The Help, Page 25

  with you,” Miss Celia said. I didn’t even try to explain it to her.

  There are so many things Miss Celia is just plain ignorant about.

  Every other white woman also knows that there is a time of the month when you do not to talk to Minny. Even Miss Walters knew when the

  Min-O-Meter was running hot. She’d smel the caramel cooking and cane herself right out the door. Wouldn’t even let Miss Hil y come over.

  Last week, the sugar and butter had fil ed Miss Celia’s whole house with the smel of Christmas even though it was the crying shame of

  June. I was tense, as usual, turning my sugar to caramel. I asked her three times, very politely, if I couldn’t do this by myself, but she wanted to be in there with me. Said she was getting lonely being in her bedroom al the day long.

  I tried to ignore her. Problem was, I have to talk to myself when I make a caramel cake or else I get too jittery.

  I said, “Hottest day in June history. A hundred and four outside.”

  And she said, “Do you have air-conditioning? Thank goodness we have it here cause I grew up without it and I know what it’s like being hot.”

  And I said, “Can’t afford no air-conditioning. Them things eat current like a bol weevil on cotton.” And I started stirring hard because the

  brown was just forming on the top and that’s when you’ve real y got to watch it and I say, “We already late on the light bil ,” because I’m not thinking straight and do you know what she said? She said, “Oh, Minny, I wish I could loan you the money, but Johnny’s been asking al these funny

  questions lately,” and I turned to inform her that every time a Negro complained about the cost of living didn’t mean she was begging for money, but

  before I could say a word, I’d burned up my damn caramel.

  AT SUNDAY CHURCH SERVICE, Shirley Boon gets up in front of the congregation. With her lips flapping like a flag, she reminds us that the “Community

  Concerns” meeting is Wednesday night, to discuss a sit-in at the Woolworth’s lunch counter on Amite Street. Big nosy Shirley points her finger at us

  and says, “The meeting is at seven so be on time. No excuses!” She reminds me of a big, white, ugly schoolteacher. The kind that nobody ever

  wants to marry.

  “You coming on Wednesday?” asks Aibileen. We’re walking home in the three o’clock heat. I’ve got my funeral fan in my fist. I’m waving it so

  fast it looks like it’s got a motor on it.

  “I ain’t got time,” I say.

  “You gone make me go by myself again? Come on, I’m on bring some gingerbread and some—”

  “I said I can’t go.”

  Aibileen nods, says, “Alright then.” She keeps walking.

  “Benny…might get the asthma again. I don’t want a leave him.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Aibileen says. “You’n tel me the real reason when you ready.”

  We turn on Gessum, walk around a car that’s plumb died of heat stroke in the road. “Oh, fore I forget, Miss Skeeter wants to come over early

  Tuesday night,” Aibileen says. “Bout seven. You make it then?”

  “Lord,” I say, getting irritated al over again. “What am I doing? I must be crazy, giving the sworn secrets a the colored race to a white lady.”

  “It’s just Miss Skeeter, she ain’t like the rest.”

  “Feel like I’m talking behind my own back,” I say. I’ve met with Miss Skeeter at least five times now. It’s not getting any easier.

  “You want a stop coming?” Aibileen asks. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to.” I don’t answer her.

  “You stil there, M?” she says.

  “I just…I want things to be better for the kids,” I say. “But it’s a sorry fact that it’s a white woman doing this.”

  “Come to the community meeting with me on Wednesday. We talk more about it then,” Aibileen says with a little smile.

  I knew Aibileen wouldn’t drop it. I sigh. “I got in trouble, alright?”

  “With who?”

  “Shirley Boon,” I say. “Last meeting everybody was holding hands and praying they gone let blacks in the white bathroom and talking about

  how they gone set down on a stool at Woolworth’s and not fight back and they al smiling like this world gone be a shiny new place and I just…I

  popped. I told Shirley Boon her ass won’t fit on no stool at Woolworth’s anyway.”

  “What Shirley say?”

  I pul out my teacher lady voice. “‘If you can’t say nothing nice, then you ought not say nothing at all.’”

  When we get to her house, I look over at Aibileen. She’s holding down a laugh so hard she’s gone purple.

  “It ain’t funny,” I say.

  “I am glad you’re my friend, Minny Jackson.” And she gives me a big hug until I rol my eyes and tel her I have to go.

  I keep walking and turn at the corner. I didn’t want Aibileen to know that. I don’t want anybody to know how much I need those Skeeter

  stories. Now that I can’t come to the Shirley Boon meetings anymore, that’s pretty much al I’ve got. And I am not saying the Miss Skeeter meetings

  are fun. Every time we meet, I complain. I moan. I get mad and throw a hot potato fit. But here’s the thing: I like tel ing my stories. It feels like I’m doing something about it. When I leave, the concrete in my chest has loosened, melted down so I can breathe for a few days.

  And I know there are plenty of other “colored” things I could do besides tel ing my stories or going to Shirley Boon’s meetings—the mass

  meetings in town, the marches in Birmingham, the voting ral ies upstate. But truth is, I don’t care that much about voting. I don’t care about eating at a counter with white people. What I care about is, if in ten years, a white lady wil cal my girls dirty and accuse them of stealing the silver.

  AT HOME THAT NIGHT, I get the butter beans simmering, the ham in the skil et.

  “Kindra, get everbody in here,” I say to my six-year-old. “We ready to eat.”

  “Suuuuppperrrrr,” Kindra yel s, not moving an inch from where she’s standing.

  “You go get your daddy the proper way,” I yel . “What I tel you about yel ing in my house?”

  Kindra rol s her eyes at me like she’s just been asked to do the stupidest thing in the world. She stamps her feet down the hal . “Suuupperrr!”

  “Kindra!”

  The kitchen is the only room in the house we can al fit in together. The rest are set up as bedrooms. Me and Leroy’s room is in the back,

  next to that is a little room for Leroy Junior and Benny, and the front living room’s been turned into a bedroom for Felicia, Sugar, and Kindra. So al

  that leaves is the kitchen. Unless it’s crazy cold outside, our back door stays open with the screen shut to keep out the flies. Al the time there’s the roar of kids and cars and neighbors and dogs barking.

  Leroy comes in and sits at the table next to Benny, who’s seven. Felicia fil s up the glasses with milk or water. Kindra carries a plate of

  beans and ham to her daddy and comes back to the stove for more. I hand her another plate.

  “This one for Benny,” I say.

  “Benny, get up and help your mama,” Leroy says.

  “Benny got the asthma. He don’t need to be doing nothing.” But my sweet boy gets up anyway, takes the plate from Kindra. My kids know

  how to work.

  They al set at the table except me. Three children are home tonight. Leroy Junior, who’s a senior at Lenier High, is bagging groceries at the

  Jitney 14. That’s the white grocery store over in Miss Hil y’s neighborhood. Sugar, my oldest girl, in tenth grade, babysits for our neighbor Tal ulah

  who works late. When Sugar’s finished, she’l walk home and drive her daddy to the late shift at the pipe-fitting plant, then pick up Leroy Junior from the grocery. Leroy Senior wil get a ride from the plant at four in the morning with Tal ulah’s husb
and. It al works out.

  Leroy eats, but his eyes are on the Jackson Journal next to his plate. He’s not exactly known for his sweet nature when he wakes up. I

  glance over from the stove and see the sit-in at Brown’s Drug Store is the front-page news. It’s not Shirley’s group, it’s people from Greenwood. A

  bunch of white teenagers stand behind the five protesters on their stools, jeering and jabbing, pouring ketchup and mustard and salt al over their

  heads.

  “How they do that?” Felicia points at the picture. “Sit there without fighting back?”

  “That’s what they supposed to do,” says Leroy.

  “I feel like spitting looking at that picture,” I say.

  “We talk about it later.” Leroy folds the paper in quarters and tucks it under his thigh.

  Felicia says to Benny, not quiet enough, “Good thing Mama wasn’t up on one a them stools. Else none a them white folks had any teeth left.”

  “And Mama be in the Parchman jail,” says Benny for everybody to hear.

  Kindra props her arm on her hip. “Nuh-uh. Ain’t nobody putting my mama in jail. I beat those white people with a stick til they bleed.”

  Leroy points his finger at every one of them. “I don’t want to hear a word about it outside this house. It’s too dangerous. You hear me, Benny?

  Felicia?” Then he points his finger at Kindra. “You hear me?”

  Benny and Felicia nod their heads, look down at their plates. I’m sorry I started al this and give Kindra the keep-it-shut look. But Little Miss

  Something slaps her fork down on the table, climbs out of her chair. “I hate white people! And I’m on tel everbody if I want to!”

  I chase her down the hal . When I catch her, I potato sack her back to the table.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy,” Felicia says because she’s the kind that’s going to take the blame for everyone every time. “And I look after Kindra. She

  don’t know what she saying.”

  But Leroy smacks his hand on the table. “Nobody’s getting in that mess! Y’al hear me?” And he stares his children down. I turn to the stove

  so he can’t see my face. Lord help me if he finds out what I’m doing with Miss Skeeter.

  ALL THE NEXT WEEK, I hear Miss Celia on her bedroom phone, leaving messages at Miss Hil y’s house, Elizabeth Leefolt’s house, Miss Parker’s house,

  both Caldwel sisters, and ten other society ladies. Even Miss Skeeter’s house, which I don’t like one bit. I told Miss Skeeter myself: Don’t even

  think about calling her back. Don’t tangle up this web any more than it already is.

  The irritating part is, after Miss Celia makes these stupid cal s and hangs up the phone, she picks that receiver right back up. She listens for

  a dial tone in case the line doesn’t go free.

  “Ain’t nothing wrong with that phone,” I say. She just keeps smiling at me like she’s been doing for a month now, like she’s got a pocketful of

  paper money.

  “Why you in such a good mood?” I final y ask her. “Mister Johnny being sweet or something?” I’m loading up my next “When you gone tel ”

  but she beats me to it.

  “Oh, he’s being sweet alright,” she says. “And it’s not gonna be much longer until I tel him about you.”

  “Good,” I say and I mean it. I am sick of this lying game. I imagine how she must smile at Mister Johnny when she hands him my pork chops,

  how that nice man has to act like he’s so proud of her when he knows it’s me doing the cooking. She’s making a fool of herself, a fool of her nice

  husband, and a liar out of me.

  “Minny, would you mind fetching the mail for me?” she asks even though she’s sitting here al dressed and I’ve got butter on my hands and a

  wash in the machine and a motor blender going. She’s like a Philistine on a Sunday, the way she won’t take but so many steps a day. Except every

  day’s Sunday around here.

  I clean off my hands and head out to the box, sweat half a gal on on the way. I mean, it’s only ninety-nine degrees outside. There’s a two-foot

  package sitting next to the mailbox, in the grass. I’ve seen her with these big brown boxes before, figure it’s some kind of beauty cream she’s

  ordering. But when I pick it up, it’s heavy. Makes a tinkling sound like I’m toting Co-Cola bottles.

  “You got something, Miss Celia.” I plop the box on the floor of the kitchen.

  I’ve never seen her jump up so fast. In fact, the only thing fast about Miss Celia is the way she dresses. “It’s just my…” She mumbles

  something. She heaves the box al the way to her bedroom and I hear the door slam.

  An hour later, I go back in the bedroom to suck the rugs. Miss Celia’s not laying down and she’s not in the bathroom. I know she’s not in the

  kitchen or the living room or out at the pool and I just dusted fancy parlor number one and number two and vacuumed the bear. Which means she

  must be upstairs. In the creepy rooms.

  Before I got fired for accusing Mr. White Manager of wearing a hair piece, I used to clean the bal rooms at the Robert E. Lee Hotel. Those

  big, empty rooms with no peoples and the lipsticked napkins and the leftover smel of perfume gave me chil s. And so does the upstairs of Miss

  Celia’s house. There’s even an antique cradle with Mister Johnny’s old baby bonnet and silver rattle that I swear I can hear tinkling sometimes on its

  own accord. And it’s thinking of that tinkling sound that makes me wonder if those boxes don’t have something to do with her sneaking up to those

  rooms every other day.

  I decide it’s time I go up there and take a look for myself.

  I KEEP AN EYE ON Miss Celia the next day, waiting for her to sneak upstairs so I can see what she’s up to. Around two o’clock, she sticks her head in the kitchen and gives me a funny smile. A minute later, I hear the squeak in the ceiling.

  Real easy, I head for the staircase. Even though I tiptoe, the dishes in the sideboard jangle, the floorboards groan. I walk so slowly up the

  stairs, I can hear my own breathing. At the top, I turn down the long hal . I pass wide open bedroom doors, one, two, three. Door number four, down

  on the end, is closed except for an inch. I move in a little closer. And through the crack, I spot her.

  She’s sitting on the yel ow twin bed by the window and she’s not smiling. The package I toted in from the mailbox is open and on the bed are

  a dozen bottles fil ed with brown liquid. It’s a slow burn that rises up my bosoms, my chin, my mouth. I know the look of those flat bottles. I nursed a worthless pint drinker for twelve years and when my lazy, life-sucking daddy final y died, I swore to God with tears in my eyes I’d never marry one.

  And then I did.

  And now here I am nursing another goddamn drinker. These aren’t even store-bought bottles, these have a red wax top like my Uncle Toad

  used to cap his moonshine with. Mama always told me the real alcoholics, like my daddy, drink the homemade stuff because it’s stronger. Now I

  know she’s as much a fool as my daddy was and as Leroy is when he gets on the Old Crow, only she doesn’t chase me with the frying pan.

  Miss Celia picks a bottle up and looks at it like it’s Jesus in there and she can’t wait to get saved. She uncorks it, sips it, and sighs. Then

  she drinks three hard swal ows and lays back on her fancy pil ows.

  My body starts to shake, watching that ease cross her face. She was so eager to get to her juice, she didn’t even close the damn door. I

  have to grit my teeth so I don’t scream at her. Final y I force my way back down the stairs.

  When Miss Celia comes back downstairs ten minutes later, she sits at the kitchen table, asks me if I’m ready to eat.

  “There’s pork chops in the icebox and I’m not eating lunch today,” I say and s
tomp out of the room.

  That afternoon Miss Celia’s in her bathroom sitting on the toilet lid. She’s got the hair dryer on the back tank and the hood pul ed over her

  bleached head. With that contraption on she wouldn’t hear the A-bomb explode.

  I go upstairs with my oil rags and I open that cupboard for myself. Two dozen flat whiskey bottles are hidden behind some ratty old blankets

  Miss Celia must’ve toted with her from Tunica County. The bottles don’t have any labels fastened to them, just the stamp OLD KENTUCKY in the glass.

  Twelve are ful , ready for tomorrow. Twelve are empty from last week. Just like al these damn bedrooms. No wonder the fool doesn’t have any kids.

  ON THE FIRST THURSDAY of July, at twelve noon, Miss Celia gets up from the bed for her cooking lesson. She’s dressed in a white sweater so tight it’d

  make a hooker look holy. I swear her clothes get tighter every week.

  We settle in our places, me at the stovetop, her on her stool. I’ve hardly spoken word one to her since I found those bottles last week. I’m not

  mad. I’m irate. But I have sworn every day for the past six days that I would fol ow Mama’s Rule Number One. To say something would mean I cared

  about her and I don’t. It’s not my business or my concern if she’s a lazy, drunk fool.

  We lay the battered raw chicken on the rack. Then I have to remind the ding-dong for the bobil ionth time to wash her hands before she kil s

  us both.

  I watch the chicken sizzle, try to forget she’s there. Frying chicken always makes me feel a little better about life. I almost forget I’m working

  for a drunk. When the batch is done, I put most of it in the refrigerator for supper that night. The rest goes on a plate for our lunch. She sits down

  across from me at the kitchen table, as usual.

  “Take the breast,” she says, her blue eyes bugging out at me. “Go ahead.”

  “I eat the leg and the thigh,” I say, taking them from the plate. I thumb through the Jackson Journal to the Metro section. I pop up the spine of my newspaper in front of my face so I don’t have to look at her.

  “But they don’t have hardly any meat on them.”

  “They good. Greasy.” I keep reading, trying to ignore her.

  “Wel ,” she says, taking the breast, “I guess that makes us perfect chicken partners then.” And after a minute she says, “You know, I’m lucky

  to have you as a friend, Minny.”

  I feel thick, hot disgust rise up in my chest. I lower my paper and just look at her. “No, ma’am. We ain’t friends.”

  “Wel …sure we are.” She smiles, like she’s doing me a big favor.

  “No, Miss Celia. We ain’t.”

  She blinks at me with her fake eyelashes. Stop it, Minny, my insides tel me. But I already know I can’t. I know by the fists in my hands that I can’t hold this in another minute.