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As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.
As Atticus had said, things were finally calming down. By mid-October, only two unusual little incidents had occurred, involving two Maycomb citizens. No, three, actually. Though not directly related to our Finch family, they were still somewhat connected. The first involved Mr. Bob Ewell, who gained and then lost his job within days, probably making him a unique figure in the historical record of the 1930s: to my knowledge, he was the only person dismissed by the Public Works Promotion Agency for laziness. I suspect that his brief overnight fame only fostered a shorter period of diligence, and his job, like his fame, came and went quickly. Mr. Ewell found himself, like Tom Robinson, soon forgotten. From then on, he continued his weekly trip to the relief office to collect his checks. Instead of showing gratitude, he would mutter and curse incoherently, saying that those self-proclaimed rulers of the town wouldn't let an honest man earn his own living. Ruth Jones, who worked at the relief office, said that Mr. Ewell even openly hurled insults, accusing Atticus of ruining his job. Ruth was disturbed and went to Atticus's office to tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth to calm down, saying that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss how he had "ruined" his job, he knew how to get to his office. The second incident involved Judge Taylor. Mrs. Taylor went to church every Sunday evening, but Judge Taylor never did. Instead, he stayed in his mansion, enjoying the evenings alone, curled up in his study reading Bob Taylor's annotated works—they weren't related by blood, but Judge Taylor would have been quite pleased if he could claim kinship. One Sunday evening, Judge Taylor was engrossed in vivid metaphors and beautiful prose when a nagging scratching sound abruptly interrupted his attention. "Shh," he hissed at Ann Taylor, his unremarkable, large, fat dog. He then realized he was speaking to an empty room, and the scratching was coming from the back of the house. Judge Taylor dragged his heavy steps to the back porch to let the dog out, only to find the screen door swinging back and forth. He glimpsed a figure flash in the corner of the house; that was the only impression the uninvited guest left on him. Mrs. Taylor returned home from church to find her husband sitting as usual, engrossed in Bob Taylor's writing, a shotgun across his lap. The third matter concerns Helen Robinson, Tom's widow. If Mr. Ewell was forgotten like Tom Robinson, then Tom was forgotten like Radley the eccentric. However, Tom's former employer, Mr. Link Dis, hadn't forgotten him and arranged a job for his wife, Helen. He didn't really need Helen to help out; he said the way things had turned out made him very upset. I had no idea who would take care of Helen's children while she went to work. Kaponi said Helen had a hard time; she had to walk an extra mile every day to avoid the Ewell family. In Helen's words, the first time she passed by, she was "surrounded" by the Ewell family just as she was about to step onto the public road. Day after day, Mr. Link Dis finally discovered that Helen took a longer route to work every day, so he pressed her to tell him the reason. “Please, Mr. Link, leave it alone,” Helen pleaded. “I won’t let him get away with it!” said Mr. Link. He told Helen to come to his shop before going home in the afternoon. Helen obeyed, and by evening, Mr. Link had closed the shop, pulled his hat firmly on his head, and walked with Helen home. They took a shortcut, passing by Ewell’s house. When he turned back, he stopped in front of the crooked gate. “Ewell?” he called out, “I say, Ewell!” The windows, usually crowded with children, were now empty. “I know you’re all in the house, all crawling on the floor. Listen up, Bob Ewell: if I hear my Helen mutter again that she’s afraid to walk this way, I’ll send you to jail before nightfall!” Mr. Link spat on the ground and turned to go home. The next morning, Helen took the same public road to work. No one stopped her this time, but after walking a few steps past Ewell’s house, she turned around and found Mr. Ewell following her. She turned back and continued on her way, and Mr. Ewell followed her all the way to Mr. Link Dis’s house, always keeping a safe distance. Helen said that along the way she heard constant low curses behind her, all very foul language. Terrified, she immediately called Mr. Link, who was at the shop. The shop wasn't far from his house, and as Mr. Link stepped out, he saw Mr. Ewell leaning against his yard fence. Mr. Ewell said, "Link Dis, don't look at me like I'm a piece of trash. I haven't done anything to you..." "Ewell, the first thing you need to do is get your stinking body off my fence. I don't have the money to repaint it after you've leaned on it. The second thing is to stay away from my cook, or I'll sue you for harassment..." "Link Dis, I haven't touched her, and I'm not going to go looking for a nigger!" "You don't need to touch her, just scare her. If harassment isn't enough to put you in jail for a while, I'll sue you under the Women's Act. Get lost! If you think I'm not serious, try bothering her again!" Mr. Ewell clearly thought he was serious, because Helen never mentioned any similar trouble again. “Atticus, this is really bothering me, I’m so fed up.” – This was Aunt Alexandra’s feeling. “He seems to hold a grudge against everyone involved in that case. I know how those kinds of people vent their resentment, but I don’t understand why he does it – didn’t he get his way in court?” “I can understand,” Atticus said. “Maybe it’s because he knows that in Maycomb, very few people actually believe the lies he and Mayella fabricated. He thought he was going to be a hero, but after all his scheming and scheming, all he got was… well, we found this black guy guilty, you can go back to your junkyard. He’s caused trouble for everyone now, he should be satisfied. His resentment will probably subside when the weather gets cooler.” “But why did he go to John Taylor’s house?” "Borrowing? He obviously didn't know John was home; if he had, he wouldn't have barged in. Every Sunday night, John usually only turned on the light on the front porch and the study..." "You don't know if Bob Ewell cut the screen door, you don't know who did it," Atticus said. "But I can guess. I exposed his lie in court, and John made him look like a fool. When Ewell was on the witness stand, I didn't dare look at John once, afraid I'd burst out laughing. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don't tell me judges never try to influence the jury." Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had returned to the familiar routine: school, play, study. Jem seemed to have completely banished what he wanted to forget, and the magnanimity of our classmates made us forget we had a rebellious father. Cecil once asked me, "Is your father a radical?" I went home and asked Atticus, whose gleeful expression annoyed me, but he said he wasn't mocking me, adding, "Go tell Cecil I'm about as radical as 'Cotton Tom' Heflin." Aunt Alexandra was beaming with pride; it seemed Miss Moody had certainly won over the entire mission, as she was once again acting as their leader, and even her refreshments were becoming increasingly delicious. I learned more about the poor Monas from Mrs. Merriweather about their social life: they had almost no concept of family; the entire tribe was one big family. For all the children, there were as many fathers as there were men in the tribe, and as many mothers as there were women. Reverend J. Grimes Everett was doing everything he could to change this, and our prayers were urgently needed. Maycomb had returned to its old ways, almost exactly the same as last year and the year before, with only two minor changes. The first change was that people had torn down the old signs and slogans from shop windows and cars that read "National Recovery Administration - Doing the Job." I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the "National Recovery Act" note had been removed. I asked who removed it, and he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb wasn't national, but it started last year. Before that, Halloween in Maycomb was never very organized. Each child did their own thing, only asking for help when something needed moving, like putting a wagon on top of the barn. However, after the incident where Miss Tutty and Miss Fruty's peaceful lives were disrupted, the parents unanimously agreed that the children had gone too far. Tutty Barber and Fruty Barber were sisters, both older ladies, living together in Maycomb's only house with a cellar. Rumor had it that the sisters were Republicans who had moved from Clanton, Alabama in 1911. Their lifestyle seemed strange to us; no one understood why they wanted a cellar. They had the idea, so they dug one, and their lives were never peaceful; they constantly had to drive generation after generation of their children away. Miss Tutti and Miss Fruty's names were Sarah and Francis, respectively. Besides all the typical Yankee habits, they were both deaf. Miss Tutti refused to accept this fact, content to live in a silent world, while Miss Fruty, not wanting to miss anything, had a huge, horn-shaped hearing aid fitted. Jem asserted it was an amplifier salvaged from a Victor phonograph. A few mischievous children, knowing this, sneaked into their living room (except for the Radleys, no one locked their doors at night) on Halloween after the two old ladies had fallen asleep, and secretly moved all the furniture out and hid it in the cellar. I vehemently denied participating in this frivolous act. “I heard them!” The next morning, just as dawn broke, the two young ladies’ neighbors were awakened by the commotion. “I heard them pull up to the door! The heavy footsteps sounded like horses’ hooves. They must be in New Orleans by now!” Two days earlier, a group of itinerant fur traders had passed through town, and Miss Tutty was convinced they had stolen the furniture. “Those Syrians,” she said, “they’re so dark-skinned.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. After examining the scene, he said he felt it was the locals. Miss Tutty said she knew the Maycomb accent all too well, recognizing it everywhere, but last night, no one in the living room spoke with a Maycomb accent—the men walked around with their mouths full of rolled "r" sounds. Miss Tutty insisted on using hunting dogs to find the furniture, so Mr. Tate had to run ten miles of dirt roads to gather the country dogs and let them track the scent. Mr. Tate had the hounds use the front steps as a starting point, but they all ran to the back of the house and barked incessantly at the cellar door. After this happened three times, Mr. Tate figured out what was going on. Before noon that day, there wasn't a single barefoot child to be seen on the streets of Maycomb, and none of them would take off their shoes until the hounds were sent away. Upon hearing this, the ladies of Maycomb said that this year would be different. As a result, the Maycomb High School auditorium would be open to the public that day, with adults watching performances and children playing games like "apple in mouth," "toffee pulling," and "tackling a donkey's tail." There was also a prize for the best homemade Halloween costume, with a prize of twenty-five cents. Jim and I complained bitterly. It wasn't because we had played any pranks, but because of the rule. Jim felt he was too old for Halloween tricks anymore, and he said he didn't want anyone seeing him near the high school auditorium that night, participating in those boring games. Oh well, I thought, Atticus will take me. However, I soon heard that I also had to perform on stage that night. Mrs. Merriweather had created a rather ingenious play called "Maycomb County: The Road to the Stars," and she wanted me to play Ham. She thought it would be very pleasing to have a group of children dressed as Maycomb County's main agricultural products: Cecil as a cow, Agnes Boone as a cute butter bean, and another child as a peanut, and so on, until Mrs. Merriweather's imagination ran out and no more children were available for roles. After two rehearsals, I figured out that our task was simply to walk onto the stage from the left, guided by Mrs. Merriweather, the playwright and narrator. When she called "Pork," it was my turn to appear. Then, my friends would sing in unison: Maycomb County, Maycomb County, you'll always be in our hearts. The final scene would be incredibly solemn—Mrs. Merriweather planned to take to the stage, holding the state flag high. My costume wasn't a problem. There was a tailor in town named Mrs. Crenshaw, who, like Mrs. Merriweather, was full of ingenious ideas. Mrs. Crenshaw bent wire mesh into the shape of a smoked ham, covered it with brown cloth, and even painted on it to make the ham look more realistic. I just had to squat down so someone could pull the costume over my head, up to about my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw was very thoughtful, even leaving two observation holes for me. Her craftsmanship was excellent; Jem said I looked like a ham with two legs. However, the costume had its uncomfortable aspects: it was too hot and too tight inside, so I couldn't scratch my itchy nose, and once I was on, I couldn't get out without help. On Halloween, I thought my whole family would come to see my performance, but I was greatly disappointed. Atticus told me, in the most tactful way possible, that he was too tired to go to the show that evening. He'd been in Montgomery for a week and hadn't returned home until that evening. He figured if I asked Jem, Jem would come with me. Aunt Alexandra said she needed to go to bed early; she'd been busy all afternoon helping set up the stage and was exhausted—she stopped abruptly halfway through her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no word came out. “What’s wrong, Aunt?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” she said. “I just had a shiver; someone must have stepped on my grave.” She dismissed the thing that had startled her and suggested I rehearse it in the living room in front of the whole family. So Jem… Aunt Alexandra rose and reached for the mantel. Mr. Tate quickly rose as well, but Aunt Alexandra wouldn't let him help. For the first time in his life, Atticus didn't show his innate humility—he remained seated. For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Bob Ewell had said—that he'd risk his life to get rid of Atticus. Mr. Ewell had almost gotten his wish this time, and it was the last thing he ever did. "Are you sure?" Atticus's voice was very somber. "He is indeed dead," Mr. Tate said. "Absolutely. He can't hurt the children anymore." "That's not what I meant," Atticus murmured as if in a dream. He suddenly looked much older, a sign that his mind was in turmoil: his once-sharp jawline had become loose; the wrinkles below his ears were no longer concealed, clearly visible; his once-black hair was less noticeable, while his increasingly graying sideburns were more striking. "Wouldn't it be better if we talked in the living room?" Aunt Alexandra finally asked. "If you don't mind," Mr. Tate said, "I think we should talk here, as long as it doesn't disturb Jem's rest. I'd like to see his injuries and hear Scout... tell us what happened." "Would it be alright if I left?" she asked. "I'm just an extra person here. Atticus, just call me if you need anything, I'll stay in my room." Aunt Alexandra walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. “Atticus, I had a feeling about what would happen tonight… I… it’s all my fault,” she couldn’t help but say. “I should have…” Mr. Tate held out his hand, gesturing for her to stop. “Go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know this has been very upsetting for you. Don’t overthink it, don’t torture yourself—well, if we keep letting our feelings lead us by the nose, we’ll be like cats chasing their own tails. Miss Scout, could you tell us what happened while your memory is still sharp? Do you think that’s alright? Did you see him following you?” I walked over to Atticus and felt him put his arms around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started walking home. I told Jem I’d forgotten my shoes, so we went back to get them. But all the lights in the school were off, and Jem said I could get them tomorrow…” “Scooter, lift your head so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said to me. I climbed onto his lap and sat in his arms. “As we were walking, Jem told me to be quiet. I thought he was thinking about something—he always tells me to be quiet when he's thinking. After a while, he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil playing tricks.” “Cecil?” “It was Cecil Jacobs. He already scared us once tonight, and we thought he was back again. He was wearing a sheet then. The prize for best costume was twenty-five cents, and I don’t even know who got it…” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Not far from the school. I even yelled at him…” “What did you yell?” “I think it was ‘Cecil is a big fat hen.’ We didn’t hear anyone respond… A little while later, Jem yelled ‘Hello’ or something, loud enough to wake a dead man…” “Wait a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them yelling?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra was also listening to the radio in her bedroom. He remembered clearly that Aunt Alexandra had told him to turn the volume down, otherwise she wouldn't be able to listen. Atticus smiled slightly. "I always have the radio turned up really loud." "I wonder if the neighbors heard anything..." Mr. Tate said. "I doubt it, Heck. Most of them are either listening to the radio or have gone to bed early. Miss Mordy might still be awake, but I doubt she heard anything." "Go on, Scout," Mr. Tate said to me again. “Oh, after Jem shouted, we both went on ahead. Mr. Tate, I was completely covered in my costume, but then I heard that sound too—I mean, footsteps. We walked, and the footsteps followed; we stopped, and the footsteps stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some glittery paint on my costume. I was playing Ham.” “What’s going on?” Mr. Tate asked, surprised. Atticus explained my role to Mr. Tate and described the construction of my costume. “You should have seen what she looked like when she came back,” he said. “The costume was all crumpled.” Mr. Tate stroked his chin. “I was wondering how Ewell got those marks. He had a lot of little holes in his sleeves, and a couple of puncture wounds on his arms that matched the holes. Could I see that thing you mentioned, if it’s convenient?” Atticus went to get my tattered costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what shape it was. “It’s very likely this thing saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He held up his long index finger and pointed to Atticus—a clean, bright line was clearly visible on the gray barbed wire. “Bob Ewell seems to have gone too far,” Mr. Tate muttered to himself. “He’s out of his mind,” Atticus said. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Finch, but he’s not insane, he’s ruthless. That despicable bastard, emboldened by alcohol, dared to harm a child. He never dares to confront anyone directly.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone—” “Mr. Finch, there are some people in this world who you have to shoot before you can even greet them. Even then, their lives aren’t worth a bullet. Ewell is one of them.” Atticus said, “I thought he’d vented his anger after that threat. Even if he wasn’t satisfied, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had the guts to harass a poor black woman, he had the guts to cause trouble at Judge Taylor’s house when no one was home—you think, how could someone like that dare to confront you in broad daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “Let’s continue. Scout, did you hear him following you—” “Yes, sir. As we walked…” When we get to the bottom of the tree——" "How do you know it's under a tree? You can't see anything under the cover." "I was barefoot. Jem said the ground was cooler under the trees than elsewhere." "It seems we have to ask him to be our deputy. Go on." "Later, someone suddenly grabbed me and banged my costume hard... I remember I was lying on the ground... I heard a scuffle from under the tree... The sound was like they were hitting the trunk of the tree repeatedly. Jem found me, pulled me and ran towards the road. There was The man—it was Mr. Ewell, jerked him down, I guess. They struggled again, and I heard a strange noise—and then Jem let out a scream..." I stopped—that's when Jem's arm was broken. "Anyway, Jem screamed, and I never heard him again. Then Mr. Ewell strangled me again, and I think... suddenly someone pulled him down. I guess Jem got up. That's all I remember..." "What happened next?" Mr. Tate stared at me sharply. “Someone was panting heavily, staggering back and forth—coughing terribly. At first I thought it was Jem, but the voice didn't sound like him, so I groped around on the floor looking for him. I thought Atticus had come to help us; I was exhausted…” “Who is that person?” “Mr. Tate, he's right there. He can tell you his name.” As I spoke, I half-raised my hand, pointing to the person in the corner. But I quickly lowered my hand after the slightest gesture, lest Atticus scold me. Pointing at people is impolite. He was still leaning against the wall. He was standing against the wall with his arms crossed when I came in, and he'd been standing there ever since. When I pointed at him, he lowered his arms, his palms pressed firmly against the wall. They were pale hands, sickly hands that had never been bathed in sunlight. In the dim light of Jem's room, these hands, against the cream-colored wall, were so glaringly white. My gaze followed his hands down to his sand-stained khaki trousers, then up his thin frame to his ripped twill shirt. His face was as pale as his hands, with only a shadow on his prominent chin. His cheeks were sunken, forming a wide mouth; his temples were slightly sunken, almost imperceptible; his gray eyes were dull and lifeless, making me mistake him for blind. His thin, lifeless hair covered his head like feathers. As I pointed, his palms slid lightly against the wall, leaving two greasy streaks of sweat, before he tucked his thumbs into his belt. A sudden, inexplicable spasm ran through him, like the sound of fingernails scraping against stone. However, under my curious gaze, the tension on his face slowly dissipated. He parted his lips, revealing a shy smile. My eyes suddenly filled with tears, and my neighbor's face instantly became a blur.