The Help, Page 39

  For the rest of the day, Miss Celia works in the flower garden, tending to the mums. The next morning I come in and find Miss Celia at the

  kitchen table. She’s got the newspaper out, but she’s staring out at that mimosa tree. It’s rainy and chil y outside.

  “Morning, Miss Celia.”

  “Hey, Minny.” Miss Celia just sits, looking out at that tree, fiddling with a pen in her hand. It’s started to rain.

  “What you want for lunch today? We got a roast beef or some a this chicken pie left over…” I lean in the refrigerator. I’ve got to make a

  decision about Leroy, tel him how it is. Either you quit beating on me, or I’m gone. And I’m not taking the kids either. Which ain’t true, about the kids, but that ought to scare him more than anything.

  “I don’t want anything.” Miss Celia stands up, slips off one red high heel, then the other. She stretches her back, stil staring out the window at

  that tree. She cracks her knuckles. And then she walks out the back door.

  I see her on the other side of the glass and then I see the axe. I get a little spooked because nobody likes to see a crazy lady with an axe in

  her hand. She swings it hard through the air, like a bat. A practice chop.

  “Lady, you done lost it this time.” The rain is pouring down al over Miss Celia, but she doesn’t care. She starts chopping at that tree. Leaves

  are sprinkling down al over her, sticking in her hair.

  I set the platter of roast beef down on the kitchen table and watch, hoping this doesn’t turn into something. She bunches her mouth up, wipes

  the rain from her eyes. Instead of getting tired, every chop comes a little harder.

  “Miss Celia, come on out the rain,” I hol er. “Let Mister Johnny do that when he get home.”

  But she’s nothing doing. She’s made it halfway through that trunk and the tree’s starting to sway a little, drunk as my daddy. Final y I just plop

  down in the chair where Miss Celia was reading, wait for her to finish the job. I shake my head and look down at the newspaper. That’s when I see

  Miss Hil y’s note tucked underneath it and Miss Celia’s check for two hundred dol ars. I look a little closer. Along the bottom of the check, in the little space for the notes, Miss Celia’s written the words in pretty cursive handwriting: For Two-Slice Hilly.

  I hear a groan and see the tree crash to the ground. Leaves and dead fronds fly through the air, sticking al over her Butterbatch.

  MISS SKEETER

  CHAPTER 27

  I STARE AT THE PHONE in the kitchen. No one’s cal ed here in so long, it’s like a dead thing mounted to the wal . There’s a terrible quiet looming everywhere—at the library, at the drugstore where I pick up Mother’s medicine, on High Street where I buy typewriter ink, in our own house.

  President Kennedy’s assassination, less than two weeks ago, has struck the world dumb. It’s like no one wants to be the first to break the silence.

  Nothing seems important enough.

  On the rare occasion that the phone does ring lately, it’s Doctor Neal, cal ing with more bad test results, or a relative checking on Mother.

  And yet, I stil think Stuart sometimes, even though it’s been five months since he’s cal ed. Even though I final y broke down and told Mother we’d broken up. Mother looked shocked, as I suspected she would, but thankful y, just sighed.

  I take a deep breath, dial zero, and close myself up in the pantry. I tel the local operator the long distance number and wait.

  “Harper and Row, Publishers, how may I connect you?”

  “Elaine Stein’s office, please.”

  I wait for her secretary to come on the line, wishing I’d done this earlier. But it felt wrong to cal the week of Kennedy’s death and I heard on

  the news most offices were closed. Then it was Thanksgiving week and when I cal ed, the switchboard told me no one was answering in her office

  at al , so now I’m cal ing more than a week later than I’d planned.

  “Elaine Stein.”

  I blink, surprised it’s not her secretary. “Missus Stein, I’m sorry, this is—Eugenia Phelan. In Jackson, Mississippi.”

  “Yes…Eugenia.” She sighs, evidently irritated that she took the chance to answer her own phone.

  “I was cal ing to let you know that the manuscript wil be ready right after the new year. I’l be mailing it to you the second week of January.” I

  smile, having delivered my rehearsed lines perfectly.

  There is silence, except for an exhale of cigarette smoke. I shift on the flour can. “I’m…the one writing about the colored women? In

  Mississippi?”

  “Yes, I remember,” she says, but I can’t tel if she real y does. But then she says, “You’re the one who applied for the senior position. How is

  that project going?”

  “It’s almost finished. We just have two more interviews to complete and I was wondering if I should send it directly to your attention or to your

  secretary.”

  “Oh no, January is not acceptable.”

  “Eugenia? Are you in the house?” I hear Mother cal .

  I cover the phone. “Just a minute, Mama,” I cal back, knowing if I don’t, she’l barge in here.

  “The last editor’s meeting of the year is on December twenty-first,” Missus Stein continues. “If you want a chance at getting this read, I’ve got

  to have it in my hands by then. Otherwise it goes in The Pile. You don’t want to be in The Pile, Miss Phelan.”

  “But…you told me January…” Today is December second. That only gives me nineteen days to finish the entire thing.

  “December twenty-first is when everyone leaves for vacation and then in the new year we’re deluged with projects from our own list of

  authors and journalists. If you’re a nobody, as you are, Miss Phelan, before the twenty-first is your window. Your only window.”

  I swal ow, “I don’t know if…”

  “By the way, was that your mother you were speaking to? Do you stil live at home?”

  I try to think of a lie—she’s just visiting, she’s sick, she’s passing through, because I do not want Missus Stein to know that I’ve done nothing

  with my life. But then I sigh. “Yes, I stil live at home.”

  “And the Negro woman who raised you, I’m assuming she’s stil there?”

  “No, she’s gone.”

  “Mmm. Too bad. Do you know what happened to her? It’s just occurred to me, you’l need a section about your own maid.”

  I close my eyes, fighting frustration. “I don’t…know, honestly.”

  “Wel , find out and definitely get that in. It’l add something personal to al this.”

  “Yes ma’am,” I say, even though I have no idea how I’l finish two maids in time, much less write stories about Constantine. Just the thought

  of writing about her makes me wish, deeply, that she was here now.

  “Goodbye, Miss Phelan. I hope you make the deadline,” she says, but before she hangs up, she mutters, “and for God’s sake, you’re a

  twenty-four-year-old educated woman. Go get an apartment.”

  I GET OFF THE PHONE, stunned by the news of the deadline and Missus Stein’s insistence to get Constantine in the book. I know I need to get to work

  immediately, but I check on Mother in her bedroom. In the past three months, her ulcers have gotten much worse. She’s lost more weight and can’t

  get through two days without vomiting. Even Doctor Neal looked surprised when I brought her in for her appointment last week.

  Mother eyes me up and down from her bed. “Don’t you have bridge club today?”

  “It’s canceled. Elizabeth’s baby is colicky,” I lie. So many lies have been told, the room is thick with them. “How are you feeling?” I ask. The

  old white enamel bowl is next to her on the bed. “Have you been sick?”

  “I’m fine.
Don’t wrinkle your forehead like that, Eugenia. It’s not good for your complexion.”

  Mother stil doesn’t know that I’ve been kicked out of bridge club or that Patsy Joiner got a new tennis partner. I don’t get invited to cocktail

  parties or baby showers anymore, or any functions where Hil y wil be there. Except the League. At meetings, girls are short, to the point with me

  when discussing newsletter business. I try to convince myself I don’t care. I fix myself at my typewriter and don’t leave most days. I tel myself, that’s what you get when you put thirty-one toilets on the most popular girl’s front yard. People tend to treat you a little differently than before.

  IT WAS ALMOST FOUR MONTHS ago that the door was sealed shut between Hil y and me, a door made of ice so thick it would take a hundred Mississippi summers to melt it. It’s not as if I hadn’t expected consequences. I just hadn’t thought they’d last so long.

  Hil y’s voice over the phone was gravel y sounding, low, like she’d been yel ing al morning. “You are sick,” she hissed at me. “Do not speak

  to me, do not look at me. Do not say hel o to my children.”

  “Technical y it was a typo, Hil y,” was al I could think to say.

  “I am going over to Senator Whitworth’s house myself and tel ing him you, Skeeter Phelan, wil be a blight on his campaign in Washington. A

  wart on the face of his reputation if Stuart ever associates with you again!”

  I cringed at the mention of his name, even though we’d been broken up for weeks by then. I could imagine him looking away, not caring what

  I did anymore.

  “You turned my yard into some kind of a sideshow,” Hil y’d said. “Just how long have you been planning to humiliate my family?”

  What Hil y didn’t understand was, I hadn’t planned it at al . When I started typing out her bathroom initiative for the newsletter, typing words

  like disease and protect yourself and you’re welcome! , it was like something cracked open inside of me, not unlike a watermelon, cool and soothing and sweet. I always thought insanity would be a dark, bitter feeling, but it is drenching and delicious if you real y rol around in it. I’d paid Pascagoula’s brothers twenty-five dol ars each to put those junkyard pots onto Hil y’s lawn and they were scared, but wil ing to do it. I remember

  how dark the night had been. I remember feeling lucky that some old building had been gutted and there were so many toilets at the junkyard to

  choose from. Twice I’ve dreamed I was back there doing it again. I don’t regret it, but I don’t feel quite as lucky anymore.

  “And you cal yourself a Christian,” were Hil y’s final words to me and I thought, God. When did I ever do that?

  This November, Stooley Whitworth won the senator’s race for Washington. But Wil iam Holbrook lost the local election, to take his state

  seat. I’m quite sure Hil y blames me for this too. Not to mention al that work she’d put into setting me up with Stuart was for nothing.

  A FEW HOURS after talking to Missus Stein over the phone, I tiptoe back to check on Mother one last time. Daddy’s already asleep beside her. Mother

  has a glass of milk on the table. She’s propped up on her pil ows but her eyes are closed. She opens them as I’m peeking in.

  “Can I get you anything, Mama?”

  “I’m only resting because Doctor Neal told me to. Where are you going, Eugenia? It’s nearly seven o’clock.”

  “I’l be back in a little while. I’m just going for a drive.” I give her a kiss, hoping she doesn’t ask any more questions. When I close the door,

  she’s already fal en asleep.

  I drive fast through town. I dread tel ing Aibileen about the new deadline. The old truck rattles and bangs in the potholes. It’s in fast decline

  after another hard cotton season. My head practical y hits the ceiling because someone’s retied the seat springs too tight. I have to drive with the

  window down, my arm hanging out so the door won’t rattle. The front window has a new smash in it the shape of a sunset.

  I pul up to a light on State Street across from the paper company. When I look over, there’s Elizabeth and Mae Mobley and Raleigh al

  crammed in the front seat of their white Corvair, headed home from supper somewhere, I guess. I freeze, not daring to look over again, afraid she’l

  see me and ask what I’m doing in the truck. I let them drive ahead, watching their tail ights, fighting a hotness rising in my throat. It’s been a long time since I’ve talked to Elizabeth.

  After the toilet incident, Elizabeth and I struggled to stay friends. We stil talked on the phone occasional y. But she stopped saying more

  than a hel o and a few empty sentences to me at League meetings, because Hil y would see her. The last time I stopped by Elizabeth’s house was

  a month ago.

  “I can’t believe how big Mae Mobley’s gotten,” I’d said. Mae Mobley had smiled shyly, hid behind her mother’s leg. She was tal er but stil soft

  with baby fat.

  “Growing like a weed,” Elizabeth said, looking out the window, and I thought, what an odd thing to compare your child to. A weed.

  Elizabeth was stil in her bathrobe, hair rol ers in, already tiny again after the pregnancy. Her smile stayed tight. She kept looking at her

  watch, touching her curlers every few seconds. We stood around the kitchen.

  “Want to go to the club for lunch?” I asked. Aibileen swung through the kitchen door then. In the dining room, I caught a glimpse of silver and

  Battenburg lace.

  “I can’t and I hate to rush you out but…Mama’s meeting me at the Jewel Taylor Shoppe.” She shot her eyes out the front window again. “You

  know how Mama hates to wait.” Her smile grew exponential y.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, don’t let me keep you.” I patted her shoulder and headed for the door. And then it hit me. How could I be so dumb? It’s

  Wednesday, twelve o’clock. My old bridge club.

  I backed the Cadil ac down her drive, sorry that I’d embarrassed her so. When I turned, I saw her face stretched up to the window, watching

  me leave. And that’s when I realized: she wasn’t embarrassed that she’d made me feel bad. Elizabeth Leefolt was embarrassed to be seen with

  me.

  I PARK ON AIBILEEN’S STREET, several houses down from hers, knowing we need to be even more cautious than ever. Even though Hil y would never come

  to this part of town, she is a threat to us al now and I feel like her eyes are everywhere. I know the glee she would feel catching me doing this. I don’t underestimate how far she would go to make sure I suffered the rest of my life.

  It’s a crisp December night and a fine rain is just starting to fal . Head down, I hurry along the street. My conversation this afternoon with

  Missus Stein is stil racing through my head. I’ve been trying to prioritize everything left to do. But the hardest part is, I have to ask Aibileen, again, about what happened to Constantine. I cannot do a just job on Constantine’s story if I don’t know what’s happened to her. It defeats the point of the

  book, to put in only part of the story. It wouldn’t be tel ing the truth.

  I hurry into Aibileen’s kitchen. The look on my face must tel her something’s wrong.

  “What is it? Somebody see you?”

  “No,” I say, pul ing papers from my satchel. “I talked to Missus Stein this morning.” I tel her everything I know, about the deadline, about “The

  Pile.”

  “Alright, so…” Aibileen is counting days in her head, the same way I have been al afternoon. “So we got two and a half weeks stead a six

  weeks. Oh Law, that ain’t enough time. We stil got to finish writing the Louvenia section and smooth out Faye Bel e—and the Minny section, it ain’t

  right yet…Miss Skeeter, we ain’t even got a title yet.”

  I put my head in my hands. I feel like I�
��m slipping underwater. “That’s not al ,” I say. “She…wants me to write about Constantine. She asked

  me…what happened to her.”

  Aibileen sets her cup of tea down.

  “I can’t write it if I don’t know what happened, Aibileen. So if you can’t tel me…I was wondering if there’s someone else who wil .”

  Aibileen shakes her head. “I reckon they is,” she says, “but I don’t want nobody else tel ing you that story.”

  “Then…wil you?”

  Aibileen takes off her black glasses, rubs her eyes. She puts them back on and I expect to see a tired face. She’s worked al day and she’l

  be working even harder now to try to make the deadline. I fidget in my chair, waiting for her answer.

  But she doesn’t look tired at al . She’s sitting up straight and gives me a defiant nod. “I’l write it down. Give me a few days. I’l tel you ever

  thing that happened to Constantine.”

  I WORK FOR FIFTEEN HOURS straight on Louvenia’s interview. On Thursday night, I go to the League meeting. I’m dying to get out of the house, antsy from nerves, jittery about the deadline. The Christmas tree is starting to smel too rich, the spiced oranges sickly decadent. Mother is always cold and my

  parents’ house feels like I’m soaking in a vat of hot butter.

  I pause on the League steps, take in a deep breath of clean winter air. It’s pathetic, but I’m glad to stil have the newsletter. Once a week, I

  actual y feel like I’m a part of things. And who knows, maybe this time wil be different, with the holidays starting and al .

  But the minute I walk in, backs turn. My exclusion is tangible, as if concrete wal s have formed around me. Hil y gives me a smirk, whips her

  head around to speak to someone else. I go deeper into the crowd and see Elizabeth. She smiles and I wave. I want to talk to her about Mother, tel

  her I’m getting worried, but before I get too close, Elizabeth turns, head down, and walks away. I go to my seat. This is new, from her, here.

  Instead of my usual seat up front, I slip in the back row, angry that Elizabeth wouldn’t even say hel o. Beside me is Rachel Cole Brant. Rachel

  hardly ever comes to meetings, with three kids, working on her master’s in English from Mil saps Col ege. I wish we were better friends but I know

  she’s too busy. On my other side is damn Leslie Ful erbean and her cloud of hairspray. She must risk her life every time she lights a cigarette. I

  wonder, if I pushed the top of her head, would aerosol spray out of her mouth.

  Almost every girl in the room has her legs crossed, a lit cigarette in her hand. The smoke gathers and curls around the ceiling. I haven’t

  smoked in two months and the smel makes me feel il . Hil y steps up to the podium and announces the upcoming gimme-drives (coat drive, can

  drive, book drive, and a plain old money drive), and then we get to Hil y’s favorite part of the meeting, the trouble list. This is where she gets to cal out the names of anyone late on their dues or tardy for meetings or not fulfil ing their philanthropic duties. I’m always on the trouble list nowadays for something.

  Hil y’s wearing a red wool A-line dress with a cape coat over it, Sherlock Holmes–style, even though it’s hot as fire in here. Every once in a