We lived on the main residential street in town— Atticus, Jem and I, plus Calpurnia our cook.
Jem and I found our father satisfactory: he played with us, read to us, and treated us with courteous detachment.
Calpurnia was something else again. She was all angles and bones; she was nearsighted; she squinted;
her hand was wide as a bed slat and twice as hard.
She was always ordering me out of the kitchen, asking me why I couldn’t behave as well as Jem when she knew he was older,
and calling me home when I wasn’t ready to come. Our battles were epic and one-sided.
Calpurnia always won, mainly because Atticus always took her side.
She had been with us ever since Jem was born, and I had felt her tyrannical presence as long as I could remember.
Our mother died when I was two, so I never felt her absence.
She was a Graham from Montgomery; Atticus met her when he was first elected to the state legislature.
He was middle-aged then, she was fifteen years his junior.
Jem was the product of their first year of marriage; four years later I was born, and two years later our mother died from a sudden heart attack.
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