On Saturdays, armed with our nickels, when Jem permitted me to accompany him (he was now positively allergic to my presence when in public),
we would squirm our way through sweating sidewalk crowds and sometimes hear, “There’s his chillun,” or, “Yonder’s some Finches.”
Turning to face our accusers, we would see only a couple of farmers studying the enema bags in the Mayco Drugstore window.
Or two dumpy countrywomen in straw hats sitting in a Hoover cart.
They c’n go loose and rape up the countryside for all of ‘em who run this county care,”
was one obscure observation we met head on from a skinny gentleman when he passed us.
Which reminded me that I had a question to ask Atticus.
“What’s rape?” I asked him that night. Atticus looked around from behind his paper.
He was in his chair by the window. As we grew older, Jem and I thought it generous to allow Atticus thirty minutes to himself after supper.
He sighed, and said rape was carnal knowledge of a female by force and without consent.
“Well if that’s all it is why did Calpurnia dry me up when I asked her what it was?” Atticus looked pensive.
“What’s that again?” “Well, I asked Calpurnia comin‘ from church that day what it was and she said ask you
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