The Help. Part 22

"Why, thank you," Miss Hilly say. Then she give me a real perplexed look, say, "Aibileen, you like having your own toilet, don't you?"

"Yes ma'am." She still talking about that pot even though it's been in there six months.

"Separate but equal," Miss Hilly say back to Miss Leefolt. "That's what Governor Ross Barnett says is right, and you can't argue with the government government."

Miss Leefolt clap her hand on her thigh like she got the most interesting thing to change the subject to. I'm with her. Let's discuss something else. "Did I tell you what Raleigh said the other day?"

But Miss Hilly shaking her head. "Aibileen, you wouldn't want to go to a school full of white people, would you?"

"No ma'am," I mumble. I get up and pull the ponytail holder out a Baby Girl's head. Them green plastic b.a.l.l.s get all tangly when her hair get wet. But what I really want to do is put my hands up over her ears so she can't hear this talk. And worse, hear me agreeing.

But then I think: Why? Why I have to stand here and agree with her? And if Mae Mobley gone hear it, she gone hear some sense. I get my breath. My heart beating hard. And I say polite as I can, "Not a school full a just white people. But where the colored and the white folks is together."

Hilly and Miss Leefolt both look at me. I look back down at the kids.

"But Aibileen Aibileen"--Miss Hilly smile real cold--"colored people and white people are just so . . . different different." She wrinkle up her nose.

I feel my lip curling. A course we different! Everbody know colored people and white people ain't the same. But we still just people! Shoot, I even been hearing Jesus had colored skin living out there in the desert. I press my lips together.

It don't matter though, cause Miss Hilly already moved on. Ain't nothing to her. She back to her low-down talk with Miss Leefolt. Out a nowhere, a big heavy cloud cover the sun. I spec we about to get a shower.

". . . government knows best and if Skeeter thinks she's going to get away with this colored non--"

"Mama! Mama! Look at me!" holler Heather from the pool. "Look at my pigtails!"

"I see you! I do! What with William running for office next--"

"Mama, give me your comb! I want to do beauty parlor!"

"--cannot have colored-supporting friends in my closet--"

"Mamaaaaa! Gimme your comb. Get your comb for me!"

"I read it. I found it in her satchel and I intend to take action."

And then Miss Hilly quiet, hunting for her comb in her pocketbook. Thunder boom over in South Jackson and way off we hear the wail a the tornado bell. I'm trying to make sense a what Miss Hilly just said: Miss Skeeter. Her satchel. I read it. Miss Skeeter. Her satchel. I read it.

I get the kids out the pool, swaddle em up in towels. The thunder come crashing out the sky.

A MINUTE AFTER dark, I'm setting at my kitchen table, twirling my pencil. My white-library copy a Huckleberry Finn Huckleberry Finn's in front a me, but I can't read it. I got a bad taste in my mouth, bitter, like coffee grounds in the last sip. I need to talk to Miss Skeeter.

I ain't never called her house except two times cause I had no choice, when I told her I'd work on the stories, and then to tell her Minny would too. I know it's risky. Still, I get up, put my hand on the wall phone. But what if her mama answer, or her daddy? I bet their maid gone home hours ago. How Miss Skeeter gone explain a colored woman calling her up on the telephone?

I set back down. Miss Skeeter come over here three days ago to talk to Minny. Seemed like everthing was fine. Nothing like when the police pull her over a few weeks ago. She didn't say nothing about Miss Hilly.

I huff in my chair awhile, wishing the phone would ring. I shoot up and race a c.o.c.kroach across the floor with my workshoe. c.o.c.kroach win. He crawl under that grocery bag a clothes Miss Hilly give me, been setting there for months.

I stare at the sack, start twirling that pencil in my hand again. I got to do something with that bag. I'm used to ladies giving me clothes--got white lady clothes out the wazoo, ain't had to buy my own clothes in thirty years. It always takes a while till they feel like mine. When Treelore was a little thing, I put on a old coat from some lady I's waiting on and Treelore, he look at me funny, back away. Say I smell white.

But this bag is different. Even what would fit me in that paper sack, I can't wear. Can't give to my friends either. Ever piece in that bag--the culotte pants, the shirt with the Peter Pan collar, the pink jacket with the gravy stain on it, even the socks--they all got the letters H.W.H. H.W.H. sewn in. Red thread, pretty little cursive letters. I reckon Yule May had to sew them letters. Wearing those, I'd feel like I's personal-owned property a Hilly W. Holbrook. sewn in. Red thread, pretty little cursive letters. I reckon Yule May had to sew them letters. Wearing those, I'd feel like I's personal-owned property a Hilly W. Holbrook.

I get up and kick at the bag, but the c.o.c.kroach don't come out. So I take out my notebook, intending to start on my prayers, but I'm just too deep worrying about Miss Hilly. Wondering what she meant when she said Read it. Read it.

After while, my mind done drifted to where I wish it wouldn't. I reckon I know pretty well what would happen if the white ladies found out we was writing about them, telling the truth a what they really like. Womens, they ain't like men. A woman ain't gone beat you with a stick. Miss Hilly wouldn't pull no pistol on me. Miss Leefolt wouldn't come burn my house down.

No, white womens like to keep they hands clean. They got a shiny little set a tools they use, sharp as witches' fingernails, tidy and laid out neat, like the picks on a dentist tray. They gone take they time with em.

First thing a white lady gone do is fire you. You upset, but you figure you'll find another job, when things settle down, when the white lady get around to forgetting. You got a month a rent saved. People bring you squash ca.s.seroles.

But then a week after you lost your job, you get this little yellow envelope stuck in your screen door. Paper inside say NOTICE Of EVICTION. Ever landlord in Jackson be white and ever one got a white wife that's friends with somebody. You start to panic some then. You still ain't got no job prospects. Everwhere you try, the door slams in your face. And now you ain't got a place to live.

Then it starts to come a little faster.

If you got a note on your car, they gone repossess it.

If you got a parking ticket you ain't paid, you going to jail.

If you got a daughter, maybe you go live with her. She tend to a white family a her own. But a few days later she come home, say, "Mama? I just got fired." She look hurt, scared. She don't understand why. You got to tell her it's cause a you.

Least her husband still working. Least they can feed the baby.

Then they fire her husband. Just another little sharp tool, shiny and fine.

They both pointing at you, crying, wondering why you done it. You can't even remember why. Weeks pa.s.s and nothing, no jobs, no money, no house. You hope this is the end of it, that she done enough, she ready to forget.

It'll be a knock on the door, late at night. It won't be the white lady at the door. She don't do that kind a thing herself. But while the nightmare's happening, the burning or the cutting or the beating, you realize something you known all your life: the white lady don't ever ever forget. forget.

And she ain't gone stop till you dead.

THE NEXT MORNING, Miss Skeeter pull her Cadillac up in Miss Leefolt's driveway. I got raw chicken on my hands and a flame on the stovetop and Mae Mobley whining cause she starving to death but I can't stand it another second. I walk in the dining room with my dirty hands up in the air.

Miss Skeeter, she asking Miss Leefolt about a list a girls who serving on a committee and Miss Leefolt say, "The head of the cupcake committee is Eileen," and Miss Skeeter say, "But the cupcake committee chairman is Roxanne," and Miss Leefolt say, "No, the cupcake co-chair is Roxanne and Eileen is the cupcake head," and I'm getting so p.e.c.k.e.rtated over this cupcake talk I want to poke Miss Skeeter with my raw-chicken finger but I know better than to interrupt so I don't. There ain't no talk at all about the satchel.

Before I know it, Miss Skeeter out the door.

Law.

That night after supper, me and that c.o.c.kroach stare each other down across the kitchen floor. He big, inch, inch an a half. He black. Blacker than me. He making a crackling sound with his wings. I got my shoe in my hand.

The phone ring and we both jump.

"Hey, Aibileen," Miss Skeeter say and I hear a door shut. "Sorry to call so late."

I breathe out. "I'm glad you did."

"I was just calling to see if you had any... word. From any other maids, I mean."

Miss Skeeter sound strange. Tight in the jaw. Lately, she been glowing like a firefly she so in love. My heart start drumming. Still, I don't jump right in with my questions. I ain't sure why.

"I asked Corrine who work at the Cooleys. She say no. Then Rhonda, and Rhonda's sister who wait on the Millers... but both a them say no too."

"What about Yule May? Have you . . . talked to her recently?"

I wonder then if that's why Miss Skeeter acting strange. See, I told Miss Skeeter a fib. I told her a month ago I asked Yule May, but I didn't. It's not just that I don't know Yule May well. It's that she Miss Hilly Holbrook's maid, and anything having to do with that name make me nervous.

"Not real recent. Maybe . . . I try her again," I lie, hating it.

Then I get back to jiggling my pencil. Ready to tell her what Miss Hilly said.

"Aibileen," Miss Skeeter voice gone all shaky, "I have to tell you something."

Miss Skeeter get quiet and it's like them eerie seconds before a funnel cloud drop.

"What happen, Miss Skeeter?"

"I . . . left my satchel. At the League. Hilly picked it up."

I squint my eyes, feel like I ain't hearing too good. "The red one?"

She don't reply.

"Aw . . . Law. Law." This all starting to make a sick sense.

"The stories were in a flap pocket. On the side, in another folder. I think all she saw were Jim Crow laws, some . . . booklet I'd picked up at the library but . . . I can't say for sure."

"Oh Miss Skeeter Skeeter," I say and shut my eyes. G.o.d help me, G.o.d help Minny Minny . . . . . .

"I know. I know know," Miss Skeeter say and start to cry into the phone.

"Alright. Alright, now." I try to make myself swallow my anger down. It was a accident, I tell myself. Kicking her ain't gone do us no good.

But still. still.

"Aibileen, I am so so so sorry." sorry."

There's a few seconds a nothing but heart-pumping. Real slow and scary, my brain start ticking through the few facts she given me, what I know myself.

"How long ago this happen?" I ask.

"Three days ago. I wanted to find out what she knew before I told you."

"You talked to Miss Hilly?"

"Just for a second when I picked it up. But I've talked to Elizabeth and Lou Anne and probably four other girls who know Hilly. n.o.body's said anything about it. That was... that was why I asked about Yule May," she say. "I was wondering if she'd heard anything at work."

I draw in a breath, hating what I have to tell her. "I heard it. Yesterday. Miss Hilly was talking to Miss Leefolt about it."

Miss Skeeter don't say nothing. I feel like I'm waiting for a brick to come slamming through my window.

"She talking about Mister Holbrook running for office and how you supporting colored people and she say . . . she read something." Saying it out loud now, I'm shaking. And still bobbing the pencil between my fingers.

"Did she say anything about maids?" Miss Skeeter ask. "I mean, was she only upset with me or did she mention you or Minny?"

"No, just . . . you."

"Okay." Miss Skeeter blow air into the phone. She sound upset, but she don't know what could happen to me, to Minny. She don't know about them sharp, shiny utensils a white lady use. About that knock on the door, late at night. That there are white men out there hungry hungry to hear about a colored person crossing whites, ready with they wooden bats, matchsticks. Any little thing'll do. to hear about a colored person crossing whites, ready with they wooden bats, matchsticks. Any little thing'll do.

"I-I can't say a hundred percent, but . . ." Miss Skeeter say, "if Hilly knew anything about the book or you or especially especially Minny, she'd be spreading it all over town." Minny, she'd be spreading it all over town."

I think on this, wanting so hard to believe her. "It's true, she do not like Minny Jackson."

"Aibileen," Miss Skeeter say, and I hear her start to break down again. That calm-down in her voice is cracking. "We can stop. I understand completely if you want to stop working on it."

If I say I don't want a do it anymore, then everthing I been writing and still have to write ain't gone get to be said. No, No, I think. I I think. I don't don't want a stop. I'm surprised by how loud I think it. want a stop. I'm surprised by how loud I think it.

"If Miss Hilly know, she know," I say. "Stopping ain't gone save us now."

I DON'T SEE, hear, or smell Miss Hilly for two days. Even when I ain't holding a pencil, my fingers is jiggling it, in my pocket, on the kitchen counter, thumping like drumsticks. I got to find out what's inside Miss Hilly's head.

Miss Leefolt leave Yule May three messages for Miss Hilly, but she always at Mister Holbrook's office--the "campaign H.Q." is what Miss Hilly been calling it. Miss Leefolt sigh, hang up the phone like she just don't know how her brain gone operate without Miss Hilly coming over to push the Think b.u.t.tons. Ten times Baby Girl ask when little Heather gone come play in the plastic pool again. I reckon they'll be good friends growing up, with Miss Hilly teaching them both how things is. By that afternoon, we all wandering around the house, jiggling our fingers, wondering when Miss Hilly gone show up again.

After while, Miss Leefolt go to the material store. Say she gone make a cover for something. She don't know what. Mae Mobley look at me and I reckon we thinking the same thing: that woman'd cover us both up if she could.

I HAVE TO WORK REAL LATE that evening. I feed Baby Girl supper and put her to bed, cause Mister and Miss Leefolt gone to see a picture at the Lamar. Mister Leefolt promise he take her and she hold him to it, even though it's only the late show left. When they get home, they yawning, crickets is cricking. Other houses, I'd sleep in the maid's room, but they ain't one here. I kind a hang around thinking Mister Leefolt gone offer to drive me home, but he just go right to bed.

Outside, in the dark, I walk all the way up to Riverside, about ten minutes away, where they run a late bus for the nighttime water-plant workers. The breeze is good enough keep the mosquitoes off. I sit on the edge a the park, in the gra.s.s under the streetlight. Bus come after while. Ain't but four people on there, two colored, two white, all mens. I don't know any of em. I take a window seat behind a thin colored fella. He got on a brown suit and a brown hat, be about my age.

We cross the bridge, head in the direction a the colored hospital, where the bus make its turn. I got my prayer book out so I can write some things down. I concentrate on Mae Mobley, try to keep my mind off Miss Hilly. Show me how to teach Baby Girl to be kind, to love herself; to love others, while I got time with her... Show me how to teach Baby Girl to be kind, to love herself; to love others, while I got time with her...

I look up. The bus done stopped in the middle a the road. I lean over into the aisle, see a few blocks up they's blue lights flashing in the dark, people standing around, a road block.

White driver stare ahead. He turn off the motor and my seat go still, feel strange. He straighten his driver's hat, hop out the seat. "Y'all stay put. Let me find out what's going on."

So we all set there in the quiet, waiting. I hear a dog barking, not a house dog, but the kind that sound like he yelling at you. After a full five minutes, driver get back on the bus, start the motor again. He toot his horn, wave his hand out the window, and start backing up real slow.

"Wha happen up there?" colored man in front a me call to the driver.

Driver don't answer. He keep backing up. The flashing lights is getting smaller, the dog barking fading off. Driver turn the bus around on Farish Street. At the next corner, he stop. "Colored people off, last stop for you," he holler in the rearview. "White people lemme know where y'all need to get to. I'll get you close as I can."

The colored man look back at me. I guess we both ain't got a good feeling. He stand up so I do too. I follow him to the front door. It's eerie quiet, just the sound a our feets.

White man lean up to the driver, say, "What's going on?"

I follow the colored man down the steps a the bus. Behind me, I hear the driver say, "I don't know, some n.i.g.g.e.r got shot. Where you headed?"

The door swish closed. Oh Law, I think, please don't let this be any a my peoples.

Ain't a sound on Farish Street, or a person, cept us two. The man look at me. "You alright? You close to home?"