Go Set a Watchman
Page 38
“She taking it mighty hard, Miss Jean Louise. Frank, he never had any trouble before….”
So, it was Frank. Of all her multifarious descendants, Calpurnia took most pride in Frank. He was on the waiting list for Tuskegee Institute. He was a born plumber, could fix anything water ran through.
Helen, heavy with a pendulous stomach from having carried so many children, leaned against the wall. She was barefooted.
“Zeebo,” said Jean Louise, “you and Helen living together again?”
“Yessum,” said Helen placidly. “He’s done got old.”
Jean Louise smiled at Zeebo, who looked sheepish. For the life of her, Jean Louise could not disentangle Zeebo’s domestic history. She thought Helen must be Frank’s mother, but she was not sure. She was positive Helen was Zeebo’s first wife, and was equally sure she was his present wife, but how many were there in between?
She remembered Atticus telling of the pair in his office, years ago when they appeared seeking a divorce. Atticus, trying to reconcile them, asked Helen would she take her husband back. “Naw sir, Mr. Finch,” was her slow reply. “Zeebo, he been goin’ around enjoyin’ other women. He don’t enjoy me none, and I don’t want no man who don’t enjoy his wife.”
“Could I see Calpurnia, Helen?”
“Yessum, go right in.”
Calpurnia was sitting in a wooden rocking chair in a corner of the room by the fireplace. The room contained an iron bedstead covered with a faded quilt of a Double Wedding Ring pattern. There were three huge gilt-framed photographs of Negroes and a Coca-Cola calendar on the wall. A rough mantelpiece teemed with small bright objets d’art made of plaster, porcelain, clay, and milk glass. A naked light bulb burned on a cord swinging from the ceiling, casting sharp shadows on the wall behind the mantelpiece, and in the corner where Calpurnia sat.
How small she looks, thought Jean Louise. She used to be so tall.
Calpurnia was old and she was bony. Her sight was failing, and she wore a pair of black-rimmed glasses which stood out in harsh contrast to her warm brown skin. Her big hands were resting in her lap, and she raised them and spread her fingers when Jean Louise entered.
Jean Louise’s throat tightened when she caught sight of Calpurnia’s bony fingers, fingers so gentle when Jean Louise was ill and hard as ebony when she was bad, fingers that had performed long-ago tasks of loving intricacy. Jean Louise held them to her mouth.
“Cal,” she said.
“Sit down, baby,” said Calpurnia. “Is there a chair?”
“Yes, Cal.” Jean Louise drew up a chair and sat in front of her old friend.
“Cal, I came to tell you—I came to tell you that if there’s anything I can do for you, you must let me know.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Calpurnia. “I don’t know of anything.”
“I want to tell you that Mr. Finch got word of it early this morning. Frank had the sheriff call him and Mr. Finch’ll … help him.”
The words died on her lips. Day before yesterday she would have said “Mr. Finch’ll help him” confident that Atticus would turn dark to daylight.
Calpurnia nodded. Her head was up and she looked straight before her. She cannot see me well, thought Jean Louise. I wonder how old she is. I never knew exactly, and I doubt if she ever did.
Jean Louise said, “Don’t worry, Cal. Atticus’ll do his best.”
Calpurnia said, “I know he will, Miss Scout. He always do his best. He always do right.”
Jean Louise stared open-mouthed at the old woman. Calpurnia was sitting in a haughty dignity that appeared on state occasions, and with it appeared erratic grammar. Had the earth stopped turning, had the trees frozen, had the sea given up its dead, Jean Louise would not have noticed.
“Calpurnia!”
She barely heard Calpurnia talking: “Frank, he do wrong … he pay for it … my grandson. I love him … but he go to jail with or without Mr. Finch….”
“Calpurnia, stop it!”
Jean Louise was on her feet. She felt the tears come and she walked blindly to the window.
The old woman had not moved. Jean Louise turned and saw her sitting there, seeming to inhale steadily.
Calpurnia was wearing her company manners.
Jean Louise sat down again in front of her. “Cal,” she cried, “Cal, Cal, Cal, what are you doing to me? What’s the matter? I’m your baby, have you forgotten me? Why are you shutting me out? What are you doing to me?”
Calpurnia lifted her hands and brought them down softly on the arms of the rocker. Her face was a million tiny wrinkles, and her eyes were dim behind thick lenses.
“What are you all doing to us?” she said.
“Us?”
“Yessum. Us.”
Jean Louise said slowly, more to herself than to Calpurnia: “As long as I’ve lived I never remotely dreamed that anything like this could happen. And here it is. I cannot talk to the one human who raised me from the time I was two years old … it is happening as I sit here and I cannot believe it. Talk to me, Cal. For God’s sake talk to me right. Don’t sit there like that!”
She looked into the old woman’s face and she knew it was hopeless. Calpurnia was watching her, and in Calpurnia’s eyes was no hint of compassion.
Jean Louise rose to go. “Tell me one thing, Cal,” she said, “just one thing before I go—please, I’ve got to know. Did you hate us?”
So, it was Frank. Of all her multifarious descendants, Calpurnia took most pride in Frank. He was on the waiting list for Tuskegee Institute. He was a born plumber, could fix anything water ran through.
Helen, heavy with a pendulous stomach from having carried so many children, leaned against the wall. She was barefooted.
“Zeebo,” said Jean Louise, “you and Helen living together again?”
“Yessum,” said Helen placidly. “He’s done got old.”
Jean Louise smiled at Zeebo, who looked sheepish. For the life of her, Jean Louise could not disentangle Zeebo’s domestic history. She thought Helen must be Frank’s mother, but she was not sure. She was positive Helen was Zeebo’s first wife, and was equally sure she was his present wife, but how many were there in between?
She remembered Atticus telling of the pair in his office, years ago when they appeared seeking a divorce. Atticus, trying to reconcile them, asked Helen would she take her husband back. “Naw sir, Mr. Finch,” was her slow reply. “Zeebo, he been goin’ around enjoyin’ other women. He don’t enjoy me none, and I don’t want no man who don’t enjoy his wife.”
“Could I see Calpurnia, Helen?”
“Yessum, go right in.”
Calpurnia was sitting in a wooden rocking chair in a corner of the room by the fireplace. The room contained an iron bedstead covered with a faded quilt of a Double Wedding Ring pattern. There were three huge gilt-framed photographs of Negroes and a Coca-Cola calendar on the wall. A rough mantelpiece teemed with small bright objets d’art made of plaster, porcelain, clay, and milk glass. A naked light bulb burned on a cord swinging from the ceiling, casting sharp shadows on the wall behind the mantelpiece, and in the corner where Calpurnia sat.
How small she looks, thought Jean Louise. She used to be so tall.
Calpurnia was old and she was bony. Her sight was failing, and she wore a pair of black-rimmed glasses which stood out in harsh contrast to her warm brown skin. Her big hands were resting in her lap, and she raised them and spread her fingers when Jean Louise entered.
Jean Louise’s throat tightened when she caught sight of Calpurnia’s bony fingers, fingers so gentle when Jean Louise was ill and hard as ebony when she was bad, fingers that had performed long-ago tasks of loving intricacy. Jean Louise held them to her mouth.
“Cal,” she said.
“Sit down, baby,” said Calpurnia. “Is there a chair?”
“Yes, Cal.” Jean Louise drew up a chair and sat in front of her old friend.
“Cal, I came to tell you—I came to tell you that if there’s anything I can do for you, you must let me know.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Calpurnia. “I don’t know of anything.”
“I want to tell you that Mr. Finch got word of it early this morning. Frank had the sheriff call him and Mr. Finch’ll … help him.”
The words died on her lips. Day before yesterday she would have said “Mr. Finch’ll help him” confident that Atticus would turn dark to daylight.
Calpurnia nodded. Her head was up and she looked straight before her. She cannot see me well, thought Jean Louise. I wonder how old she is. I never knew exactly, and I doubt if she ever did.
Jean Louise said, “Don’t worry, Cal. Atticus’ll do his best.”
Calpurnia said, “I know he will, Miss Scout. He always do his best. He always do right.”
Jean Louise stared open-mouthed at the old woman. Calpurnia was sitting in a haughty dignity that appeared on state occasions, and with it appeared erratic grammar. Had the earth stopped turning, had the trees frozen, had the sea given up its dead, Jean Louise would not have noticed.
“Calpurnia!”
She barely heard Calpurnia talking: “Frank, he do wrong … he pay for it … my grandson. I love him … but he go to jail with or without Mr. Finch….”
“Calpurnia, stop it!”
Jean Louise was on her feet. She felt the tears come and she walked blindly to the window.
The old woman had not moved. Jean Louise turned and saw her sitting there, seeming to inhale steadily.
Calpurnia was wearing her company manners.
Jean Louise sat down again in front of her. “Cal,” she cried, “Cal, Cal, Cal, what are you doing to me? What’s the matter? I’m your baby, have you forgotten me? Why are you shutting me out? What are you doing to me?”
Calpurnia lifted her hands and brought them down softly on the arms of the rocker. Her face was a million tiny wrinkles, and her eyes were dim behind thick lenses.
“What are you all doing to us?” she said.
“Us?”
“Yessum. Us.”
Jean Louise said slowly, more to herself than to Calpurnia: “As long as I’ve lived I never remotely dreamed that anything like this could happen. And here it is. I cannot talk to the one human who raised me from the time I was two years old … it is happening as I sit here and I cannot believe it. Talk to me, Cal. For God’s sake talk to me right. Don’t sit there like that!”
She looked into the old woman’s face and she knew it was hopeless. Calpurnia was watching her, and in Calpurnia’s eyes was no hint of compassion.
Jean Louise rose to go. “Tell me one thing, Cal,” she said, “just one thing before I go—please, I’ve got to know. Did you hate us?”
