The Help (18 page)

“Lord, that girl’s hot as Tunica blacktop,” Stuart says under his breath and I suppose that’s when I just stop caring what happens.

At some point, Hilly looks at me to see what’s going on. I smile like everything’s fine and she smiles back, happy to see it’s all working out. “William! The lieutenant governor just walked in. Let’s go speak before he sits down.”

They go off together, leaving us, the two lovebirds sitting on the same side of the table, staring at all the happy couples in the room.

“So,” he says, hardly turning his head. “You ever go to any of the Alabama football games?”

I never even made it to Colonel Field and that was five thousand yards from my bed. “No, I’m not really a football fan.” I look at my watch. It’s hardly seven fifteen.

“That so.” He eyes the drink the waiter has handed him like he’d really enjoy downing it. “Well, what do you do with your time?”

“I write a . . . domestic maintenance column for the
Jackson Journal.
”

He wrinkles his brow, then laughs. “Domestic maintenance. You mean . . . housekeeping?”

I nod.

“Jesus.” He stirs his drink. “I can’t think of anything worse than reading a column on how to clean house,” he says, and I notice that his front tooth is the slightest bit crooked. I long to point this imperfection out to him, but he finishes his thought with, “Except maybe writing it.”

I just stare at him.

“Sounds like a ploy to me, to find a husband. Becoming an expert on keeping house.”

“Well, you must be a genius. You’ve figured out my whole scheme.”

“Isn’t that what you women from Ole Miss major in? Professional husband hunting?”

I watch him, dumbfounded. I may not’ve had a date in umpteen years, but who does he think he is?

“I’m sorry, but were you dropped on your head as an infant?”

He blinks at me, then laughs for the first time all night.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” I say, “but I had to start somewhere if I plan on being a journalist.” I think I’ve actually impressed him. But then he throws back the drink and the look is gone.

We eat dinner, and from his profile I can see his nose is a little pointy. His eyebrows are too thick, and his light brown hair too coarse. We say little else, to each other at least. Hilly chats, throwing things our way like, “Stuart, Skeeter here lives on a plantation just north of town. Didn’t the senator grow up on a peanut farm?”

Stuart orders yet another drink.

When Hilly and I go to the bathroom, she gives me a hopeful smile. “What do you think?”

“He’s . . . tall,” I say, surprised she hasn’t noticed that not only is my date inexplicably rude, but drop-dead drunk.

The end of the meal finally comes and he and William split the check. Stuart stands up and helps me with my jacket. At least he has nice manners.

“Jesus, I’ve never met a woman with such long arms,” he says.

“Well, I’ve never met anybody with such a drinking problem.”

“Your coat smells like—” He leans down and sniffs it, grimacing. “
Fertilizer.
”

He strides off to the men’s room and I wish I could disappear.

The car ride, all three minutes of it, is impossibly silent. And long.

We go back inside Hilly’s house. Yule May comes out in her white uniform, says, “They all fine, went to bed good,” and she slips out through the kitchen door. I excuse myself to the bathroom.

“Skeeter, why don’t you drive Stuart home?” William says when I come out. “I’m bushed, aren’t you, Hilly?”

Hilly’s looking at me like she’s trying to figure out what I want to do. I thought I’d made it obvious when I stayed in the bathroom for ten minutes.

“Your . . . car’s not here?” I ask the air in front of Stuart.

“I don’t believe my cousin’s in a position to drive.” William laughs. Everyone’s quiet again.

“I came in a truck,” I say. “I’d hate for you to . . .”

“Shoot,” William says, slapping Stuart on the back. “Stuart doesn’t mind riding in a truck, do you, buddy?”

“William,” Hilly says, “why don’t you drive and, Skeeter, you can ride along.”

“Not me, I’m too boozed up myself,” William says even though he just drove us home.

Finally, I just walk out the door. Stuart follows me, doesn’t comment that I didn’t park in front of Hilly’s house or in Hilly’s driveway. When we get to my truck, we both stop, stare at the fifteen-foot tractor hooked behind my vehicle.

“You pulled that thing all by yourself?”

I sigh. I guess it’s because I’m a big person and have never felt petite or particularly feminine or girly, but that tractor. It just seems to sum up so much.

“That is the funniest damn looking thing I have ever seen,” he says.

I step away from him. “Hilly can take you,” I say. “Hilly will drive you.” He turns and focuses on me for what, I’m pretty sure, is the first time all night. After several long moments of standing there being looked at, my eyes fill with tears. I’m just so tired.

“Ah, shit,” he says and his body loosens. “Look, I told Hilly I wasn’t ready for any damn date.”

“Don’t . . .” I say, backing away from him, and I head back to the house.

 

 

 

SUNDAY MORNING I GET up EARLY, before Hilly and William, before the kids and the church traffic. I drive home with the tractor rumbling behind me. The fertilizer smell gives me a hangover even though I had nothing but water last night.

I’d gone back in Hilly’s house last night, Stuart trailing behind me. Knocking on Hilly’s bedroom door, I asked William, who already had a mouth full of toothpaste, would he mind driving Stuart home. I’d walked upstairs to the guest room before he even answered.

I step over Daddy’s dogs on the porch, go into my parents’ house. As soon as I see Mother, I give her a hug. When she tries to let go, I can’t let her.

“What is it, Skeeter? You didn’t catch Hilly’s stomach bug, did you?”

“No, I’m fine.” I wish I could tell her about my night. I feel guilty for not being nicer to her, for not needing her until my own life turns bad. I feel bad for wishing Constantine was here instead.

Mother pats my windblown hair down since it must be adding at least two inches to my height. “You sure you’re not feeling bad?”

“I’m alright, Mama.” I am too tired to resist. I ache like someone kicked me in the stomach. With boots on. It won’t go away.

“You know,” she says, smiling, “I think this might be the one for Carlton.”

“Good, Mama,” I say. “I’m really glad for him.”

 

 

 

AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK the next morning, the phone rings. Luckily, I’m in the kitchen and pick it up.

“Miss Skeeter?”

I stand very still, then look out at Mother examining her checkbook at the dining room table. Pascagoula is pulling a roast out of the oven. I go into the pantry and shut the door.

“Aibileen?” I whisper.

She’s quiet a second and then she blurts it out. “What if—what if you don’t like what I got to say? I mean, about white peoples.”

“I—I . . . this isn’t about my opinion,” I say. “It doesn’t matter how I feel.”

“But how I know you ain’t gone get mad, turn around on me?”

“I don’t . . . I guess you’ll just have to . . . trust me.” I hold my breath, hoping, waiting. There is a long pause.

“Law have mercy. I reckon I’m on do it.”

“
Aibileen.
” My heart is pounding. “You have no idea how much I appreciate—”

“Miss Skeeter, we gone have to be real careful.”

“We will, I
promise.
”

“And you gone have to change my name. Mine, Miss Leefolt’s, everbody’s.”

“Of course.” I should’ve mentioned this. “When can we meet?
Where
can we meet?”

“Can’t do it in the white neighborhood, that’s for sure. I guess . . . we gone have to do it over at my house.”

“Do you know any other maids who might be interested?” I ask, even though Missus Stein has only agreed to read one. But I have to be ready, on the slim chance she likes it.

Aibileen is quiet a moment. “I guess I could ask Minny. But she ain’t real keen on talking to white peoples.”

“Minny? You mean . . . Missus Walters’ old maid,” I say, feeling suddenly how incestuous this is turning. I wouldn’t just be peering into Elizabeth’s life, but Hilly’s too.

“Minny got her some stories. Sho nuff.”

“Aibileen,” I say. “Thank you. Oh, thank you.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“I just . . . I have to ask you. What changed your mind?”

Aibileen doesn’t even pause. “Miss Hilly,” she says.

I go quiet, thinking of Hilly’s bathroom plan and accusing the maid of stealing and her talk of diseases. The name comes out flat, bitter as a bad pecan.

MINNY

chapter 10

I
WALK INTO WORK with one thing on my mind. Today is the first day of December and while the rest of the United States is dusting off their manger scenes and pulling out their old stinky stockings, I’ve got another man I’m waiting on. And it’s not Santy Claus and it’s not the Baby Jesus. It’s Mister Johnny Foote, Jr., who will learn that Minny Jackson is his maid on Christmas Eve.

I am waiting on the twenty-fourth like a court date. I don’t know what Mister Johnny’s going to do when he finds out I’m working here. Maybe he’ll say, Good! Come clean my kitchen anytime! Here’s some money! But I’m not that stupid. This secret-keeping is way too fishy for him to be some smiling whitey wanting to give me a raise. There’s a good chance I might not have a job come Christmas Day.

It’s eating me up, not knowing, but what I do know is, a month ago, I decided there had to be a more dignified way to die than having a heart attack squatting on top of a white lady’s toilet lid. And after all that, it wasn’t even Mister Johnny that came home, it was just the damn meter man.

But there wasn’t much relief when it was over. What scared me worse was Miss Celia. Afterwards, during her cooking lesson, she was still shaking so bad, she couldn’t even measure the salt in a spoon.

MONDAY COMES and I can’T stop thinking about Louvenia Brown’s grandson, Robert. He got out of the hospital this weekend, went to live with Louvenia, what with his parents already dead and all. Last night, when I went over there to take them a caramel cake, Robert had a cast on his arm and bandages over his eyes. “Oh,
Louvenia
,” was all I could say when I saw him. Robert was laid up on the sofa asleep. They’d shaved half his head to operate. Louvenia, with all her troubles, still wanted to know how each and every person in my family was doing. And when Robert started to stir, she asked if I wouldn’t mind going on home because Robert wakes up screaming. Terrified and remembering all over again that he’s blind. She thought it might bother me. I can’t stop thinking about it.

“I’m going to the store after while,” I say to Miss Celia. I hold the grocery list out for her to see. Every Monday we do this. She gives me the grocery cash and when I get home I push the receipt in her face. I want her to see that every penny of change matches the paper. Miss Celia just shrugs but I keep those tickets safe in a drawer in case there’s ever any question.

 

“But I did butter beans last week.”

“Learn those, everything else come easy.”

“I guess it’s better anyway,” she says. “I can sit down and be still when I’m shelling.”

Almost three months and the fool still can’t boil coffee. I pull out my pie dough, want to get it ready before I go to the store.

“Can we do a chocolate pie this time? I love chocolate pie.”

I grit my teeth. “I don’t know how to cook no chocolate pie,” I lie.
Never. Never again after Miss Hilly.

“You can’t? Gosh, I thought you could cook anything. Maybe we ought to get us a recipe.”

“What else kind a pie you thinking about?”

“Well, what about that peach pie you did that time?” she says, pouring a glass of milk. “That was real good.”

“Them peaches from Mexico. Peaches ain’t in season around here yet.”

“But I saw them advertised in the paper.”

I sigh. Nothing is easy with her, but at least she’s off the chocolate. “One thing you got to know, things is best when they in season. You don’t cook pumpkins in the summer, you don’t cook peaches in the fall. You can’t find it selling on the side a the road, it ain’t in. Let’s just do us a nice pecan pie instead.”

“And Johnny loved those pralines you did. He thought I was the smartest girl he’d ever met when I gave him those.”

I turn back to my dough so she can’t see my face. Twice in a minute she’s managed to irritate me. “Anything else you want Mister Johnny to think you did?” Besides being scared out of my wits, I am sick and tired of passing off my cooking for somebody else’s. Except my kids, my cooking’s the only thing I’m proud of.

“No, that’s all.” Miss Celia smiles, doesn’t notice I’ve stretched my pie crust to where five holes rip through. Just twenty-four more days of this shit. I am praying to the Lord and the devil on the side that Mister Johnny doesn’t come home before then.

 

 

 

EVERY OTHER DAY, I hear Miss Celia on the phone in her room, calling and calling the society ladies. The Benefit was three weeks ago and here she is already gunning up for next year. She and Mister Johnny didn’t go or I would’ve heard plenty about it.

I didn’t work the Benefit this year, first time in a decade. The money’s pretty good, but I just couldn’t risk running into Miss Hilly.