what he said to me.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“I said to him, ‘Mr. Everett,’ I said, ‘the ladies of the Maycomb Alabama
Methodist Episcopal Church South are behind you one hundred percent.’ That’s
what I said to him. And you know, right then and there I made a pledge in my
heart. I said to myself, when I go home I’m going to give a course on the Mrunas
and bring J. Grimes Everett’s message to Maycomb and that’s just what I’m
doing.”
“Yes ma’am.”
When Mrs. Merriweather shook her head, her black curls jiggled. “Jean Louise,”
she said, “you are a fortunate girl. You live in a Christian home with Christian
folks in a Christian town. Out there in J. Grimes Everett’s land there’s nothing but
sin and squalor.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Sin and squalor—what was that, Gertrude?” Mrs. Merriweather turned on her
chimes for the lady sitting beside her. “Oh that. Well, I always say forgive and
forget, forgive and forget. Thing that church ought to do is help her lead a
Christian life for those children from here on out. Some of the men ought to go
out there and tell that preacher to encourage her.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Merriweather,” I interrupted, “are you all talking about Mayella
Ewell?”
“May—? No, child. That darky’s wife. Tom’s wife, Tom—”
“Robinson, ma’am.”
Mrs. Merriweather turned back to her neighbor. “There’s one thing I truly believe,
Gertrude,” she continued, “but some people just don’t see it my way. If we just let
them know we forgive ‘em, that we’ve forgotten it, then this whole thing’ll blow
over.”
“Ah—Mrs. Merriweather,” I interrupted once more, “what’ll blow over?”
Again, she turned to me. Mrs. Merriweather was one of those childless adults who
find it necessary to assume a different tone of voice when speaking to children.
“Nothing, Jean Louise,” she said, in stately largo, “the cooks and field hands are