Go Set a Watchman - Lee Harper - Страница 36
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“You look like a picture,” said Atticus. He kissed her on the forehead.
“Be careful,” she said. “You’ll muss up my hair.”
Dr. Finch said, “Shall we take a final practice turn?”
Henry found them dancing in the livingroom. He blinked when he saw Jean Louise’s new figure, and he tapped Dr. Finch on the shoulder. “May I cut in, sir?
“You look plain pretty, Scout,” Henry said. “I’ve got something for you.”
“You look nice too, Hank,” said Jean Louise. Henry’s blue serge Sunday pants were creased to painful sharpness, his tan jacket smelled of cleaning fluid; Jean Louise recognized Jem’s light-blue necktie.
“You dance well,” said Henry, and Jean Louise stumbled.
“Don’t look down, Scout!” snapped Dr. Finch. “I told you it’s like carrying a cup of coffee. If you look at it you spill it.”
Atticus opened his watch. “Jem better get a move on if he wants to get Irene. That trap of his won’t do better than thirty.”
When Jem appeared Atticus sent him back to change his tie. When he reappeared, Atticus gave him the keys to the family car, some money, and a lecture on not doing over fifty.
“Say,” said Jem, after duly admiring Jean Louise, “you all can go in the Ford, and you won’t have to go all that way to Abbottsville with me.”
Dr. Finch was fidgeting with his coat pockets. “It is immaterial to me how you go,” he said. “Just go. You’re making me nervous standing around in all your finery. Jean Louise is beginning to sweat. Come in, Cal.”
Calpurnia was standing shyly in the hall, giving her grudging approval to the scene. She adjusted Henry’s tie, picked invisible lint from Jem’s coat, and desired the presence of Jean Louise in the kitchen.
“I think I ought to sew ’em in,” she said doubtfully.
Henry shouted come on or Dr. Finch would have a stroke.
“I’ll be okay, Cal.”
Returning to the livingroom, Jean Louise found her uncle in a suppressed whirlwind of impatience, in vivid contrast to her father, who was standing casually with his hands in his pockets. “You’d better get going,” said Atticus. “Alexandra’ll be here in another minute—then you will be late.”
They were on the front porch when Henry halted. “I forgot!” he yelped, and ran to Jem’s room. He returned carrying a box, presenting it to Jean Louise with a low bow: “For you, Miss Finch,” he said. Inside the box were two pink camellias.
“Ha-ank,” said Jean Louise. “They’re bought!”
“Sent all the way to Mobile for ’em,” said Henry. “They came up on the six o’clock bus.”
“Where’ll I put ’em?”
“Heavenly Fathers, put ’em where they belong!” exploded Dr. Finch. “Come here!”
He snatched the camellias from Jean Louise and pinned them to her shoulder, glaring sternly at her false front. “Will you now do me the favor of leaving the premises?”
“I forgot my purse.”
Dr. Finch produced his handkerchief and made a pass at his jaw. “Henry,” he said, “go get that abomination cranked. I’ll meet you out in front with her.”
She kissed her father goodnight, and he said, “I hope you have the time of your life.”
The Maycomb County High School gymnasium was tastefully decorated with balloons and white-and-red crepe paper streamers. A long table stood at the far end; paper cups, plates of sandwiches, and napkins surrounded two punch bowls filled with a purple mixture. The gymnasium floor was freshly waxed and the basketball goals were folded to the ceiling. Greenery enveloped the stage front, and in the center, for no particular reason, were large red cardboard letters: MCHS.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” said Jean Louise.
“Looks awfully nice,” said Henry. “Doesn’t it look bigger when there’s no game going on?”
They joined a group of younger and elder brothers and sisters standing around the punch bowls. The crowd was visibly impressed with Jean Louise. Girls she saw every day asked her where she got her dress, as if they didn’t all get them there: “Ginsberg’s. Calpurnia took it up,” she said. Several of the younger boys with whom she had been on eye-gouging terms only a few years ago made self-conscious conversation with her.
When Henry handed her a cup of punch she whispered, “If you want to go on with the seniors or anything I’ll be all right.”
Henry smiled at her. “You’re my date, Scout.”
“I know, but you shouldn’t feel obliged—”
Henry laughed. “I don’t feel obligated to do one thing. I wanted to bring you. Let’s dance.”
“Okay, but take it easy.”
He swung her out to the center of the floor. The public address system blared a slow number, and counting systematically to herself, Jean Louise danced through it with only one mistake.
As the evening wore on, she realized that she was a modest success. Several boys had cut in on her, and when she showed signs of becoming stuck, Henry was never far away.
She was sensible enough to sit out jitterbug numbers and avoid music with a South American taint, and Henry said when she learned to talk and dance at the same time she’d be a hit. She hoped the evening would last forever.
Jem and Irene’s entrance caused a stir. Jem had been voted Most Handsome in the senior class, a reasonable assessment: he had his mother’s calflike brown eyes, the heavy Finch eyebrows, and even features. Irene was the last word in sophistication. She wore a clinging green taffeta dress and high-heeled shoes, and when she danced dozens of slave bracelets clinked on her wrists. She had cool green eyes and jet hair, a quick smile, and was the type of girl Jem fell for with monotonous regularity.
Jem danced his duty dance with Jean Louise, told her she was doing fine but her nose was shining, to which she replied he had lipstick on his mouth. The number ended and Jem left her with Henry. “I can’t believe you’re going in the Army in June,” she said. It makes you sound so old.”
Henry opened his mouth to answer, suddenly goggled, and clasped her to him in a clinch.
“What’s the matter, Hank?”
“Don’t you think it’s hot in here? Let’s go out.”
Jean Louise tried to break away, but he held her close and danced her out the side door into the night.
“What’s eating you, Hank? Have I said something—”
He took her hand and walked her around to the front of the school building.
“Ah—” said Henry. He held both her hands. “Honey,” he said. “Look at your front.”
“It’s pitch dark. I can’t see anything.”
“Then feel.”
She felt, and gasped. Her right false bosom was in the center of her chest and the other was nearly under her left armpit. She jerked them back into position and burst into tears.
She sat down on the schoolhouse steps; Henry sat beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. When she stopped crying she said, “When did you notice it?”
“Just then, I swear.”
“Do you suppose they’ve been laughing at me long?”
Henry shook his head. “I don’t think anybody noticed it, Scout. Listen, Jem danced with you just before I did, and if he’d noticed it he’da certainly told you.”
“All Jem’s got on his mind’s Irene. He wouldn’t see a cyclone if it was comin’ at him.” She was crying again, softly. “I’ll never be able to face them again.”
Henry squeezed her shoulder. “Scout, I swear they slipped when we were dancing. Be logical—if anybody’d seen they’d’ve told you, you know that.”
“No I don’t. They’d just whisper and laugh. I know how they do.”
“Not the seniors,” said Henry sedately. “You’ve been dancing with the football team ever since Jem came in.”
She had. The team, one by one, had requested the pleasure: it was Jem’s quiet way of making sure she had a good time.
“Besides,” continued Henry, “I don’t like ’em anyway. You don’t look like yourself in them.”
Stung, she said, “You mean I look funny in ’em? I look funny without ’em, too.”
“I mean you’re just not Jean Louise.” He added, “You don’t look funny at all, you look fine to me.”
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