The Help

  eleven days, that’s al going to be over.

  MOST OF THE TOWN THAWS in a day. Miss Celia’s not in bed when I walk in. She’s sitting at the white kitchen table staring out the window with an ugly look on her face like her poor fancy life is just too hot a hel to live in. It’s the mimosa tree she’s eyeing out there. It took the ice pretty hard. Half of the branches broke off and al the spindly leaves are brown and soggy.

  “Morning, Minny,” she says, not even looking my way.

  But I just nod. I have nothing to say to her, not after the way she treated me day before yesterday.

  “We can final y cut that old ugly thing down now,” says Miss Celia.

  “Go ahead. Cut em al down.” Just like me, cut me down for no reason at al .

  Miss Celia gets up and comes over to the sink where I’m standing. She grabs hold of my arm. “I’m sorry I hol ered at you like I did.” Tears

  brim up in her eyes when she says it.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “I was sick and I know that’s no excuse, but I was feeling real poor and…” She starts sobbing then, like the worst thing she’s ever done in her

  life is yel at her maid.

  “Alright,” I say. “Ain’t nothing to boo-hoo over.”

  And then she hugs me tight around the neck until I kind of pat her on the back and peel her off. “Go on, set down,” I say. “I’l fix you some

  coffee.”

  I guess we al get a little snippy when we’re not feeling good.

  BY THE NEXT MONDAY, the leaves on that mimosa tree have turned black like it burned instead of froze. I come in the kitchen ready to tel her how many

  days we have left, but Miss Celia’s staring at that tree, hating it with her eyes the same way she hates the stove. She’s pale, won’t eat anything I put in front of her.

  Al day, instead of laying up in bed, she works on decorating the ten-foot Christmas tree in the foyer, making my life a vacuuming hel with al

  the needles flying around. Then she goes in the backyard, starts clipping the rose bushes and digging the tulip bulbs. I’ve never seen her move that

  much, ever. She comes in for her cooking lesson afterward with dirt under her nails but she’s stil not smiling.

  “Six more days before we tel Mister Johnny,” I say.

  She doesn’t say anything for a while, then her voice comes out flat as a pan. “Are you sure I have to? I was thinking maybe we could wait.”

  I stop where I am, with buttermilk dripping off my hands. “Ask me how sure I am again.”

  “Alright, alright.” And then she goes outside again to take up her new favorite pastime, staring down that mimosa tree with the axe in her

  hand. But she never takes a chop.

  Wednesday night al I can think is just ninety-six more hours. Knowing I might not have a job after Christmas gnaws at my stomach. I’l have a

  lot more to worry about than just being shot dead. Miss Celia’s supposed to tel him on Christmas Eve, after I leave, before they go over to Mister

  Johnny’s mama’s house. But Miss Celia’s acting so strange, I wonder if she’s going to try and back out. No ma’am, I say to myself al day. I intend to

  stay on her like hair on soap.

  When I walk in Thursday morning though, Miss Celia’s not even home. I can’t believe she’s actual y left the house. I sit at the table and pour

  myself a cup of coffee.

  I look out at the backyard. It’s bright, sunny. That black mimosa tree sure is ugly. I wonder why Mister Johnny doesn’t just go ahead and cut

  that thing down.

  I lean in a little closer to the windowsil . “Wel look a there.” Down around the bottom, some green fronds are stil hanging on, perking up a

  little in the sun.

  “That old tree just playing possum.”

  I pul a pad out of my pocketbook where I keep a list of what needs to be tended to, not for Miss Celia, but my own groceries, Christmas

  presents, things for my kids. Benny’s asthma has gotten a little better but Leroy came home last night smel ing like Old Crow again. He pushed me

  hard and I bumped my thigh on the kitchen table. He comes home like that tonight, I’l fix him a knuckle sandwich for supper.

  I sigh. Seventy-two more hours and I’m a free woman. Maybe fired, maybe dead after Leroy finds out, but free.

  I try to concentrate on the week. Tomorrow’s heavy cooking and I’ve got the church supper Saturday night and the service on Sunday. When

  am I going to clean my own house? Wash my own kids’ clothes? My oldest girl, Sugar, is sixteen and pretty good about keeping things neat, but I

  like to help her out on the weekends the way my mama never helped me. And Aibileen. She cal ed me again last night, asked if I’d help her and

  Miss Skeeter with the stories. I love Aibileen, I do. But I think she’s making a king-sized mistake trusting a white lady. And I told her, too. She’s

  risking her job, her safety. Not to mention why anyone would want to help a friend of Miss Hil y’s.

  Lord, I better get on with my work.

  I pineapple the ham and get it in the oven. Then I dust the shelves in the hunting room, vacuum the bear while he stares at me like I’m a

  snack. “Just you and me today,” I tel him. As usual he doesn’t say much. I get my rag and my oil soap, work my way up the staircase, polishing each

  spoke on the banister as I go. When I make it to the top, I head into bedroom number one.

  I clean upstairs for about an hour. It’s chil y up here, no bodies to warm it up. I work my arm back and forth, back and forth across everything

  wood. Between the second and third bedrooms, I go downstairs to Miss Celia’s room before she comes back.

  I get that eerie prickle, of being in a house so empty. Where’d she go? After working here al this time and her only leaving three times and

  always tel ing me when and where and why she’s leaving, like I care anyway, now she’s gone like the wind. I ought to be happy. I ought to be glad

  that fool’s out of my hair. But being here by myself, I feel like an intruder. I look down at the little pink rug that covers the bloodstain by the bathroom.

  Today I was going to take another crack at it. A chil blows through the room, like a ghost passing by. I shiver.

  Maybe I won’t work on that bloodstain today.

  On the bed the covers, as usual, have been thrown off. The sheets are twisted and turned around the wrong way. It always looks like a

  wrestling match has gone on in here. I stop myself from wondering. You start to wonder about people in the bedroom, before you know it you’re al

  wrapped up in their business.

  I strip off one of the pil owcases. Miss Celia’s mascara smudged little charcoal butterflies al over it. The clothes on the floor I stuff into the

  pil owcase to make it easier to carry. I pick up Mister Johnny’s folded pants off the yel ow ottoman.

  “Now how’m I sposed to know if these is clean or dirty?” I stick them in the sack anyway. My motto on housekeeping: when in doubt, wash it

  out.

  I tote the bag over to the bureau. The bruise on my thigh burns when I bend down to pick up a pair of Miss Celia’s silky stockings.

  “Who are you?”

  I drop the sack.

  Slowly, I back away until my bottom bumps the bureau. He’s standing in the doorway, eyes narrowed. Real slow, I look down at the axe

  hanging from his hand.

  Oh Lord. I can’t get to the bathroom because he’s too close and he’d get in there with me. I can’t make it past him out the door unless I

  pummel him, and the man has an axe. My head throbs hot I’m so panicked. I’m cornered.

  Mister Johnny stares down at me. He swings the axe a little. Tilts his head and smiles.

  I do the only thing I can do. I wrinkle my face as mean as I can and pul my lips across my teeth and yel : “You and your axe better ge
t out a

  my way.”

  Mister Johnny looks down at the axe, like he forgot he had it. Then back up at me. We stare at each other a second. I don’t move and I don’t

  breathe.

  He sneaks a look over at the sack I’ve dropped to see what I was stealing. The leg of his khakis is poking out the top. “Now, listen,” I say,

  and tears spring up in my eyes. “Mister Johnny, I told Miss Celia to tel you about me. I must a asked her a thousand times—”

  But he just laughs. He shakes his head. He thinks it’s funny he’s about to chop me up.

  “Just listen to me, I told her—”

  But he’s stil chuckling. “Calm down, girl. I’m not going to get you,” he says. “You surprised me, that’s al .”

  I’m panting, easing my way toward the bathroom. He stil has the axe in his hand, swinging it a little.

  “What’s your name, anyway?”

  “Minny,” I whisper. I’ve stil got five feet to go.

  “How long have you been coming, Minny?”

  “Not long.” I jiggle my head no.

  “How long?”

  “Few…weeks,” I say. I bite down on my lip. Three months.

  He shakes his head. “Now, I know it’s been longer than that.”

  I look at the bathroom door. What good would it do to be in a bathroom where the door won’t even lock? When the man’s got an axe to hack

  the door down with?

  “I swear I’m not mad,” he says.

  “What about that axe?” I say, my teeth gritted.

  He rol s his eyes, then he sets it on the carpet, kicks it to the side.

  “Come on, let’s go have us a talk in the kitchen.”

  He turns and walks away. I look down at the axe, wondering if I should take it. Just the sight of it scares me. I push it under the bed and fol ow

  him.

  In the kitchen, I edge myself close to the back door, check the knob to make sure it’s unlocked.

  “Minny, I promise. It’s fine that you’re here,” he says.

  I watch his eyes, trying to see if he’s lying. He’s a big man, six-two at least. A little paunch in the front, but strong looking. “I reckon you gone

  fire me, then.”

  “Fire you?” He laughs. “You’re the best cook I’ve ever known. Look what you’ve done to me.” He frowns down at his stomach that’s just

  starting to poke out. “Hel , I haven’t eaten like this since Cora Blue was around. She practical y raised me.”

  I take a deep breath because his knowing Cora Blue seems to safen things up a little. “Her kids went to my church. I knew her.”

  “I sure do miss her.” He turns, opens the refrigerator, stares in, closes it.

  “When’s Celia coming back? You know?” Mister Johnny asks.

  “I don’t know. I spec she went to get her hair done.”

  “I thought for a while there, when we were eating your food, she real y did learn how to cook. Until that Saturday, when you weren’t here, and

  she tried to make hamburgers.”

  He leans against the sink board, sighs. “Why doesn’t she want me to know about you?”

  “I don’t know. She won’t tel me.”

  He shakes his head, looks up at the black mark on the ceiling from where Miss Celia burned up the turkey that time. “Minny, I don’t care if

  Celia never lifts another finger for the rest of her life. But she says she wants to do things for me herself.” He raises his eyebrows a little. “I mean, do you understand what I was eating before you got here?”

  “She learning. Least she…trying to learn,” but I kind of snort at this. Some things you just can’t lie about.

  “I don’t care if she can cook. I just want her here”—he shrugs—

  “with me.”

  He rubs his brow with his white shirtsleeve and I see why his shirts are always so dirty. And he is sort of handsome. For a white man.

  “She just doesn’t seem happy,” he says. “Is it me? Is it the house? Are we too far away from town?”

  “I don’t know, Mister Johnny.”

  “Then what’s going on?” He props his hands down on the counter behind him, grabs hold. “Just tel me. Is she”—he swal ows hard—“is she

  seeing somebody else?”

  I try not to, but I feel kind of sorry for him then, seeing he’s just as confused as I am about al this mess.

  “Mister Johnny, this ain’t none a my business. But I can tel you Miss Celia ain’t having no relations outside a this house.”

  He nods. “You’re right. That was a stupid thing to ask.”

  I eye the door, wondering when Miss Celia’s going to be home. I don’t know what she’d do if she found Mister Johnny here.

  “Look,” he says, “don’t say anything about meeting me. I’m going to let her tel me when she’s ready.”

  I manage my first real smile. “So you want me to just go on like I been doing?”

  “Look after her. I don’t like her in this big house by herself.”

  “Yessuh. Whatever you say.”

  “I came by today to surprise her. I was going to cut down that mimosa tree she hates so much, then take her into town for lunch. Pick out

  some jewelry for her Christmas present.” Mister Johnny walks to the window, looks out, and sighs. “I guess I’l go get lunch in town somewhere.”

  “I fix you something. What you want?”

  He turns around, grinning like a kid. I start going through the refrigerator, pul ing things out.

  “Remember those pork chops we had that time?” He starts nibbling on his fingernail. “Wil you make those for us this week?”

  “I fix em for supper tonight. Got some in the freezer. And tomorrow night you having chicken and dumplings.”

  “Oh, Cora Blue used to make us those.”

  “Sit up there at the table and I’m on do you a good BLT to take with you in the truck.”

  “And wil you toast the bread?”

  “A course. Can’t have no proper sandwich on no raw bread. And this afternoon I’l make one a Minny’s famous caramel cakes. And next

  week we gone do you a fried catfish…”

  I pul out the bacon for Mister Johnny’s lunch, get the skil et out to fry. Mister Johnny’s eyes are clear and wide. He’s smiling with every part of

  his face. I fix his sandwich and wrap it in waxed paper. Final y, somebody I get the satisfaction of feeding.

  “Minny, I have to ask, if you’re here…what in the world is Celia doing al day?”

  I shrug. “I ain’t never seen a white woman sit there like she do. Most of em is busy-busy, running errands, acting like they busier than me.”

  “She needs some friends. I asked my buddy Wil if he’d get his wife to come out and teach her to play bridge, get her in a group. I know

  Hil y’s the ringleader of al that stuff.”

  I stare at him, like if I kept real stil , maybe it wouldn’t be true. Final y I ask, “That Miss Hil y Holbrook you talking about?”

  “You know her?” he asks.

  “Mm-hmm.” I swal ow the tire iron that’s rising up in my throat at the thought of Miss Hil y hanging around this house. Miss Celia finding out

  the truth about the Terrible Awful. There’s no way those two could be friends. But I bet Miss Hil y would do anything for Mister Johnny.

  “I’l cal Wil tonight and ask him again.” He pats me on my shoulder and I find myself thinking about that word again, truth. And Aibileen’s

  tel ing Miss Skeeter al about it. If the truth gets out on me, I’m done. I crossed the wrong person, and that’s al it takes.

  “I’m going to give you my number at the office. Cal me if you ever run into trouble, alright?”

  “Yessuh,” I say, feeling my dread erase any relief I had coming to me today.

  MISS SKEETER

  CHAPTER 11

  IT’S TECHNICALLY WINTER in most of the nation, but already there is
gnashing of teeth and wringing of hands in my mother’s house. Signs of spring have come too early. Daddy’s in a cotton-planting frenzy, had to hire ten extra field workers to til and drive tractors to get the seed in the ground.

  Mother’s been studying The Farmer’s Almanac, but she’s hardly concerned with planting. She delivers the bad news to me with a hand on her

  forehead.

  “They say this’l be the most humid one in years.” She sighs. The Shinalator never did much good after those first few times. “I’d pick up

  some more spray cans down at Beemon’s, the new extra-heavy kind.”

  She looks up from the Almanac, narrows her eyes at me. “What are you dressed that way for?”

  I have on my darkest dress, dark stockings. The black scarf over my hair probably makes me look more like Peter O’Toole in Lawrence of

  Arabia than Marlene Dietrich. The ugly red satchel hangs from my shoulder.

  “I have some errands to run tonight. Then I’m meeting…some girls. At church.”

  “On a Saturday night?”

  “Mama, God doesn’t care what day of the week it is,” I say and make for the car before she can ask any more questions. Tonight, I’m going

  to Aibileen’s for her first interview.

  My heart racing, I drive fast on the paved town roads, heading for the colored part of town. I’ve never even sat at the same table with a Negro

  who wasn’t paid to do so. The interview has been delayed by over a month. First, the holidays came and Aibileen had to work late almost every

  night, wrapping presents and cooking for Elizabeth’s Christmas party. In January, I started to panic when Aibileen got the flu. I’m afraid I’ve waited