My Father and Atticus Finch (7 page)

“What'd he say?”

“He said that biologically, she's still a virgin.”

   Chapter 12

I
N
1915, the boll weevil—an insect indigenous to Mexico that destroys cotton bolls before they ripen—stormed into south Alabama, having already ravaged Texas, Louisiana, and Mississippi. Within three years, entire cotton fields had been laid waste. Desperate, south Alabama farmers planted peanuts, a crop that proved to be a godsend: the combination of sandy soil, lots of sunshine, and the imperviousness of the peanut plant to the boll weevil brought prosperity to the region, nowhere more than in and around Enterprise.

This history was told and retold throughout my boyhood—after all, I was born in Enterprise, even though I grew up in Montgomery. What I remember best is the way Enterprise memorialized the boll weevil's contribution. It was even reported in my elementary school
Weekly Reader
, the only mention that I recall of anything about Alabama in any
Weekly Reader
: the true story of the creation and dedication of a sculpture of a female nymph holding over her head a pedestal on which was mounted a much larger-than-life replica of a Mexican boll weevil. The inscription read: “In Profound Appreciation of the Boll Weevil and What it has Done as the Herald of
Prosperity, This Monument was Erected by the Citizens of Enterprise, Coffee County, Alabama.” Enterprise's humorous veneration of the boll weevil contrasted with the most famous monument in Troy: a statue of John Wilkes Booth. People said the different monuments illustrated that the distance between Troy and Enterprise was greater than thirty-seven miles.

“T
ROY'S LIKE
B
ABYLON
,” Bertha said. She and Foster were standing in line outside the Methodist church in Enterprise, waiting their turn to shake hands with the preacher. Bertha was alluding to the sermon they had just heard, which praised Daniel for gaining permission from his Babylonian captors to forgo the meat and wine apportioned him by King Nebuchadnezzar and take only the food and water consistent with his faith. “Compared to Troy, Enterprise is Jerusalem,” Bertha said.

“Bertha, you've never even been to Troy.” Foster's tone was impatient. Bertha had made him waste part of his Sunday morning, convincing him to come to church with her by talking up the visiting minister, an Emory theology school graduate. In Foster's opinion, the sermon had not been worth the sacrifice.

“True,” Bertha admitted, as they strolled from the Methodist church toward the commercial center of Enterprise. “I haven't been to Troy, but I can contrast it with Enterprise just by their monuments. Enterprise has its boll weevil. Troy has that awful statue of John Wilkes Booth. I don't need to go to Troy to see it. I've read and heard all about it. It's the only one in the nation, North or South, Foster.”

“Troy's still not Babylon, and I'm not Daniel,” he interrupted, heading off an anticipated analogy to the lion's den and his upcoming
defense of Charles White. When Bertha remained silent, he pursued it. “You are uninformed about Troy, Bertha. That monument to John Wilkes Booth was not commissioned by the town and never was installed on public property. I think you missed the point.”

“And I think
you
missed the point, Foster.” Now it was Bertha who was interrupting. “Daniel, a slave, triumphed over mighty King Nebuchadnezzar. And I thought you would like that, the underdog winning over a king.”

Winning over king or a judge, Foster thought—only now, a jury as well. He decided this was as good a time as there was going to be to bring up the dramatic change in the case of
State of Alabama v. Charles White, Alias
. “You remember my telling you about the Troy case, the alleged rape?” He knew she remembered. He knew that was why she brought up Troy being like Babylon; she was still hoping to talk him out of taking the case.

“Of course I remember.”

“Well there's been a little change in the plan. The State isn't going to try to use the confession.”

“What does that mean?”

“That means there will be a trial. Now they'll have to prove he did it.”

“I'm not following you. I thought there was going to be a trial, all along, and that was why you would have to go to Troy.”

“Bertha.” He caught his impatience and took a deep breath. She might have wanted to be a lawyer, but she was not one. “Before, it was just about deciding how much time he would serve for a crime he confessed to. That decision would have been made privately, in the judge's chambers. Now the State can't use the confession, so there's the whole question of whether he did it. Charles told me it didn't happen the way she said. I think the confession was coerced.”

“Why Foster!”

“Bertha, before you tear off on a tangent about how this case will destroy my law practice, you should know I can prove there was never any rape.” He stopped and waited.

“Then he's innocent?”

“Yes.” Foster was not quite as sure as he sounded. His client was innocent of violent, forcible rape: that much was clear from the examination by Dr. Stewart. Miss Elizabeth was not only intact; there were no signs of blood or bruising—though it could come down to how the law defined rape. “I'm certain he's innocent of what he is charged with.”

“Why Foster, then I think you are noble to defend him!” She clasped his hand and squeezed. Her eyes widened and glistened.

Her reaction caught him off guard. She had originally urged him not to represent a confessed Negro rapist, even though it would have been done privately, in chambers, because the word would still get around and hurt his career. But now that he would be defending the same man in a very public trial that everyone in south Alabama would hear about, she was delighted, and simply taking his word, without more, that Charles was innocent, making it unnecessary to go into detail about the evidence of Miss Elizabeth's virginity, something he had been dreading having to do with her.

And she had called him noble. Her praise lifted his spirits, renewed his determination. For a moment, it was not only about his beloved Constitution; he also must not disappoint Bertha. Pulled by a tide of unaccustomed emotions, he decided to retreat to a neutral topic. “I always thought Troy was treated unfairly in the press and that our boll weevil monument was a little silly.”

“And
I
think it is a delightful homage to the peanut!” Bertha said, still holding his hand.

   Chapter 13

T
HE PROMINENCE
of the peanut in my boyhood calls to mind a cherished Beck family document, a letter received by my grandfather, Mr. M. L., from Dr. George Washington Carver. I believe my father first showed the letter to my mother at or about the time he told her the case would be going to trial. I know that just before the trial, he was required to pay a visit to Mr. M. L., and my guess is that he would have shown my mother the letter as a way of explaining his father, a man she did not particularly care for and was a little intimidated by. Given that my mother's own father had named his firstborn son Abraham Lincoln and his second William Seward, along with his sympathy for the imprisoned Socialist Eugene Debs, I think my father wanted to show her the letter out of pride in his own family's progressive credentials.

“Speaking of the boll weevil statue and the peanut, there's something I've been meaning to show you, Bertha, if you will stop by my office for a minute. It's a letter to Daddy from Dr. George Washington Carver. You've heard of Dr. Carver at Tuskegee?”

“Of course, Foster. He's the colored man who figured out all the uses for the peanut. Everyone's heard of the wonderful Dr. Carver.”

Foster knew that not everyone who had heard of Dr. Carver thought it was wonderful for a Negro to rise so high on his intellect, but he no longer wanted to argue and pick at Bertha; instead, he wanted to bask in her praise of him for sticking with Charles White while also subtly showing off his own family. “Well, Bertha,” he said, still holding her hand, “all the talk about Dr. Carver caught Daddy's ear. He wanted to meet the man himself. Daddy used the occasion of having to fetch Frances from Eclectic—it was back when you two were teaching there before moving to Enterprise. He checked the road and figured he could go by Tuskegee and still get to Eclectic before night.”

“You think Mr. M. L. just wanted to see for himself a really, really smart colored man?” Bertha teased.

“Daddy didn't go see Dr. Carver thinking he was going to see a curiosity,” Foster said, releasing her hand. He wanted to explain his father to Bertha; he wanted her to respect him, even if she did not especially like him. “Daddy fancies himself as someone like Dr. Carver—an intellectual, but the useful kind.” Foster opened the door to his office and held it for Bertha.

“Daddy likes to write articles and correspond with interesting people, colored or white, all over the country,” Foster said. “I've been meaning to show you this letter. Daddy got it from Dr. Carver after he wrote an article about him in the
Troy Messenger
. Daddy lent me the letter and I keep it here in the office.” Foster reached into a cubicle of his father's old rolltop desk, took out the letter, and handed it to Bertha.

Mr. M. L. Beck
June 5, 1934

Glenwood, Ala.

My dear Mr. Beck,

Your much appreciated greetings along with your write up in “The Troy Messenger” has just reached me.

In your beautiful and fascinating article it is difficult for me to realize that I am the subject of such a splendid article.

I wish I could live within hailing distance of the many lovely things you have said about me.

I am especially glad to get in touch with you, as I do not recall our having spent a more delightful, pleasant, and profitable hour, than with you.

I trust your young son will catch the rare dream of his parents, the only thing that will develop the mighty, undeveloped resources of the South and make it the richest section of the entire United States.

Please keep in mind, your promise to spend an entire day at Tuskegee.

Since meeting you, I have felt refreshed and more like making a strenuous effort to render better service in the future than in the past.

I am sincerely and greatfully yours.

G. W. Carver

“What a wonderful letter!” Bertha exclaimed. The high school English teacher chose not to mention the misspelling of “gratefully” that had escaped Foster's notice.

“Daddy's proud of that letter.”

“He should be.”

“Daddy likes to see himself as set apart from ordinary men. Not just from the white trash—from the white gentry, too. There's not another man in Alabama with a letter like that.”

Bertha did not reply. She was convinced there was not another man in Alabama like Mr. M. L., letter from Dr. Carver or no. She wondered if Foster was trying to match his father or do him better.

“Anyway,” Foster said, “I need to go to Glenwood tomorrow to see Daddy. I'll be back the same day. Glenwood's not as far a drive as Troy.”

   Chapter 14

S
OME OF MY HAPPIEST MEMORIES
revolve around Glenwood, Alabama, and the handsome two-story home my grandfather had proudly built—from pine and hardwood trees grown on his own land, from lumber cut and planed at his own sawmill—for his adored wife and their five surviving children. During summer vacations, I would stay in Glenwood for weeks, riding the rural mail route in the mornings with my Uncle Charlie, who lived with my Aunt Elizabeth in a smaller home on an adjoining lot, fishing, and sometimes camping on the Conecuh at night.

Once school started we could visit only on weekends. My father and I drove from Montgomery to Glenwood about once a month. My first stop once there was always my grandfather's special room—a combination library and museum. I don't recall paying much attention to the books, because he had so many more interesting things to see: two enormous hornets' nests nearly the size of basketballs, a coffee can full of Creek Indian arrowheads, a Creek mallet, a tree root shaped like a snake to which someone had added beads for eyes and a carved smile, two deteriorating, tissue-thin Confederate dollars
housed in a protective glass picture frame, a piece of petrified wood acquired on a trip to Texas, a miniature, perfectly formed iron anvil brought to America by an ancestor. A muzzle-loaded Confederate musket that children were forbidden to touch—because no one knew if it was still loaded and no one wanted to test it to find out—hung high above the hornets' nests. On a wooden placard, beneath the words “Trophies of the Years,” the name “M. L. Beck” was spelled out in rattlesnake rattles.

After poking through the latest acquisitions, I would listen for a few minutes to the adults' conversation before heading to my grandfather's store, just three blocks from the house. Although my memories are from the late 1940s and early 1950s, the store and the town had not changed much from the time of the trial, just a few years earlier; besides, I have my father's handwritten description of the store in those days to supplement my memories.

The commercial center of Glenwood in 1938 was M. L. Beck General Merchandise, a two-story building of pockmarked red bricks and graying mortar. All kinds of goods could be purchased there. On the first floor there were barrels of sugar, flour, and dill pickles, gunny sacks of raw coffee and seeds, boxes of plug tobacco, snuff, crackers, and cheeses, slabs of sugar-cured bacon and salt pork. Farther back, customers could find chicken feed, nails, axes, steel traps, knives, guns, ammunition, fishing tackle, plough points and plough handles, harnesses, cedar chests and bedsteads, and, in the rear of the store, patent medicines and coffins.

Upstairs there were bolts of cloth, reels of thread, and books full of patterns for the latest in ladies' dresses, as well as ladies' hats, all manner of shoes, boots, and coats, and finished men's work clothes alongside men's Sunday best. A wide back door, two stories tall,
opened onto a freight platform where the Central of Georgia railroad made its much anticipated stops three times a week, down from five times before the Depression.