins, and our lives. Neighbors are always expected to exchange gifts, but we had only taken gift after gift from that tree hollow, without putting anything back in return—we had given him nothing, and this saddened me. I turned to go home. The streetlights twinkled, stretching all the way into town. It was the first time I had ever looked around this familiar neighborhood from this angle. Over there were Miss Mordy's and Miss Stephanie's houses, and over here was ours—I could see the swing set on the front porch, Miss Rachel's house was a little behind ours, and even Mrs. Dubose's house was clearly visible. I looked behind me again. To the left of the brown door was a long, narrow shuttered window. I went over, stood in front of it, and turned back to look around. I thought that in daylight, I could see all the way to the corner where the post office was from here. In the bright sunlight… the night was dispelled by my imagination, and it was broad daylight; the whole neighborhood was bustling with activity. Miss Stephanie was crossing the street to tell Miss Rachel the latest news. Miss Moody was bending over, tending to her beloved azaleas. It was summer, and two children skipped and jumped on the sidewalk to greet a man approaching from afar. The man waved, and the two children chased each other, neither giving way, all the way to him. It was still summer, and the children drew closer. The boy hesitated, dragging a fishing rod behind him. The man stood there, hands on his hips, waiting for him. It was still summer, and his children were playing with their friends in the front yard, improvising and acting out a nonsensical little play. In autumn, his two children were fighting on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Dubose's house. The boy helped his sister up, and the two walked home together. That autumn, his two children ran back and forth across that street corner, their faces etched with the day's worries and joys. They stopped before a large oak tree, their faces flashing with surprise, confusion, and a touch of fear. That winter, his two children shivered in front of the gate, a house ablaze, the firelight casting their small silhouettes. Also in winter, the man walked into the street, threw down his glasses, and shot a rabid dog. Another summer came, and he watched his children's hearts shatter. Another autumn arrived, and the oddball's friend needed his help. Atticus was right. He once told me, "You can never truly understand a person unless you put on their shoes and walk around in their shoes, and see things from their perspective." For me, standing on the Radley's front porch was enough. The streetlights glowed dimly in the quietly falling drizzle. I walked home, feeling as if I were already very old. I stared intently at the tip of my nose, trying to see the tiny water droplets falling on it, but this made me cross-eyed and dizzy, so I stopped looking. Walking home, I thought about how I was supposed to tell Jem something so important tomorrow, and he'd missed it tonight; he'd definitely be angry and ignore me for days. Walking home, I thought about how Jem and I would grow up day by day, and how there wouldn't be much left to learn, except perhaps algebra. I ran up the steps and went inside. Aunt Alexandra was already in bed, and the light was off in Atticus's room. I wanted to check if Jem was awake, and when I entered, I found Atticus in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed reading a book. "Is Jem awake?" "He's sleeping soundly. He won't wake up until tomorrow morning." "Oh, are you going to stay up with him?" "I'll just stay here for about an hour. Go to sleep, Scout. You've had a tough day." "Oh, I'd like to stay with you for a while." "Suit yourself," Atticus said. It must have been past midnight by then, and I was quite surprised that he readily agreed to my request. But he was more cunning than I was: I'd only been sitting for a short while when I started to feel sleepy. "What are you reading?" Atticus glanced at the book cover. "It's one of Jem's books, called *The Grey Ghost*." I suddenly snapped awake. "Why are you reading this?" "Honey, I don't know. I just picked it up; it's one I haven't read yet," he said frankly. "Atticus, please read it aloud. This book is really scary." "No," he said, "you've had enough frights lately. This is too..." "Atticus, I'm not scared." He raised an eyebrow, and I quickly protested: "At least I wasn't scared before I told Mr. Tate. Jem wasn't scared either. I asked him, and he said he wasn't. Besides, there's nothing particularly scary about it except what's written in the book." Atticus opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again. He removed his thumb from the book and turned back to the first page. I leaned closer and rested my head on his knee. “Hmm,” he read, “The Grey Ghost, by Sexterry Hawkins. Chapter One…” I tried to stay awake, but the rain outside was so soft, the room so warm, his voice so deep, and resting my head on his lap so comforting, that I drifted off to sleep. It seemed like only a few seconds had passed when I felt his shoe lightly brush against my ribs. He helped me up and guided me into my bedroom. “I heard every word you read,” I mumbled, “…I wasn’t asleep at all. It’s about a boat and Three-Fingered Fred, and Stoner Boy…” He unhooked my overalls, let me lean against him, and helped me take them off. Then, supporting me with one hand, he reached for my pajamas with the other. “Yes, they all thought it was Stoner who caused trouble at their club, spilling ink everywhere, and…” He led me to the bedside, sat me up, lifted my legs onto the bed, and then covered me with the blanket. “And then, they were chasing Stoner everywhere, but they just couldn't catch him because they didn't even know what he looked like. Atticus, then they finally found him, and realized he hadn't done anything wrong at all… Atticus, he's actually a very kind person…” He reached under my chin, pulled the blanket up, and tucked me in. “Scooter, most people are kind. You'll find out once you get to know them.” He turned off the light and went back to Jem's room. He would stay there all night, keeping watch by Jem's bedside when he woke up the next morning.