"Keep up, girl!" Bob Ewell snapped, striding down the street angrily. He'd been made a fool in court, and the whole town had been there to see it. His wounded pride wouldn't let him stay still for long.
Behind him, Mayella nodded wordlessly as she paused and turned to face the courthouse again. Her heart cried out silently, 'Don't kill him! Please…I was the one lyin'…' But she could never say the words aloud, not while her papa kept a tight rein over her life. He would kill her easily, despite her physical strength.
Her shoulders tightened as she thought about her papa, and she quickly turned away from the courthouse. She didn't want to risk any more bruises than the ones she was going to get when they got home. Besides, Miss Maudie and Miss Stephanie would be coming out soon, and she couldn't bear the look in their eyes. Miss Maudie knew that Tom was telling the truth, and Miss Stephanie suspected.
The two Ewells were silent all the way back to their house; Bob was fuming and planning, and Mayella was trying to keep from crying. Her handkerchief was dry now, and slightly crusty from all the salty tears she'd cried into it. She kept squeezing it in her sweaty palm, making it pliable as she passed it from hand to hand. She kept trying to think about something other than that pitiful black face as Heck Tate, the sheriff of Maycomb, led Tom away to await the penalty twelve country men had put on him. Not only twelve men on the jury; Mayella herself had placed that fate on his head the moment she tried to seduce him. Shaking her head violently, the young woman tried to put those thoughts out of her mind. It was over now. There was nothing she could do to save him, even if she had wanted to.
Mayella relaxed a little as they entered the fence that surrounded the Ewell yard. This was her little world. It was imperfect, and painful at times, but she knew how to survive in it. The courthouse was the world of people who used big words, like Atticus Finch and Mr. Gilmer. That wasn't for people like her. She headed for the outside water bucket, but her papa's voice lashed out like a whip. "Get in the house, girl!"
The young woman bent her head a little and walked into the house, her heart in her throat. If she thought she'd been trembling hard in the courtroom, it was nothing compared to the shakes that took her as Bob Ewell kicked the other children out of the house. She felt like a leaf in a hurricane, and she felt tears filling her eyes from sheer terror.
Once everyone was out of the house, Bob stomped over to his daughter, who stood about three inches taller than him, and flung her to the ground by her hair. "You disobeyed me!" he railed as she rolled, protecting her face with her arms. "I told ya, stick to the story! Now everyone knows, all because you broke down before that Finch fool!" He kicked her viciously in the side before grabbing her throat and forcing her hands away from her face.
The next ten minutes were an eternity to Mayella. Bob had been beating her for years; this beating made all others before it seem like a child's pats. She quickly learned to stay down on the floor; she didn't have quite so far to fall when he kicked her legs out from under her. When she tried to defend her ribs and chest with her arms, he twisted her right arm up so hard that she felt something snap. A white-hot stab of pain raced through her arm, and she screamed. Bob just laughed at her pain and redoubled his attacks, aiming kicks for her twisted right arm whenever possible.
At last, he left her alone. Bruised and broken, she lay on the rough floor of the cabin and just cried. "Help me," she whispered through bleeding lips before she coughed and whimpered in pain. "Please…someone…"
The other children were long gone, however; they knew that when their papa was angry, it was time to go down to the dump and scavenge until they were told it was safe again. The closest neighbors were all black, and after the trial… Mayella whimpered again as she tried to curl into herself. She was very, very alone.
Somehow, she managed to pull herself to the water bucket and ducked her whole head in it for a few seconds. When she resurfaced, coughing and spluttering, she felt a little better around her face, but her ribs and arm burned like fire. Biting her lips viciously, she moved her arm to a place where she could see it. Even that motion almost sent her into unconsciousness, but she clung to wakefulness grimly. If she conked out like this, she'd scare the others when they came back.
Her forearm was bent at a strange angle, away from her body. Even touching the skin inches away from the broken point made anguished tears fill her eyes. She let them fall; Bob Ewell wasn't there to mock her for her girlish weakness. "I can't let it heal thisaway," she whispered.
There was only one thing she could do. Forcing herself to her feet, she stumbled over to the tin where her papa kept the money he hadn't drank away. Ten dollars in crumpled bills filled it, along with some odd change. All of the children knew better than to touch it unless it was shopping day; Bob Ewell counted it at random times. But this was an emergency. She wouldn't be any good with a crippled hand. Fumbling and crying in pain, Mayella took out five dollars. Unlike her papa, she was right handed and clumsy with her left hand.
Clutching the bills in her sweaty palm, the young Ewell girl slipped out of the house and made her slow, painful way toward the doctor's house.
Doctor Reynolds quietly disapproved of the Ewells. He knew that the children tended to be horribly unwashed and usually sick with something, and they never called him for anything. Everyone knew that was why Martha Ewell, Bob's wife, had died; she took sick and old tight-fisted Bob refused to call the doctor. It was a shame, but there was no changing some people.
So when he opened the door to find Mayella Ewell, her right arm clutched to her chest and her left fist locked around something, he assumed something horrible had happened. He ushered her immediately into his examining room, where she told him tersely that she'd had an accident in the dump. She didn't lift her head the whole time, so her long, dirty hair covered the marks on her face.
Doctor Reynolds was dubious, but he couldn't really say anything. She had the five-dollar fee—which surprised him when he thought about it later—and her arm was very broken. As a doctor, there was nothing he could do but set her arm.
It took an hour, working with care. She refused to allow him to stick her with painkillers, so he had to stop every time she reflexively pulled her arm away.
"This would be much easier if you would let me give you morphine," he informed her after the fifth time she did that. "At least I could set the bones without you feeling it."
"Ha," Mayella sniffed, wiping her nose on the back of her left arm. "I'd feel the needle, Doctor, and it probably wouldn't do nothin'."
"Anything," the doctor corrected absently. "Yes, it would. I've had a broken leg, and the morphine made the pain go away."
The young woman leaned forward to look out the window. She'd already been there too long; she had to get back to the cabin. "All right," she said, settling back in the seat. "But hurry, please."
Sighing in relief—he wasn't a man who liked seeing people suffer when he was trying to help them—Doctor Reynolds injected a dose of morphine into her arm and let it sit for a moment before he took up the work of setting the bone again. After that, it went quickly.
They ran into a bit of a snag when he was almost done. Mayella insisted that he wrap her arm with some filthy cloth she'd brought with her, and the doctor rebelled at the very idea of covering a sensitive arm with filth.
"If you don't, Papa'll know I was here," Mayella said impatiently. "We don't got the money to waste on doctors, he'll say, and I don't wanna be responsible for my brothers and sisters bein' hungry."
Rolling his eyes and muttering something about people living on welfare, Doctor Reynolds wrapped her arm in the cloth she wanted it wrapped in and tied it carefully. "Don't use that arm more than you have to," he ordered her as she got up and tucked her arm close to her middle again. "Come back in six weeks so I can check it."
The door connecting the office to Doctor Reynold's main house opened and Mrs. Reynolds stepped through, carrying a closed bucket. "Here, child," she said, offering it to Mayella. "At least the children will be fed tonight."
Mayella almost slapped the bucket out of the woman's hands; how dare she offer charity to an Ewell! But she stopped and thought for a moment. The Ewells lived on charity from the town, whether they liked to think about it or not. And the bucket held stew; she could smell it and it made her mouth water. At last, she reached out and took the handle from Mrs. Reynolds. "That's right kind of you," she said grudgingly. Nodding to the Reynolds, she turned around and left the house.
"Did your arm heal all right?" Atticus asked as he walked around his office quietly, providing part of his lunch for her.
Mayella extended her right arm for inspection. "Papa was too drunk when he got back to care that I'd been gone for as long as I was, and when he woke up from sleepin', I told him that John helped me with my arm." At the lawyer's puzzled look, she added, "The brother under me, fifteen months younger."
Atticus put an apple and half of a sandwich beside her as he inspected her arm. Like Jem's, it was a little crooked; the doctor couldn't get it perfect. But at least she had the use of her arm, as she demonstrated by making a fist and twisting her arm around.
"He bought it, 'specially since I had the dirty cloth wrapped around my arm," Mayella said, her eyes drawn to the food. "Things got quiet 'round the place again, after all that. Papa spent a lot of time fuming. Sometimes, he'd say things like, 'Why didn't that idiot lawyer react?'"
Atticus smiled ruefully as he unconsciously trailed his idle left hand over his face. He knew what Mayella meant by that quote; after the testimonies and Atticus's final speech, Bob Ewell had stopped him as he was returning from moderating his children, informed him that he was going to kill Atticus if it took him the rest of his life, and then spat in his face. When questioned by his children about it, Atticus had said quietly that he'd rather Bob Ewell take his hurt pride out by spitting on the one the small man perceived as being the root of his humiliation than by beating Mayella. Apparently, Bob had managed to snatch the best of both worlds.
Mayella nodded as she watched his expressions. "You didn't smack him," she said in her blunt way. "Any other man woulda smacked him seven ways to Sunday, but you didn't. Man alive, was Pa mad! If you'da smacked him, he coulda pretended you thought he was something important. But you didn't give him the time of day." She shook her hair back again and sat up slightly straighter. "I think he started plannin' shortly after he broke my arm. He found a knife down in the dump when we was all searchin' through it." Her shoulders shifted a little as she looked at Atticus sharply, expecting some comment about them digging through the dump for their living. Atticus held his peace, glancing up at her over his right glasses lens and arching an eyebrow in silent invitation to continue.
"Like I said, it got real quiet 'round the house after everything," Mayella continued, her body relaxing a little as she realized he wasn't going to pass comment. "Pa found that knife, and he spent weeks and weeks sharpening it." She shook her head. "For a man of big words, Mr. Finch, you're sure dumb sometimes."
That lifted Atticus's head and eyebrows in amazement that she had the guts to say that to him after all her father had put her through. "What on earth do you mean by that?" he asked, the corners of his mouth lifting in a slight grin despite himself. If she could find the nerve to insult him in his office, on his turf, so to speak, then she'd be all right in the bigger world.
"Pa told you time and again that he was gonna get you," the girl replied, her eyes narrowing at his smile. She hated it when adults smiled, and she remembered seeing a slight smile on Atticus's face in the courtroom. "But you ignored him. Don'tcha know that when a Ewell has reason, nothing'll stop him?"
"I think I have learned that much." Atticus put his pen down and folded his hands. "Miss Mayella, I feel I need to ask you a simple question before you continue. Do you intend to pick up your father's revenge against me and my family?"
She snorted. "Why?" she asked derisively. "I helped save your kids' lives, Mr. Finch. Pa woulda killed them as easy as he woulda killed a pig or a chicken."
The lawyer's hands tightened and the knuckles turned white as he looked at the young woman with a stony expression. "Please refrain from comments like that in the future," he said tightly. All that had happened was still so very fresh in him; he couldn't forget the wash of anger and pain that had flooded him when Boo Radley appeared on the Finch doorstep with Jem unconscious in his arms. His face went as white as his knuckles.
Mayella watched him before nodding. "See, it's things like that, Mr. Finch, that told Pa how to hurt you. I knew what he was gonna do. I know you think I'm dumb, but I can think, sometimes. Pa wouldn'ta gone after you, not directly: you're awful big and he was awful small. He wouldn'ta gone after Mr. Tate either. Everyone knowed the sheriff keeps a gun loaded by the door. Mrs. Tate never comes out of her house. But we all saw it, on the trial day. The way to hurt you the most is by way of your kids."
Atticus's hands relaxed a little, and then he unfolded them and rested the fingertips on the top of his desk. "They're all I have," he said quietly, as if talking to himself. "They are so like their mother."
The girl nodded again. "He saw that," she repeated simply. "An' I saw it. An' I thought, well, he may be a trickin' lawyer like Pa said. But he cares about his kids, an' that makes him all right. Better'n Pa, anyway."
The lawyer's dark head bowed briefly. "Thank you," he said quietly. "Though when compared against Bob Ewell…" his eyes twinkled, encouraging Mayella to share the joke with him.
She took the invitation and smiled slightly, ducking her head to hide it. "Jest about anybody's better than Papa," she admitted. She cleared her throat as she rubbed her palms against her dress. "Like I says, I knowed he was gonna try something 'gainst your kids. I didn't know when." She shrugged. "Papa never made a habit of talkin' to me, even though…" she cut herself off with a sharp shake of her head.
"Even though?" Atticus prompted, his eyes suddenly serious again.
"He jest never made a habit of talkin' to me." Mayella was stonewalling as best as she could, but she had never been an effective actress, and she'd already let her defenses down, even for that brief moment.
"Even though he made you share his bed?" Atticus's voice was soft and incredibly gentle as he bent, trying to meet her eyes.
Her face crumpled as she bent over her knees slightly. "How'd ya know?" she asked in a hoarse whisper.
"Tom said it in the trial, remember?" Atticus said quietly as he got up and put his handkerchief on the desk in front of her. He didn't dare touch her; God only knew what memories that would evoke.
Mayella took the offered handkerchief and buried her face in it. Yes, she did remember. She had replayed his testimony over and over again in her mind when she was alone; it was her last connection to a dead man that she had killed, in a way.
On that fateful day, Tom Robinson took the oath and reported, accurately, that she had kissed him on the side of the face and said that she'd never kissed a grown man before and what her papa did to her didn't count. Until this moment, she'd hoped, obviously in vain, that Atticus had forgotten that. He was old, after all. But he apparently had a memory like a steel trap when he was so inclined.
Atticus was patient as the young woman cried herself out in his handkerchief. There were no other calls on his time at the moment; he was between cases. At last, when she calmed down and pulled the damp cloth away from her face, the lawyer prompted quietly, "Do you want to tell the rest of your story?"
She lifted her head and looked him square in the eye for the first time since she entered his office. "You ain't gonna kick me out?" she asked.
"Why should I? The handkerchief will dry, and you did not go along with your father willingly, as far as I know." Atticus was compassionate; he had known the situation in the Ewell household even before the trial started. Tom was very open in private about what he observed. As he said in the trial, Atticus had nothing but pity in his heart for Mayella Violet Ewell. He remembered watching her and hoping that she could break free from the life she'd been born into. It appeared she'd found some way to do so.
Swallowing, Mayella folded Atticus's handkerchief up neatly and put the damp square back on the desk. "I didn't," she said, just for the record. "I never wanted…" she fell silent before nodding slightly. "Anyhow. Tom Robinson was killed. You know that, of course." He nodded in confirmation as she glanced up at him, her eyes troubled. "I didn't want that. I didn't wanna see him dead. But it was done. Papa laughed about it at home, but it didn't make him less determined to kill you and Mr. Tate." She scratched her scalp speculatively. "That was the end of August, wadn't it? Yeah, I think so. Papa waited until Halloween to do anything."