Read Online The Mockingbird Next Door: Life With Harper Lee by Marja Mills - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marja Mills
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and a white T-shirt.
I raised my hand in greeting and slid into the backseat. “Hey, girl,” Tom said. From Nelle: “Hello, child.” I was excited she was joining us but wanted to be low-key. She might be skittish, liable to dart away if she felt crowded. “Hi, there,” I said.
“You ready to catch some fish?” Tom asked.
He turned and looked at me over his shoulder for a moment. I could see he was pleased, proud he had been able to make this happen.“You bet,” I said, as casually as I could, but with a look that telegraphed “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Nelle asked what I had been up to the last couple of days.
I began to tell her about my interviews, leaning forward in my seat a bit and raising my voice to be heard.
She was chatting, in good humor, but she also was gathering intelligence. What had I heard lately from the people at the Old Courthouse?
She also didn’t want our fishing trip to be in the story in a way that revealed I was there with her. We worked it out later that I could describe the outing by attributing the description to the friends and not spelling out that I was there, too. She also asked me not to identify the friends hosting us that day. “I don’t want people showing up there, looking for me or bothering Ernie and Angie.” Long after the newspaper story ran, she gave me permission to include outings such as this one in the book.
Not that many out-of-towners would be able to find Nelle’s fishing hole anyway. It was well off the main road to the nearby town of Lenox. A wooden sign nailed between two trees formed a rustic entrance to the property. Emblazed on the wood was SWAMPY ACRES . It wasn’t swampy, though. A couple of large ponds were surrounded by large oak trees. Beyond were Ernie and Angie’s carefully tended rows of corn, watermelon, and tomatoes.
Before we arrived, Tom told me that Ernie’s left leg had been amputated below the knee, a complication of his diabetes. With the help of his prosthesis, and a beat-up golf cart, he still spent long hours puttering around the gentle slopes of the property. He grew up near here, played in these woods as a boy, searching out enemy soldiers lurking behind the tree trunks. He met Angie, the woman who would be his Yankee bride, when he was in the service. She was a fun-loving,petite, dark-haired girl from a big Italian family. They both liked to laugh.
“Do they still have figs?” Nelle wondered aloud as we drove the final stretch of dirt road to the Hanks’ home. They did, Tom said, and some days they could be eaten warm off the tree.
Tom pulled up to the gravel area by the house, a one-story ranch with brown and beige bricks. Ernie was waiting for us, ready to fish. He was tall and wearing denim overalls like Tom’s. A large straw hat shielded his reddened face from the sun. We made our way down a small slope to one of the two large catfish ponds. The oak trees around the ponds were reflected in their placid, dark surfaces. “Do you know what we use for bait?” Tom asked me. Nelle waited for my answer, looking mischievous. Tom pulled out several small plastic Baggies.
“Hot dogs!” he said. He doled out the small chunks of wieners from the Baggies and we slipped them on the fishing hooks.
I stated the obvious. “It’s beautiful here.”
“I never get tired of this,” Nelle murmured.
They both caught a few fish. My casts were falling short. I tried again, casting more energetically, and caught my line in the branches of an oak.
As dusk fell, we trudged back up the gentle slope for dinner around the kitchen table. Ernie took the fish we’d placed in a white bucket and put some on ice. The rest he gave to Angie. She coated the fish in bread crumbs and lightly fried it, along with a pile of sweet potato rounds. We feasted that night.
“Delicious,” Nelle pronounced.
Tom took his glass to the sink and dumped out the ice cubes. He hesitated, then retrieved them and rinsed them off.
“Angie, do
I raised my hand in greeting and slid into the backseat. “Hey, girl,” Tom said. From Nelle: “Hello, child.” I was excited she was joining us but wanted to be low-key. She might be skittish, liable to dart away if she felt crowded. “Hi, there,” I said.
“You ready to catch some fish?” Tom asked.
He turned and looked at me over his shoulder for a moment. I could see he was pleased, proud he had been able to make this happen.“You bet,” I said, as casually as I could, but with a look that telegraphed “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Nelle asked what I had been up to the last couple of days.
I began to tell her about my interviews, leaning forward in my seat a bit and raising my voice to be heard.
She was chatting, in good humor, but she also was gathering intelligence. What had I heard lately from the people at the Old Courthouse?
She also didn’t want our fishing trip to be in the story in a way that revealed I was there with her. We worked it out later that I could describe the outing by attributing the description to the friends and not spelling out that I was there, too. She also asked me not to identify the friends hosting us that day. “I don’t want people showing up there, looking for me or bothering Ernie and Angie.” Long after the newspaper story ran, she gave me permission to include outings such as this one in the book.
Not that many out-of-towners would be able to find Nelle’s fishing hole anyway. It was well off the main road to the nearby town of Lenox. A wooden sign nailed between two trees formed a rustic entrance to the property. Emblazed on the wood was SWAMPY ACRES . It wasn’t swampy, though. A couple of large ponds were surrounded by large oak trees. Beyond were Ernie and Angie’s carefully tended rows of corn, watermelon, and tomatoes.
Before we arrived, Tom told me that Ernie’s left leg had been amputated below the knee, a complication of his diabetes. With the help of his prosthesis, and a beat-up golf cart, he still spent long hours puttering around the gentle slopes of the property. He grew up near here, played in these woods as a boy, searching out enemy soldiers lurking behind the tree trunks. He met Angie, the woman who would be his Yankee bride, when he was in the service. She was a fun-loving,petite, dark-haired girl from a big Italian family. They both liked to laugh.
“Do they still have figs?” Nelle wondered aloud as we drove the final stretch of dirt road to the Hanks’ home. They did, Tom said, and some days they could be eaten warm off the tree.
Tom pulled up to the gravel area by the house, a one-story ranch with brown and beige bricks. Ernie was waiting for us, ready to fish. He was tall and wearing denim overalls like Tom’s. A large straw hat shielded his reddened face from the sun. We made our way down a small slope to one of the two large catfish ponds. The oak trees around the ponds were reflected in their placid, dark surfaces. “Do you know what we use for bait?” Tom asked me. Nelle waited for my answer, looking mischievous. Tom pulled out several small plastic Baggies.
“Hot dogs!” he said. He doled out the small chunks of wieners from the Baggies and we slipped them on the fishing hooks.
I stated the obvious. “It’s beautiful here.”
“I never get tired of this,” Nelle murmured.
They both caught a few fish. My casts were falling short. I tried again, casting more energetically, and caught my line in the branches of an oak.
As dusk fell, we trudged back up the gentle slope for dinner around the kitchen table. Ernie took the fish we’d placed in a white bucket and put some on ice. The rest he gave to Angie. She coated the fish in bread crumbs and lightly fried it, along with a pile of sweet potato rounds. We feasted that night.
“Delicious,” Nelle pronounced.
Tom took his glass to the sink and dumped out the ice cubes. He hesitated, then retrieved them and rinsed them off.
“Angie, do
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