She was carrying her suitcase to the car when she saw the town’s one white taxi drive up and deposit Dr. Finch on the sidewalk.
Come to me. When you can’t stand it any longer, come to me. Well, I can’t stand you any longer. I just can’t take any more of your parables and diddering around. Leave me alone. You are fun and sweet and all that, but please leave me alone.
From the corner of her eye, she watched her uncle tacking peacefully up the driveway. He takes such long steps for a short man, she thought. That is one of the things I will remember about him. She turned and put a key in the lock of the trunk, the wrong key, and she tried another one. It worked, and she raised the lid.
“Going somewhere?”
“Yes sir.”
“Where?”
“I’m gonna get in this car and drive it to Maycomb Junction and sit there until the first train comes along and get on it. Tell Atticus if he wants his car back he can send after it.”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself and listen to me.”
“Uncle Jack, I am so sick and damn tired of listening to the lot of you I could yell bloody murder! Won’t you leave me alone? Can’t you get off my back for one minute?”
She slammed down the trunk lid, snatched out the key, and straightened up to catch Dr. Finch’s savage backhand swipe full on the mouth.
Her head jerked to the left and met his hand coming viciously back. She stumbled and groped for the car to balance herself. She saw her uncle’s face shimmering among the tiny dancing lights.
“I am trying,” said Dr. Finch, “to attract your attention.”
She pressed her fingers to her eyes, her temples, to the sides of her head. She struggled to keep from fainting, to keep from vomiting, to keep her head from spinning. She felt blood spring to her teeth, and she spat blindly on the ground. Gradually, the gonglike reverberations in her head subsided, and her ears stopped ringing.
“Open your eyes, Jean Louise.”
She blinked several times, and her uncle snapped into focus. His walking stick nestled in his left elbow; his vest was immaculate; there was a scarlet rosebud in his lapel.
He was holding out his handkerchief to her. She took it and wiped her mouth. She was exhausted.
“All passion spent?”
She nodded. “I can’t fight them any more,” she said.
Dr. Finch took her by the arm. “But you can’t join ’em, either, can you?” he muttered.
She felt her mouth swelling and she moved her lips with difficulty. “You nearly knocked me cold. I’m so tired.”
Silently, he walked her to the house, down the hall, and into the bathroom. He sat her on the edge of the tub, went to the medicine cabinet, and opened it. He put on his glasses, tilted his head back, and took a bottle from the top shelf. He plucked a wad of cotton from a package and turned to her.
“Hold up your mug,” he said. He filled the cotton with liquid, turned back to her upper lip, made a hideous face, and dabbed at her cuts. “This’ll keep you from giving yourself something. Zandra!” he shouted.
Alexandra appeared from the kitchen. “What is it, Jack? Jean Louise, I thought you—”
“Never mind that. Is there any missionary vanilla in this house?”
“Jack, don’t be silly.”
“Come on, now. I know you keep it for fruitcakes. Gracious God, Sister, get me some whiskey! Go in the livingroom, Jean Louise.”
She walked in her daze to the livingroom and sat down. Her uncle came in carrying in one hand a tumbler three fingersful of whiskey, and in the other a glass of water.
“If you drink all this at once I’ll give you a dime,” he said.
Jean Louise drank and choked.
“Hold your breath, stupid. Now chase it.”
She grabbed for the water and drank rapidly. She kept her eyes closed and let the warm alcohol creep through her. When she opened them she saw her uncle sitting on the sofa contemplating her placidly.
Presently he said, “How do you feel?”
“Hot.”
“That’s the liquor. Tell me what’s in your head now.”
She said weakly: “A blank, my lord.”
“Fractious girl, don’t you quote at me! Tell me, how do you feel?”
She frowned, squeezed her eyelids together, and touched her tender mouth with her tongue. “Different, somehow. I’m sitting right here, and it’s just like I’m sitting in my apartment in New York. I don’t know—I feel funny.”
Dr. Finch rose and thrust his hands into his pockets, drew them out, and cradled his arms behind his back. “We-ll now, I think I’ll just go and have myself a drink on that. I never struck a woman before in my life. Think I’ll go strike your aunt and see what happens. You just sit there for a while and be quiet.”
Jean Louise sat there, and giggled when she heard her uncle fussing at his sister in the kitchen. “Of course I’m going to have a drink, Zandra. I deserve one. I don’t go about hittin’ women every day, and I tell you if you’re not used to it, it takes it out of you … oh, she’s all right … I fail to detect the difference between drinking it and eatin’ it … we’re all of us going to hell, it’s just a question of time … don’t be such an old pot, Sister, I’m not lyin’ on the floor yet … why don’t you have one?”
She felt that time had stopped and she was inside a not unpleasant vacuum. There was no land around, and no beings, but there was an aura of vague friendliness in this indifferent place. I’m getting high, she thought.
Her uncle bounced back into the livingroom, sipping from a tall glass filled with ice, water, and whiskey. “Look what I got out of Zandra. I’ve played hell with her fruitcakes.”
Jean Louise attempted to pin him down: “Uncle Jack,” she said. “I have a definite idea that you know what happened this afternoon.”
“I do. I know every word you said to Atticus, and I almost heard you from my house when you lit into Henry.”
The old bastard, he followed me to town.
“You eavesdropped? Of all the—”
“Of course not. Do you think you can discuss it now?”