The Help

  I HEAD BACK to the country before the game is over. Out the open window of the Cadil ac, the fields look chopped and burned. Daddy finished the last

  harvest weeks ago, but the side of the road is stil snowy with cotton stuck in the grass. Whiffs of it blow and float through the air.

  I check the mailbox from the driver’s seat. Inside is The Farmer’s Almanac and a single letter. It is from Harper & Row. I turn into the drive, throw the gear into Park. The letter is handwritten, on smal square notepaper.

  Miss Phelan,

  You certainly may hone your writing skills on such flat, passionless subjects as drunk driving and illiteracy. I’d hoped,

  however, you’d choose topics that actually had some punch to them. Keep looking. If you find something original, only then may

  you write me again.

  I slip past Mother in the dining room, invisible Pascagoula dusting pictures in the hal , up my steep, vicious stairs. My face burns. I fight the

  tears over Missus Stein’s letter, tel myself to pul it together. The worst part is, I don’t have any better ideas.

  I bury myself in the next housekeeping article, then the League newsletter. For the second week in a row, I leave out Hil y’s bathroom

  initiative. An hour later, I find myself staring off at the window. My copy of Let Us Now Praise Famous Men sits on the window ledge. I walk over and pick it up, afraid the light wil fade the paper jacket, the black-and-white photo of the humble, impoverished family on the cover. The book is warm

  and heavy from the sun. I wonder if I’l ever write anything worth anything at al . I turn when I hear Pascagoula’s knock on my door. That’s when the

  idea comes to me.

  No. I couldn’t. That would be…crossing the line.

  But the idea won’t go away.

  AIBILEEN

  CHAPTER 7

  THE HEAT WAVE final y passes round the middle a October and we get ourselves a cool fifty degrees. In the mornings, that bathroom seat get cold out there, give me a little start when I set down. It’s just a little room they built inside the carport. Inside is a toilet and a little sink attached to the wal . A pul cord for the lightbulb. Paper have to set on the floor.

  When I waited on Miss Caulier, her carport attach to the house so I didn’t have to go outside. Place before that had a maid quarters. Plus my

  own little bedroom for when I sit at night. This one I got to cross through the weather to get there.

  On a Tuesday noon, I carry my lunch on out to the back steps, set down on the cool concrete. Miss Leefolt’s grass don’t grow good back

  here. A big magnolia tree shades most a the yard. I already know that’s the tree gone be Mae Mobley’s hideout. In about five years, to hide from

  Miss Leefolt.

  After a while, Mae Mobley waddle out on the back step. She got half her hamburger patty in her hand. She smile up at me and say, “Good.”

  “How come you not in there with your mama?” I ask, but I know why. She rather be setting out here with the help than in there watching her

  mama look anywhere but at her. She like one a them baby chickens that get confused and fol ow the ducks around instead.

  Mae Mobley point at the bluebirds getting ready for winter, twittering in the little gray fountain. “Boo birds!” She point and drop her

  hamburger down on the step. Out a nowhere, that old bird dog Aubie they don’t never pay no mind to come up and gobble it down. I don’t take to

  dogs, but this one is just plain pitiful. I pet him on the head. I bet nobody petted that dog since Christmas.

  When Mae Mobley see him, she squeal and grab at his tail. It whap her in the face a few times before she get holt. Poor thing, he whine and

  give her one a those pitiful people-dog looks, his head turned funny, his eyebrows up. I can almost hear him asking her to turn him loose. He ain’t

  the biting kind.

  So she’l let go, I say, “Mae Mobley, where your tail?”

  Sho nuff, she let go and start looking at her rear. Her mouth’s popped open like she just can’t believe she done missed it al this time. She

  turning in wobbly circles trying to see it.

  “You ain’t got no tail.” I laugh and catch her fore she fal off that step. Dog sniff around for more hamburger.

  It always tickle me how these babies believe anything you tel em. Tate Forrest, one a my used-to-be babies long time ago, stop me on the

  way to the Jitney just last week, give me a big hug, so happy to see me. He a grown man now. I needed to get back to Miss Leefolt’s, but he start

  laughing and memoring how I’d do him when he was a boy. How the first time his foot fel asleep and he say it tickle, I told him that was just his foot snoring. And how I told him don’t drink coffee or he gone turn colored. He say he stil ain’t drunk a cup a coffee and he twenty-one years old. It’s

  always nice seeing the kids grown up fine.

  “Mae Mobley? Mae Mobley Leefolt!”

  Miss Leefolt just now noticing her child ain’t setting in the same room with her. “She out here with me, Miss Leefolt,” I say through the screen

  door.

  “I told you to eat in your high chair, Mae Mobley. How I ended up with you when al my friends have angels I just do not know…” But then the

  phone ring and I hear her stomping off to get it.

  I look down at Baby Girl, see how her forehead’s al wrinkled up between the eyes. She studying hard on something.

  I touch her cheek. “You alright, baby?”

  She say, “Mae Mo bad.”

  The way she say it, like it’s a fact, make my insides hurt.

  “Mae Mobley,” I say cause I got a notion to try something. “You a smart girl?”

  She just look at me, like she don’t know.

  “You a smart girl,” I say again.

  She say, “Mae Mo smart.”

  I say, “You a kind little girl?”

  She just look at me. She two years old. She don’t know what she is yet.

  I say, “You a kind girl,” and she nod, repeat it back to me. But before I can do another one, she get up and chase that poor dog around the

  yard and laugh and that’s when I get to wondering, what would happen if I told her she something good, ever day?

  She turn from the birdbath and smile and hol er, “Hi, Aibee. I love you, Aibee,” and I feel a tickly feeling, soft like the flap a butterfly wings,

  watching her play out there. The way I used to feel watching Treelore. And that makes me kind a sad, memoring.

  After while, Mae Mobley come over and press her cheek up to mine and just hold it there, like she know I be hurting. I hold her tight, whisper,

  “You a smart girl. You a kind girl, Mae Mobley. You hear me?” And I keep saying it til she repeat it back to me.

  THE NEXT FEW WEEKS is real important for Mae Mobley. You think on it, you probably don’t remember the first time you went to the bathroom in the toilet bowl stead of a diaper. Probably don’t give no credit to who taught you, neither. Never had a single baby I raise come up to me and say, Aibileen,

  why I sure do thank you for showing me how to go in the pot.

  It’s a tricky thing. You try and get a baby to go in the toilet before its time, it’l make em crazy. They can’t get the hang of it and get to thinking low a theyselves. Baby Girl, though, I know she ready. And she know she ready. But, Law, if she ain’t running my fool legs off. I set her on her

  wooden baby seat so her little hiney don’t fal in and soon as I turn my back, she off that pot running.

  “You got to go, Mae Mobley?”

  “No.”

  “You drunk up two glasses a grape juice, I know you got to go.”

  “Nooo.”

  “I give you a cookie if you go for me.”

  We look at each other awhile. She start eyeing the door. I don’t hear nothing happening in the bowl. Usual y, I can get them going after about two weeks. But that’s if I
got they mamas helping me. Little boys got to see they daddy doing it standing-up style, little girls got to see they mama

  setting down. Miss Leefolt won’t let that girl come near her when she going, and that’s the trouble.

  “Go just a little for me, Baby Girl.”

  She stick her lip out, shake her head.

  Miss Leefolt gone to get her hair done, else I ask her again wil she set the example even though that woman’s already said no five times.

  Last time Miss Leefolt say no, I was fixing to tel her how many kids I raised in my lifetime and ask her what number she on, but I ended up saying

  alright like I always do.

  “I give you two cookies,” I say even though her mama always getting on me about making her fat.

  Mae Mobley, she shake her head and say, “You go.”

  Now, I ain’t saying I ain’t heard this before, but usual y I can get around it. I know, though, she got to see how it’s done fore she gone get to

  business. I say, “I don’t got to go.”

  We look at each other. She point again and say, “You go.”

  Then she get to crying and fidgeting cause that seat making a little indent on her behind and I know what I’m on have to do. I just don’t know

  how to go about it. Should I take her out to the garage to mine or go here in this bathroom? What if Miss Leefolt come home and I’m setting up on

  this toilet? She have a fit.

  I put her diaper back on and we go out to the garage. Rain make it smel a little swampy. Even with the light on it’s dark, and they ain’t no

  fancy wal paper like inside the house. Fact, they real y ain’t no proper wal s at al , just plyboard hammered together. I wonder if she gone be scared.

  “Alright, Baby Girl, here tis. Aibileen’s bathroom.”

  She stick her head in and her mouth make the shape of a Cheerio. She say, “Oooooo.”

  I take down my underthings and I tee-tee real fast, use the paper, and get it al back on before she can real y see anything. Then I flush.

  “And that’s how you go in the toilet,” I say.

  Wel , don’t she look surprise. Got her mouth hanging open like she done seen a miracle. I step out and fore I know it, she got her diaper off

  and that little monkey done climbed on that toilet, holding herself up so she don’t fal in, going tee-tee for herself.

  “Mae Mobley! You going! That’s real good!” She smile and I catches her fore she dip down in it. We run back inside and she get her two

  cookies.

  Later on, I get her on her pot and she go for me again. That’s the hardest part, those first couple a times. By the end a the day, I feel like I

  real y done something. She getting to be a pretty good talker and you can guess what the new word a the day is.

  “What Baby Girl do today?”

  She say, “Tee-tee.”

  “What they gone put in the history books next to this day?”

  She say, “Tee-tee.”

  I say, “What Miss Hil y smel like?”

  She say, “Tee-tee.”

  But I get onto myself. It wasn’t Christian, plus I’m afraid she repeat it.

  LATE THAT AFTERNOON, Miss Leefolt come home with her hair al teased up. She got a permanent and she smel like pneumonia.

  “Guess what Mae Mobley done today?” I say. “Went to the bathroom in the toilet bowl.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful!” She give her girl a hug, something I don’t see enough of. I know she mean it, too, cause Miss Leefolt do not like

  changing diapers.

  I say, “You got to make sure she go in the pot from now on. It’s real confusing for her if you don’t.”

  Miss Leefolt smile, say, “Alright.”

  “Let’s see if she do it one more time fore I go home.” We go in the bathroom. I get her diapers off and put her up on that toilet. But Baby Girl,

  she shaking her head.

  “Come on, Mae Mobley, can’t you go in the pot for your mama?”

  “Noooo.”

  Final y I put her back down on her feet. “That’s alright, you did real good today.”

  But Miss Leefolt, she got her lips sticking out and she hmphing and frowning down at her. Before I can get her diaper on again, Baby Girl run

  off fast as she can. Nekkid little white baby running through the house. She in the kitchen. She got the back door open, she in the garage, trying to

  reach the knob to my bathroom. We run after her and Miss Leefolt pointing her finger. Her voice go about ten pitches too high. “This is not your bathroom!”

  Baby Girl wagging her head. “My bafroom!”

  Miss Leefolt snatch her up, give her a pop on the leg.

  “Miss Leefolt, she don’t know what she do—”

  “Get back in the house, Aibileen!”

  I hate it, but I go in the kitchen. I stand in the middle, leave the door open behind me.

  “I did not raise you to use the colored bathroom!” I hear her hiss-whispering, thinking I can’t hear, and I think, Lady, you didn’t raise your

  child at al .

  “This is dirty out here, Mae Mobley. You’l catch diseases! No no no!” And I hear her pop her again and again on her bare legs.

  After a second, Miss Leefolt potato-sack her inside. There ain’t nothing I can do but watch it happen. My heart feel like it’s squeezing up into

  my throat-pipe. Miss Leefolt drop Mae Mobley in front a the tee-vee and she march to her bedroom and slam the door. I go give Baby Girl a hug.

  She stil crying and she look awful confused.

  “I’m real sorry, Mae Mobley,” I whisper to her. I’m cussing myself for taking her out there in the first place. But I don’t know what else to say,

  so I just hold her.

  We set there watching Li’l Rascals until Miss Leefolt come out, ask ain’t it past time for me to go. I tuck my bus dime in my pocket. Give

  Mae Mobley one more hug, whisper, “You a smart girl. You a good girl.”

  On the ride home, I don’t see the big white houses passing outside the window. I don’t talk to my maid friends. I see Baby Girl getting spanked cause a me. I see her listening to Miss Leefolt cal me dirty, diseased.

  The bus speeds up along State Street. We pass over the Woodrow Wilson Bridge and my jaw so tight I could break my teeth off. I feel that

  bitter seed growing inside a me, the one planted after Treelore died. I want to yel so loud that Baby Girl can hear me that dirty ain’t a color, disease ain’t the Negro side a town. I want to stop that moment from coming—and it come in ever white child’s life—when they start to think that colored

  folks ain’t as good as whites.

  We turn on Farish and I stand up cause my stop be coming. I pray that wasn’t her moment. Pray I stil got time.

  THINGS IS REAL QUIET the next few weeks. Mae Mobley’s wearing big-girl panties now. She don’t hardly ever have no accidents. After what happen in the

  garage, Miss Leefolt take a real interest in Mae Mobley’s bathroom habits. She even let her watch her on the pot, set the white example. A few

  times, though, when her mama’s gone, I stil catch her trying to go in mine. Sometimes she do it fore I can tel her no.

  “Hey, Miss Clark.” Robert Brown, who do Miss Leefolt’s yard, come up on her back steps. It’s nice and cool out. I open the screen door.

  “How you doing, son?” I say and pat him on the arm. “I hear you working ever yard on the street.”

  “Yes ma’am. Got two guys mowing for me.” He grin. He a handsome boy, tal with short hair. Went to high school with Treelore. They was

  good friends, played basebal together. I touch him on the arm, just needing to feel it again.

  “How your granmama?” I ask. I love Louvenia, she is the sweetest person living. She and Robert came to the funeral together. This makes

  me remember what’s coming next week. The worst day a the year.

  “She stronger than m
e.” He smile. “I be by your house on Saturday to mow.”

  Treelore always did my mowing for me. Now Robert does it without my even asking, never wil take any money for it. “Thank you, Robert. I

  appreciate it.”

  “You need anything, you cal me, alright, Miss Clark?”

  “Thank you, son.”

  I hear the doorbel ring and I see Miss Skeeter’s car out front. Miss Skeeter been coming over to Miss Leefolt’s ever week this month, to ask

  me the Miss Myrna questions. She ask about hard water stains and I tel her cream of tartar. She ask how you unscrew a lightbulb that done broke

  off in the socket and I tel her a raw potato. She ask me what happen with her old maid Constantine and her mama, and I go cold. I thought if I told

  her a little, a few weeks ago, about Constantine having a daughter, she’d leave me alone about it after that. But Miss Skeeter just keep on asking

  me questions. I could tel she don’t understand why a colored woman can’t raise no white-skin baby in Mississippi. Be a hard, lonely life, not

  belonging here nor there.

  Ever time Miss Skeeter finish asking me about how to clean the-this or fix the-that or where Constantine, we get to talking about other things

  too. That’s not something I done a whole lot with my bosses or they friends. I find myself tel ing her how Treelore never made below a B+ or that the

  new church deacon get on my nerves cause he lisp. Little bits, but things I ordinarily wouldn’t tel a white person.

  Today, I’m trying to explain to her the difference between dipping and polishing the silver, how only the tacky houses do the dip cause it’s

  faster, but it don’t look good. Miss Skeeter cock her head to the side, wrinkle her forehead. “Aibileen, remember that…idea Treelore had?”

  I nod, feel a prickle. I should a never shared that with a white woman.

  Miss Skeeter squint her eyes like she did when she brung up the bathroom thing that time. “I’ve been thinking about it. I’ve been wanting to