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The Help, Page 40

Kathryn Stockett


  while, she tosses back the front flap like it’s in her way, but she looks like she enjoys this gesture too much for it to real y be a problem. Her helper Mary Nel stands next to her, handing her notes. Mary Nel has the look of a blond lapdog, the Pekingese kind with tiny feet and a nose that perks on

  the end.

  “Now, we have something very exciting to discuss.” Hil y accepts the notes from the lapdog and scans over them.

  “The committee has decided that our newsletter could use a little updating.”

  I sit up straighter. Shouldn’t I decide on changes to the newsletter?

  “First of al , we’re changing the newsletter from a weekly to a monthly. It’s just too much with stamps going up to six cents and al . And we’re

  adding a fashion column, highlighting some of the best outfits worn by our members, and a makeup column with al the latest trends. Oh, and the

  trouble list of course. That’l be in there too.” She nods her head, making eye contact with a few members.

  “And final y, the most exciting change: we’ve decided to name this new correspondence The Tattler. After the European magazine al the

  ladies over there read.”

  “Isn’t that the cutest name?” says Mary Lou White and Hil y’s so proud of herself, she doesn’t even bang the gavel at her for speaking out of

  turn.

  “Okay then. It is time to choose an editor for our new, modern monthly. Any nominations?”

  Several hands pop up. I sit very stil .

  “Jeanie Price, what say ye?”

  “I say Hil y. I nominate Hil y Holbrook.”

  “Aren’t you the sweetest thing. Alright, any others?”

  Rachel Cole Brant turns and looks at me like, Are you believing this? Evidently, she’s the only one in the room who doesn’t know about me

  and Hil y.

  “Any seconds to…” Hil y looks down at the podium, like she can’t quite remember who’s been nominated. “To Hil y Holbrook as editor?”

  “I second.”

  “I third.”

  Bang-bang goes the gavel and I’ve lost my post as editor.

  Leslie Ful erbean is staring at me with eyes so wide, I can see there isn’t anything back there where her brain should be.

  “Skeeter, isn’t that your job?” Rachel says.

  “It was my job,” I mutter and head straight for the doors when the meeting is over. No one speaks to me, no one looks me in the eye. I keep

  my head high.

  In the foyer, Hil y and Elizabeth talk. Hil y tucks her dark hair behind her ears, gives me a diplomatic smile. She strides off to chat with

  someone else, but Elizabeth stays where she is. She touches my arm as I walk out.

  “Hey, Elizabeth,” I murmur.

  “I’m sorry, Skeeter,” she whispers and our eyes hang together. But then she looks away. I walk down the steps and into the dark parking lot. I

  thought she had something more to say to me, but I guess I was wrong.

  I DON’T GO STRAIGHT HOME after the League meeting. I rol al the Cadil ac windows down and let the night air blow on my face. It is warm and cold at the

  same time. I know I need to go home and work on the stories, but I turn onto the wide lanes of State Street and just drive. I’ve never felt so empty in my life. I can’t help but think of al that’s piling on top of me. I will never make this deadline, my friends despise me, Stuart is gone, Mother is…

  I don’t know what Mother is, but we al know it’s more than just stomach ulcers.

  The Sun and Sand Bar is closed and I go by slow, stare at how dead a neon sign seems when it’s turned off. I coast past the tal Lamar Life

  building, through the yel ow blinking street lights. It’s only eight o’clock at night but everyone has gone to bed. Everyone’s asleep in this town in every way possible.

  “I wish I could just leave here,” I say and my voice sounds eerie, with no one to hear it. In the dark, I get a glimpse of myself from way above,

  like in a movie. I’ve become one of those people who prowl around at night in their cars. God, I am the town’s Boo Radley, just like in To Kill a

  Mockingbird.

  I flick on the radio, desperate for noise to fil my ears. “It’s My Party” is playing and I search for something else. I’m starting to hate the whiny

  teenage songs about love and nothing. In a moment of aligned wavelengths, I pick up Memphis WKPO and out comes a man’s voice, drunk-

  sounding, singing fast and bluesy. At a dead end street, I ease into the Tote-Sum store parking lot and listen to the song. It is better than anything

  I’ve ever heard.

  …you’ll sink like a stone

  For the times they are a-changin’.

  A voice in a can tel s me his name is Bob Dylan, but as the next song starts, the signal fades. I lean back in my seat, stare out at the dark

  windows of the store. I feel a rush of inexplicable relief. I feel like I’ve just heard something from the future.

  At the phone booth outside the store, I put in a dime and cal Mother. I know she’l wait up for me until I get home.

  “Hel o?” It’s Daddy’s voice at eight fifteen at night.

  “Daddy…why are you up? What’s wrong?”

  “You need to come on home now, darling.”

  The streetlight suddenly feels too bright in my eyes, the night very cold. “Is it Mama? Is she sick?”

  “Stuart’s been sitting on the porch for almost two hours now. He’s waiting on you.”

  Stuart? It doesn’t make sense. “But Mama…she’s…”

  “Oh, Mama’s fine. In fact, she’s brightened up a little. Come on home, Skeeter, and tend to Stuart now.”

  THE DRIVE HOME has never felt so long. Ten minutes later, I pul in front of the house and see Stuart sitting on the top porch step. Daddy’s in a rocking chair. They both stand when I turn off the car.

  “Hey, Daddy,” I say. I don’t look at Stuart. “Where’s Mama?”

  “She’s asleep, I just checked on her.” Daddy yawns. I haven’t seen him up past seven o’clock in ten years, when the spring cotton froze.

  “’Night, you two. Turn the lights out when you’re done.” Daddy goes inside and Stuart and I are left alone. The night is so black, so quiet, I

  can’t see stars or a moon or even a dog in the yard.

  “What are you doing here?” I say and my voice, it sounds smal .

  “I came to talk to you.”

  I sit on the front step and put my head down on my arms. “Just say it fast and then go on. I was getting better. I heard this song and almost

  felt better ten minutes ago.”

  He moves closer to me, but not so close that we are touching. I wish we were touching.

  “I came to tel you something. I came to say that I saw her.”

  I lift my head up. The first word in my head is selfish. You selfish son-of a-bitch, coming here to talk about Patricia.

  “I went out there, to San Francisco. Two weeks ago. I got in my truck and drove for four days and knocked on the door of the apartment

  house her mama gave me the address to.”

  I cover my face. Al I can see is Stuart pushing her hair back like he used to with me. “I don’t want to know this.”

  “I told her I thought that was the ugliest thing you could do to a person. Lie that way. She looked so different. Had on this prairie-looking

  dress and a peace sign and her hair was long and she didn’t have any lipstick on. And she laughed when she saw me. And then she cal ed me a

  whore.” He rubs his eyes hard with his knuckles. “She, the one who took her clothes off for that guy—said I was a whore to my daddy, a whore to

  Mississippi.”

  “Why are you tel ing me this?” My fists are clenched. I taste metal. I’ve bitten down on my tongue.

  “I drove out there because of you. After we broke up, I knew I had to get her out of my head. And I did it,
Skeeter. I drove two thousand miles

  there and back and I’m here to tel you. It’s dead. It’s gone.”

  “Wel , good, Stuart,” I say. “Good for you.”

  He moves closer and leans down so I wil look at him. And I feel sick, literal y nauseated by the smel of bourbon on his breath. And yet I stil

  want to fold myself up and put my entire body in his arms. I am loving him and hating him at the same time.

  “Go home,” I say, hardly believing myself. “There’s no place left inside me for you.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “You’re too late, Stuart.”

  “Can I come by on Saturday? To talk some more?”

  I shrug, my eyes ful of tears. I won’t let him throw me away again. It’s already happened too many times, with him, with my friends. I’d be

  stupid to let it happen again.

  “I don’t real y care what you do.”

  I WAKE UP AT FIVE A.M. and start working on the stories. With only seventeen days until our deadline, I work through the day and night with a speed and efficiency I didn’t know I possessed. I finish Louvenia’s story in half the time it took me to write the others and, with an intense burning headache, I turn off the light as the first rays of sun peek through the window. If Aibileen wil give me Constantine’s story by early next week, I just might be able to pul this off.

  And then I realize I do not have seventeen more days. How dumb of me. I have ten days, because I haven’t accounted for the time it wil take

  to mail it to New York.

  I’d cry, if only I had the time to do it.

  A few hours later, I wake up and go back to work. At five in the afternoon, I hear a car pul up and see Stuart climb out of his truck. I tear

  myself away from the typewriter and go out on the front porch.

  “Hel o,” I say, standing in the doorway.

  “Hey, Skeeter.” He nods at me, shyly I think, compared to his way two nights ago. “Afternoon, Mister Phelan.”

  “Hey there, son.” Daddy gets up from his rocking chair. “I’l let you kids talk out here.”

  “Don’t get up, Daddy. I’m sorry, but I’m busy today, Stuart. You’re welcome to sit out here with Daddy as long as you like.”

  I go back in the house, pass Mother at the kitchen table drinking warm milk.

  “Was that Stuart I saw out there?”

  I go in the dining room. I stand back from the windows, where I know Stuart can’t see me. I watch until he drives away. And then I just keep

  watching.

  THAT NIGHT, AS USUAL, I go to Aibileen’s. I tel her about the deadline of only ten days, and she looks like she might cry. Then I hand her Louvenia’s

  chapter to read, the one I’ve written at lightning speed. Minny is at the kitchen table with us, drinking a Coke, looking out the window. I hadn’t known she’d be here tonight and wish she’d leave us to work.

  Aibileen puts it down, nods. “I think this chapter is right good. Read just as wel as the slow-wrote ones.”

  I sigh, leaning back in my chair, thinking of what else needs to be done. “We need to decide on the title,” I say and rub my temples. “I’ve

  been working on a few. I think we should cal it Colored Domestics and the Southern Families for Which They Work. ”

  “Say what?” Minny says, looking at me for the first time.

  “That’s the best way to describe it, don’t you think?” I say.

  “If you got a corn cob up you butt.”

  “This isn’t fiction, Minny. It’s sociology. It has to sound exact.”

  “But that don’t mean it have to sound boring,” Minny says.

  “Aibileen,” I sigh, hoping we can resolve this tonight. “What do you think?”

  Aibileen shrugs and I can see already, she’s putting on her peace-making smile. It seems she has to smooth things over every time Minny

  and I are in the same room. “That’s a good title. A course you gone get tired a typing al that on top a ever page,” she says. I’d told her this is how it has to be done.

  “Wel , we could shorten it a little…” I say and pul out my pencil.

  Aibileen scratches her nose, says, “What you think about just cal ing it… Help?”

  “Help,” Minny repeats, like she’s never heard of the word.

  “Help,” I say.

  Aibileen shrugs, looks down shyly, like she’s a little embarrassed. “I ain’t trying to take over your idea, I just…I like to keep things simple, you

  know?”

  “I guess Help sound alright to me,” Minny says and crosses her arms.

  “I like… Help,” I say, because I real y do. I add, “I think we’l stil have to put the description underneath, so the category’s clear, but I think that’s a good title.”

  “Good is right,” Minny says. “Cause if this thing gets printed, Lord knows we gone need some.”

  ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON, with eight days left, I come downstairs, dizzy and blinking from staring at pica type al day. I was almost glad when I heard

  Stuart’s car pul up the drive. I rub my eyes. Maybe I’l sit with him awhile, clear my head, then go back and work through the night.

  Stuart climbs out of his mud-splattered truck. He’s stil in his Sunday tie and I try to ignore how handsome he looks. I stretch my arms. It’s

  ridiculously warm out, considering Christmas is in two and a half weeks. Mother’s sitting on the porch in a rocking chair, swathed in blankets.

  “Hel o, Missus Phelan. How are you feeling today?” Stuart asks.

  Mother gives him a regal nod. “Fair. Thank you for asking.” I’m surprised by the coolness in her voice. She turns back to her newsletter and I

  can’t help but smile. Mother knows he’s been stopping by but she hasn’t mentioned it but once. I have to wonder when it wil come.

  “Hey,” he says to me quietly and we sit on the bottom porch step. Silently, we watch our old cat Sherman sneak around a tree, his tail

  swaying, going after some creature we can’t see.

  Stuart puts his hand on my shoulder. “I can’t stay today. I’m heading to Dal as right now for an oil meeting and I’l be gone three days,” he

  says. “I just came by to tel you.”

  “Alright.” I shrug, like it makes no difference.

  “Alright then,” he says and gets back in his truck.

  When he has disappeared, Mother clears her throat. I don’t turn around and look at her in the rocking chair. I don’t want her to see the

  disappointment in my face that he’s gone.

  “Go ahead, Mother,” I final y mutter. “Say what you want to say.”

  “Don’t you let him cheapen you.”

  I look back at her, eye her suspiciously, even though she is so frail under the wool blanket. Sorry is the fool who ever underestimates my

  mother.

  “If Stuart doesn’t know how intel igent and kind I raised you to be, he can march straight on back to State Street.” She narrows her eyes out

  at the winter land. “Frankly, I don’t care much for Stuart. He doesn’t know how lucky he was to have you.”

  I let Mother’s words sit like a tiny, sweet candy on my tongue. Forcing myself up from the step, I head for the front door. There is so much

  work to be done and not nearly enough time.

  “Thank you, Mother.” I kiss her softly on the cheek and go inside.

  I’M EXHAUSTED AND IRRITABLE. For forty-eight hours I’ve done nothing but type. I am stupid with facts about other people’s lives. My eyes sting from the smel of typing ink. My fingers are striped with paper cuts. Who knew paper and ink could be so vicious.

  With just six days left, I go over to Aibileen’s. She’s taken a weekday off from work, despite Elizabeth’s annoyance. I can tel she knows what

  we need to discuss before I even say it. She leaves me in the kitchen and comes back with a letter in her hand.

  “Fore I give this to you�
�I think I ought to tel you some things. So you can real y understand.”

  I nod. I am tense in my chair. I want to tear the envelope open and get this over with.

  Aibileen straightens her notebook that’s sitting on the kitchen table. I watch as she aligns her two yel ow pencils. “Remember, I told you

  Constantine had a daughter. Wel , Lulabel e was her name. Law, she come out pale as snow. Grew hair the color a hay. Not curly like yours.

  Straight it was.”

  “She was that white?” I ask. I’ve wondered this ever since Aibileen told me about Constantine’s child, way back in Elizabeth’s kitchen. I think

  about how surprised Constantine must’ve been to hold a white baby and know it was hers.

  She nods. “When Lulabel e was four years old, Constantine…” Aibileen shifts in her chair. “She take her to a…orphanage. Up in Chicago.”

  “An orphanage? You mean…she gave her baby away?” As much as Constantine loved me, I can only imagine how much she must’ve loved

  her own child.

  Aibileen looks me straight in the eye. I see something there I rarely see—frustration, antipathy. “A lot a colored womens got to give they

  children up, Miss Skeeter. Send they kids off cause they have to tend to a white family.”

  I look down, wondering if Constantine couldn’t take care of her child because she had to take care of us.

  “But most send em off to family. A orphanage is…different altogether.”

  “Why didn’t she send the baby to her sister’s? Or another relative?”