I was looking out the window of my house on the second floor, sippin’ down a drink to get ready for a fraction of a good night’s rest. Yawning, I look out at the Victorian jailhouse, the most well known landmark and eyesore of Maycomb County. I cracked my knuckles and wiped the ink off my fingers.
Things didn’t get interesting till the autos came. One by one, they filled up the lot, then the men came spilling out. They slammed their doors but didn’t bother to lock ‘em and they adjusted their collars with anger boiling underneath. Their hats were pulled down to their ears, their scowls more foul than any I’d ever seen, their intentions clear. They must be after Atticus and the negro. I remembered Finch coming to the jailhouse earlier, and a wave was all I needed to know why he was there. Didn’t expect the mob to come this early, could have waited a few days.
I sighed, watching them walk into the eyesore. I could hear them, clear as day, “He in there, Mr. Finch?” Of course he was in there, why else would they come at this time of night? I look at my typewriter, wondering if I should be taking notes. The Tribune had enough, the public didn’t care about these types of things. They’d tell me it was too late, the damage been done, no point in publicizing a party that already happened! If I could report with the minute, the mob would be bigger.
I heard one more of them, a wallowing whisper compared to the shout earlier, “You know what we want. Get aside from the door, Mr. Finch.” They wouldn’t back down today, no, they’d have Tom’s head or both of them heads. They kept on debating, Atticus wouldn’t back down either. He didn’t know what was good for him. My eyes darted to the shotgun resting by my bed.
Didn’t get tense till I hear Atticus say, “Do you really think so?” Movement broke out. I see Finch’s damn girl, running towards her father like a dog to its owner. A damn stupid dog. What did she think she was doin’ this late at night? I see she isn’t alone. Her brother and friend are right behind her, too late to stop her. What good was an older brother if he couldn’t keep his sister out of trouble? Should be the other way around? Finches’ kids are something else.
I walked towards my shotgun, looking for a shot to reload it with, as I heard Atticus say, “Go home.” I headed back to the window and panicked when I saw Finch’s boy get grappled by the neck. I got my shotgun ready to fire, but calmed as I saw they let him go. Finch was adamant in his children going home, but none would budge.
I heard the sweet, innocent voice of the Finch’s girl, “Hey, Mr. Cunningham?” I look down at the mob again, and indeed see Mr. Cunningham in the smack dab middle of it. Her voice was strong but quiet, so I couldn’t catch her speech. Just hearing Cunningham’s name made me lower my gun for some strange, mysterious reason. Whatever she said, it worked. The men moved back to their cars, shuffling out the landmark.
“They’re gone,” I heard Atticus say. “Get some sleep, Tom. They won’t bother you any more.”
I guffawed, “You’re damn tootin, they won’t. Had you covered all the time, Atticus,” I leaned out the window, revealing my shotgun. Atticus walked up to my house, then asked me how much I’d hear and how much I’d report. I told him the truth, no point in hiding it. We could go on talking ‘bout the incident all night, but I had some work to do, some sleep to catch. I yawned, and watched Atticus, his old tired soul, walk back towards his kids.
Those kids must be a blessing, they saved his life. I sighed, knowing not many would appreciate the story as much as I. At least I got to experience it myself.
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