The instant Scout woke the next day, she knew what was coming. Henry God damn Clinton had already decided to chase her there all the way from Maycomb; he wouldn't even consider waiting long enough for her to catch her breath. Instead, just as she expected, the moment after she had gotten herself washed, dressed, and fed, he knocked on her door. Jack turned to her expectantly in response, and she replied, "You organized the meeting. You get the door."
Jack complied, and sure enough, Henry was in the doorway with a smile nearly as forced as any of Alexandra's. Of course, it eased the second he looked at her. Anyone would think he was looking at an angel sent down from heaven, because it wasn't enough that the bastard was willing to chase her to the ends of the earth, he also thought she was beautiful. Her, of all people, with her non-existent figure and her slacks, was somehow a marvel of a woman. It would be easier for Scout to hate him if not for that.
He wore the same buttoned shirt and jacket as usually, not a smidge more casual than anything he'd wear in court, and no wonder. It was a Wednesday, for fuck's sake! Atticus would have had to give his permission for Henry's grand escapade, and so of course he would have worn office attire. She would have thought Atticus would know better than to bother Scout when all she wanted was peace—that had been his strategy for dealing with her ever since she went up to Nashville—but evidently not. He let Henry follow her all the way there. That was fine, then. She no longer wanted to return to Maycomb for his funeral.
"Good morning, Scout," Henry said, still wearing that God damn smile. He couldn't get rid of it, even when he was trying to be serious. "I'd like to apologize to you."
"And I'd like you to fuck off," Scout replied.
Jack pressed his lips together. Scout recognized that face; he was trying not to laugh. So he could sympathize with her, at least a little. Still, to Henry, who had never seen it, it could be construed as an expression of condemnation, just as Jack would want. "Scout," Jack said, and after a moment his voice regained its usual firm composure, "please be civil. At least hear Henry out."
Scout settled for merely a glare in response as Henry's attention was momently diverted. "Oh, of course, Forgive me for not introducing myself. I'm Henry Clinton. You're Dr. Finch, I take it?" He was still so painfully genuine. How did he get along with every single person he met, when the very sight of Scout was enough to rub the majority of people the wrong way?
Jack kept his serious tone. "I am. Pleased to meet you. I've heard so much about you." Though he didn't turn away from Henry, Scout knew the statement was directed at her more than anything. "That said, I believe you have other matters to deal with?"
"Of course." Henry pulled out the chair beside Scout and sat down. Keeping her face blank, she pushed her own chair away from him. "Scout," he started, already pleading, "I'd appreciate it if you heard me out."
As if what Henry wanted mattered to her anymore. "And I'd appreciate it if you went straight to hell, but I imagine only one of us is going to get what they want." Beside her, she could see Jack stifling a grin. So that's why he'd really organized this, wasn't it? He wanted the entertainment. Well that was fine; less pressure on her to actually listen to whatever the bastard was about to say.
"Dr. Finch-" Henry started.
"I promised I could get Scout in front of you, Henry. I never said I could control her." He'd turned his smile from a look of amusement to a polite gesture of placation. That was fine. Her uncle could suck up to Henry as much as he wanted, as long as she didn't have to.
Henry turned back to Scout at that, and she kept her mouth shut. After all his years of dealing with her, she owed Jack that. She'd let Henry have his God damn statement, even if she didn't want to hear it. Then, he could leave, and she'd finally be free from Maycomb.
Henry stared at her for a moment, before looking into her eyes and lowering his voice. "Scout, I won't lie to you. I know better. Enough people have dismissed you because of your experiences and your attitude. I just hope that since I've listened to you, you'll be willing to listen to me."
Scout kept his eye contact, but refused to give him any response. A year ago, this would have had her melting. That was why she'd always liked him—he was always willing to work with her, the way she was. But now, she knew it was just a tactic, another lie. It would take more than just a token concession to earn her forgiveness.
"I know you hate Maycomb. I'm not so fond of it, either. But for all your misfortune, you've always had one luxury I haven't: this. You were able to move to Nashville and escape it. I've never been so lucky. Like it or not, Maycomb is the only home I've ever had. No one can blame me for being partial to my home, despite all its flaws.
"But you know how Maycomb is. It's not enough to have been born and raised there. You have to be bred right, raised right, and you have to act right. I'd already failed two of the three counts just because my father ran out on us. If I ever wanted to last in Maycomb, I had to at least try to act right.
"I'd never read about citizen's councils in the newspapers, like you. I didn't know what I was agreeing to. All I knew was I'd been invited to a meeting, that most of the town would be there, and I'd be a fool not to go. Once I was there, I couldn't walk out, not without the entire town hating me, and when I told Atticus about it the next day, he outright encouraged me. I wasn't lying about that, Scout. He said that it would be good to have someone like me there, just in case, and that it was important that I try to fit into the town. So I continued to go.
"I didn't like it, Scout. I never liked it. But you know how Maycomb is. It'll never change. As long as I live there, I have to blend in to survive. Otherwise, I'm just white trash, just like your aunt and all those other ladies say. If I want an ounce of respect in Maycomb, despite being fatherless trash, I have to keep going to council meetings. I'm sure you can understand."
Scout couldn't help herself. Not after what he'd said. So she burst out laughing.
She knew that telling Henry Clinton to fuck off would have been more polite, but that didn't stop her. It was just so damn ridiculous that all she could do was laugh until her stomach was sore and she could scarcely breathe. "I'm sure you can understand?" Like hell she could. Did he seriously think she could understand trying to fit in? So she laughed, until Jack stopped staring at her like he was going to finally put her in an asylum and she had ran out of breath.
"Scout?" Henry looked so confused, the poor bastard. He had thought he knew her so well.
"It's just funny. All of it. Henry Clinton, I didn't think you could get any more wrong." Just like that, she was laughing again.
"What on earth do you mean?" His face, too, was so concerned, so intrigued. Could he really not see how fucking absurd it was?
"Henry, did you really just say that I could understand trying to fit in? Have you seen me? The girl who fainted in the middle of class and wore slacks every day until people were surprised she hadn't started telling people she was a boy?" Scout couldn't help it, she was giggling again. She hadn't even giggled since she was six years old.
Henry's face only grew more sober, more passionate. "But none of that was your fault, not really. You still wanted to fit in. You still wished they didn't look at you like you were different; you told me that. You can't blame me for feeling the same way."
He really didn't get it. "Well no shit none of it was my fault, but what did Maycomb care? They still looked at me like that; they would have until the end of time no matter what." Her tone turned bitter and mocking. "The entire God damn town knew that Atticus Finch had gone and felt bad for a negro, and look what happened. His only daughter got fucked by a drunk and so badly mutilated they had to take out everything that makes a woman useful in the first place." At this, Henry openly gaped. "Oh, you know it's true. You really think that if things had been different, I wouldn't have ended up as a machine that spit out babies until I couldn't take it anymore?"
"Even Maycomb isn't that unforgiving-" Henry started.
"Oh, don't pretend there's anything good to the place. Don't even try to tell me it's worth earning their God damned approval. Those bastards can't stand anything less simple than a stick figure man and his stick figure wife." Her voice had dripped with pure disdain, but it suddenly turned serious. "I'm complicated. They look at me, and they figure I'm so complex I'd better be destroyed so nobody gets the wrong ideas. I need to be made to fit in with their pristine churches and hidden liquor stores and 50 cent theaters. Well look at how well that worked out. I can't look at any of those places without getting hit by one of a dozen awful memories."
Henry was calm, filled with the same projected empathy as always. "I can't pretend to know what that was like, Scout. But you've got to understand, all I wanted was-"
All of her control was gone, now. Even the swearing had been somewhat measured, slightly thought through, but now she shouted without any thought about her words. "Could you stop for a single second, and think about what I wanted? Because I can tell you. All I wanted was to get away from the grocery stores that pretend they don't have an illiterate negro working the till, and the courtroom that pretends it doesn't hold a citizen's council every fucking sunday, and the liquor store that pretends it doesn't sell the kind of stuff that makes a man think it's a good idea to shove his penis into a little girl. I couldn't look at those things without my head getting full of memories, and not normal ones, quick ones that were gone in a second. Horrible things that trapped me, and made me miserable. Do you know what it's like to feel like your life is just there to fill in the time between memories? The whole thing just leaves you so exhausted, like you're stuck in a living hell with no hope of ever getting out. And one day, I just decided I couldn't take it anymore. I was getting out of that God damn town, and I was getting out of it that instant. And if I wasn't fourteen years old and stupid, I would have."
Henry blinked, his face contorted with confusion. "What on earth are you talking about? You did get out. You got here to Nashville. And I only wish I'd been just as lucky."
"I'm not talking about Nashville, Henry," Scout snapped. "I never wanted to go to Nashville. I'm talking about this." She unbuckled her watch, and held out her left wrist, ignoring the way her arm tensed up at the idea of being so exposed. His eyes immediately found the scar, small and faded as it was. "It's not much, but like I said, I didn't know what I was doing. If I had, I'd be dead. Just like I wanted."
"Scout," Henry whispered. Suddenly all his charm was gone. There were no more smooth words, no more empathetic facial expressions, only hoarse, blank-faced horror. "Scout, I had no idea."
She put her watch back on before answering, fastening it slowly and adjusting it so that it perfectly covered the small white line. Then, without looking at him, she replied, "I know you didn't. Because if you did, maybe you would have thought twice before trying to please that town." She sighed, got up from the table, and pushed in her chair. "But you didn't. And I'm sorry, but I can't love someone who wants to please the place that nearly got me killed."
Scout looked towards Jack, who nodded, before walking into her room. As she closed the door, she stole one last look at Henry. He stared forward at the wall with empty eyes.
She closed the door, but pressed her ear against the door. Henry Clinton was a decent man, after all. At the very least, he'd talk things over with Jack.
Instead, Scout heard the sound of the phone being picked up and Henry's voice asking for the operator to connect him with Atticus Finch's office in Maycomb.
"Atticus? I don't think I'll be coming back for a while. In fact-" Henry's voice cracked. "I'm sorry, I know I said I would take over the firm for you, but I just—I can't. Not after talking with Scout. I don't know how you've run it for so long." He paused for a moment. "I'm sorry, Atticus. I just can't."