“Cal,” I said, “you know we’ll behave. We haven’t done anything in church in years.”
Calpurnia evidently remembered a rainy Sunday when we were both fatherless and teacherless.
Left to its own devices, the class tied Eunice Ann Simpson to a chair and placed her in the furnace room.
We forgot her, trooped upstairs to church, and were listening quietly to the sermon
when a dreadful banging issued from the radiator pipes, persisting until someone investigated
and brought forth Eunice Ann saying she didn’t want to play Shadrach any more—
Jem Finch said she wouldn’t get burnt if she had enough faith, but it was hot down there.
“Besides, Cal, this isn’t the first time Atticus has left us,” I protested.
“Yeah, but he makes certain your teacher’s gonna be there. I didn’t hear him say this time—reckon he forgot it.”
Calpurnia scratched her head. Suddenly she smiled.
“How’d you and Mister Jem like to come to church with me tomorrow?” “Really?” “How ‘bout it?” grinned Calpurnia.
If Calpurnia had ever bathed me roughly before, it was nothing compared to her supervision of that Saturday night’s routine.
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