In Search of Mockingbird

by Loretta Ellsworth

  I grab Epp’s arm. “You came just in time. He was ready to cuff me.”

  Epp has to lean over to catch his breath. He hisses out between gasps, “There’s an officer by the bus who’s looking for you. We can’t go back there.”

  My hands are shaking, flailing about in front of me. “We can’t go in the restaurant either. I saw cops in there. How will we get on the bus? What are we going to do?”

  Worry is etched on Epp’s face. He’s probably regretting sitting next to me in the first place, of letting himself get drawn into my stupid dream, kind of like how I felt at Boomer’s house. It’s bad enough that I’ve ruined Epp’s vacation, but he could also get into trouble helping me. I decide I’ve caused enough grief.

  “This is the end of the line, Epp,” I say with more melodrama than I’d planned. “I’m just going to turn myself in.”

  Epp is silent and I wonder if he agrees with me. I wish he’d at least try to talk me out of it. Maybe he does want to get rid of me.

  Finally he speaks. “Under normal circumstances I would never consider doing this. It isn’t a safe way to travel.”

  “Do what?”

  Epp points to two semis in the parking lot of the restaurant. “Hitchhike. We can wait until the drivers of those trucks come out and then ask if they’re heading south. Maybe they’ll give us a ride.”

  “What if they won’t?”

  Epp shrugs. “Let’s wait by the furniture truck. That way we’ll be out of sight.”

  We find a spot between the smaller, furniture-delivery truck and a semitrailer. Epp sits on his suitcase. The hard vinyl bows under his weight. I take off my pack and set it on the ground beside me.

  We’re about one hundred miles from Monroeville. So close compared with how far I’ve already traveled, over eleven hundred miles in the last thirty-three hours.

  “You have to do something for me when we get to Monroeville,” Epp says with authority.

  I look at him questioningly.

  “You have to call your dad and have him come to get you.”

  “I called him in Memphis,” I say in my defense.

  “But you didn’t talk to him. I don’t want to leave you until your dad comes.”

  I don’t want Epp to leave me at this point either.

  “Okay.” I relent. “I’ll call him again. But not until I meet Harper Lee.”

  Epp considers a moment. “It’s a deal.”

  I feel safe with Epp. The people on the bus who treated him like an outcast are wrong. He’s not weird. He’s a friend.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Parking Lot of Pancake Heaven March 15, 1986, 6:00 a.m.

  Epp reaches out his hand to the driver of the rig. “You wouldn’t happen to be heading south, would you?”

  The man gives us a guarded look, then nods but doesn’t offer his hand in return. “I’m not supposed to pick up hitchhikers. It’s against company policy.”

  My head drops. The man climbs up into his rig and turns the engine over. The noise scares us enough to move a good distance away.

  “We can wait for the other driver,” Epp suggests, but I have my doubts.

  Epp stares at the restaurant as if he’s trying to come to a decision. “I’m going to run and use the restroom,” he finally says.

  “Right now?” My voice raises an octave.

  “I’ll hurry,” he insists. He leaves his luggage and jogs into Pancake Heaven. What can you say when nature calls?

  I sit down in the middle of the bags. We can’t wait here all day and ask every person for a ride. Sooner or later the police will come out of the restaurant. What will happen then?

  I jump at the sound of an engine turning over. The driver of the other truck came out and I didn’t even see him. He’s going to leave without us. I climb up the side and knock on the driver’s window.

  “Stop!” I yell.

  The truck’s engine rattles and shuts down. I hop off and watch as a man leaps down from the cab.

  “I almost didn’t see you.” He’s wagging a finger at me.

  “Sorry. I need a ride south,” I say softly.

  “But I’m not supposed to …” He stops and stares at me. “A pretty girl like yourself traveling all alone? Maybe I could make an exception.”

  I suddenly wish I hadn’t knocked on his window.

  Epp returns at that moment. “Are you all right, sis?” he asks.

  “Oh, yeah,” I insist. “He’s giving us a ride.”

  “Great,” Epp says as he extends his hand to the man. The driver looks at Epp and laughs nervously before shaking.

  Then the man turns and eyes me suspiciously. “You got a good racket going. I’m only traveling as far as Pensacola. Where you heading?”

  “Monroeville.”

  He nods. “I can do that.”

  Epp helps me up into the cab. It’s kind of a tight squeeze with the three of us. I sit in the middle, balancing my backpack on my lap. Epp puts his suitcase behind the seat.

  We’re moving. My excitement builds as the truck pulls away from the restaurant and away from the police who are looking for me. The next time we stop, we’ll be in Monroeville.

  Epp leans over and whispers in my ear. “Tell me what happened out there.” Epp’s voice has a stern quality. It sounds surprisingly like my father’s.

  “I got us a lift,” I reply.

  Epp frowns. He takes out the atlas from his coat pocket and opens it to the state of Alabama, intent on charting our trip to Monroeville.

  I shift my backpack and relax.

  “Where you from?” the driver asks me.

  “Minnesota.”

  He reaches into his shirt pocket and takes out a cigarette and lighter. “That explains the accent. You ever been south before?” He sticks the cigarette between his lips and flicks the lighter once, producing a small flame. I hold my breath as he inhales deeply.

  “No.”

  “Did you hitchhike all the way down here?”

  I shift uncomfortably, wishing he didn’t ask so many questions. “We took the bus, but our tickets ran out at Montgomery.”

  “You rode the dogs all the way down here, huh? What are you going to Monroeville for?” I glance at Epp, who didn’t hear him because he’s watching the traffic on the interstate, which is surprisingly busy at this early hour. We’re sitting high above the cars. The sun is peeking out through a light haze.

  “To find my mom,” I say, and it isn’t entirely a lie.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  South on Interstate 65 March 15, 1986, 8:30 a.m.

  I read somewhere

  that all fiction is based on personal experience.

  That no matter what we write

  we’re really writing about ourselves.

  That would explain why

  Harper Lee is such a mystery.

  I’m jolted awake when the rig turns off the road into a gas station. I open my eyes, squinting through the smoke-filled cab. “Is this Monroeville?”

  “Yep. The outskirts. The center of town is a few miles that way.” He points but I don’t catch the direction. “I need fuel and I can’t afford any more time out of my schedule. Maybe you can walk or find another ride in.”

  I nudge Epp, who’s asleep, his head resting on the jacket that’s propped against the window.

  “Epp, wake up. We have to get out.”

  We’re left standing in the bright sunlight, our coats thrown over our shoulders and our bags in hand. Epp is still bleary-eyed; his forehead has the imprint of a button in it.

  “Maybe if we’d been better company, the driver would have taken us into town,” Epp says as he shakes his head. We enter the gas station to use the restroom. The smell of coffee and sausage drifts from a small diner tucked on the side.

  In the bathroom, I put on a clean shirt and jeans. I also brush my teeth. I don’t want to have dragon breath when I meet Harper Lee.

  I return to find Epp staring at a map of Monroeville near the front of the gas stati
on. His face is clean shaven, but he’s wearing the same smelly flannel shirt. He’s frowning. “We have about a five-mile walk.”

  “Let’s get going,” I say enthusiastically.

  Epp looks down at his suitcase, and I can tell he doesn’t like the idea of dragging that behind him. “Maybe I can get us a ride. I’ll check around. You wait here.”

  I wait near the door. Ten minutes later I’m still waiting, staring at the passing cars. Finally, Epp returns.

  “If we’re willing to wait about a half hour, there’s a couple going downtown who will give us a ride.”

  “A half hour!” My voice sounds whiny, much like I feel right now.

  Epp pats me on the shoulder. “Hang in there. We’ll make it.”

  I grunt and drop my stuff onto the floor. “I don’t know, Epp. Seems like there’s always something going wrong.”

  Epp inspects the candy aisle. “You’re just having second thoughts.”

  I follow him to the candy aisle. “What if I’ve changed my mind about seeing Harper Lee?”

  Epp turns to face me. “That’s your nerves talking, Erin. You’d regret it if you didn’t try.”

  I run my fingers through my hair. “I know.”

  Epp buys two Snickers and a bag of M&M’s. I buy some breath mints in case the brushing wasn’t enough.

  The elderly couple take their sweet time, but we’re soon on the road, headed toward town in the back seat of their Pontiac Bonneville.

  We pass several trees with white blossoms.

  “What kind of trees are those?” I ask.

  “Those are magnolias,” the man replies, and the word magnolia rolls off his tongue with a hint of reverence.

  “Doesn’t Harper Lee live in this town?” Epp asks as he winks at me.

  The man nods. “She sure does.”

  The man’s wife turns toward the back. “Are you fans of hers?”

  “I can get extra credit in English if I bring back some information about her,” I say nonchalantly.

  Her husband glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Then you should visit the museum. You’ll find lots of information there.”

  He drives us to the center of town, right in front of an old building set in the town square. Bushes covered with flowers fill the lawn.

  “The museum is on the top floor of the old courthouse,” the man says and smiles. “Have fun.”

  We thank them for the ride and are left staring up at a red brick building. The side is framed by a porch with stone steps. The top of the building is white, and it has a large round clock in the middle. The building sits south of a newer courthouse. Surrounding the square are small stores, a post office, a bank, and a friendly looking café.

  A gentle breeze washes over us.

  “It’s perfect, just like I imagined it would be.”

  Epp gives the building a once-over. “Let’s go inside.”

  “Sure.”

  Epp pulls his suitcase behind him. “I wish we blended in more.”

  Several men wearing overalls are busy trimming the evergreen shrubs along the side of the courthouse.

  Epp eyes the bushes and the workers, then shakes the idea out of his head. “It’s a museum. They’re used to tourists.”

  Our shoes echo as we walk into the courtroom, a large, empty room filled with windows that flood the floor with sunlight. At the far end, in the center, the judge’s stand is positioned with an American flag on one side and an Alabama state flag on the other. A Bible and gavel sit on the judge’s bench.

  We leave our stuff at the door and walk toward the judge’s stand. A churchlike atmosphere fills the room. Along the upper wall, a balcony frames the sides and back. This is just like the courtroom described in Mockingbird.

  “No wonder she used this as a model,” Epp finally says, and I wonder if he’s reading my mind. “This place rings with inspiration.” We stand for several minutes before Epp takes out a small camera and flashes several pictures.

  “Go ahead. Sit at the judge’s bench,” he tells me.

  “I’ll take your picture.”

  I sit down at the bench, feeling like a pilgrim on hallowed ground. “So this is what it feels like,” I whisper to myself.

  We spend another fifteen minutes looking around the courtroom. I want to climb the stairs to the balcony, but it’s closed.

  I imagine the people who once filled this space: Harper Lee’s father, who practiced law here; Harper Lee and her friend Truman Capote, who watched from the balcony above. The people change in my mind, and Scout and her friend Dill are now watching as Scout’s father, Atticus, below them, defends Tom Robinson in front of a packed courtroom. I know one image is real and one is fictional, but the line seems hazy at this moment.

  Epp steers me toward the museum, where we’re greeted by a friendly woman who is busily sorting through photos and postcards. A mug of steaming coffee sits to the side of a small register. There are color prints of the courthouse and a twentieth-anniversary edition of To Kill a Mockingbird, as well as numerous books by Truman Capote. A large picture of Harper Lee hangs on the wall. Another wall shows an old map of Monroeville.

  I’m staring at the memorabilia, wishing I had money to spend, when Epp asks the woman if she knows where Harper Lee lives.

  “I’m not sure she’s in town right now. She doesn’t usually like to be disturbed,” the woman replies. “She’s very private.”

  Epp shrugs and thanks her anyway, then buys a postcard.

  I grab him as soon as we get outside. “What are we going to do? Walk down every street looking for Harper Lee’s house?”

  Epp ignores my concerns, showing me his postcard, a picture of the outside of the museum, which he plans to send to his mom back in Missouri.

  “Let’s try that place,” he says and steps off the curb into the middle of the street as he heads toward a small drugstore. He enters and I slowly follow, then head to the bathroom.

  When I return, Epp is already on a first-name basis with the man at the counter. Epp puts his hand on my shoulder.

  “Erin traveled all the way from Minnesota just to get a look at Harper Lee’s house. We’ve already visited the courthouse, so we thought we’d mosey on over past her house and enjoy the scenery. It’s three blocks down that way, right?” Epp points vaguely west.

  The man shakes his head. “No, it’s that way.” He points in the opposite direction. “Two blocks down and to the left. Middle of the block on the left side, with black trim. Can’t miss it.”

  “Right.” Epp nods as if he knew it all along. Then he buys a candy bar for the walk.

  Outside, I hug him. “You did it, Epp!”

  He takes the wrapper off the candy bar. “Now comes the hard part. You going through with this?”

  It’s a good question. Will I have the guts to actually do it? I take a deep breath. “I didn’t come all this way to just walk past her house.”

  “Okay, then.” He leads me down the street, pulling his green suitcase behind him. He stops to take a picture of a tree with pink tuliplike blooms.

  My heart pounds louder with each passing block. We walk faster now. We’re on a mission. If I wasn’t so nervous I’d enjoy the moment, but I’m scared to death. That she won’t be home. That she will be home.

  I notice the flowers and green grass, things I haven’t seen for six months in Minnesota, as I follow Epp down the sidewalk. Epp stops in front of a simple brick ranch-style house on a small hill near a school. It looks smaller than my house in St. Paul. No huge Southern homestead like I’d expected. No big trees or wraparound porch.

  “This is it,” he says with certainty. The mailbox has the name Lee painted in black letters.

  I take out my mother’s diary. I’m not sure my legs work, but I make it to the door. Epp is still on the street out front. I turn and knock lightly. I thought I would be overcome with joy at this point—I’m finally here—but something doesn’t seem quite right. I clutch the diary in my hand, my fingers pinching the marked
page, afraid it will disappear if I let go of my tight grip. Nothing happens. I knock again, this time loudly. Nothing. I turn toward Epp, who shrugs.

  “She has to be home,” I yell, knocking even harder. No one answers. I peek in a window but can’t see much through the curtain. I’m so upset I start pounding the door hard.

  “Stop!” Epp grabs me from behind.

  “It’s all wrong. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Harper Lee’s House March 15, 1986, 11:30 a.m.

  “It isn’t fair.” I lean my head against the door and sob.

  “I traveled thirteen hundred miles. She should have been home.”

  “She’ll be back later,” Epp says encouragingly.

  A neighbor peeks out her window and I back away from the house. “What if she’s out of town?”

  Epp looks around uncomfortably. “I don’t know. You can’t hang around here until she returns.”

  I take an envelope from my backpack. It was a last-minute thought in case I chickened out. I write “Harper Lee” across the front and put my return address in the corner. Then I choose two of my stories and stick them inside the envelope.

  “Are you going to leave a note?” Epp asks.

  I nod. Ripping out a page from my journal, I scribble a quick message before I change my mind.

  Dear Miss Lee,

  Sorry I missed you. I wanted to talk to you about my mom. Her name was Kate Kampbell. She wrote you a letter in 1963. Like my mom, I also want to be a writer. I hope you enjoy my stories.

  Sincerely,

  Erin Garven

  I walk to the mailbox and put the letter inside.

  “It isn’t supposed to end this way,” I say bitterly.

  Epp glances at the house. “Hey, it’s not over yet. We’ll come back later.” We both stare at the house, as if we’re waiting for something to happen.

  Epp takes out his camera and flashes two pictures. The neighbor is now staring at us through the window.

  “I’m hungry,” I say. “Let’s find someplace to eat.”