29 Chapter 29 (2/2)
Mr. Tate rubbed his chin. ”I wondered why he had those marks on him, His sleeveswere perforated with little holes. There were one or two little puncture marks on his armsto 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 aroundto 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. ”BobEwell 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. Low-down skunkwith enough liquor in him to make him brave enough to kill children. He'd never havemet 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 hidy to'em. Even then, they ain't worth the bullet it takes to shoot 'em. Ewell 'as one of 'em.”
Atticus said, ”I thought he got it all out of him the day he threatened me. Even if hehadn't, I thought he'd come after me.”
”He had guts enough to pester a poor colored woman, he had guts enough to pesterJudge Taylor when he thought the house was empty, so do you think he'da met you toyour face in daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. ”We'd better get on. Scout, you heard himbehind 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 Jem says the ground's always cooler under a tree.”
”We'll have to make him a deputy, go ahead.”
”Then all of a sudden somethin' grabbed me an' mashed my costume… think I duckedon the ground… heard a tusslin' under the tree sort of… they were bammin' against thetrunk, sounded like. Jem found me and started pullin' me toward the road. Some—Mr.
Ewell yanked him down, I reckon. They tussled some more and then there was thisfunny noise—Jem hollered…” I stopped. That was Jem's arm.
”Anyway, Jem hollered and I didn't hear him any more an' the next thing—Mr. Ewellwas tryin' to squeeze me to death, I reckon… then somebody yanked Mr. Ewell down.
Jem must have got up, I guess. That's all I know…”
”And then?” Mr. Tate was looking at me sharply.
”Somebody was staggerin' around and pantin' and—coughing fit to die. I thought itwas Jem at first, but it didn't sound like him, so I went lookin' for Jem on the ground. Ithought 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 quicklylest 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 Icame into the room, his arms folded across his chest. As I pointed he brought his armsdown 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 againstthe dull cream wall in the dim light of Jem's room.
I looked from his hands to his sand-stained khaki pants; my eyes traveled up his thinframe to his torn denim shirt. His face was as white as his hands, but for a shadow onhis jutting chin. His cheeks were thin to hollowness; his mouth was wide; there wereshallow, almost delicate indentations at his temples, and his gray eyes were so colorlessI 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 thewall, and he hooked his thumbs in his belt. A strange small spasm shook him, as if heheard fingernails scrape slate, but as I gazed at him in wonder the tension slowlydrained from his face. His lips parted into a timid smile, and our neighbor's imageblurred with my sudden tears.
”Hey, Boo,” I said.