Fly Away, Mockingbird
A prologue to Harper Lee’s “To Kill a Mockingbird”
When she was nearly old enough to complain about it my Ma died suddenly, when Scout was just a pup and I was starting the 1st grade. Ma was a different kind of southerner, but she had to be, on account of her being the husband to my father, Atticus. When Atticus married her some short time ago she was just out of her reckless years and wanted to settle down and start a family. So she did. I was born not long after they were wedded, and Scout was born 4 summers after that. Ma always said she wanted a girl; it was a shame that she would never see Scout prosper.
Unlike the many ladies of Maycomb whose personalities were wilted like untended azaleas, my mother had a sense of pride and confidence that rivaled Aunt Alexandria’s. Ma was always sure in her actions, and when she was in the wrong (which was rare) she was repentant, especially in the false cases of my own wrongdoings. Atticus seemed to love her certainty, claiming that it often helped him when making decisions of the lawyering nature. Ma herself did not work, but she was eccentric when it came to Atticus’s. She pestered him constantly about his cases, mulling over the tiny details and snippets of information that he released on the porch each night. While I found mother’s intrusive questions a tad rude and invasive of Atticus’s privacy, he seemed to love every minute of her meddling. He once said that Ma made him a better lawyer than school ever could’ve, but he didn’t say why.
Poised, yet imperfect would best describe my mother’s appearance. She had a sort of natural beauty to her that one only gets after spending long hours outdoors, absorbing the scent of nature. Her skin was a golden brown in the warmer half of the year, her milk chocolate hair bleached a dirty blonde from the constant sun. Ma’s usual attire consisted of denim coveralls and leather gloves, an outfit best suited for working in the garden. Her face was pretty but her hands were rough and dirty from all the yard work. My mother only ever smelled of talc on nights when she and Atticus went into town for an evening. She never wore blush or other products because she didn’t need them; she was comfortable with her features the way they were. My mother didn’t quite fit in with Maycomb’s idea of what a lady should be, and she was content with keeping that status.
Ah! Like liquid fire that wax burned my finger. I had touched the runny stuff pooling in the small moat forming around the flame of the candle, letting my curiosity get the better of me. I sure knew it was wax now and was perturbed to find that a small layer of it had fused to my finger, and I was unable to scratch it off. Embarrassed, I chose not to inform my father of my folly.
That pain knocked my mind out of wandering and I realized the procession was about to start. I ran to find Atticus since he told me I needed to be with him. When I found him he was standing by the hearse, waiting to walk the aisle again, all too soon. He grabbed my hand with a strong grip, one filled with much passion and emotion. It hurt a bit, but I did not flinch or squirm, lest I upset him at a moment like this. I looked straight ahead as he used his free arm to help the other 3 men pick up the casket.
We proceeded up the aisle at a solemn pace. Tears were rolling down Atticus’s cheeks, and his face treaded the line rather unsteadily between sadness and a total breakdown. His grip tightened and loosened erratically, and I began to cry too. I did not whimper or make a noise, but tears and snot ran down my face. I knew the reason I was crying, and it was not the reason I expected; I was crying because Atticus was. He was all I had left, and to see him brought to this was almost too much for me. Yet I held on to his hand, attempting to return the intensity in his grip. I did not wipe the tears from my eyes; they fell to my jacket and left marks. In that moment, I was as strong as I ever was, and as strong as I ever would be. I knew that if I began to cry, then so would Atticus. We had to make a decision, and I chose to be a man.
When we arrived at the front row of pews I released Atticus’s hand and took my seat. The priest then began his sermon, speaking of god and how he judges the acts of the mortal. Yet not one word of his reached my brain, because my eyes were rooted on Atticus’s and his on mine. As he stood by the casket, tremors shot through his body, and his face once again danced on the line of sadness. He remained unbroken throughout the priest’s kind words however, and when we rose to leave he would whisper a quiet
“Thank you.”
into my ear. Before this moment of gratitude, Atticus and the men lifted the casket again, and I once again felt that unpredictable and firm grip. When the casket was loaded into the hearse and we were safe in our car Atticus burst into tears and hugged me tightly.
We both wept the whole way to the cemetery where my mother would be buried. Atticus held me close and I buried my face into his chest. He drove with one hand on the wheel and one wrapped around me tight, like I was going to float away at any minute. When we had finally arrived we stayed in the car for a few moments to compose ourselves. Then we began the somber walk to the hole into which my mother would be placed.
I grasped Atticus’s hand again as we made our way to the grave. This time his grip was firm and unwavering; I knew then that he had regained control of his emotions. When we arrived at the site many of our true friends from Maycomb were standing around, all dressed in dark like a flock of crows. Aunt Alexandria and Uncle Jack and the rest of the family were there too, and they smiled sympathetically as me and Atticus came closer. When everyone had arrived I was surprised to see just how many people’s lives my mother had touched.
This time I listened to the eulogies that the mourners brought, since they were filled with stories of my mother in her youth. Atticus’s family spoke about her as though she was related to them by blood, as though they had grown up with her. Where was this compassion and welcome when they visited during the holidays? My mother’s family recalled my mother’s childhood antics, bringing an appropriate comic relief to the crowd. How come her family never came to visit if they had such stories to tell? Her friends from Maycomb talked about her daily life, and how her leaving would leave a hole in their daily lives too. Why had they never told her how much they enjoyed her presence before? Then it was time for Atticus’s final words.
“Maycomb county of Alabama, you have done a sour wrong to this woman. You stand here today, cooing and weeping over her passing, while in life you never much cared for her. I see faces here today that I wouldn't have seen if she was still with us. All of you are guilty of using my wife’s death-“ Atticus choked up real bad here, his face a livid red, tears washing his cheeks as though they were windows in a rainstorm. “-guilty of using my wife’s death as a way to lie to yourself. You are LYING TO YOURSELVES!” he screamed, his veins bulging at his neck, eyes wide open. I was genuinely frightened, but I did not cry. Not on this day, not in front of Atticus. “You are exploiting her death to convince yourselves that you acted fairly and just to her in life, but you did not. You tell these stories and tales of happy times, but they were all from a long time ago. In these recent years, my wife had fallen prey to a type of sadness only seen in those who had been abandoned by everyone they once loved. You paid as much attention to her as the law would to a case against a negro. Harsh and judgmental you people are in life, sympathetic and pitiful you are in death. That is not the way it should be! Why save these emotions of understanding for a time when it is all too late? Why fret and brood over frivolous mistakes people make?” Atticus said in one long breath, shouting at the gathering of grievers.
Everyone had taken a step back, their eyes wide with fear; fear not from the loud and angry manner in which my father delivered this speech, but from the realization that he had discovered their true motives. They were scared that they had motives as sinister and lowly as these, and many in the audience were reevaluating themselves. There was certain awe that also struck everyone’s faces, for they had never seen a man so honest and blunt as he. I felt little remorse for their fright and shock; Atticus’s words had pierced my soul, and answered the questions I had asked during the eulogies.
In the silence that followed Atticus’s outburst, while those around me still remained speechless and shaken, an unfitting sound befell our ears. Mockingbirds, just a few dozen paces away, had taken up song. Their beautiful, almost ethereal music gave the whole event an unearthly appeal. How could these birds be singing after an outburst such as that? Didn’t they notice the death here, the anger, and all the raw emotion? Yet they persisted, humming a tune that was sad but not depressing, understanding but not pitiful, and inspiring but not upbeat. In that moment, the birds were everything the mourners were not: good human beings. Atticus did not appreciate their presence however.
“Fly away, mockingbirds; there is no more need for innocent death here, and this place reeks of it. If any of you drop from those branches with your legs in the air I will curse this place a thousand times more than I already have! Go away!” he shouted, waving his arms at their general direction.
The birds remained unmoved, and their song only grew in volume. Atticus continued to shout at them, growing increasingly angry. The procession watched in uncertainty as Atticus picked up a stone out of the grass and heaved it way over the tree. As the rock sailed high, a bird took flight. At the apex of the rock’s journey the bird soared at an unreal speed, colliding with the rock in midair. When both of them hit the ground, so did Atticus.
Atticus had collapsed in a manner similar to the stone. He was crumpled up on the ground, weeping with a might so great that it shook his entire body, right down to his toes. He continued to do that as his family picked him up and carried him to the car. Uncle Jack scooped me up and threw me over his shoulder. As he walked towards the cars I felt every step; his shoulder was driving into my stomach in a rhythmic bounce. I looked behind me to see the rest of the procession staring, their eyes red and watered from tears. I knew that they were changed for good, and that through my father’s suffering, the people of Maycomb had bettered themselves.
The death of a loved one can spark change in anyone; it is irrelevant if the person is good or bad, there will be shifts in their character. In Atticus this change manifested itself as a calming of his temper. He never again lost his religion in my presence, and I doubt he did in anyone else’s. No, the passing of Ma worked his brain into such a fury that it rivaled all others he had ever had. It gave him a new perspective on just how furious someone could be. All the other times since then where outward anger would be acceptable if not expected, Atticus kept his temper in line. For there is no greater rage than that of helplessness; helpless he never was again.
