This follows on from my other Mockingbird fic "What happened between Atticus and Miss Maudie" but if you haven't read it, the gist of it is that Atticus and Miss Maudie fell in love because of her helping him come to terms with losing Tom's case and have decided to get married.
Miss Maudie Marries Atticus and Vice Versa
I had hitherto been led to believe that there was nothing Maycomb liked better than a wedding. I shortly gathered, however, floating around between the yards of white cloth and flowers that started littering every flat surface at Miss Maudie's, that this was only the case when the marriage took place between two parties that were at that moment in time considered to be respectable. That Atticus could be deemed anything other than respectable was certainly not a novelty to me, but the last time Maycomb's motivation for shunning him had been a lot clearer, if equally ludicrous, to me. Wary that approaching my step-mother directly on the subject had the potential to cause offence, I sought out Calpurnia on the subject.
The reason, she told me- a stout look of displeasure gracing her features- was that it wasn't normal for a Baptist to marry a Methodist, not in Maycomb anyhow. They talked and trusted their children not to turn heathen in each other's back yards, but they did not tend to marry each other. Certainly it was done she informed me, but not generally by two figures as prone to attracting unwanted attention as Atticus and Miss Maudie were lately transpiring to be.
" 'ts plain silly to me," she replied when I asked her where she stood on the matter, "Folks know that Mr Finch and Miss Maudie's good folks. Some people," she beat the carpet with particular venom , "Are too fond of gossipin' and disapprovin' of people they don't think are doing what's right and if there's nothin' else to talk 'bout they'll pick on someone ain't doin' nothing wrong."
It wasn't often that I heard Calpurnia speaking ill of white people, but she had renewed my faith in my father's integrity. I offered to beat the carpet for her and enjoyed it.
The ladies of Maycomb, however perturbed they were in private by the respectability of the bride and groom, couldn't quite resist a wedding- at least that was what Atticus told me dryly one evening over the paper. It occurred to me as odd that Miss Maudie was willing to allow Mrs Merriweather- who had been heard in the Methodist Church the previous Sunday furtively declaring that she thought the whole affair quite a scandal- to help her prepare for her wedding, and I said as much. Miss Maudie replied that she found it odd too. This only served to confuse me more, but I was flatly refused further explanation: Aunty had just come into earshot and was talking about wedding cakes with enthusiasm. Atticus, I noticed, was in his rocking chair pretending to be asleep.
The next evening, coming home from school and minding my own business, I was met on the side-walk by Aunt Alexandra and chivvied- despite my confused indignation- across the street and into Miss Maudie's kitchen. The sight that met me was enough to make make be consider running straight back out of the door but Aunty- having probably foreseen my likely reaction- blocked my path. The kitchen was a fabric bomb site; every available surface draped in white. It did not suit the room and it managed to look almost as miffed to find itself thus as I was. Sat demurely in the middle of this madness, stitching contentedly away, were none other than Mrs Merriweather and Miss Stephanie Crawford. Wondering if I had taken to hallucinating, I cast my eyes back in horror at Aunty. She looked normal enough and appeared not to notice how appalled I was by the whole arrangement. Had the fabric been black I would have supposed that Miss Maudie had died suddenly- that was the only explanation my mind could proffer for this apparent state of utter turmoil that had been allowed to reign under her roof. But no, my eyes managed to find her perched as still as a rock on the stool in the corner of the room. Expecting a smile of welcome that didn't come, I offered one of encouragement. I think she tried to return it but her jaw seemed too heavily clenched.
"Ah, Miss Jean Louise."
Nothing could quite escape Mrs Merriweather despite my fleeting prayers for invisibility; I had recently come to learn that ladies- save perhaps Miss Maudie- were to be avoided altogether whenever anything relating to matrimony was in question. I tried to smile politely and judging by the way I was manhandled rather brusquely towards centre-stage. Panicked, I looked towards Aunty for reassurance and received a look of unconcern and then towards Miss Maudie and received one of apologetic distaste.
"I'll leave her with you, Grace," Aunty told Mrs Merriweather, "Maudie, I'm sure Stephanie and Grace can manage Jean Louise."
I wondered what about me there was to "manage" and was exceptionally grateful when Miss Maudie showed no sign of moving.
"I'm quite content here," Miss Maudie told the room at large. For some reason I got the impression that she was lying through her teeth.
Aunty, however, did not: whatever Miss Maudie's displeasure, Aunt Alexandra was quite oblivious to it.
"I need to sort your dress out, Maudie," Aunty told her with her, her back to us.
I looked towards Miss Maudie, wondering what she would do next.
There were a few moments silence before Miss Maudie finally, begrudgingly, got to her feet. Not till then did Aunty turn around from collecting her materials, too late to witness her neighbour's display of reluctance. In the middle of the room, Miss Stephanie and Mrs Merriweather continued to stitch away with fervour. Aunt Alexandra, arms laden with white cloth and thread led the way into the sitting room. For some reason, Miss Maudie's eyebrows raised alarmingly. Both of them gone, I felt very vulnerable and resolved that silence was probably my best policy. It was in vain, however.
"Miss Jean Louise, come and stand on the chair," Mrs Merriweather instructed me, standing up and indicating to a footstool beside her and Miss Stephanie.
Obeying, I felt my situation become even more precarious. They seemed to be scrutinising me thoroughly.
"I don't wonder if we haven't made it too big, Stephanie," was the proclamation, "With those twiggy arms, it'll be hanging off her."
"Nonsense," Miss Stephanie replied, "Once she stands up straight, her shoulders will keep it in place."
"Don't slouch, Jean Louise," I was told.
I tried not to, not aware that I had been in the first place. Mrs Merriweather held up what looked like half a curtain against me. It was decided after much discussion that it would do, so long as I walked with a straight back and neck on the day itself.
Maycomb's weather was undergoing a strange spell. It couldn't quite make up its mind whether or not to be hot or cold, wet or dry, to the point where it would bucket down for about ten minutes at least once a day and then beam sun down upon us until the evening. Atticus said it had happened a few times in his memory before I was born. The Rosetta Stone did not. Passing Mr Avery's house, I wondered if the apparent hourly change of seasons was my doing and wondered what I had done wrong. Jem shook his head at me, smiling, thinking I was joking. Despite what Atticus said about it being perfectly natural, I could not quite accustom myself to the year's climate; it changed as an uneven temper does. Miss Maudie grinned when I said as much, and replied that there would be no complaints from her: it was excellent weather for flowers to grow in.
No amount of grumbling of any nature from any party concerned could put off the day itself. I slouched around the kitchen in my too big dress until Calpurnia told me to get out from under her feet so I went to Miss Maudie's to slouch there. I had never thought of Miss Maudie as strictly beautiful until I saw her in her wedding dress. She certainly wasn't pretty like the descriptions of ladies who got married in the books Aunty read. Standing in the kitchen- all in our Sunday best or particular wedding regalia- Mrs Merriweather complimented Aunty on her accomplishments as a seamstress, but that wasn't what I thought made the difference. However much she bit her lip or clenched her jaw as the ladies anatomised her, picking on every detail, she bore it for a higher purpose so I made the effort to hold my shoulders back too. On that day Miss Maudie was simply happier than I'd ever seen her; and therefore she was radiant. I think Atticus thought so too.
Leaving the church we didn't realise that a shower had come on until the doors were open and it was too late. Aunty, already emotional- it amazed me to see- from the ceremony, all but shrieked as the rain blew in at her and drenched her front. Jem moved in front of her to prevent a repeat performance; he was now tall enough to shield her from the downpour. For a few moments the congregation cowered collectively in the doorway waiting for the weather to abate. Then a solitary figure stepped forward. There was a lull in noise; it was Miss Maudie fearlessly braving the elements in her white dress, not caring that she was going to get drenched. I sensed disapproval from Mrs Merriweather beside me. And then Atticus was beside her. I thought he wouldn't be able to see once the rain fogged up his glasses. Such a thought obviously did not occur to Miss Maudie, turning her head and seeing him stand there, I saw her smile as her husband took her by the hand.
They set off, as calmly as if they did it every day, back towards our house, and I saw no reason not to follow them.
Reviews are very much appreciated, particularly as I've written this to give to someone and I'd like some feedback on it before I do.