Go Set a Watchman
Page 44

“Well,” said Jean Louise, “it takes considerable getting used to. I hated it for two years. It intimidated me daily until one morning when someone pushed me on a bus and I pushed back. After I pushed back I realized I’d become a part of it.”
“Pushing, that’s what they are. They have no manners up there,” said Claudine.
“They have manners, Claudine. They’re just different from ours. The person who pushed me on the bus expected to be pushed back. That’s what I was supposed to do; it’s just a game. You won’t find better people than in New York.”
Claudine pursed her lips. “Well, I wouldn’t want to get mixed up with all those Italians and Puerto Ricans. In a drugstore one day I looked around and there was a Negro woman eating her dinner right next to me, right next to me. Of course I knew she could, but it did give me a shock.”
“Did she hurt you in any way?”
“Reckon she didn’t. I got up real quick and left.”
“You know,” said Jean Louise gently, “they go around loose up there, all kinds of folks.”
Claudine hunched her shoulders. “I don’t see how you live up there with them.”
“You aren’t aware of them. You work with them, eat by and with them, ride the buses with them, and you aren’t aware of them unless you want to be. I don’t know that a great big fat Negro man’s been sitting beside me on a bus until I get up to leave. You just don’t notice it.”
“Well, I certainly noticed it. You must be blind or something.”
Blind, that’s what I am. I never opened my eyes. I never thought to look into people’s hearts, I looked only in their faces. Stone blind … Mr. Stone. Mr. Stone set a watchman in church yesterday. He should have provided me with one. I need a watchman to lead me around and declare what he seeth every hour on the hour. I need a watchman to tell me this is what a man says but this is what he means, to draw a line down the middle and say here is this justice and there is that justice and make me understand the difference. I need a watchman to go forth and proclaim to them all that twenty-six years is too long to play a joke on anybody, no matter how funny it is.
14
“AUNTY,” SAID JEAN Louise, when they had cleared away the rubble of the morning’s devastation, “if you don’t want the car I’m going around to Uncle Jack’s.”
“All I want’s a nap. Don’t you want some dinner?”
“No ma’am. Uncle Jack’ll give me a sandwich or something.”
“Better not count on it. He eats less and less these days.”
She stopped the car in Dr. Finch’s driveway, climbed the high front steps to his house, knocked on the door, and went in, singing in a raucous voice:
“Old Uncle Jack with his cane and his crutch
When he was young he boogie-woogied too much;
Put the sales tax on it—”
Dr. Finch’s house was small, but the front hallway was enormous. At one time it was a dog-trot hall, but Dr. Finch had sealed it in and built bookshelves around the walls.
He called from the rear of the house, “I heard that, you vulgar girl. I’m in the kitchen.”
She walked down the hall, through a door, and came to what was once an open back porch. It was now something faintly like a study, as were most of the rooms in his house. She had never seen a shelter that reflected so strongly the personality of its owner. An eerie quality of untidiness prevailed amid order: Dr. Finch kept his house militarily spotless, but books tended to pile up wherever he sat down, and because it was his habit to sit down anywhere he got ready, there were small stacks of books in odd places about the house that were a constant curse to his cleaning woman. He would not let her touch them, and he insisted on apple-pie neatness, so the poor creature was obliged to vacuum, dust, and polish around them. One unfortunate maid lost her head and lost his place in Tuckwell’s Pre-Tractarian Oxford, and Dr. Finch shook a broom at her.
When her uncle appeared, Jean Louise thought styles may come and styles may go, but he and Atticus will cling to their vests forever. Dr. Finch was coatless, and in his arms was Rose Aylmer, his old cat.
“Where were you yesterday, in the river again?” He looked at her sharply. “Stick out your tongue.”
Jean Louise stuck out her tongue, and Dr. Finch shifted Rose Aylmer to the crook of his right elbow, fished in his vest pocket, brought out a pair of half-glasses, flicked them open, and clapped them to his face.
“Well, don’t leave it there. Put it back,” he said. “You look like hell. Come on to the kitchen.”
“I didn’t know you had half-glasses, Uncle Jack,” said Jean Louise.
“Hah—I discovered I was wasting money.”
“How?”
“Looking over my old ones. These cost half as much.”
A table stood in the center of Dr. Finch’s kitchen, and on the table was a saucer containing a cracker upon which rested a solitary sardine.
Jean Louise gaped. “Is that your dinner? Honestly, Uncle Jack, can you possibly get any weirder?”
Dr. Finch drew a high stool to the table, deposited Rose Aylmer upon it, and said, “No. Yes.”
Jean Louise and her uncle sat down at the table. Dr. Finch picked up the cracker and sardine and presented them to Rose Aylmer. Rose Aylmer took a small bite, put her head down, and chewed.
“She eats like a human,” said Jean Louise.
“I hope I’ve taught her manners,” said Dr. Finch. “She’s so old now I have to feed her bit by bit.”