Chapter 30

"Mr. Arthur, honey," said Atticus, gently correcting me. "Jean Louise, this is Mr. ArthurRadley. I believe he already knows you."

　　If Atticus could blandly introduce me to Boo Radley at a time like this, well—that wasAtticus.

　　Boo saw me run instinctively to the bed where Jem was sleeping, for the same shysmile crept across his face. Hot with embarrassment, I tried to cover up by covering Jemup.

　　"Ah-ah, don't touch him," Atticus said.

　　Mr. Heck Tate sat looking intently at Boo through his horn-rimmed glasses. He wasabout to speak when Dr. Reynolds came down the hall.

　　"Everybody out," he said, as he came in the door. "Evenin', Arthur, didn't notice youthe first time I was here."

　　Dr. Reynolds's voice was as breezy as his step, as though he had said it everyevening of his life, an announcement that astounded me even more than being in thesame room with Boo Radley. Of course… even Boo Radley got sick sometimes, Ithought. But on the other hand I wasn't sure.

　　Dr. Reynolds was carrying a big package wrapped in newspaper. He put it down onJem's desk and took off his coat. "You're quite satisfied he's alive, now? Tell you how Iknew. When I tried to examine him he kicked me. Had to put him out good and proper totouch him. So scat," he said to me.

　　"Er—" said Atticus, glancing at Boo. "Heck, let's go out on the front porch. There areplenty of chairs out there, and it's still warm enough."

　　I wondered why Atticus was inviting us to the front porch instead of the livingroom,then I understood. The livingroom lights were awfully strong.

　　We filed out, first Mr. Tate—Atticus was waiting at the door for him to go ahead of him.

　　Then he changed his mind and followed Mr. Tate.

　　People have a habit of doing everyday things even under the oddest conditions. I wasno exception: "Come along, Mr. Arthur," I heard myself saying, "you don't know thehouse real well. I'll just take you to the porch, sir."

　　He looked down at me and nodded.

　　I led him through the hall and past the livingroom.

　　"Won't you have a seat, Mr. Arthur? This rocking-chair's nice and comfortable."

　　My small fantasy about him was alive again: he would be sitting on the porch… rightpretty spell we're having, isn't it, Mr. Arthur?

　　Yes, a right pretty spell. Feeling slightly unreal, I led him to the chair farthest fromAtticus and Mr. Tate. It was in deep shadow. Boo would feel more comfortable in thedark.

　　Atticus was sitting in the swing, and Mr. Tate was in a chair next to him. The light fromthe livingroom windows was strong on them. I sat beside Boo.

　　"Well, Heck," Atticus was saying, "I guess the thing to do—good Lord, I'm losing mymemory…" Atticus pushed up his glasses and pressed his fingers to his eyes. "Jem'snot quite thirteen… no, he's already thirteen—I can't remember. Anyway, it'll comebefore county court—"

　　"What will, Mr. Finch?" Mr. Tate uncrossed his legs and leaned forward.

　　"Of course it was clear-cut self defense, but I'll have to go to the office and hunt up—"

　　"Mr. Finch, do you think Jem killed Bob Ewell? Do you think that?"

　　"You heard what Scout said, there's no doubt about it. She said Jem got up andyanked him off her—he probably got hold of Ewell's knife somehow in the dark… we'llfind out tomorrow."

　　"Mis-ter Finch, hold on," said Mr. Tate. "Jem never stabbed Bob Ewell."

　　Atticus was silent for a moment. He looked at Mr. Tate as if he appreciated what hesaid. But Atticus shook his head.

　　"Heck, it's mighty kind of you and I know you're doing it from that good heart of yours,but don't start anything like that."

　　Mr. Tate got up and went to the edge of the porch. He spat into the shrubbery, thenthrust his hands into his hip pockets and faced Atticus. "Like what?" he said.

　　"I'm sorry if I spoke sharply, Heck," Atticus said simply, "but nobody's hushing this up.

　　I don't live that way."

　　"Nobody's gonna hush anything up, Mr. Finch."

　　Mr. Tate's voice was quiet, but his boots were planted so solidly on the porchfloorboards it seemed that they grew there. A curious contest, the nature of whicheluded me, was developing between my father and the sheriff.

　　It was Atticus's turn to get up and go to the edge of the porch. He said, "H'rm," andspat dryly into the yard. He put his hands in his pockets and faced Mr. Tate.

　　"Heck, you haven't said it, but I know what you're thinking. Thank you for it. JeanLouise—" he turned to me. "You said Jem yanked Mr. Ewell off you?"

　　"Yes sir, that's what I thought… I—"

　　"See there, Heck? Thank you from the bottom of my heart, but I don't want my boystarting out with something like this over his head. Best way to clear the air is to have itall out in the open. Let the county come and bring sandwiches. I don't want him growingup with a whisper about him, I don't want anybody saying, 'Jem Finch… his daddy paida mint to get him out of that.' Sooner we get this over with the better."

　　"Mr. Finch," Mr. Tate said stolidly, "Bob Ewell fell on his knife. He killed himself."

　　Atticus walked to the corner of the porch. He looked at the wisteria vine. In his ownway, I thought, each was as stubborn as the other. I wondered who would give in first.

　　Atticus's stubbornness was quiet and rarely evident, but in some ways he was as set asthe Cunninghams. Mr. Tate's was unschooled and blunt, but it was equal to my father's.

　　"Heck," Atticus's back was turned. "If this thing's hushed up it'll be a simple denial toJem of the way I've tried to raise him. Sometimes I think I'm a total failure as a parent,but I'm all they've got. Before Jem looks at anyone else he looks at me, and I've tried tolive so I can look squarely back at him… if I connived at something like this, frankly Icouldn't meet his eye, and the day I can't do that I'll know I've lost him. I don't want tolose him and Scout, because they're all I've got."

　　"Mr. Finch." Mr. Tate was still planted to the floorboards. "Bob Ewell fell on his knife. Ican prove it."

　　Atticus wheeled around. His hands dug into his pockets. "Heck, can't you even try tosee it my way? You've got children of your own, but I'm older than you. When mine aregrown I'll be an old man if I'm still around, but right now I'm—if they don't trust me theywon't trust anybody. Jem and Scout know what happened. If they hear of me sayingdowntown something different happened—Heck, I won't have them any more. I can'tlive one way in town and another way in my home."

　　Mr. Tate rocked on his heels and said patiently, "He'd flung Jem down, he stumbledover a root under that tree and—look, I can show you."

　　Mr. Tate reached in his side pocket and withdrew a long switchblade knife. As he didso, Dr. Reynolds came to the door. "The son—deceased's under that tree, doctor, justinside the schoolyard. Got a flashlight? Better have this one."

　　"I can ease around and turn my car lights on," said Dr. Reynolds, but he took Mr.

　　Tate's flashlight. "Jem's all right. He won't wake up tonight, I hope, so don't worry. Thatthe knife that killed him, Heck?"

　　"No sir, still in him. Looked like a kitchen knife from the handle. Ken oughta be therewith the hearse by now, doctor, 'night."

　　Mr. Tate flicked open the knife. "It was like this," he said. He held the knife andpretended to stumble; as he leaned forward his left arm went down in front of him. "Seethere? Stabbed himself through that soft stuff between his ribs. His whole weight drove itin."

　　Mr. Tate closed the knife and jammed it back in his pocket. "Scout is eight years old,"

　　he said. "She was too scared to know exactly what went on."

　　"You'd be surprised," Atticus said grimly.

　　"I'm not sayin' she made it up, I'm sayin' she was too scared to know exactly whathappened. It was mighty dark out there, black as ink. 'd take somebody mighty used tothe dark to make a competent witness…"

　　"I won't have it," Atticus said softly.

　　"God damn it, I'm not thinking of Jem!"

　　Mr. Tate's boot hit the floorboards so hard the lights in Miss Maudie's bedroom wenton. Miss Stephanie Crawford's lights went on. Atticus and Mr. Tate looked across thestreet, then at each other. They waited.

　　When Mr. Tate spoke again his voice was barely audible. "Mr. Finch, I hate to fightyou when you're like this. You've been under a strain tonight no man should ever haveto go through. Why you ain't in the bed from it I don't know, but I do know that for onceyou haven't been able to put two and two together, and we've got to settle this tonightbecause tomorrow'll be too late. Bob Ewell's got a kitchen knife in his craw."

　　Mr. Tate added that Atticus wasn't going to stand there and maintain that any boyJem's size with a busted arm had fight enough left in him to tackle and kill a grown manin the pitch dark.

　　"Heck," said Atticus abruptly, "that was a switchblade you were waving. Where'd youget it?"

　　"Took it off a drunk man," Mr. Tate answered coolly.

　　I was trying to remember. Mr. Ewell was on me… then he went down… Jem musthave gotten up. At least I thought…"Heck?"

　　"I said I took it off a drunk man downtown tonight. Ewell probably found that kitchenknife in the dump somewhere. Honed it down and bided his time… just bided his time."

　　Atticus made his way to the swing and sat down. His hands dangled limply betweenhis knees. He was looking at the floor. He had moved with the same slowness that nightin front of the jail, when I thought it took him forever to fold his newspaper and toss it inhis chair.

　　Mr. Tate clumped softly around the porch. "It ain't your decision, Mr. Finch, it's allmine. It's my decision and my responsibility. For once, if you don't see it my way, there'snot much you can do about it. If you wanta try, I'll call you a liar to your face. Your boynever stabbed Bob Ewell," he said slowly, "didn't come near a mile of it and now youknow it. All he wanted to do was get him and his sister safely home."

　　Mr. Tate stopped pacing. He stopped in front of Atticus, and his back was to us. "I'mnot a very good man, sir, but I am sheriff of Maycomb County. Lived in this town all mylife an' I'm goin' on forty-three years old. Know everything that's happened here sincebefore I was born. There's a black boy dead for no reason, and the man responsible forit's dead. Let the dead bury the dead this time, Mr. Finch. Let the dead bury the dead."

　　Mr. Tate went to the swing and picked up his hat. It was lying beside Atticus. Mr. Tatepushed back his hair and put his hat on.

　　"I never heard tell that it's against the law for a citizen to do his utmost to prevent acrime from being committed, which is exactly what he did, but maybe you'll say it's myduty to tell the town all about it and not hush it up. Know what'd happen then? All theladies in Maycomb includin' my wife'd be knocking on his door bringing angel foodcakes. To my way of thinkin', Mr. Finch, taking the one man who's done you and thistown a great service an' draggin' him with his shy ways into the limelight—to me, that's asin. It's a sin and I'm not about to have it on my head. If it was any other man, it'd bedifferent. But not this man, Mr. Finch."

　　Mr. Tate was trying to dig a hole in the floor with the toe of his boot. He pulled hisnose, then he massaged his left arm. "I may not be much, Mr. Finch, but I'm still sheriffof Maycomb County and Bob Ewell fell on his knife. Good night, sir."

　　Mr. Tate stamped off the porch and strode across the front yard. His car doorslammed and he drove away.

　　Atticus sat looking at the floor for a long time. Finally he raised his head. "Scout," hesaid, "Mr. Ewell fell on his knife. Can you possibly understand?"

　　Atticus looked like he needed cheering up. I ran to him and hugged him and kissedhim with all my might. "Yes sir, I understand," I reassured him. "Mr. Tate was right."

　　Atticus disengaged himself and looked at me. "What do you mean?"

　　"Well, it'd be sort of like shootin' a mockingbird, wouldn't it?"

　　Atticus put his face in my hair and rubbed it. When he got up and walked across theporch into the shadows, his youthful step had returned. Before he went inside thehouse, he stopped in front of Boo Radley. "Thank you for my children, Arthur," he said.