Perhaps Atticus was right, but the events of the summer hung over us like smoke
in a closed room. The adults in Maycomb never discussed the case with Jem and
me; it seemed that they discussed it with their children, and their attitude must
have been that neither of us could help having Atticus for a parent, so their
children must be nice to us in spite of him. The children would never have
thought that up for themselves: had our classmates been left to their own devices,
Jem and I would have had several swift, satisfying fist-fights apiece and ended the
matter for good. As it was, we were compelled to hold our heads high and be,
respectively, a gentleman and a lady. In a way, it was like the era of Mrs. Henry
Lafayette Dubose, without all her yelling. There was one odd thing, though, that I
never understood: in spite of Atticus’s shortcomings as a parent, people were
content to re-elect him to the state legislature that year, as usual, without
opposition. I came to the conclusion that people were just peculiar, I withdrew
from them, and never thought about them until I was forced to