The Help. Part 43

I write about what Aibileen told me, that Constantine had a daughter and had to give her up so she could work for our family--the Millers I call us, after Henry, my favorite banned author. I don't put in that Constantine's daughter was high yellow; I just want to show that Constantine's love for me began with missing her own child. Perhaps that's what made it so unique, so deep. It didn't matter that I was white. While she was wanting her own daughter back, I was longing for Mother not to be disappointed in me.

For two days, I write all the way through my childhood, my college years, where we sent letters to each other every week. But then I stop and listen to Mother coughing downstairs. I hear Daddy's footsteps, going to her. I light a cigarette and stub it out, thinking, Don't start up again. Don't start up again. The toilet water rushes through the house, filled with a little more of my mother's body. I light another cigarette and smoke it down to my fingers. I can't write about what's in Aibileen's letter. The toilet water rushes through the house, filled with a little more of my mother's body. I light another cigarette and smoke it down to my fingers. I can't write about what's in Aibileen's letter.

That afternoon, I call Aibileen at home. "I can't put it in the book," I tell her. "About Mother and Constantine. I'll end it when I go to college. I just . . ."

"Miss Skeeter--"

"I know I should. I know I should be sacrificing as much as you and Minny and all of you. But I can't do that to my mother."

"No one expects you to, Miss Skeeter. Truth is, I wouldn't think real high a you if you did."

THE NEXT EVENING, I go to the kitchen for some tea.

"Eugenia? Are you downstairs?"

I tread back to Mother's room. Daddy's not in bed yet. I hear the television on out in the relaxing room. "I'm here, Mama."

She is in bed at six in the evening, the white bowl by her side. "Have you been crying? You know how that ages your skin, dear."

I sit in the straight cane chair beside her bed. I think about how I should begin. Part of me understands why Mother acted the way she did, because really, wouldn't anyone be angry about what Lulabelle did? But I need to hear my mother's side of the story. If there's anything redeeming about my mother that Aibileen left out of the letter, I want to know.

"I want to talk about Constantine," I say.

"Oh Eugenia," Mother chides and pats my hand. "That was almost two years ago."

"Mama," I say and make myself look into her eyes. Even though she is terribly thin and her collarbone is long and narrow beneath her skin, her eyes are still as sharp as ever. "What happened? What happened with her daughter?"

Mother's jaw tightens and I can tell she's surprised that I know about her. I wait for her to refuse to talk about it, as before. She takes a deep breath, moves the white bowl a little closer to her, says, "Constantine sent her up to Chicago to live. She couldn't take care of her."

I nod and wait.

"They're different that way, you know. Those people have children and don't think about the consequences until it's too late."

They, those people. It reminds me of Hilly. Mother sees it on my face, too. It reminds me of Hilly. Mother sees it on my face, too.

"Now you look, I was good to Constantine. Oh, she talked back plenty of times and I put up with it. But Skeeter, she didn't give me a choice this time."

"I know, Mother. I know what happened."

"Who told you? Who else knows about this?" I see the paranoia rising in Mother's eyes. It is her greatest fear coming true, and I feel sorry for her.

"I will never tell you who told me. All I can say is, it was no one . . . important to you," I say. "I can't believe you would do that, Mother."

"How dare you judge me, after what she did. Do you really know what happened? Were you there?" I see the old anger, an obstinate woman who's survived years of bleeding ulcers.

"That girl--" She shakes her k.n.o.bby finger at me. "She showed up here. I had the entire DAR chapter at the house. You were up at school and the doorbell was ringing nonstop and Constantine was in the kitchen, making all that coffee over since the old percolator burned the first two pots right up." Mother waves away the remembered reek of scorched coffee. "They were all in the living room having cake, ninety-five people people in the house, and she's drinking coffee. She's talking to Sarah von Sistern and walking around the house like a guest and sticking cake in her mouth and then she's filling out the form to become a in the house, and she's drinking coffee. She's talking to Sarah von Sistern and walking around the house like a guest and sticking cake in her mouth and then she's filling out the form to become a member member."

Again I nod. Maybe I didn't know those details, but they don't change what happened.

"She looked white as anybody, and she knew it too. She knew exactly what she was doing and so I say, How do you do? How do you do? and she laughs and says, and she laughs and says, Fine, Fine, so I say, so I say, And what is your name? And what is your name? and she says, and she says, You mean you don't know? I'm Lulabelle Bates. I'm grown now and I've moved back in with Mama. I got here yesterday morning. You mean you don't know? I'm Lulabelle Bates. I'm grown now and I've moved back in with Mama. I got here yesterday morning. And then she goes over to help herself to another piece of cake." And then she goes over to help herself to another piece of cake."

"Bates," I say, because this is another detail I didn't know, albeit insignificant. "She changed her last name back to Constantine's."

"Thank G.o.d n.o.body heard her. But then she starts talking to Phoebe Miller, the president of the Southern States of the DAR, and I pulled her into the kitchen and I said, Lulabelle, you can't stay here. You need to go on, Lulabelle, you can't stay here. You need to go on, and oh she looked at me haughty. She said, and oh she looked at me haughty. She said, What, you don't allow colored Negroes in your living room if we're not cleaning up? What, you don't allow colored Negroes in your living room if we're not cleaning up? That's when Constantine walks in the kitchen and she looks as shocked as I am. I say, That's when Constantine walks in the kitchen and she looks as shocked as I am. I say, Lulabelle, you get out of this house before I call Mister Phelan, Lulabelle, you get out of this house before I call Mister Phelan, but she won't budge. Says, when I thought she was white, I treated her fine and dandy. Says up in Chicago, she's part of some black cat group so I tell Constantine, I say, but she won't budge. Says, when I thought she was white, I treated her fine and dandy. Says up in Chicago, she's part of some black cat group so I tell Constantine, I say, You get your daughter out of my house right now. You get your daughter out of my house right now."

Mother's eyes seem more deep-set than ever. Her nostrils are flaring.

"So Constantine, she tells Lulabelle to go on back to their house, and Lulabelle says, Fine, I was leaving anyway Fine, I was leaving anyway, and heads for the dining room and of course I stop her. Oh no, Oh no, I say, I say, you go out the back door, not the front with the white guests. you go out the back door, not the front with the white guests. I was not about to have the DAR find out about this. And I told that bawdy girl, whose own mama we gave ten dollars extra to every Christmas, she was I was not about to have the DAR find out about this. And I told that bawdy girl, whose own mama we gave ten dollars extra to every Christmas, she was not not to step foot on this farm to step foot on this farm again. again. And do you know what she did?" And do you know what she did?"

Yes, I think, but I keep my face blank. I am still searching for the redemption. I think, but I keep my face blank. I am still searching for the redemption.

"Spit. In my face. A Negro in my home. Trying to act white."

I shudder. Who would ever have the nerve to spit at my mother?

"I told Constantine that girl better not show her face here again. Not to Hotstack, not to the state of Mississippi. Nor would I tolerate her keeping terms with Lulabelle, not as long as your daddy was paying Constantine's rent on that house back there."

"But it was Lulabelle acting that way. Not Constantine."

"What if she stayed? I couldn't have that girl going around Jackson, acting white when she was colored, telling everybody she got into a DAR party at Longleaf. I just thank G.o.d n.o.body ever found out about it. She tried to embarra.s.s me in my own home, Eugenia. Five minutes before, she had Phoebe Miller filling out the form for her to join. join."

"She hadn't seen her daughter in twenty years. You can't . . . tell a person they can't see their child."

But Mother is caught up in her own story. "And Constantine, she thought she could get me to change my mind. Miss Phelan, please, just let her stay at the house, she won't come on this side again, I hadn't seen her in so long. Miss Phelan, please, just let her stay at the house, she won't come on this side again, I hadn't seen her in so long.

"And that Lulabelle, with her hand up on her hip, saying, 'Yeah, my daddy died and my mama was too sick to take care of me when I was a baby. She had to give me away. You can't keep us apart.' "

Mother lowers her voice. She seems matter-of-fact now. "I looked at Constantine and I felt so much shame for her. To get pregnant in the first place and then to lie . . ."

I feel sick and hot. I'm ready for this to be over.

Mother narrows her eyes. "It's time you learned, Eugenia, how things really are. You idolize Constantine too much. You always have." She points her finger at me. "They are not like regular people. people."

I can't look at her. I close my eyes. "And then what happened, Mother?"

"I asked Constantine, just as plain as day, 'Is that what you told her? Is that how you cover your mistakes?' "

This is the part I was hoping wasn't true. This is what I'd hoped Aibileen had been wrong about.

"I told Lulabelle the truth. I told her, 'Your daddy didn't die. die. He left the day after you were born. And your mama hadn't been sick a day in her life. She gave you up because you were too high yellow. She didn't want you.'" He left the day after you were born. And your mama hadn't been sick a day in her life. She gave you up because you were too high yellow. She didn't want you.'"

"Why couldn't you let her believe what Constantine told her? Constantine was so scared she wouldn't like her, that's why she told her those things."

"Because Lulabelle needed to know the truth. She needed to go back to Chicago where she belonged."

I let my head sink into my hands. There is no redeeming piece of the story. I know why Aibileen hadn't wanted to tell me. A child should never know this about her own mother.

"I never thought Constantine would go to Illinois with her, Eugenia. Honestly, I was . . . sorry to see her go."

"You weren't," I say. I think about Constantine, after living fifty years in the country, sitting in a tiny apartment in Chicago. How lonely she must've felt. How bad her knees must've felt in that cold.

"I was. And even though I told her not to write you, she probably would've, if there'd been more time."

"More time?"

"Constantine died, Skeeter. I sent her a check, for her birthday. To the address I found for her daughter, but Lulabelle . . . sent it back. With a copy of the obituary."

"Constantine . . ." I cry. I wish I'd known. "Why didn't you tell me, Mama?" . . ." I cry. I wish I'd known. "Why didn't you tell me, Mama?"

Mother sniffs, keeping her eyes straight ahead. She quickly wipes her eyes. "Because I knew you'd blame me when it--it wasn't my fault."

"When did she die? How long was she living in Chicago?" I ask.

Mother pulls the basin closer, hugs it to her side. "Three weeks."

AIBILEEN OPENS HER back DOOR, lets me in. Minny is sitting at the table, stirring her coffee. When she sees me, she tugs the sleeve of her dress down, but I see the edge of a white bandage on her arm. She grumbles a h.e.l.lo, then goes back to her cup.

I put the ma.n.u.script down on the table with a thump.

"If I mail it in the morning, that still leaves six days for it to get there. We might just make it." I smile through my exhaustion.

"Law, that is something. Look at all them pages." Aibileen grins and sits on her stool. "Two hundred and sixty-six of em."

"Now we just . . . wait and see," I say and we all three stare at the stack.

"Finally," Minny says, and I can see the hint of something, not exactly a smile, but more like satisfaction.

The room grows quiet. It's dark outside the window. The post office is already closed so I brought it over to show to Aibileen and Minny one last time before I mail it. Usually, I only bring over sections at a time.

"What if they find out?" Aibleen says quietly.

Minny looks up from her coffee.

"What if folks find out Niceville is Jackson or figure out who who."

"They ain't gone know," Minny says. "Jackson ain't no special place. They's ten thousand towns just like it."

We haven't talked about this in a while, and besides Winnie's comment about tongues, we've haven't really discussed the actual consequences besides the maids losing their jobs. For the past eight months, all we've thought about is just getting it written.

"Minny, you got your kids to think about," Aibileen says. "And Leroy . . . if he find out . . ."

The sureness in Minny's eyes changes to something darting, paranoid. "Leroy gone be mad. Sho nuff." She tugs at her sleeve again. "Mad then sad, if the white people catch hold a me."

"You think maybe we ought to find a place we could go . . . in case it get bad?" Aibileen asks.

They both think about this, then shake their heads. "I on know where we'd go," Minny says.

"You might think about that, Miss Skeeter. Somewhere for yourself," Aibileen says.

"I can't leave Mother," I say. I've been standing and I sink down into a chair. "Aibileen, do you really think they'd . . . hurt us? I mean, like what's in the papers?"

Aibileen c.o.c.ks her head at me, confused. She wrinkles her forehead like we've had a misunderstanding. "They'd beat us. They'd come out here with baseball bats. Maybe they won't kill us but . . ."

"But . . . who exactly would do this? The white women we've written about . . . they wouldn't hurt us. Would they?" I ask.

"Don't you know, white mens like nothing better than 'protecting' the white womens a their town?"

My skin p.r.i.c.kles. I'm not so afraid for myself, but for what I've done to Aibileen, to Minny. To Louvenia and Faye Belle and eight other women. The book is sitting there on the table. I want to put it in my satchel and hide it.

Instead, I look to Minny because, for some reason, I think she's the only one among us who really understands what could happen. She doesn't look back at me, though. She is lost in thought. She's running her thumbnail back and forth across her lip.

"Minny? What do you think?" I ask.

Minny keeps her eyes on the window, nods at her own thoughts. "I think what we need is some insurance insurance."

"Ain't no such thing," Aibileen says. "Not for us."

"What if we put the Terrible Awful in the book," Minny asks.

"We can't, Minny," Aibileen says. "It'd give us away."

"But if we put it in there, then Miss Hilly can't can't let anybody find out the book is about Jackson. She don't want let anybody find out the book is about Jackson. She don't want anybody anybody to know that story's about her. And if they start getting close to figuring it out, she gone steer em the other way." to know that story's about her. And if they start getting close to figuring it out, she gone steer em the other way."

"Law, Minny, that is too risky. n.o.body can predict what that woman gone do."

"n.o.body know that story but Miss Hilly and her own mama," Minny says. "And Miss Celia, but she ain't got no friends to tell anyway."

"What happened?" I ask. "Is it really that that terrible?" terrible?"

Aibileen looks at me. My eyebrows go up.

"Who she gone admit that to?" Minny asks Aibileen. "She ain't gone want you and Miss Leefolt to get identified either, Aibileen, cause then people gone be just one step away. I'm telling you, Miss Hilly is the best protection we got."

Aibileen shakes her head, then nods. Then shakes it again. We watch her and wait.

"If we put the Terrible Awful in the book and people do do find out that was you and Miss Hilly, then you in so much trouble"--Aibileen shudders--"there ain't even a name for it." find out that was you and Miss Hilly, then you in so much trouble"--Aibileen shudders--"there ain't even a name for it."

"That's a risk I'm just gone have to take. I already made up my mind. Either put it in or pull my part out altogether."

Aibileen and Minny's eyes hang on each other's. We can't pull out Minny's section; it's the last chapter of the book. It's about getting fired nineteen times in the same small town. About what it's like trying to keep the anger inside, but never succeeding. It starts with her mother's rules of how to work for white women, all the way up to leaving Missus Walters. I want to speak up, but I keep my mouth shut.

Finally, Aibileen sighs.

"Alright," Aibileen says, shaking her head. "I reckon you better tell her, then."

Minny narrows her eyes at me. I pull out a pencil and pad.

"I'm only telling you for the book, you understand. Ain't n.o.body sharing no heartfelt secrets here."