In Search of Mockingbird

by Loretta Ellsworth

  What is he doing now? I sink down in my seat.

  “I have an announcement to make. Erin is making an extraordinary journey to Monroeville, Alabama.” He points at me, and I slide down and cover my face with my hands.

  “It’s a pilgrimage inspired by something her mother wrote almost twenty-five years ago. Erin is going to visit Harper Lee, the author of the novel To Kill a Mockingbird, and talk to her about writing. Right now, Erin is having some second thoughts about her trip, and I ask all of you to offer your support and prayers to her so that she makes it there.”

  I want to die. I can hear murmurs throughout the bus, things like “Is he for real?” and “Who is Harper Lee?”

  Epp raises his hands again. “That’s all. Thank you,” he says, then pushes past me and sits down.

  I can’t even look at him. All I can do is crouch down in my seat and stare at my book.

  Epp leans over. “I bet many of them support you on this. You shouldn’t give up.”

  My face burns at the idea of a busload of eyes fixed on the back of my head. I knew Epp was weird, but I didn’t expect this. The people on the bus will soon kick us both off.

  Epp sits back contentedly. People in front of us are snickering. I can’t take it. I sneak a look: the bathroom is open. No matter how bad it is, I’d rather spend the next two hours in there than out here. I grab my journal and stand up, hoping to make a beeline to the back before anyone notices me. I leave Epp without saying a word.

  Suddenly, the sound of clapping breaks through the chatter. The noise is coming from the man with a brown paper bag. The clapping sound spreads to the woman with a basket.

  The bus driver shouts, “Way to go,” and waves at me. A few other people nod and clap. The rest ignore me, except for two men who stare and smirk. I walk slowly toward the back until the man with the bag pulls on my sleeve to stop me.

  “Don’t get discouraged. Follow your dreams,” he says and winks.

  Two seats back, a woman reaches up to shake my hand. “I don’t know who Harper Lee is, but give her my best.”

  I nod, dumbstruck.

  The Jesse James boys clap and smile at me. Is this the same bus I boarded in Kansas City?

  I go into the restroom and lock the door. The lid is down and I sit in the tiny cubicle trying to ignore the smell as the bus tosses me into the wall. My pen shakes as I stare at the blank page in my journal, wondering what to make of all this.

  I’m waiting for reality to set back in, for the normal sounds to return; someone pounding on the bathroom door, the paper bag man talking to himself in nonsensical sentences. Instead, the sound of music filters back. People are singing “Happy Birthday,” led by Epp, no doubt.

  Their voices are off-key and the luggage beneath us bangs out an odd accompaniment. I can’t help but smile at the thought of a few strangers wishing me well, even encouraging my crazy plan. I steady my pen and start writing as the words flow out of me. Scout would love this moment.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Memphis, Tennessee March 14, 1986, 8:00 p.m.

  Christmas is usually spent skiing.

  It’s easier on Dad that way.

  Last Christmas we stayed home.

  Susan fixed a turkey, and Dad

  made hot buttered rum.

  Later, we all played Yahtzee.

  For one day we seemed normal,

  like any other family celebrating the holidays.

  I’d never seen Dad so happy.

  I enjoyed it, too.

  “We may have trouble,” Epp says as he leans forward in his seat. He watches the approaching depot in downtown Memphis, his eyes glued ahead.

  There’s a uniformed man waiting by the curb. He isn’t wearing a police uniform, but what looks like guard attire. I have a sick feeling that he’s waiting for me.

  I let out a heavy sigh. “Well, I made it to Memphis.” I open my book, waiting for Mockingbird to guide me. It’s like Atticus waiting for Tom Robinson’s sentence. He knows he gave it his best shot but that it won’t change the results. He knows what’s going to happen.

  Epp stands up and walks to the front. He spends a moment talking to the driver.

  The bus pulls up next to the curb, where the guard is waiting. The bus driver steps out and speaks to the guard. Epp comes back and picks up his jacket.

  The passengers file off. Several of them wave at me and give me the thumbs-up sign.

  “We have a one-hour layover,” Epps says. “Let’s get off and find something to eat.”

  The guard is no longer there.

  I flash a questioning look at Epp, who ignores me and picks up his sketchpad.

  “Come on. You don’t want to sit here for the next hour, do you?”

  I shake my head and grab my book. We walk several blocks to the corner of Beale and South Main. A nine-foot bronze statue of Elvis looks down at us, a guitar at his side, his hip thrust in typical Elvis style, and his arm outstretched like he’s welcoming us to his town.

  “Well, I can say I saw Elvis.” Epp seems satisfied. “Now let’s eat.”

  The street is bustling with hotels and restaurants. Music floats from open doorways. Epp leads me into a sports restaurant, a sit-down type with TVs blaring in the corners, all of them focused on a basketball game. It’s after eight and I haven’t eaten since the pizza in St. Louis, except for a few M&M’s that Epp shared with me.

  Epp asks the waitress for a booth, and we settle in across from each other. A glass of water and a menu is placed in front of me.

  A sandwich costs about three dollars. Even though I should be rationing my money, the melting cheese oozing over ham piled high on a sesame roll is too good to resist. I glance at Epp above my menu.

  “What did you say to the driver?”

  Epp focuses on a passing tray of food. “I asked him where I could find a good restaurant within walking distance.”

  I roll my eyes. “What else?”

  “I told him the truth. That people might be looking for you. I don’t know what he said to the guard. I don’t even know if the guard was looking for you.”

  “But what if he was?”

  Epp shrugs. “Maybe he told him that you already got off the bus.”

  “Why would he risk lying for me?”

  “I don’t know. I guess people are rooting for you, Erin. They want you to make it to Monroeville.” He stops and adds, “Myself included.”

  Epp seems different to me now. He won over a bunch of strangers on the bus with embarrassing honesty. He’s not so weird. He’s just eccentric, like Sedushia. I wonder if people make that mistake about him all the time.

  The waitress comes back.

  “Y’all ready to order?”

  “I’ll take the ham and cheese sandwich with the chips.”

  Epp clears his throat. “I’ll have the Monster Burger with extra cheese, a double order of fries, and a Coke.”

  “Is there a phone?” I ask, and she directs me to the hallway in front of the bathrooms.

  “Are you calling home?” Epps asks.

  I nod. “Just to let Dad know I’m okay. But I’m not telling him where I am or where I’m heading.”

  Epp puts his hands up in defense. “No complaints here.”

  Noise from the kitchen empties out into the hallway, and I put a hand over one ear while I dial zero.

  “I want to make a person-to-person collect call,” I shout at the operator, “to Ken Garven from Erin.”

  A moment later Jeff’s faint voice answers the phone and the operator announces a person-to-person collect call for Ken Garven. “He’s not here,” Jeff replies.

  Not there? I’ve been gone since last night. Why isn’t Dad at home worrying about me?

  “That party is not available,” the operator tells me.

  “Jeff,” I yell. But the operator cuts us off before he hears me. I hang up and stare at the wall. Jeff would have accepted the call if he knew it was from me. Should I call back and ask for Jeff? How could Dad leave? Do
esn’t he want to talk to me? I walk back to our booth.

  “What did he say?” Epp asks.

  “Nothing,” I answer flatly. “He wasn’t home.”

  Epp’s eyebrows go up.

  “Maybe he’s at Susan’s,” I speculate. “She’s his fiancée. He just proposed yesterday. It makes sense that he’d want to be with her.” I rip the corner of my napkin. How could he go out when his daughter is missing?

  “Is that why you left home?”

  I shake my head. “No. That has nothing to do with my leaving.” Epp’s eyes reflect his disbelief.

  “Maybe a little,” I confess, “but I guess it’s time he remarried, you know, before he’s too old. It just seems like once Dad’s married I’ll never get the chance to talk to him about Mom.”

  Epp’s voice rises and he sounds frustrated. “So instead you leave home? Maybe it’s time you found a way to talk to him.”

  “I know,” I say almost apologetically.

  We’re both quiet for a long moment, listening to the gibberish of voices blended with loud music blaring from the bar. Epp appears lost in thought. “I think this trip has more meaning than you realize,” he finally says as though he’s convinced of that fact. “But what if Harper Lee won’t talk to you?”

  My hand involuntarily pats down the cover of Mockingbird. I push my finger against a small tear at the lower front corner of the jacket. “I’ve thought about that. You remember how Atticus lost his case? He said there’s honor in trying. There’s even honor in defeat.”

  Epp’s face turns white and he grips his sketchpad. I think I just hit a nerve.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Heading South on U.S. 78 March 14, 1986, 9:00 p.m.

  I’ve been straining my eyes in the darkness.

  There’s an abandoned church at the side of the

  road,

  with a partly caved-in roof, and dark windows

  without glass,

  as if forgotten by time.

  The church is surrounded by a sea of crimson

  clover,

  and it looks at peace.

  It seems to be telling me something.

  But what is it saying?

  I take two bites of my sandwich and pick at the chips, debating whether to call home again. Epp makes up for my lack of appetite. He eats every last bite of his meal, even finishing the chips that I couldn’t eat. He dribbles ketchup on his shirt and dabs it off with a napkin, also finally noticing the stains from this afternoon’s pizza. Then he leaves a huge tip of three dollars. I reluctantly put three quarters on the table, then pick one up when Epp isn’t looking. Afterward, we walk back to the bus, peeking in the windows of fancy hotels that have marble floors, enjoying the night air as we carry our heavy winter coats. Fifty degrees seems like a blast of summer air compared with the weather back home.

  Six people got off the bus in Memphis, and five new passengers got on. There seems to be a different mood on the bus now. People are beginning to talk to one another. Several women take turns with the crying baby, who ran out of steam after Memphis. The boy who just hours ago kicked Epp in the shin plays him in a game of rock, paper, scissors.

  I write in my journal about the landscape and sights I’ve seen along the road, the shanties on one side and huge estates with gated pillars on the other, the soil that’s changed from the familiar black to a rusty red. The most noticeable change is the green that’s everywhere, as if the land awoke somewhere between Minnesota and Mississippi and I missed it.

  Amy says that the key to good writing is an incredible opening that grabs your attention, like the topping on a pizza. I think it’s the language, which I guess is more like the crust. I asked Epp what he thought, and he said it depends on your taste.

  I told Epp about Sedushia. It seems like ages ago that I was in Kansas City. Images of home push their way into my thoughts. Did Dad miss work on account of me? Did Amy miss me at school today? Did she hang a Mickey Mouse balloon on my locker like she always does on my birthday? I’m going to buy a postcard in Montgomery and send it to her. A belated show of friendship is better than nothing.

  “Stop,” Epp cries in defeat to his new best friend. He rubs his hand, which is red from being hit by too many rocks over scissors. Epp should know that rock would be the kid’s favorite pick.

  It’s after nine o’clock and the landscape has faded into dark, indistinguishable shapes. This has been the longest day of my life. I hope to get in a nap because in a couple of hours we’ll be entering Alabama, and by five a.m. we’ll be in Montgomery, and I’m sure I won’t be able to sleep after that. From Montgomery, we’ll catch a smaller bus that will take us to Monroeville, less than two hours south.

  “Aren’t you getting tired?” I ask the rock, paper, scissors kid, who gives me one of his devilish grins and replies, “Nope.”

  I want to tell him to get lost, but it might ruin the upbeat mood on the bus. I’m getting closer to Monroeville. I could actually make it there. I should be in better spirits.

  I take out Mom’s diary and read a few entries again. I search for mention of a letter from Harper Lee, but I can’t find one. Instead, I find a funny entry about seeing the Beatles on TV. By the time I finish reading it, my mood has lifted.

  “You nervous?” Epp asks, and I almost drop the journal. Jesse James’s mother finally called him back to his seat, and Epp has been watching me.

  “Sort of,” I confess, and Epp nods as if he knew it all along. “I feel like I’m on one of those shows where the camera is following my every move.” I turn around suspiciously. “And you don’t want to mess up one little bit.”

  “Nobody is going to know what happens once you get off this bus,” Epp says. “It’s not like I’m sending out a newsletter or calling the New York Times.”

  I relax into my seat. “Good. Because I don’t do well under pressure. Just ask my Spanish teacher. Vocabulary words disappear from my head the moment she gives a test.”

  “You’ll do fine.”

  I bite down on my lip for a second. “I know it sounds dumb, but I miss my dad.” I pause and add, “And my brothers, sort of.”

  I turn toward the window. “I guess I should go home after I meet Harper Lee. I don’t think I’m cut out for life on the road.”

  The shine from an overhead light bounces off Epp’s glasses. “Good. Because I’m afraid you’d end up as roadkill.”

  Epp reminds me of Jeff now. I give him a playful punch on the shoulder.

  “I would not,” I object.

  Epp rubs his shoulder. “Seriously speaking, my mom always says that the road is as long as you make it. It can be full of snakes or fields of flowers.”

  “That’s sweet. I never thought of it that way.”

  “Do you read any other books?” Epp asks as he points at Mockingbird.

  “Of course. But I just keep coming back to this one. There are so many layers.”

  “I can’t remember, does it have anything to say to a computer nerd who’s afraid of failure?”

  I hand Epp my book. “Go for it.”

  Epp looks doubtful and presses the book back into my hands. “I haven’t read fiction in years. Maybe later.”

  “But this book has a guarantee. Anyone who doesn’t enjoy it will receive a sensitivity refund.”

  “You couldn’t buy publicity like that,” Epp quips. “You’re a writer’s dream.”

  “Not every writer,” I clarify. “And not every book. Just Mockingbird.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Near Hamilton, Alabama March 15, 1986, 12:30 a.m.

  My mother stands in front of me.

  She looks like the picture I have of her on my nightstand.

  Her hair is held back with a clip and

  she’s holding me to her cheek.

  I’m just a few days old.

  My eyes are half open,

  my tiny brows narrowed down over wrinkled,

  new-baby skin.

  My mother looks tired but happy.
<
br />   Suddenly I’m no longer in the picture.

  She’s standing alone in the room.

  She turns and looks at me with piercing blue eyes.

  “Did you enjoy your sixteenth birthday?” she asks faintly.

  “What?” I strain to hear her.

  “Happy birthday. I almost forgot about this.”

  I open my eyes at Epp’s words. From his jacket pocket, he produces a small cupcake wrapped in plastic, pink frosting smudged into the wrapping like a flattened bug on a bus window.

  “I know it’s not exactly what you had in mind, but it’s all I could come up with at that last restaurant.” He hands me the cupcake.

  “It’s great,” I reassure him. “Thanks.”

  “You’re not bummed you spent your birthday on a bus?”

  “Heck, no. I spent the entire twenty-four hours with three terrific people: Sedushia, you, and my mom.” I clutch her diary in my lap.

  “Oh,” he says as though he just thought of it, “I have something else for you.” Epp stands up and accidentally bangs his head on an overhead luggage rack.

  “Ouch,” he yells, rubbing at the sore spot. The man in front of us wakes up.

  “Sorry about that,” Epp says to the man when he turns around.

  “That’s okay,” the man replies with a tired voice.

  Epp reaches up and takes a booklet out of a small briefcase. He holds it reverently.

  “I know you saw the sketch I was working on. This is the book that goes with the game.” He hands it to me. “I’m going to let you be the first.”

  “The first what?”

  “To read about my game. It has all the hints for each level. There are graphs and a few pictures so you can make sense of it all. I also have the computer code with me, but I won’t bore you with that.”

  He brought along computer code? He’s asking the wrong person. I still can’t make sense of Space Invaders. “I don’t play computer games,” I explain.

  Epp ignores my comment. “I’ve been thinking about what you said at the restaurant, the lesson you learned from that book about honor in trying, even in failure. You’re sharing your trip with me. I want to share my game with you.”