CHAPTER ONE
I watched the world from my porch, eyes drifting from the lines of my book to the neighbourhood as I surveyed Maycomb on that lazy Sunday afternoon.
Normally, I would be so engrossed in my book, that little things like what the neighbours were up to and who was walking down the street would not distract me, but it was hot and I was sleepy. Concentrating on a book was far too much effort for two o clock in the afternoon.
Sighing, I placed my book down on my lap, choosing to watch the road instead. Miss Maudie was outside, as usual, tending to her azaleas. It amazed me that a woman of her age had enough energy to work all day in the garden.
A handsome black car caught my eye as it snaked down the road. It was going slowly, as if looking for something. I admired it, remembering blearily that my Aunt Alexandra had once arrived in a similar vehicle nearly ten years ago. Ten years! Had it really been that long?
The car stopped a few houses along from mine, and a man climbed out. From what I could see, he was tall, slim and wearing a suit the colour of charcoal. He intrigued me – not many businessmen came to Maycomb, as not many people could afford to pay them. I wondered what his reason for being here was; there was not much for a city man to take interest of in such a small town.
He paused at each house, lifting his hat and greeting the owners politely. As he drew closer, I saw his face; it was slightly rounder than an average man's, but pleasantly so. His eyes were a twinkling sky-blue and a sandy-blond cowlick curled in the middle of his forehead, his smile easygoing and friendly. I decided that he was good-looking, and hoped fervently that he would stop at my house – only out of curiosity, of course, as I was dying to know what he was doing here.
He approached Miss Maudie's house, lowered his hat, and called to bent figure in the garden,
"Good-day, ma'am!"
His voice was clear and deep, and every word he spoke sounded sincere. She straightened and at once composed her face into a smile for the handsome stranger, "Good-day yourself, sir. What brings you to Maycomb?"
They both lowered their voices as they continued the conversation, so I lost track of it. At one point, the man glanced up in my direction, catching my eye. Embarrassed at being caught staring, I dove for my book and tried to pretend that I was immersed in it the whole time.
I felt my heart beating faster as I saw him sauntering down the pavement to my house over the top of the pages. I tried to concentrate on the words, ignoring the stranger as he coughed politely.
"Good afternoon, ma'am." He called out to me. I lowered the book, acting as if I hadn't even noticed him before. I smiled.
"Good afternoon, sir." I called back. He leant on my garden fence, and I fiddled with my dress hem.
"So, ah, what brings you to Maycomb, sir?" I asked, pretending that I hadn't heard Miss Maudie ask the same question and that I wasn't dying to hear the answer myself. He must be pretty tired of hearing it now, I thought. In fact, it was the opposite, as his face lit up in a grin.
"I'm lookin' for someone – I wonder if you've heard of her – her name's Jean-Louise Finch, and she used to live round hereabouts."
Jean-Louise Finch? My cheeks flushed. That was me! What did this handsome stranger want to do with me? I chuckled self-consciously.
"Well, you've found her," I placed my book down, "I'm Jean-Louise Finch."
His face lit up in surprise and delight, before he gasped, "Gee whizz, Scout! You ain't half changed!"
Scout? I hadn't been called that in years! Suddenly, realisation flooded me. His cheeky smile, bright blue eyes, sandy-blond hair... I exclaimed something very unladylike.
"Dill! That ain't you, is it?"
"Sure is!"
I jumped up from my chair and ran to him, throwing my arms around his neck. It amused me that the boy I used to beat up was now so tall that I had to stand on my tiptoes to hug him.
A few squeaks of "I missed you!" later, I pulled back from the embrace, scowling.
"Charles Baker Harris, you ain't written me in over three months!" I howled, "And you ain't even so much'a visited in nine whole years!"
He winced slightly, "I'm sorry, Scout, you got my letters, though? I near damn wrote you a whole essay last time!"
I had to admit, he normally wrote regularly. The months after his last summer in Maycomb, when I was little over eight years old, his letters were the highlight of my week. Every Saturday I would rush to the mailbox and wait there till the mailman reached our house.
Nine years later, we still wrote, though after the first year we found little to tell of one week and began to write monthly. I had every one of Dill's letters tucked up in a trunk in my room. Time to time, when I missed my childhood particularly, I would take them out and look over them.
"You know why I haven't visited – I told you; I couldn't come summers no more cuz Ma moved us to Boston, so I just wrote to y'all. I tell you, I stopped writin' to Jem years ago, but I never stopped writin' to you! And I haven't had a chance recently cuz I moved to New York when I got a business proposition 'bout my new book. It's sold good, it has, so I figured I'd come down to Maycomb to visit you!"
I stared up at my friend for a second, before congratulating him heartily. As I lead him into the house, something disturbing occurred to me; the boy that I had considered my closest friend through childhood, had grown up. He'd changed – and so had I – but the Charles Baker Harris that I knew didn't use phrases like business proposition and certainly wasn't an author, he was seven and a midget and proud of the fact that he could read, squatting in Miss Rachel's collard patch.
What had happened to my Dill?