[杀死一只知更鸟To Kill A Mocking Bird]29-31_End

Aunt Alexandra got up and reached for the mantelpiece. Mr. Tate rose, but she declined assistance. For once in his life, Atticus's instinctive courtesy failed him. He sat where he was. Somehow I could think of nothing but Mr. Bob Ewell saying he'd get Atticus if it took him the rest of his life. Mr. Ewell almost got him, and it was the last thing he did. "'Are you sure?' Atticus said bleakly. "'He's dead, all right,' said Mr. Tate. "'He's good and dead. He won't hurt these children again.' "'I didn't mean that.' Atticus seemed to be talking in his sleep. His age was beginning to show, his one sign of inner turmoil. The strong line of his jaw melted a little. One became aware of tell-tale creases forming under his ears. One noticed not his jet-black hair, but the gray patches growing at his temples. "'Hadn't we better go to the living room?' Aunt Alexandra said at last. "'If you don't mind,' said Mr. Tate, "'I'd rather us stay in here, if it won't hurt Jim any. I want to have a look at his injuries while Scout tells us about it.' "'Is it all right if I leave?' she asked. "'I'm just one person too many in here. I'll be in my room if you want me, Atticus.' Aunt Alexandra went to the door, but she stopped and turned. "'Atticus, I had a feeling about this tonight. I—' "'This is my fault,' she began. "'I should have—' Mr. Tate held up his hand. "'You go ahead, Miss Alexandra. I know it's been a shock to you. And don't you fret yourself about anything. Why, if we followed our feelings all the time, we'd be like cats chasing their tails. Miss Scout, see if you can tell us what happened, while it's still fresh in your mind. You think you can? Did you see him following you?' I went to Atticus and felt his arms go around me. I buried my head in his lap. We started home. I said, "'Jim, I forgot my shoes.' Soon as we started back for him, the lights went out. Jim said I could get them tomorrow. "'Scout, raise up so Mr. Tate can hear you,' Atticus said. I crawled into his lap. Then Jim said hush a minute. I thought he was thinking. He always wants you to hush so he can think. Then he said he heard something. We thought it was Cecil. "'Cecil?' "'Cecil Jacobs. He scared us once tonight, and we thought it was him again. He had on a sheet. They gave a quarter for the best costume. I don't know who won it. "'Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?' "'Just a little piece from the schoolhouse. I yelled something at him.' "'You yelled? What?' "'Cecil Jacobs is a big fat hen, I think. We didn't hear nothing. Then Jim yelled hello or something loud enough to wake the dead.' "'Just a minute, Scout,' said Mr. Tate. "'Mr. Finch, did you hear them?' Atticus said he didn't. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra had hers going in her bedroom. He remembered because she told him to turn his down a bit so she could hear hers.' Atticus smiled. "'I always play a radio too loud. I wonder if the neighbors heard anything,' said Mr. Tate. "'I doubt it, heck. Most of them listen to their radios or go to bed with the chickens. Maldy Atkinson may have been up, but I doubt it. "'Go ahead, Scout,' Mr. Tate said. "'Well, after Jim yelled, we walked on. Mr. Tate, I was shut up in my costume, but I could hear it myself then. Footsteps, I mean. They walked when we walked and stopped when we stopped. Jim said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some kind of shiny paint on my costume. I was a ham. "'How's that?' asked Mr. Tate, startled. Atticus described my role to Mr. Tate, plus the construction of my garment. "'You should have seen her when she came in,' he said. It was crushed to a pulp. Mr. Tate rubbed his chin. I wondered why he had those marks on him. His sleeves were perforated with little holes. There were one or two little puncture marks on his arms to match the holes. "'Let me see that thing, if you will, sir.' Atticus fetched the remains of my costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and bent it around to get an idea of its former shape. "'This thing probably saved her life,' he said. "'Look,' he pointed with a long forefinger. A shiny, clean line stood out on the dull wire. "'Bob Ewell meant business,' Mr. Tate muttered. "'He was out of his mind,' said Atticus. "'Don't like to contradict you, Mr. Finch. Wasn't crazy. Mean as hell. Lowdown skunk with enough liquor in him to make him brave enough to kill children. He'd never have met you face to face.' Atticus shook his head. "'I can't conceive of a man who'd—' "'Mr. Finch, there's just some kind of men you have to shoot before you can say hidey to them. Even then, they ain't worth the bullet it takes to shoot them. Ewell is one of them,' Atticus said. "'I thought he got it all out of him the day you threatened me. Even if he hadn't, I thought he'd come after me. He had guts enough to pester a poor colored woman. He had guts enough to pester Judge Taylor when he thought the house was empty. So do you think he'd have met you to your face in daylight?' Mr. Tate sighed. "'We'd better get on. Scout, you heard him behind you?' "'Yes, sir. When we got under the tree—' "'How'd you know you were under the tree? You couldn't see thunder out there.' "'I was barefooted, and Jim says the ground's always cooler under a tree.' "'We'll have to make him a deputy. Go ahead.' Then all of a sudden something grabbed me and mashed my costume. Think I ducked on the ground. Heard a tussling under the tree, sort of. They were bamming against the trunk, sounded like. Jim found me and started pulling me toward the road. Some Mr. Yule yanked him down, I reckon. They'd tussled some more, and then there was this funny noise. Jim hollered. I stopped. That was Jim's arm. Anyway, Jim hollered, and I didn't hear him anymore. And the next thing, Mr. Yule was trying to squeeze me to death, I reckon. Then somebody yanked Mr. Yule down. Jim must have got up, I guess. That's all I know. And then Mr. Tate was looking at me sharply. Somebody was staggering around and panting and coughing fit to die. I thought it was Jim at first, but it didn't sound like him. So I went looking for Jim on the ground. I thought Atticus had come to help us and had got wore out. Who was it? Why, there he is, Mr. Tate. He can tell you his name. As I said it, I half pointed to the man in the corner, but brought my arm down quickly lest Atticus reprimand me for pointing. It was impolite to point. He was still leaning against the wall. He had been leaning against the wall when I came into the room, his arms folded across his chest. As I pointed, he brought his arms down and pressed the palms of his hands against the wall. They were white hands, sickly white hands that had never seen the sun. So white, they stood out garishly against the dull cream wall in the dim light of Jim's room. I looked from his hands to his sand-stained khaki pants. My eyes traveled up his thin frame to his torn denim shirt. His face was as white as his hands, but for a shadow on his jutting shin. His cheeks were thin to hollowness. His mouth was wide. There were shallow, almost delicate indentations at his temples, and his gray eyes were so colorless I thought he was blind. His hair was dead and thin, almost feathery on top of his head. When I pointed to him, his palms slipped slightly, leaving greasy sweat streaks on the wall, and he hooked his thumbs in his belt. A strange small spasm shook him, as if he heard fingernails scrape slate. But as I gazed at him in wonder, the tension slowly drained from his face. His lips parted into a timid smile, and our neighbor's image blurred with my sudden tears. Hey, Boo, I said. Thirty. Mr. Arthur, honey, said Atticus, gently correcting me. Jean Louise, this is Mr. Arthur Radley. I believe he already knows you. If Atticus could blandly introduce me to Boo Radley at a time like this, well, that was Atticus. Boo saw me run instinctively to the bed where Jim was sleeping, for the same shy smile crept across his face. Hot with embarrassment, I tried to cover up by covering Jim up. Uh-uh, don't touch him, Atticus said. Mr. Hectate sat looking intently at Boo through his horn-rimmed glasses. He was about to speak when Dr. Reynolds came down the hall. Everybody out, he said as he came in the door. Evening, Arthur. Didn't notice you the first time I was here. Dr. Reynolds' voice was as breezy as his step, as though he had said it every evening of his life, an announcement that astounded me even more than being in the same room with Boo Radley. Of course. Even Boo Radley got sick sometimes, I thought. But on the other hand, I wasn't sure. Dr. Reynolds was carrying a big package wrapped in newspaper. He put it down on Jim's desk and took off his coat. You're quite satisfied he's alive now? Tell you how I knew. When I tried to examine him, he kicked me. Had to put him out good and proper to touch him. So scat, he said to me. Er, said Atticus, glancing at Boo. Heck, let's go out on the front porch. There are plenty of chairs out there, and it's still warm enough. I wondered why Atticus was inviting us to the front porch instead of the living room. Then I understood. The living room 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 was no exception. Come along, Mr. Arthur, I heard myself saying. You don't know the house real well. I'll just take you to the port, sir. He looked down at me and nodded. I led him through the hall and past the living room. 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. Right pretty spell we're having, isn't it, Mr. Arthur? Yes, a right pretty spell. Feeling slightly unreal, I led him to the chair farthest from Atticus and Mr. Tate. It was in deep shadow. Boo would feel more comfortable in the dark. Atticus was sitting in the swing, and Mr. Tate was in a chair next to him. The light from the living room 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 my memory. Atticus pushed up his glasses and pressed his fingers to his eyes. Jim's not quite thirteen. No, he's already thirteen. I can't remember. Anyway, it'll come before 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 Jim killed Bob Ewell? Do you think that? You heard what Scout said. There's no doubt about it. She said Jim got up and yanked him off her. He probably got hold of Ewell's knife somehow in the dark. We'll find out tomorrow. Mr. Finch, hold on, said Mr. Tate. Jim never stabbed Bob Ewell. Atticus was silent for a moment. He looked at Mr. Tate as if he appreciated what he said. 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, then thrust 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 going to hush anything up, Mr. Finch. Mr. Tate's voice was quiet, but his boots were planted so solidly on the porch floorboards, it seemed that they grew there. A curious contest, the nature of which eluded 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, Huh, and spat 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. Jean Louise, he turned to me. You said Jim yanked Mr. Yule 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 boy starting out with something like this over his head. Best way to clear the air is to have it all out in the open. Let the county come and bring sandwiches. I don't want him growing up with a whisper about him. I don't want anybody saying, Jim Finch, his daddy paid a mint to get him out of that. Sooner we get this over with, the better. Mr. Finch, Mr. Tate said stolidly. Bob Yule fell on his knife. He killed himself. Atticus walked to the corner of the porch. He looked at the wisteria vine. In his own way, 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 as the 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 to Jim 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 Jim looks at anyone else, he looks at me, and I've tried to live so I can look squarely back at him. If I connived at something like this, frankly, I couldn't meet his eye, and the day I can't do that, I'll know I've lost him. I don't want to lose 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. I can prove it. Atticus wheeled around, his hands dug into his pockets. Heck, can't you even try to see it my way? You've got children of your own. But I'm older than you. When mine are grown, I'll be an old man if I'm still around. But right now, I'm... If they don't trust me, they won't trust anybody. Jim and Scout know what happened. If they hear of me saying downtown something different happened, heck, I won't have them anymore. I can't live one way in town and another way in my home. Mr. Tate rocked on his heels and said patiently. He'd flung Jim down, he stumbled over 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 did so, Dr. Reynolds came to the door. The sun deceased's under that tree, doctor, just inside 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. Jim's all right. He won't wake up tonight, I hope, so don't worry. That the knife that killed him, heck? No, sir, still in him. Looked like a kitchen knife from the handle. Ken ought to be there with the hearse by now, doctor. Night. Mr. Tate flicked open the knife. It was like this, he said. He held the knife and pretended to stumble. As he leaned forward, his left arm went down in front of him. See there? Stabbed himself through that soft stuff between his ribs. His whole weight drove it in. 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, Attica said grimly. I'm not saying she made it up. I'm saying she was too scared to know exactly what happened. It was mighty dark out there, black as ink. It'd take somebody mighty used to the dark to make a competent witness. I won't have it, Attica said softly. God damn it, I'm not thinking a gem! Mr. Tate's boot hit the floorboard so hard, the lights in Miss Maudie's bedroom went on. Miss Stephanie Crawford's lights went on. Attica's and Mr. Tate looked across the street, then at each other. They waited. When Mr. Tate spoke again, his voice was barely audible. Mr. Finch, I hate to fight you when you're like this. You've been under a strain tonight no man should ever have to go through. Why you ain't in bed from it, I don't know. But I do know that for once you haven't been able to put two and two together, and we've got to settle this tonight because tomorrow'll be too late. Bob Ewell's got a kitchen knife in his craw. Mr. Tate added that Attica wasn't going to stand there and maintain that any boy Jim's size with a busted arm had fight enough left in him to tackle and kill a grown man in the pitch dark. Heck, said Attica abruptly, that was a switchblade you were waving. Where'd you get 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. Jim must have gotten up. At least I thought. Heck, I said I took it off a drunk man downtown tonight. Ewell probably found that kitchen knife 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 between his knees. He was looking at the floor. He had moved with the same slowness that night in front of the jail when I thought it took him forever to fold his newspaper and toss it in his chair. Mr. Tate clumped softly around the porch. It ain't your decision, Mr. Finch. It's all mine. It's my decision and my responsibility. For once, if you don't see it my way, there's not much you can do about it. If you want to try, I'll call you a liar to your face. Your boy never stabbed Bob Ewell, he said slowly. Didn't come near a mile of it and now you know it. All he wanted to do was get him and his sister safely home. Mr. Tate stopped pacing. He stopped in front of Atticus and his back was to us. I'm not a very good man, sir, but I am Sheriff of Maycomb County. Lived in this town all my life and I'm going on 43 years old. Know everything that's happened here since before I was born. There's a black boy dead for no reason and the man responsible for it's dead. Let the dead bury the dead this time, Mr. Finch. Let the dead bury the dead. Mr. Tate went to the swing and picked up his hat. It was lying beside Atticus. Mr. Tate pushed back his hair and put his hat on. I never heard tell that it's against the law for a citizen to do his utmost to prevent a crime from being committed, which is exactly what he did. But maybe you'll say it's my duty to tell the town all about it and not hush it up. Know what happened then? All the ladies in Maycomb, including my wife, would be knocking on his door bringing angel food cakes. To my way of thinking, Mr. Finch, taking the one man who's done you and this town a great service and dragging him with his shy ways into the limelight, to me, that's a sin. It's a sin and I'm not about to have it on my head. If it was any other man, it'd be different. But not this man, Mr. Finch. Mr. Tate was trying to dig a hole in the floor with the toe of his boot. He pulled his nose. Then he massaged his left arm. I may not be much, Mr. Finch, but I'm still Sheriff of Maycomb County. And Bob Ewell fell on his knife. Good night, sir. Mr. Tate stamped off the porch and strode across the front yard. His car door slammed and he drove away. Atticus sat looking at the floor for a long time. Finally, he raised his head. Scout, he said. Mr. Ewell fell on his knife. Can you possibly understand? Atticus looked like he needed cheering up. I ran to him and hugged him and kissed him with all my might. Yes, sir. I understand. I reassured him. Mr. Tate was right. Atticus disengaged himself and looked at me. What do you mean? Well, it'd be sort of like shooting a mockingbird, wouldn't it? Atticus put his face in my hair and rubbed it. When he got up and walked across the porch into the shadows, his youthful step had returned. Before he went inside the house, he stopped in front of Boo Radley. Thank you for my children, Arthur, he said. 31. When Boo Radley shuffled to his feet, light from the living room windows glistened on his forehead. Every move he made was uncertain, as if he were not sure his hands and feet could make proper contact with the things he touched. He coughed his dreadful railing cough and was so shaken he had to sit down again. His hands searched for his hip pocket and he pulled out a handkerchief. He coughed into it, then he wiped his forehead. Having been so accustomed to his absence, I found it incredible that he had been sitting beside me all this time, present. He had not made a sound. Once more, he got to his feet. He turned to me and nodded toward the front door. You'd like to say goodnight to Jim, wouldn't you, Mr. Arthur? Come right in. I led him down the hall. Aunt Alexandra was sitting by Jim's bed. Come in, Arthur, she said. He's still asleep. Dr. Reynolds gave him a heavy sedative. Jean Louise, is your father in the living room? Yes, ma'am, I think so. I'll just go speak to him a minute. Dr. Reynolds left some. Her voice trailed away. Boo had drifted to a corner of the room where he stood with his chin up, peering from a distance at Jim. I took him by the hand, a hand surprisingly warm for its whiteness. I tugged him a little and he allowed me to lead him to Jim's bed. Dr. Reynolds had made a tent-like arrangement over Jim's arm, to keep the cover off, I guess, and Boo leaned forward and looked over it. An expression of timid curiosity was on his face, as though he had never seen a boy before. His mouth was slightly open and he looked at Jim from head to foot. Boo's hand came up, but he let it drop to his side. You can pet him, Mr. Arthur. He's asleep. You couldn't if he was awake, though. He wouldn't let you, I found myself explaining. Go ahead. Boo's hand hovered over Jim's head. Go on, sir. He's asleep. His hand came down lightly on Jim's hair. I was beginning to learn his body English. His hand tightened on mine and he indicated that he wanted to leave. I led him to the front porch, where his uneasy steps halted. He was still holding my hand and he gave no sign of letting me go. Will you take me home? He almost whispered it in the voice of a child afraid of the dark. I put my foot on the top step and stopped. I would lead him through our house, but I would never lead him home. Mr. Arthur, bend your arm down here like that. That's right, sir. I slipped my hand into the crook of his arm. He had to stoop a little to accommodate me, but if Miss Stephanie Crawford was watching from her upstairs window, she would see Arthur Radley escorting me down the sidewalk, as any gentleman would do. We came to the streetlight on the corner, and I wondered how many times Dil had stood there hugging the fat pole, watching, waiting, hoping. I wondered how many times Jim and I had made this journey, but I entered the Radley front gate for the second time in my life. Boo and I walked up the steps to the porch. His fingers found the front doorknob. He gently released my hand. Opened the door. Went inside. And shut the door behind him. I never saw him again. Neighbors bring food with death and flowers with sickness, and little things in between. Boo was our neighbor. He gave us two soap dolls, a broken watch and chain, a pair of good luck pennies, and our lives. But neighbors give in return. We never put back into the tree what we took out of it. We had given him nothing, and it made me sad. I turned to go home. Streetlights winked down the street all the way to town. I had never seen our neighborhood from this angle. There was Miss Maudie's. Miss Stephanie's. There was our house. I could see the porch swing. Miss Rachel's house was beyond us, plainly visible. I could even see Mrs. DeBose's. I looked behind me. To the left of the brown door was a long, shuttered window. I walked to it, stood in front of it, and turned around. In daylight, I thought, you could see to the post office corner. Daylight. In my mind, the night faded. It was daytime, and the neighborhood was busy. Miss Stephanie Crawford crossed the street to tell the latest to Miss Rachel. Miss Maudie bent over her azaleas. It was summertime, and two children scampered down the sidewalk toward a man approaching in the distance. The man waved, and the children raced each other to him. It was still summertime, and the children came closer. A boy trudged down the sidewalk, dragging a fishing pole behind him. A man stood waiting with his hands on his hips. Summertime, and his children played in the front yard with their friend, enacting a strange little drama of their own invention. It was fall, and his children fought on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. DeBose's. The boy helped his sister to her feet, and they made their way home. Fall, and his children trotted to and fro around the corner, the day's woes and triumphs on their faces. They stopped at an oak tree, delighted, puzzled, apprehensive. Winter, and his children shivered at the front gate, silhouetted against a blazing house. Winter, and a man walked into the street, dropped his glasses, and shot a dog. Summer, and he watched his children's heart break. Autumn again, and Boo's children needed him. Atticus was right. One time he said you never really know a man until you stand in his shoes and walk around in them. Just standing on the radley porch was enough. The streetlights were fuzzy from the fine rain that was falling. As I made my way home, I felt very old. But when I looked at the tip of my nose, I could see fine misty beads. But looking cross-eyed made me dizzy, so I quit. As I made my way home, I thought what a thing to tell Jim tomorrow. He'd be so mad he missed it, he wouldn't speak to me for days. As I made my way home, I thought Jim and I would get grown. But there wasn't much else left for us to learn, except possibly algebra. I ran up the steps and into the house. Aunt Alexandra had gone to bed, and Atticus's room was dark. I would see if Jim might be reviving. Atticus was in Jim's room, sitting by his bed. He was reading a book. Is Jim awake yet? Sleeping peacefully. He won't be awake until morning. Oh, are you sitting up with him? Just for an hour or so. Go to bed, Scout. You've had a long day. Well, I think I'll stay with you for a while. Suit yourself, said Atticus. It must have been after midnight, and I was puzzled by his amiable acquiescence. He was shrewder than I, however. The moment I sat down, I began to feel sleepy. What are you reading? I asked. Atticus turned the book over. Something of Jim's, called The Grey Ghost. I was suddenly awake. Why'd you get that one? Honey, I don't know. Just picked it up. One of the few things I haven't read, he said pointedly. Read it out loud, please, Atticus. It's real scary. No, he said. You've had enough scaring for a while. This is too— Atticus, I wasn't scared. He raised his eyebrows, and I protested. Leastways, not until I started telling Mr. Tate about it. Jim wasn't scared. Asked him, and he said he wasn't. Besides, nothing's real scary except in books. Atticus opened his mouth to say something, but shut it again. He took his thumb from the middle of the book and turned back to the first page. I moved over and leaned my head against his knee. He said, The Grey Ghost By Secretary Hawkins Chapter One I willed myself to stay awake, but the rain was so soft, and the room was so warm, and his voice was so deep, and his knee was so snug, that I slept. Seconds later, it seemed, his shoe was gently nudging my ribs. He lifted me to my feet and walked me to my room. Heard every word you said, I muttered. Wasn't sleep at all. It's about a ship and three-fingered Fred and Stoner's Boy. He unhooked my overalls, leaned me against him, and pulled them off. He held me up with one hand and reached for my pajamas with the other. Yeah, and they all thought it was Stoner's Boy messing up the clubhouse and throwing ink all over it. He guided me to the bed and sat me down. He lifted my legs and put me under the cover. And they chased him and never could catch him, because they didn't know what he looked like. And Atticus, when they finally saw him, why, he hadn't done any of those things. Atticus, he was real nice. His hands were under my chin, pulling up the cover, tucking it around me. Most people are, Scout, when you finally see them. He turned out the light and went into Jim's room. He would be there all night, and he would be there when Jim waked up in the morning.