Work Text:
“Jem, looka yonder!” I said. He looked upwards from White Fang with an inquisitive hum. He squinted his eyes in the direction of my outstretched hand, searching for what it was that warranted my enthusiasm. We had gone exploring that Saturday afternoon. It was the first day deemed warm enough to spend the day outside by Cal, and we flocked outside with glee. Even Jem with his recent reclusive habits (he often spent entire days holed up doing puzzles in his room, and was severely limited in his activities due to his still broken arm) was excited by the prospect of playing around in the creek. We hiked to the Southern part of town, deciding to set a blanket out in a particularly welcoming field on the edge of Mr. Harry Johnson’s property. We spent the day immersing ourselves in fantastical stories of our own invention,(except we didn’t reenact them like we used to), cloud gazing, and playing our own version of Mancala with stones I collected at the stream. It was peaceful, and we were content.
“Flowers- where they buried Ol’ Tim Johnson. There’s flowers. Coneflowers, I reckon.”
“Oh, I see.” He decided that the matter required no further attention, and he returned to his book.
“Why do you think they’re there?
“It’s spring, Scout. Flowers are blooming. Pretty, aint it?”
“I’m going to check them out.” I affirmed. I was tired of crouching beside Jem, watching him read beneath the sycamore that we had claimed for the past hour-and-a-half. Recently, I had decided that I would no longer follow him blindly; I was getting older and therefore should shed my role of “little sister.” I relished in my newfound independence, even informing Jem of it at breakfast. He offered me a simple “alright then.” It wasn’t the desired reaction (to be fair, I didn’t even know what the desired reaction was) but I didn’t blame him. I still followed him around regardless.
I slowly stood up from my criss cross applesauce position, making the earth squish beneath me. I winced and wiped my bottom. I had become increasingly aware that mudstains did not look becoming on the clothing of girls, or at least I had been reminded more frequently. That winter had been a very wet one, so there was a plethora of opportunities for a disgruntled Aunt Alexandra to criticize me. I sighed as I walked to Tim Johnson’s grave, recalling her recent behavior toward me. She was getting better, it was true. Her criticisms of me were now reserved to my outfits rather than my nature. She had even bought me a Nancy Drew book at Christmas as opposed to her usual tea set or raggedy Ann (I still had my beloved Raggedy Ann from the year prior; she sat proudly atop my bed donning a homemade buzzcut that Aunt Alexandra deemed atrocious). She would be returning to Finch’s Landing soon, so that morning I decided to bite my tongue and appease her as some sort of departing gift. I wore a sweater in a shade of delicate pink and a matching skirt that looked strange when paired with my weathered All-Stars. Jem had laughed at me many times that day; the wind caused my skirt to fly up and I longued on the grass in ways that revealed my panties.
The lump of flowers was about 30 yards away, and I had to traverse pricker bushes to get to it. I doubted that Mr. Johnson weeded back there during the winter. I didn’t know if he ever came back here and talked to Tim Johnson the way my daddy talked to the grave of Tom Robinson. I asked Jem earlier. He said probably not. I asked if it was because he was only a dog. He told me, rather abruptly, that he was not “only a dog.” I trotted over to the brick that marked the spot and looked at the coneflowers contemplatively. I had been doing that more often. Contemplating. Cal said that I was getting older and thinking more, just like Jem had the year before me.
I asked Atticus if he thought this of me when we sat together reading the paper. He said that he wouldn’t be surprised if I was. “Some folks say that girls mature faster than boys. I reckon they’re right. Even then, you’re a mighty special girl, Jean Louise Finch. Too smart for your own good.” I tried to hide my smile at his compliment, as he often ranked modesty among the greatest virtues. “You’ve seen a lot as of late, baby,” he said guiltily. He carded his fingers through my hair, comforting me like one might tend to a spooked horse. He was more affectionate with us recently- it was almost like he thought I would fly away. “It’s no wonder that you’re growing up. It’s only a shame that your fellow countrymen aren’t there with you.” “Whaddya mean? Like Walter and Charlie Little?” He chuckled into my hair, rocking me. “No, the adult ones.” “Oh. That’s funny.” That was a good thing about growing up, I supposed. I was beginning to understand Atticus jokes. Although, I do think he was being serious about it, too.
My head curled to his neck. “Sleepy,” I murmured incoherently into his chest, knowing that he understood. Another parent might have taken that as a cue to carry me to bed. Not him- he knew that it meant I wanted to stay there and listen to him read, only that I wouldn’t be actively participating in our spirited debates. It was usually about trivial matters, be it the better book in a series we were reading or the best play in a baseball game (Atticus usually resigned to me without much fight for those ones, as baseball was one of the few things that did not intrigue him.) We did that more often before bed. It was fun. Even when we disagreed, he still respected me. I was never afraid to voice my opinion. Recently, he had snagged a ladies’ magazine and we spent forever laughing, debating about whether or not green was the color of the season. He managed to get a trademark “Scout cackle” out of me, which instantly branded that night of reading a success. He patted my back and I twiddled the buttons of his cardigan. I felt safe, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath me and the protective warmth of his arms.
“Hello, Tim,” I began, “Are you lonely? I’d be lonely too, with nobody to talk to.” I looked at the mound as if I was expecting it to jump. When no such thing occurred, I ran my fingers up and down the coneflowers. “I don’t think you can hear me. That’s okay. I’m real sorry that you died the way you did. My dad’s awful upset about doing that to you, even if you'd gone insane. You were… a good dog. Yes, a good dog indeed.” Jem’s calling voice pulled me from my monologue. “Aww, you don’t believe in ghosts, do ya Scout?”
“Of course not!” I hollered back. “I’m just talking to myself, that’s all.”
“‘m only teasing!”
I decided it was time to go back, so I murmured a quick goodbye to Tim Johnson and the coneflowers. I waded through the pricker bushes to meet my brother, and cursed my bare legs due to my skirt. I would definitely return home with scratches. I could pretend that I wrestled a bear , and when someone expressed doubt I could reveal my legs. That would be fun. “Those flowers are nice,” Jem said thoughtfully upon my return. He had our blanket folded under an arm and his book tucked under the other. “Let’s go back. It’s almost dinner.”
We trekked back to our house in amiable silence. Jem didn’t hush me when I hummed to myself. When the house was in sight, I asked Jem to race. He refused, on account of his arm. I improvised, trying to cartwheel toward our front porch. I had been practicing fervently, after all. “I see London, I see France…” he chimed. I was upside down when I heard it, so I awkwardly tumbled to the ground in embarrassment. Oh, right. My skirt.
When we entered our home, we were met with the familiar aroma of hot water cornbread. “What are we having for dinner?” I asked as I put my shoes away, unable to place the other scents. “Cornbread, butterbeans, n’ potato soup,” rang Calpurnia’s voice from the kitchen. Jem made a face at me. He didn’t like potato soup, but he knew better than to complain. I, on the other hand, thoroughly enjoyed potato soup and stuck my tongue out good-naturedly at him. “It’s Helen’s recipe.” At this, my excitement for the meal doubled. So far, every time Cal whipped up one of Mrs. Robinson’s recipes, it proved to be a good one. So good, in fact, that her recipes were often added to our standard rotation of “cost-efficient meals that everyone in the family could tolerate.” Perhaps Jem would redact his disliking of potato soup after tasting it, I thought. Cal often visited Helen Robinson. She would look after her children, help her with chores, and keep her c0mpany. I told her one night that it was awfully nice of her to take pity on her, but she quickly amended my statement. “Helen doesn’t want pity, Scout, even during the hell she’s going through. That woman needs to know that she’s cared for, and damn it, I will be the one to do it.”
After dinner, we went outside and played in the sunset. Aunt Alexandra had gone to visit Miss Rachel, so I seized the opportunity to change into my overalls. The light was warm, casting intricate shadows from our faithful tree across the front yard. Cal and Atticus joined us then. They sat on the front porch steps, observing us. Before heading home, she ruffled both Jem and I’s hair. Jem played jacks with our father, and he beat him nearly every time. Jacks was one of the only games Jem could play and not feel left out from, as only one appendage is needed. He had gotten more than proficient at it. I sat on the tire swing, lazily dragging my feet in the dirt.
I could tell that Jem was feeling a little sad, watching me on the swing. He didn’t swing often before he broke his arm, but a person doesn’t miss what they have until it’s gone. I offered to push him, and he agreed. He was a little heavy for me, having gained quite a few inches within the past few months, but I managed to build up quite the momentum. I heard him giggle. He was fighting with his desire to jump off, I could tell, but he eventually decided against it. Whether it was the influence of Atticus’ watchful eye that stopped him or his not wanting to break his arm again so close to the day where he would get his cast taken off, I did not know.
I however was not above jumping off the swings. I did so after he took his turn, and flew spectacularly through the air in a perfect arc. I was too thrilled by my flight to remember to land on my feet, and I fell right on my rear. On a pointy rock. I massaged by bottom for a few moments, and they chuckled at me once it was apparent that I was not seriously injured. “Are you alright, Scout?” asked Atticus. “That was an impressive feat, just there.”
“I’m okay,” I replied, before my eyes went wide and I gasped. There was a giant hole in my overalls. The two of them looked concerned at my sudden shock, and I offered no response other than turning around for them to see. “Oh dear,” said Atticus gently, walking over to me. I had already amassed a bunch of patches in my overalls from tearing them. Jem said I looked like a scarecrow. Atticus said they gave them character. I scanned the grass for the patch that used to be where the hole was. Cal had sewed it on for me not two weeks ago. I located it, and held it up in the air for all to see.
Atticus’ eyes narrowed in observation. “You know what? I think it’s time to get you a new pair of overalls. Look at you, you’re so grown already. The cuffs at the bottom will be up at your knees before long.” I beamed. “Really? Can we afford it?” “I wouldn’t suggest it if we couldn’t. We won’t be able to go out to eat tomorrow, but I think this is a better investment.” I agreed. Atticus treated us to dinner occasionally, trips that were fewer and far in between as the depression got worse, and we had planned to dine out the next day. I didn’t mind not going, and Jem didn’t either if it meant I would be happy. Cal took Sundays off, so we would be forced to fend for ourselves food wise, which never ended well. I shuddered, but then remembered that we had leftovers.
We went into the city the following morning after church. I could barely sit still the whole service. Jem side eyed me as I squirmed annoyingly, certainly thinking of telling me something that he shouldn’t be thinking in a house of God. Jem had taken up cursing with his friends, and the language extended to interactions with his little sister. Of course, when our father wasn’t around. Atticus set a hand on my shoulder and guided me down the aisle when we waited for communion, a tacit acknowledgement of my jitters. Church never was my forte, but I was usually able to sit through it obediently, going through all the motions when I was told. I watched as Jem in front of me took his communion, and a bit of jealousy flared in my throat. As much as I couldn’t sit still during church related events, I desperately wanted to try the wine.
When it was finally over, I all but skipped to the car. We rarely drove in the car except on special occasions. He said it was about time we took a trip to Montgomery.
I sat in the backseat filling out a puzzle on the back of a magazine, albeit unsuccessfully. It was hard to write in a moving car, and car sickness set in quickly.
I gave up and resorted to looking out the window, taking in the trees and cars that zoomed by. I let Jem take shotgun without complaint. I felt bad that he missed out on his dinner out, an experience that he always looked forward to. We decided to play a game of our own invention in which we made up a story aloud, saying only one word at a time. He began.
“Once.”
“Upon.”
“A.”
“Frog.”
Jem turned around in his seat and shot me a glare. “What was that for?” I shrugged. “Just mixin’ things up, that’s all.” He rolled his eyes at me and continued the story. We spun a tale about a frog named Lisa who opened up a dinery for wildlife creatures, a storyline surely influenced by Jem’s sadness about missing out on eating at Child’s. I could tell Atticus was amused. He was in one of his quiet moods. I caught his glance in the rearview mirror and smiled my best toothless grin. These days, he needed more cheering up.
I think he still felt bad about the whole incident, and he was trying to make it up to us in any way he could. I tried telling him once that it wasn’t his fault that a bad man attacked us for no reason, but he simply huffed that I was wrong, that he should have been there with us, and that it was all his fault. I was taken aback by his aggressiveness, a trait rarely displayed in him except when we really deserved it. I almost cried, but then I remembered that he was a very sad man and that he didn’t really mean it. I used to think he could never make a mistake. I suppose that daddies are humans, too.
I held his hand and tried to jump on every crack in the sidewalk when we got there. “You’re gonna break your momma’s back, Scout,” warned Jem. “I don’t have no mother, so it doesn’t matter,” I said nonchalantly. Jem looked like I punched him in the gut. Atticus’ grip on me tightened and he suddenly started walking faster. He didn’t show it much, but my brother told me once before that Atticus felt real bad about not giving us a mother. I frowned to myself, questioning why Atticus had so little faith in his child rearing abilities. Me and my brother seemed to be turning out just fine, except for my frequent lapses in femininity. Yes, he had proven to be a fine mother indeed.
The comment was soon forgotten. Jem took in the city with wide eyes. I poked his good arm with my free hand. “Swing me!” I pleaded. They did. I didn’t go very far because I was getting bigger, but I was pleased nonetheless. Jem was feeling left out by the whole ordeal, so we stopped on the way to the department store to buy him a book in consolidation. He happily accepted the peace offer. Atticus was attempting to be egalitarian and all that. When we got to Macy’s, we were thrilled by the rotating door. It even made Atticus grin, (either at his own interest in the door, at our exclamations of “woah”, or at both) something that had been difficult for the past few months.
I all but tugged them to the children’s section. I quickly identified a pair that I wanted in the clearance section, but I pretended not to notice it so I could peruse the wares some more. It was fun, exploring the place. I couldn’t remember the last time I went to Macy’s. I noticed the sign that indicated I was in the boys section, which I hadn’t before. Huh, I thought. Maybe the last time I was here I couldn’t read it. I disregarded my thought and proudly showed them the pair I picked out. Atticus flipped the price tag over, and a wave of relief washed over his face when he noticed that it was marked down.
We waited in line for the fitting rooms. A lady with red hair and matching lips unlocked a door for us. A pearl necklace sat delicately on her alabaster collarbones, and a fragrance that was similar to one of Aunt Alexandra’s emanated from her. Her uniform was pressed and blue. “This might be a little small for you,” she said, turning to Jem as she held the door open for the three of us. “I can go get you another one in a bigger size.” I looked up to her, with a smile still plastered on my face and said, “That's alright ma’am, it’s for me.” I understood the confusion. I was still donning my dress and bow from church, hardly looking the part of a girl who wore overalls. “Oh, just let me know if you need anything.” She turned away from us. I walked into the room, noticing her in the mirror. She eyed me with an expression that I couldn't place, something that was getting harder and harder to ignore.
I raised a questioning eyebrow at my brother and father, communicating that I felt unease by her judgement. “Never mind her, Scout, she’s just a dumb girl,” said Jem in my defense. I appreciated it, even if it made me feel a bit sad. What was wrong with being a girl, with me? It didn’t limit my capabilities in any way, aside from the fact that I could not participate in urinating competitions, but I didn’t lose sleep over it. Atticus helped me into my overalls, and I regarded myself in the mirror. I wore an undershirt and little shorts under my church dress, (Aunt Alexandra learned the hard way that I needed them, lest I expose my underwear) and they didn’t necessarily match the overalls well. I tried to imagine myself with my favorite shirt on under it, a plain, light green one, and found that I was more than satisfied. I looked wonderful, I thought. And most importantly, I was comfortable.
“You look lovely, honey. Can you move around in it?” inquired Atticus. I proved that I could by wiggling around. I expectantly turned to Jem. He said I looked fine. I think he sensed my disappointment in his lackluster response, so he amended it to “you look swell ,” which appeased me. I was thrumming with excitement. I almost walked out the door wearing them before they reminded me that we hadn’t actually bought them yet. When we left, I noticed that a blonde woman with pristine curls was whispering with the lady we met before. I thought nothing of it, until Jem reached for my hand and squeezed it. He rarely held my hand, perhaps thinking he was too old for it. The three of us were like a string of ducks, all linked together. I thought how happy I was to be between some of the people I loved most in the world, when I noticed that Atticus began barreling for the exit. This made me look up at him confusedly. I turned my attention back to the ladies at the fitting room to hear a snippet of their conversation.
“Poor thing, I wouldn’t be surprised if she grew up to be a dyke.”
“Lottie, don’t say that! She’s only a little girl,” the other woman protested in a hushed voice, but she laughed nonetheless. My heart dropped to my stomach. I didn’t know what that word meant, but I knew it was bad. And suddenly, I wasn’t so excited anymore.