Song of the Mockingbird
By Tiffany Tran
Based on the novel To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee
My name is Arthur Radley.
I can never go outside, father said. He told me that the world is too bright and frightening for me, but I didn't understand then. What is there to be afraid of? I am trapped within a small world made of white wooden walls and closed windows. I see outside my prison but cannot touch what I behold. Peering through the dusky panes I can see, crisscrossing the streets and front lawns, women in pale sundresses and straw hats, children playing, men talking amongst themselves, and couples... families, happily walking along. All are blissfully ignorant of the sun-starved shadow that watches longingly for even one ray of light within the confines of this house. Why doesn't anyone ever visit us? Have we done something wrong? I am so alone.
Love is a foreign emotion to me. I'm not even sure that my own mother and father ever loved me. Perhaps they did once, but those days have long past. The years have progressed and I have languished in this house. Whenever I look in the mirror I see a frail, sickly pale creature. My weak eyes, glassy and clear, have always been sensitive to bright lights. I don't speak very much, because I find there is little to say. At least, there would not be anyone to listen to me. Why can't I be like my brother; strong and confident? Could anyone ever love someone like me?
I don't really remember why I'm imprisoned like this, nor how long. Fleeting images of other children, the name Cunningham, shouts of joy and furtive games dance through the recesses my mind. Then darkness and solitude descend, casting their veils across my childhood. How long has it been? It must be more than a few days, or weeks, or months. I've grown outside, but inside I am lost. Will I never have friends again? Father always told me he knew what was best and that I should always listen to him, but now and again I questioned his command. Now father is dead, and Nathan has come home. To me it is nothing but a changing of the guard. My brother is too much like my father; unyielding and righteous. Even though father is gone I still do not venture outside. How I want to be free, yet how I am so afraid to try and escape my cage. I am afraid that father's ghost will come after me and relinquish me to an even darker jail, and I am afraid that perhaps, just perhaps, everything that father told me about the outside world is true.
However, it is from this jail that I learn friendship. A strange sort of friendship, to be sure, but it is more than I have ever expected from life. I have found my children.
Of course they were not my own, that is, not of my creation. They are the children of Mr. Finch, the town's lawyer and they have no mother. I do not know why this is so, nor what their names are, and I dare not ask Nathan. They are young, a sister and her elder brother. I marvel at their energy, their innocence, and their freedom. There is an inherent quality about them that sets them apart from the many other children of the town. Vibrant, daring, and intelligent; they are everything and have everything that has been stripped from me through years of captivity. Like a molting bird, I have lost the ability to fly. But I will do everything in my power to prevent these young ones from suffering my fate. I don't know how, though, because they fear me. They fear me.
How did I come to be feared? It is I who am afraid, afraid of my father, afraid of what I have become. I see now, now that I know, how people will pass our house quickly, how they glance at its broken down walls with suspicion, and how sometimes, they will not come near at all. This is all father's fault. If only he had not been so mean and angry when he was alive, perhaps then people would be more friendly towards my family. I cannot get it out of my mind. The people of the town do not know me, they have not seen me, and they are uncomfortable with my silence.
It seems then, that I must try to befriend my children without them ever seeing me. For I have seen them furtively playing around this house, daring one another to approach and then running away in frenzied exhilaration. One time the boy even became entangled in the fence of the garden and I found his pants there. Of course I mended and folded them neatly and placed them near the fence where he would be able to find them. Oh! But I was so afraid when Nathan tried to shoot at the unknown intruder when I knew it was the boy who had come back for his missing item of clothing. I almost cried when I learned that he had not been harmed, for the prowler was never caught.
I have perfected my plan to making my children happy. It is simple enough. During the night I quietly go out into the yard and place a little gift, a trinket of something in the gaping knothole of the old oak for the children to find whenever they pass under the tree's shadow. Little things, like chewing gum, a spelling medal I had won as a child, and a broken old watch. Not much, perhaps, but I could not give anything more. Each time I peek out of the window and see their faces light up with the joy of discovery I become joyful myself. But, I rejoice quietly, so Nathan cannot hear me and know my dream. If he knew, he would destroy it.
The best present I ever left them, I think, were the portraits of them I had carved in soap with a pair of scissors. I remember when I used those same scissors to take a jab at father's knee. I never understood why my mother had been so distressed when I had done that. After all, father hadn't been wearing his nicest pants that day.
But my children are happy. Nothing else matters.
I should have known that my happiness would not last forever. My brother, my unfeeling brother Nathan sealed off the hole in the old oak with cement today. I don't know why! How could he have found out? It is not until later that I find the boy's note, crumpled in the garbage. The words, scrawled in pencil, burn in my mind:
Dear sir,
We appreciate the- no, we appreciate everything which you have put into the tree for us.
Yours very truly, Jem Finch
Jean Louise Finch (Scout)
Jeremy Atticus Finch and Jean Louise Finch, Jem and Scout. I now know their names, but it is knowledge gained too late. Tears run down my face and I clutch the note of thanks to my chest. Things had been going so well between us.
When Nathan enters the room I lunge at him with a cry, my pale hands reaching for his throat. I will make you pay, brother, for your betrayal of what I hold dear! As my fingers tighten around his neck I watch the expression of his face and I see, reflected in his wide eyes, my father, and myself. Gasping and coughing, I release him and retreat. What have I become? Raising my hands, I stare at them, seeing the blood that almost stained them. Am I a monster, worthy of the reputation that the town has given me?
Nathan is up now, trying to take the note away from me. He is shouting and trying to hit me as well. Holding onto the note, that precious scrap of paper, I flee, and hide in my room. I stay there for days, not wanting to see my brother, not wanting to see the disappointment and tears of my children when they learn the tragic fate of the old oak.
I curse you brother and father. I curse you and I defy you, for I have my children. And my children love me in return.
I don't see them until the leaves fall, however. Strange this year, it's so cold, and yet it's not winter. I haven't spoken to Nathan in months. Forgiveness is not something that I have found within me to give to him.
One night I hear shouts outside, crowds of people running to and fro. There is a strange light coming from the window and still holding my blanket, I rise and look out to behold a house on fire. What a shame, I always thought that one was a pretty little house. My eyes rove upon the dark figures, touched here and there by firelight, that have gathered and my breath catches in my throat. There they are, my children, standing in front of my house. Quickly I make my way downstairs and silently slip outside.
Their backs are turned to me and they cannot see or hear me approaching as they watch the blaze across the street. Scout is shivering. Gently I wrap my blanket around her and move back into the house. She never even noticed, the precious dear, and I do not want to frighten her. Such a remarkable child, I wonder if I will ever be able to walk down the street with her and talk with her, like any normal child and her fa- no, friend.
I don't suppose it would do for me to call myself their father when they already have one, would it?
The town is consumed, ravaged, and then released by the storm that surrounds the Tom Robinson case. I know because I still read the papers, clipping things out here and there. During this time I only catch fleeting glimpses of my children. Why must they live in a world so full of hatred? Everyone accusing, hating, killing... Father's words come back to haunt me now.
I spend most Halloween nights in my room, absorbed in a book or preparing for sleep. After all, no children ever come to our house for candy or treats. However, this night finds me sitting on the porch in the rickety old swing. As the leaves blow and rustle I rock back and forth gently, reveling in the peace of the night.
Suddenly I hear faint cries, children's cries. Calmer at first, then growing into shrieks of terror. My children! Dear God, I could recognize the voices of Scout and Jem. Forgetting all caution and fear of discovery by my brother I run towards the screams. Finding myself amongst the woods I look around frantically and see the boy lying on the ground, unconscious. Some dark shape is crushing a smaller one to itself, trying to squeeze the life from it. Scout!
I make no sound but leap at the larger dark shape in fury. How dare he try to harm my children? Pulling the man, for that was what he was, off Scout I struggle with him for a while. I am not strong, and I can feel my breath coming in harsh gasps. The smell of whisky and the stink of filth emanates from him, making me feel slightly ill. Somehow though, I manage to throw him to the ground. I try to subdue him but he brandishes something shiny that flashes in the moonlight. It is a knife.
Wrenching the blade from his fingers I raise it in my own hand and thrust downward into his body. I don't see where it sticks but I let go of the knife and back away a bit, my breath coming in coughs and wheezes. The man groans and then lies still. A dark dribble of blood begins to pool around the wound. He will never harm another child. Calmly I watch for a moment, wondering at the revelation.
I have killed a man, but it was out of love. Had I needed to kill a hundred more men to save them, I would willingly do so. Does that make me the evil and crazy man they all suppose me to be?
I don't care now. Turning to Jem, I find him still limp and unresponsive and to one side Scout is wearing... some sort of costume. I remember that it is Halloween. I cannot tell how she is, but she seems conscious.
Gently I gather the boy into my arms. I must bring him home ... to his home, not mine. My home is no home, but a prison. As I ascend the steps to their front door I cough once or twice. As I have said before, I am not strong, and Jem's body weighs heavily upon my arms.
Almost at once Mr. Finch is at the door. He tells me to carry his son into a bedroom. I do so and lie him down on the white sheets. Straightening then, I don't know what to do, so I back away into a dark corner of the room. Scout's voice reaches my ears. Thank heaven she is alright!
Suddenly there are many people in the room; Mr. Finch, Scout, a doctor. I say nothing. The girl is telling about what happened and she notices me in my corner and points to me. Startled, I place my hands against the wall, then move them to my belt. A small shudder moves through me as she looks at me for the first time and calls me by the name I know most people refer to me as; Boo.
Her father corrects her to call me Arthur but I don't mind. Smiling gently, I am lost in her innocent searching gaze. When she leads me to the porch outside with the others I follow quietly, wondering if this is a dream. It is no dream, I discover, as she offers me a rocking chair. I suddenly realize how uncomfortable I was in the lights of the house and how relaxed I feel in the darkness of the porch.
Then Scout sits down next to me.
All the time Mr. Finch and the sheriff are talking all I can think of is how strange, how strangely wonderful it is to have one of my children so close to me. I want to touch her hand, as a sign of friendship, but I dare not. I don't want the dream to end. I don't want to frighten her away. So I simply sit and wait, not caring and not hearing what the other men discuss.
When Mr. Finch approaches he thanks me, he thanks me for his children. Something inside me flinches as I remember that they are his children and not really mine. I look at him, unwavering, but envious.
Finally I stand up but a fit of coughing seizes me and I must sit down before steadying myself enough to try and walk again. Scout, as if she could read my mind, leads me back inside to say goodnight to her brother.
He is lying there, sleeping, his hair forming a golden halo when backed by the lamplight. Suddenly, a tiny hand clasps mine and I look down to see Scout's fingers entwined with my own. She pulls me towards the bed. I've never seen a sleeping child, not that I can remember anyhow. I reach out but am afraid to. Scout tells me that it's alright and I find my fingers resting gently on Jem's hair.
It is too much for me. I have striven so hard to be near my children, and now that I am, I think I must run from it. But I do not run. Instead I gently squeeze Scout's hand and she understands and leads me outside once more. I will be so lonely when I leave her.
"Will you take me home?" I ask, meekly, whispering. I am afraid she will refuse, but she only asks that I bend over a bit as she places her arm through the crook of mine.
In this way, we walk to my house, my cage. How sad it is, that my dream is only fulfilled when I am on my way back to where I started. She comes with me as far as my front door.
Summing up my strength I force myself to let go, open the door, and walk inside. I don't have the strength to say goodbye, even though I know I shall probably never see her again.
The years of darkness reclaim me, but I take with me the knowledge that I have tasted happiness, and that I was there when my children needed me. I am no longer alone. I am no longer afraid.
By Tiffany Tran
Based on the novel To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee
My name is Arthur Radley.
I can never go outside, father said. He told me that the world is too bright and frightening for me, but I didn't understand then. What is there to be afraid of? I am trapped within a small world made of white wooden walls and closed windows. I see outside my prison but cannot touch what I behold. Peering through the dusky panes I can see, crisscrossing the streets and front lawns, women in pale sundresses and straw hats, children playing, men talking amongst themselves, and couples... families, happily walking along. All are blissfully ignorant of the sun-starved shadow that watches longingly for even one ray of light within the confines of this house. Why doesn't anyone ever visit us? Have we done something wrong? I am so alone.
Love is a foreign emotion to me. I'm not even sure that my own mother and father ever loved me. Perhaps they did once, but those days have long past. The years have progressed and I have languished in this house. Whenever I look in the mirror I see a frail, sickly pale creature. My weak eyes, glassy and clear, have always been sensitive to bright lights. I don't speak very much, because I find there is little to say. At least, there would not be anyone to listen to me. Why can't I be like my brother; strong and confident? Could anyone ever love someone like me?
I don't really remember why I'm imprisoned like this, nor how long. Fleeting images of other children, the name Cunningham, shouts of joy and furtive games dance through the recesses my mind. Then darkness and solitude descend, casting their veils across my childhood. How long has it been? It must be more than a few days, or weeks, or months. I've grown outside, but inside I am lost. Will I never have friends again? Father always told me he knew what was best and that I should always listen to him, but now and again I questioned his command. Now father is dead, and Nathan has come home. To me it is nothing but a changing of the guard. My brother is too much like my father; unyielding and righteous. Even though father is gone I still do not venture outside. How I want to be free, yet how I am so afraid to try and escape my cage. I am afraid that father's ghost will come after me and relinquish me to an even darker jail, and I am afraid that perhaps, just perhaps, everything that father told me about the outside world is true.
However, it is from this jail that I learn friendship. A strange sort of friendship, to be sure, but it is more than I have ever expected from life. I have found my children.
Of course they were not my own, that is, not of my creation. They are the children of Mr. Finch, the town's lawyer and they have no mother. I do not know why this is so, nor what their names are, and I dare not ask Nathan. They are young, a sister and her elder brother. I marvel at their energy, their innocence, and their freedom. There is an inherent quality about them that sets them apart from the many other children of the town. Vibrant, daring, and intelligent; they are everything and have everything that has been stripped from me through years of captivity. Like a molting bird, I have lost the ability to fly. But I will do everything in my power to prevent these young ones from suffering my fate. I don't know how, though, because they fear me. They fear me.
How did I come to be feared? It is I who am afraid, afraid of my father, afraid of what I have become. I see now, now that I know, how people will pass our house quickly, how they glance at its broken down walls with suspicion, and how sometimes, they will not come near at all. This is all father's fault. If only he had not been so mean and angry when he was alive, perhaps then people would be more friendly towards my family. I cannot get it out of my mind. The people of the town do not know me, they have not seen me, and they are uncomfortable with my silence.
It seems then, that I must try to befriend my children without them ever seeing me. For I have seen them furtively playing around this house, daring one another to approach and then running away in frenzied exhilaration. One time the boy even became entangled in the fence of the garden and I found his pants there. Of course I mended and folded them neatly and placed them near the fence where he would be able to find them. Oh! But I was so afraid when Nathan tried to shoot at the unknown intruder when I knew it was the boy who had come back for his missing item of clothing. I almost cried when I learned that he had not been harmed, for the prowler was never caught.
I have perfected my plan to making my children happy. It is simple enough. During the night I quietly go out into the yard and place a little gift, a trinket of something in the gaping knothole of the old oak for the children to find whenever they pass under the tree's shadow. Little things, like chewing gum, a spelling medal I had won as a child, and a broken old watch. Not much, perhaps, but I could not give anything more. Each time I peek out of the window and see their faces light up with the joy of discovery I become joyful myself. But, I rejoice quietly, so Nathan cannot hear me and know my dream. If he knew, he would destroy it.
The best present I ever left them, I think, were the portraits of them I had carved in soap with a pair of scissors. I remember when I used those same scissors to take a jab at father's knee. I never understood why my mother had been so distressed when I had done that. After all, father hadn't been wearing his nicest pants that day.
But my children are happy. Nothing else matters.
I should have known that my happiness would not last forever. My brother, my unfeeling brother Nathan sealed off the hole in the old oak with cement today. I don't know why! How could he have found out? It is not until later that I find the boy's note, crumpled in the garbage. The words, scrawled in pencil, burn in my mind:
Dear sir,
We appreciate the- no, we appreciate everything which you have put into the tree for us.
Yours very truly, Jem Finch
Jean Louise Finch (Scout)
Jeremy Atticus Finch and Jean Louise Finch, Jem and Scout. I now know their names, but it is knowledge gained too late. Tears run down my face and I clutch the note of thanks to my chest. Things had been going so well between us.
When Nathan enters the room I lunge at him with a cry, my pale hands reaching for his throat. I will make you pay, brother, for your betrayal of what I hold dear! As my fingers tighten around his neck I watch the expression of his face and I see, reflected in his wide eyes, my father, and myself. Gasping and coughing, I release him and retreat. What have I become? Raising my hands, I stare at them, seeing the blood that almost stained them. Am I a monster, worthy of the reputation that the town has given me?
Nathan is up now, trying to take the note away from me. He is shouting and trying to hit me as well. Holding onto the note, that precious scrap of paper, I flee, and hide in my room. I stay there for days, not wanting to see my brother, not wanting to see the disappointment and tears of my children when they learn the tragic fate of the old oak.
I curse you brother and father. I curse you and I defy you, for I have my children. And my children love me in return.
I don't see them until the leaves fall, however. Strange this year, it's so cold, and yet it's not winter. I haven't spoken to Nathan in months. Forgiveness is not something that I have found within me to give to him.
One night I hear shouts outside, crowds of people running to and fro. There is a strange light coming from the window and still holding my blanket, I rise and look out to behold a house on fire. What a shame, I always thought that one was a pretty little house. My eyes rove upon the dark figures, touched here and there by firelight, that have gathered and my breath catches in my throat. There they are, my children, standing in front of my house. Quickly I make my way downstairs and silently slip outside.
Their backs are turned to me and they cannot see or hear me approaching as they watch the blaze across the street. Scout is shivering. Gently I wrap my blanket around her and move back into the house. She never even noticed, the precious dear, and I do not want to frighten her. Such a remarkable child, I wonder if I will ever be able to walk down the street with her and talk with her, like any normal child and her fa- no, friend.
I don't suppose it would do for me to call myself their father when they already have one, would it?
The town is consumed, ravaged, and then released by the storm that surrounds the Tom Robinson case. I know because I still read the papers, clipping things out here and there. During this time I only catch fleeting glimpses of my children. Why must they live in a world so full of hatred? Everyone accusing, hating, killing... Father's words come back to haunt me now.
I spend most Halloween nights in my room, absorbed in a book or preparing for sleep. After all, no children ever come to our house for candy or treats. However, this night finds me sitting on the porch in the rickety old swing. As the leaves blow and rustle I rock back and forth gently, reveling in the peace of the night.
Suddenly I hear faint cries, children's cries. Calmer at first, then growing into shrieks of terror. My children! Dear God, I could recognize the voices of Scout and Jem. Forgetting all caution and fear of discovery by my brother I run towards the screams. Finding myself amongst the woods I look around frantically and see the boy lying on the ground, unconscious. Some dark shape is crushing a smaller one to itself, trying to squeeze the life from it. Scout!
I make no sound but leap at the larger dark shape in fury. How dare he try to harm my children? Pulling the man, for that was what he was, off Scout I struggle with him for a while. I am not strong, and I can feel my breath coming in harsh gasps. The smell of whisky and the stink of filth emanates from him, making me feel slightly ill. Somehow though, I manage to throw him to the ground. I try to subdue him but he brandishes something shiny that flashes in the moonlight. It is a knife.
Wrenching the blade from his fingers I raise it in my own hand and thrust downward into his body. I don't see where it sticks but I let go of the knife and back away a bit, my breath coming in coughs and wheezes. The man groans and then lies still. A dark dribble of blood begins to pool around the wound. He will never harm another child. Calmly I watch for a moment, wondering at the revelation.
I have killed a man, but it was out of love. Had I needed to kill a hundred more men to save them, I would willingly do so. Does that make me the evil and crazy man they all suppose me to be?
I don't care now. Turning to Jem, I find him still limp and unresponsive and to one side Scout is wearing... some sort of costume. I remember that it is Halloween. I cannot tell how she is, but she seems conscious.
Gently I gather the boy into my arms. I must bring him home ... to his home, not mine. My home is no home, but a prison. As I ascend the steps to their front door I cough once or twice. As I have said before, I am not strong, and Jem's body weighs heavily upon my arms.
Almost at once Mr. Finch is at the door. He tells me to carry his son into a bedroom. I do so and lie him down on the white sheets. Straightening then, I don't know what to do, so I back away into a dark corner of the room. Scout's voice reaches my ears. Thank heaven she is alright!
Suddenly there are many people in the room; Mr. Finch, Scout, a doctor. I say nothing. The girl is telling about what happened and she notices me in my corner and points to me. Startled, I place my hands against the wall, then move them to my belt. A small shudder moves through me as she looks at me for the first time and calls me by the name I know most people refer to me as; Boo.
Her father corrects her to call me Arthur but I don't mind. Smiling gently, I am lost in her innocent searching gaze. When she leads me to the porch outside with the others I follow quietly, wondering if this is a dream. It is no dream, I discover, as she offers me a rocking chair. I suddenly realize how uncomfortable I was in the lights of the house and how relaxed I feel in the darkness of the porch.
Then Scout sits down next to me.
All the time Mr. Finch and the sheriff are talking all I can think of is how strange, how strangely wonderful it is to have one of my children so close to me. I want to touch her hand, as a sign of friendship, but I dare not. I don't want the dream to end. I don't want to frighten her away. So I simply sit and wait, not caring and not hearing what the other men discuss.
When Mr. Finch approaches he thanks me, he thanks me for his children. Something inside me flinches as I remember that they are his children and not really mine. I look at him, unwavering, but envious.
Finally I stand up but a fit of coughing seizes me and I must sit down before steadying myself enough to try and walk again. Scout, as if she could read my mind, leads me back inside to say goodnight to her brother.
He is lying there, sleeping, his hair forming a golden halo when backed by the lamplight. Suddenly, a tiny hand clasps mine and I look down to see Scout's fingers entwined with my own. She pulls me towards the bed. I've never seen a sleeping child, not that I can remember anyhow. I reach out but am afraid to. Scout tells me that it's alright and I find my fingers resting gently on Jem's hair.
It is too much for me. I have striven so hard to be near my children, and now that I am, I think I must run from it. But I do not run. Instead I gently squeeze Scout's hand and she understands and leads me outside once more. I will be so lonely when I leave her.
"Will you take me home?" I ask, meekly, whispering. I am afraid she will refuse, but she only asks that I bend over a bit as she places her arm through the crook of mine.
In this way, we walk to my house, my cage. How sad it is, that my dream is only fulfilled when I am on my way back to where I started. She comes with me as far as my front door.
Summing up my strength I force myself to let go, open the door, and walk inside. I don't have the strength to say goodbye, even though I know I shall probably never see her again.
The years of darkness reclaim me, but I take with me the knowledge that I have tasted happiness, and that I was there when my children needed me. I am no longer alone. I am no longer afraid.