It didn't matter how much my father said, or how much I loved him. I admit wholeheartedly that I was and still am fuming. About everything.
I hitched a ride on the first train out of town in the dead of night.
Headed for Chicago. And I had a hunch about where I was going to go next.
I sat down in my roomette, not bothering to even think about sleep, but to think about everything in general.
I thought about the fact that my aunt was actually right for once. Not about my clothing or points of view, but about Henry.
"He came from trash, therefore, he is."
I thought about my uncle, and how he was nuttier than a fruitcake. And about the secrets he had about caring for Rose Almyer, his cat. He fed her crackers and scraps, but it didn't really kill her. In a way, I loved my uncle, but it another, I could never forgive him.
That brings me to my last thought, which made my ears metaphorically steam in anger.
Atticus. My father.
For twenty six years, our minds were tied together in a giant knot. Woven together like a net. They were images that were too challenging to pull apart and separate.
When I came home that day on the train, and after, I felt betrayed by his new-found ideals and perspective. I threw up when I first heard, and that's when I realized it, as we passed into Tennessee in the night.
He deliberately pretended to be a racist. And a member of the council. To tinker with me, until I finally untied myself from his conscience.
It worked. It worked so well, like the many things he had achieved, and that's the reason I was so angry.
His lawyer's persuasion wrapped around my mind and body like a noose, until it tightened and choked me.
I wanted to call him, and forgive him, but that had to wait.
It had to wait until I got to Chicago. Too far away to try and bring me back home. And not the home and I knew and loved either.
The home with the chinaberry trees and the many memories of my childhood and Boo Radley was nonexistent.
Instead, it was Mel's Dairy Dream.
And Boo didn't know that. And Dill didn't know that either.
Dill, at least you have some sense. I tthink I'm going to come back for you. In Italy. How does that sound?
I admit, as the end of my relationship with Henry neared, I dreamt more about Dill and our childhood antics. And how the both of us still remained unmarried after all of those years. And how I read his words only by telegram after the war.
I still love you, I'm coming, Dill. I'm coming right your way.
I longed to write him and warn him of my arrival, but my head was spinning and I was drifting away.
All I could think about before I closed my sleepy eyes was the letter I left for my father before I left.
"Dear Atticus,
I know that this pilgrimage was the only one I'd make this year. And I know you wanted me to stay the entire time, but the thing is, I don't fit in. I never will. I'll never fit in with your damned council. And all I feel anymore around the lot of you is not respect, but spit in my face. Maybe next year, we can come to terms.
Sincerely,
Scout."
Sincerely wasn't even the word to describe it. Maybe, I didn't want to sound too harsh.
It didn't matter, I realized, as I flew into a dream. It didn't matter.
It sounded too harsh anyway.