I didn’t shut up and he kicked me. I lost my balance and fell on my face.
Jem picked me up roughly but looked like he was sorry. There was nothing to say.
We did not choose to meet Atticus coming home that evening. We skulked around the kitchen until Calpurnia threw us out.
By some voodoo system Calpurnia seemed to know all about it.
She was a less than satisfactory source of palliation, but she did give Jem a hot biscuit-and-butter which he tore in half and shared with me.
It tasted like cotton. We went to the living room.
I picked up a football magazine, found a picture of Dixie Howell, showed it to Jem and said, “This looks like you.”
That was the nicest thing I could think to say to him, but it was no help.
He sat by the windows, hunched down in a rocking chair, scowling, waiting.
Daylight faded. Two geological ages later, we heard the soles of Atticus’s shoes scrape the front steps.
The screen door slammed, there was a pause—Atticus was at the hat rack in the hall—and we heard him call, “Jem!”
His voice was like the winter wind. Atticus switched on the ceiling light in the living room and found us there, frozen still.
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