"He's still in mourning," they'd say sometimes. Most times I know they were just thinkin' it – or rather, forcing themselves to believe it – and they'd exchange glances and say, "Just leave him be for a little while longer."
The problem itself wasn't always clear – just that there had to be something wrong with me. I wasn't a widower, after all; I was a wife-killer. Every God-fearing white man in Maycomb knew that.
There'd always be a large group that would respond, "Mourning over what? A man as possessed as that Raymond fellow, he musta known he was gonna kill his wife. Man as conniving as him, he knew just the way to do it."
The truth was I'd only wanted to marry her with a free conscience; that if she loved me as I did her, she would understand, and we would move on.
The truth was I could not choose between black and white, and only wanted to find myself in a pleasing grey space in between.
Such Purgatory, I quickly learned, in love and modern society, does not exist.
And among the folks who couldn't get over it, there'd be the ones who'd just shake their heads, knowing that neither extreme could suffice as proper reasoning, and it'd be those folk who'd just sit there and ask, "Why?"
And so, that was when I made the decision to become, I guess what you'd call, a soda-bottle alcoholic.
It wasn't difficult to take up the habit. After all, I'd done my fair share of actual drinkin' when it first happened – what I mean to say is, when my fiancée decided she loved me enough to take her life for me, but not enough to forgive me. While later, I realised it wasn't worth it – the drinkin' – since I still had a woman who'd love me unconditionally, regardless of the bizarre circumstance. Even though at first, it sure didn't feel right. The town turned the Evil Eye on us, but then, when I saw the both of us together, I saw that it was the right choice to have made, and that I was better than those prejudiced scum because of it. Better than 'em enough to know that I was wasting a precious opportunity drinkin' away my life. Of course, Maycomb would need a reason more than ever for my new outlook on life. And thus, leading me back onto the topic of those soda bottles.
My most brilliant idea of all.
Lot of times there'd be those bitter, irate folks, and they'd say to whoever'd listen, "Man like that, he deserves to be punished. Man like that shouldn't be allowed to walk free after what he did."
And some people, the more forgiving folk'd say, "Can't you see though? He realises he's done wrong, that poor Mr. Raymond. Why else'd he throw himself out with them black folk? He's so rueful 'bout what he's done, he's chosen to punish himself! Shame, that man, he's not trash, but he thinks it just the same."
That the town disapproved of my actions so affected me slightly at first, mostly because I was still a quasi-drunk then. Once I'd sobered up though, I learned to block the jeering out altogether.
The fact that, apart from my taboo lifestyle, I was deemed socially acceptable – what I mean to say is, rich and white – and could see past the prejudices put up by the others of my kind concerning the Negroes should have given me hope, that there would be those who would not judge, but it didn't. It only isolated me further. Prejudice and discrimination was at every turn when you became the target of it. That was just the way it was – still is, mind you –, and I was slowly becoming accustomed.
Eventually I cut myself off from the whites altogether. After awhile spent bonding with the black community, they took me in as a black man in albino skin. This was the best thing I could ever hope for – even though many of my former peers saw it as degrading. How wrong they were.
And as times went on and I walked the streets of Maycomb, as I do now, I'd gaze upon the residents – white and black – and wonder if there would ever be a time where together, they would walk as one. In these moments of optimism, I think of my children – yes, aliens in either community now – and that one day, perhaps it is their presence that will make all the difference. That they too one day will join the ranks of common perception of what is 'socially acceptable'. But, more likely'n not, they'll be outsiders forever, 'less they can hide their identity and conform. It is their decision; I can only hope that they'll make the right one.
And that on another day perhaps, residents of Maycomb will see me down the street – not with a paper bag; walking, not ambling – and they will say,
"Yep, there goes Mr. Dolphus Raymond."
"Yep, there goes one of the bravest men Maybcomb's ever known."