12 Chapter 12 (2/2)

Reverend Sykes then called on the Lord to bless the sick and the suffering, aprocedure no different from our church practice, except Reverend Sykes directed theDeity's attention to several specific cases.

His sermon was a forthright denunciation of sin, an austere declaration of the motto onthe wall behind him: he warned his flock against the evils of heady brews, gambling, andstrange women. Bootleggers caused enough trouble in the Quarters, but women wereworse. Again, as I had often met it in my own church, I was confronted with the Impurityof Women doctrine that seemed to preoccupy all clergymen.

Jem and I had heard the same sermon Sunday after Sunday, with only one exception.

Reverend Sykes used his pulpit more freely to express his views on individual lapsesfrom grace: Jim Hardy had been absent from church for five Sundays and he wasn'tsick; Constance Jackson had better watch her ways—she was in grave danger forquarreling with her neighbors; she had erected the only spite fence in the history of theQuarters.

Reverend Sykes closed his sermon. He stood beside a table in front of the pulpit andrequested the morning offering, a proceeding that was strange to Jem and me. One byone, the congregation came forward and dropped nickels and dimes into a blackenameled coffee can. Jem and I followed suit, and received a soft, ”Thank you, thankyou,” as our dimes clinked.

To our amazement, Reverend Sykes emptied the can onto the table and raked thecoins into his hand. He straightened up and said, ”This is not enough, we must have tendollars.”

The congregation stirred. ”You all know what it's for—Helen can't leave those childrento work while Tom's in jail. If everybody gives one more dime, we'll have it—” ReverendSykes waved his hand and called to someone in the back of the church. ”Alec, shut thedoors. Nobody leaves here till we have ten dollars.”

Calpurnia scratched in her handbag and brought forth a battered leather coin purse.

”Naw Cal,” Jem whispered, when she handed him a shiny quarter, ”we can put ours in.

Gimme your dime, Scout.”

The church was becoming stuffy, and it occurred to me that Reverend Sykes intendedto sweat the amount due out of his flock. Fans crackled, feet shuffled, tobacco-chewerswere in agony.

Reverend Sykes startled me by saying sternly, ”Carlow Richardson, I haven't seenyou up this aisle yet.”

A thin man in khaki pants came up the aisle and deposited a coin. The congregationmurmured approval.

Reverend Sykes then said, ”I want all of you with no children to make a sacrifice andgive one more dime apiece. Then we'll have it.”

Slowly, painfully, the ten dollars was collected. The door was opened, and the gust ofwarm air revived us. Zeebo lined On Jordan's Stormy Banks, and church was over.

I wanted to stay and explore, but Calpurnia propelled me up the aisle ahead of her. Atthe church door, while she paused to talk with Zeebo and his family, Jem and I chattedwith Reverend Sykes. I was bursting with questions, but decided I would wait and letCalpurnia answer them.

”We were 'specially glad to have you all here,” said Reverend Sykes. ”This church hasno better friend than your daddy.”

My curiosity burst: ”Why were you all takin' up collection for Tom Robinson's wife?”

”Didn't you hear why?” asked Reverend Sykes. ”Helen's got three little'uns and shecan't go out to work—”

”Why can't she take 'em with her, Reverend?” I asked. It was customary for fieldNegroes with tiny children to deposit them in whatever shade there was while theirparents worked—usually the babies sat in the shade between two rows of cotton. Thoseunable to sit were strapped papoose-style on their mothers' backs, or resided in extracotton bags.

Reverend Sykes hesitated. ”To tell you the truth, Miss Jean Louise, Helen's finding ithard to get work these days… when it's picking time, I think Mr. Link Deas'll take her.”

”Why not, Reverend?”

Before he could answer, I felt Calpurnia's hand on my shoulder. At its pressure I said,”We thank you for lettin' us come.” Jem echoed me, and we made our way homeward.

”Cal, I know Tom Robinson's in jail an' he's done somethin' awful, but why won't folkshire Helen?” I asked.

Calpurnia, in her navy voile dress and tub of a hat, walked between Jem and me. ”It'sbecause of what folks say Tom's done,” she said. ”Folks aren't anxious to—to haveanything to do with any of his family.”

”Just what did he do, Cal?”

Calpurnia sighed. ”Old Mr. Bob Ewell accused him of rapin' his girl an' had himarrested an' put in jail—”

”Mr. Ewell?” My memory stirred. ”Does he have anything to do with those Ewells thatcome every first day of school an' then go home? Why, Atticus said they were absolutetrash—I never heard Atticus talk about folks the way he talked about the Ewells. Hesaid-”

”Yeah, those are the ones.”

”Well, if everybody in Maycomb knows what kind of folks the Ewells are they'd be gladto hire Helen… what's ****, Cal?”

”It's somethin' you'll have to ask Mr. Finch about,” she said. ”He can explain it betterthan I can. You all hungry? The Reverend took a long time unwindin' this morning, he'snot usually so tedious.”

”He's just like our preacher,” said Jem, ”but why do you all sing hymns that way?”

”Linin'?” she asked.

”Is that what it is?”

”Yeah, it's called linin'. They've done it that way as long as I can remember.”

Jem said it looked like they could save the collection money for a year and get somehymn-books.

Calpurnia laughed. ”Wouldn't do any good,” she said. ”They can't read.”

”Can't read?” I asked. ”All those folks?”

”That's right,” Calpurnia nodded. ”Can't but about four folks in First Purchase read…I'm one of 'em.”

”Where'd you go to school, Cal?” asked Jem.

”Nowhere. Let's see now, who taught me my letters? It was Miss Maudie Atkinson'saunt, old Miss Buford—”

”Are you that old?”

”I'm older than Mr. Finch, even.” Calpurnia grinned. ”Not sure how much, though. Westarted rememberin' one time, trying to figure out how old I was—I can remember backjust a few years more'n he can, so I'm not much older, when you take off the fact thatmen can't remember as well as women.”

”What's your birthday, Cal?”

”I just have it on Christmas, it's easier to remember that way—I don't have a realbirthday.”

”But Cal,” Jem protested, ”you don't look even near as old as Atticus.”

”Colored folks don't show their ages so fast,” she said.

”Maybe because they can't read. Cal, did you teach Zeebo?”

”Yeah, Mister Jem. There wasn't a school even when he was a boy. I made him learn,though.”

Zeebo was Calpurnia's eldest son. If I had ever thought about it, I would have knownthat Calpurnia was of mature years—Zeebo had half-grown children—but then I hadnever thought about it.

”Did you teach him out of a primer, like us?” I asked.

”No, I made him get a page of the Bible every day, and there was a book Miss Bufordtaught me out of—bet you don't know where I got it,” she said.

We didn't know.

Calpurnia said, ”Your Granddaddy Finch gave it to me.”

”Were you from the Landing?” Jem asked. ”You never told us that.”

”I certainly am, Mister Jem. Grew up down there between the Buford Place and theLandin'. I've spent all my days workin' for the Finches or the Bufords, an' I moved toMaycomb when your daddy and your mamma married.”

”What was the book, Cal?” I asked.

”Blackstone's Commentaries.”

Jem was thunderstruck. ”You mean you taught Zeebo outa that?”

”Why yes sir, Mister Jem.” Calpurnia timidly put her fingers to her mouth. ”They werethe only books I had. Your grandaddy said Mr. Blackstone wrote fine English—”

”That's why you don't talk like the rest of 'em,” said Jem.

”The rest of who?”

”Rest of the colored folks. Cal, but you talked like they did in church…”

That Calpurnia led a modest double life never dawned on me. The idea that she had aseparate existence outside our household was a novel one, to say nothing of her havingcommand of two languages. ”Cal,” I asked, ”why do you talk nigger-talk to the—to yourfolks when you know it's not right?”

”Well, in the first place I'm black—”

”That doesn't mean you hafta talk that way when you know better,” said Jem.

Calpurnia tilted her hat and scratched her head, then pressed her hat down carefullyover her ears. ”It's right hard to say,” she said. ”Suppose you and Scout talked colored-folks' talk at home it'd be out of place, wouldn't it? Now what if I talked white-folks' talk atchurch, and with my neighbors? They'd think I was puttin' on airs to beat Moses.”

”But Cal, you know better,” I said.

”It's not necessary to tell all you know. It's not ladylike—in the second place, folksdon't like to have somebody around knowin' more than they do. It aggravates 'em.

You're not gonna change any of them by talkin' right, they've got to want to learnthemselves, and when they don't want to learn there's nothing you can do but keep yourmouth shut or talk their language.”

”Cal, can I come to see you sometimes?”

She looked down at me. ”See me, honey? You see me every day.”

”Out to your house,” I said. ”Sometimes after work? Atticus can get me.”

”Any time you want to,” she said. ”We'd be glad to have you.”

We were on the sidewalk by the Radley Place.

”Look on the porch yonder,” Jem said.

I looked over to the Radley Place, expecting to see its phantom occupant sunninghimself in the swing. The swing was empty.

”I mean our porch,” said Jem.

I looked down the street. Enarmored, upright, uncompromising, Aunt Alexandra wassitting in a rocking chair exactly as if she had sat there every day of her life.