The Help. Part 5

She gives me a worried frown. I guess she didn't expect the maid to be so good at math. Finally she says, "Okay."

Then I tell her she needs to go on in the living room, let me do my work in here. When she's gone, I eyeball the room, at how neat it all looks. Real slow, I open her closet and just like I thought, forty-five things fall down on my head. Then I look under the bed and find enough dirty clothes to where I bet she's hasn't washed in months.

Every drawer is a wreck, every hidden cranny full of dirty clothes and wadded-up stockings. I find fifteen boxes of new shirts for Mister Johnny so he won't know she can't wash and iron. Finally, I lift up that funny-looking pink s.h.a.g rug. Underneath, there's a big, deep stain the color of rust. I shudder.

THAT AFTERNOON, Miss Celia and I make a list of what to cook that week, and the next morning I do the grocery shopping. But it takes me twice as long because I have to drive all the way to the white Jitney Jungle in town instead of the colored Piggly Wiggly by me since I figure she won't eat food from a colored grocery store and I reckon I don't blame her, with the potatoes having inch-long eyes and the milk almost sour. When I get to work, I'm ready to fight with her over all the reasons I'm late, but there Miss Celia is on the bed like before, smiling like it doesn't matter. All dressed up and going nowhere. For five hours she sits there, reading the magazines. The only time I see her get up is for a gla.s.s of milk or to pee. But I don't ask. I'm just the maid.

After I clean the kitchen, I go in the formal living room. I stop in the doorway and give that grizzly bear a good long stare. He's seven feet tall and baring his teeth. His claws are long, curled, witchy-looking. At his feet lays a bone-handled hunting knife. I get closer and see his fur's nappy with dust. There's a cobweb between his jaws.

First, I swat at the dust with my broom, but it's thick, matted up in his fur. All this does is move the dust around. So I take a cloth and try and wipe him down, but I squawk every time that wiry hair touches my hand. White White people. I mean, I have cleaned everything from refrigerators to rear ends but what makes that lady think I know how to clean a d.a.m.n grizzly bear? people. I mean, I have cleaned everything from refrigerators to rear ends but what makes that lady think I know how to clean a d.a.m.n grizzly bear?

I go get the Hoover. I suck the dirt off and except for a few spots where I sucked too hard and thinned him, I think it worked out pretty good.

After I'm done with the bear, I dust the fancy books n.o.body reads, the Confederate coat b.u.t.tons, the silver pistol. On a table is a gold picture frame of Miss Celia and Mister Johnny at the altar and I look close to see what kind of man he is. I'm hoping he's fat and short-legged in case it comes to running, but he's not anywhere close. He's strong, tall, thick. And he's no stranger either. Lord. He's the one who went steady with Miss Hilly all those years when I first worked for Miss Walters. I never met him, but I saw him enough times to be sure. I shiver, my fears tripling. Because that alone says more about that man than anything.

AT ONE O'CLOCK, Miss Celia comes in the kitchen and says she's ready for her first cooking lesson. She settles on a stool. She's wearing a tight red sweater and a red skirt and enough makeup to scare a hooker.

"What you know how to cook already?" I ask.

She thinks this over, wrinkling her forehead. "Maybe we could just start at the beginning."

"Must be something you know. What your mama teach you growing up?"

She looks down at the webby feet of her panty hose, says, "I can cook corn pone."

I can't help but laugh. "What else you know how to do sides corn pone?"

"I can boil potatoes." Her voice drops even quieter. "And I can do grits. We didn't have electric current out where I lived. But I'm ready to learn right. On a real stovetop."

Lord. I've never met a white person worse off than me except for crazy Mister Wally, lives behind the Canton feed store and eats the cat food.

"You been feeding your husband grits and corn pone ever day?"

Miss Celia nods. "But you'll teach me to cook right, won't you?"

"I'll try," I say, even though I've never told a white woman what to do and I don't really know how to start. I pull up my hose, think about it. Finally, I point to the can on the counter.

"I reckon if there's anything you ought a know about cooking, it's this."

"That's just lard, ain't it?"

"No, it ain't just lard," I say. "It's the most important invention in the kitchen since jarred mayonnaise."

"What's so special about"--she wrinkles her nose at it--"pig fat?"

"Ain't pig pig, it's vegetable." Who in this world doesn't know what Crisco is? "You don't have a clue of all the things you can do with this here can."

She shrugs. "Fry?"

"Ain't just for frying. You ever get a sticky something stuck in your hair, like gum?" I jackhammer my finger on the Crisco can. "That's right, Crisco. Spread this on a baby's bottom, you won't even know what diaper rash is." I plop three scoops in the black skillet. "Shoot, I seen ladies rub it under they eyes and on they husband's scaly feet."

"Look how pretty it is," she says. "Like white cake frosting."

"Clean the goo from a price tag, take the squeak out a door hinge. Lights get cut off, stick a wick in it and burn it like a candle."

I turn on the flame and we watch it melt down in the pan. "And after all that, it'll still fry your chicken."

"Alright," she says, concentrating hard. "What's next?"

"Chicken's been soaking in the b.u.t.termilk," I say. "Now mix up the dry." I pour flour, salt, more salt, pepper, paprika, and a pinch of cayenne into a doubled paper sack.

"Now. Put the chicken parts in the bag and shake it."

Miss Celia puts a raw chicken thigh in, b.u.mps the bag around. "Like this? Just like the Shake 'n Bake commercials on the tee-vee?"

"Yeah," I say and run my tongue up over my teeth because if that's not an insult, I don't know what is. "Just like the Shake 'n Bake." But then I freeze. I hear the sound of a car motor out on the road. I hold still and listen. I see Miss Celia's eyes are big and she's listening too. We're thinking the same thing: What if it's him and where will I hide?

The car motor pa.s.ses. We both breathe again.

"Miss Celia," I grit my teeth, "how come you can't tell your husband about me? Ain't he gone know when the cooking gets good?"

"Oh, I didn't think of that! Maybe we ought to burn the chicken a little."

I look at her sideways. I ain't burning no chicken. She didn't answer the real question, but I'll get it out of her soon enough.

Real careful, I lay the dark meat in the pan. It bubbles up like a song and we watch the thighs and legs turn brown. I look over and Miss Celia's smiling at me.

"What? Something on my face?"

"No," she says, tears coming up in her eyes. She touches my arm. "I'm just real grateful you're here."

I move my arm back from under her hand. "Miss Celia, you got a lot more to be grateful for than me."

"I know." She looks at her fancy kitchen like it's something that tastes bad. "I never dreamed I'd have this much."

"Well, ain't you lucky."

"I've never been happier in my whole life."

I leave it at that. Underneath all that happy, she sure doesn't look happy.

THAT NIGHT, I call AIBILEEN.

"Miss Hilly was at Miss Leefolt's yesterday," Aibileen says. "She ask if anybody knew where you was working."

"Lordy, she find me out there, she ruirn it for sure." It's been two weeks since the Terrible Awful Thing I did to that woman. I know she'd just love to see me fired on the spot.

"What Leroy say when you told him you got the job?" Aibileen asks.

"Shoot. He strut around the kitchen like a plumed rooster cause he in front a the kids," I say. "Act like he the only one supporting the family and I'm just doing this to keep my poor self entertained. Later on though, we in bed and I thought my big old bull for a husband gone cry."

Aibileen laughs. "Leroy got a lot a pride."

"Yeah, I just got to make sure Mister Johnny don't catch up with me."

"And she ain't told you why she don't want him to know?"

"All she say is she want him to think she can do the cooking and the cleaning herself. But that ain't why. She hiding something from him."

"Ain't it funny how this worked out. Miss Celia can't tell n.o.body, else it'll get back to Mister Johnny. So Miss Hilly won't find out, cause Miss Celia can't tell n.o.body. You couldn't a fixed it up better yourself."

"Mm-hmm" is all I say. I don't want to sound ungrateful, since Aibileen's the one who got me the job. But I can't help but think that I've just doubled my trouble, what with Miss Hilly and now Mister Johnny too.

"Minny, I been meaning to ask you." Aibileen clears her throat. "You know that Miss Skeeter?"

"Tall one, used to come over to Miss Walters for bridge?"

"Yeah, what you think about her?"

"I don't know, she white just like the rest of em. Why? What she say about me?"

"Nothing about you," Aibileen says. "She just . . . a few weeks ago, I don't know why I keep thinking about it. She ask me something. Ask do I want to change things. White woman never asked--"

But then Leroy stumbles in from the bedroom wanting his coffee before his late shift.

"Shoot, he's up," I say. "Talk quick."

"Naw, never mind. It's nothing," Aibileen says.

"What? What's going on? What that lady tell you?"

"It was just jabber. It was nonsense."

chapter 4.

MY FIRST WEEK at Miss Celia's, I scrub the house until there isn't a dust rag or a stripped sheet or even a run panty hose left to wipe with. Second week, I scrub the house again because it's like the dirt grew back. Third week, I am satisfied and settle in my ways.

Every day, Miss Celia looks like she just can't believe I've come back to work. I'm the only thing that interrupts all that quiet around her. My house is always full of five kids and neighbors and a husband. Most days when I come in to Miss Celia's, I am grateful for the peace.

My housekeeping tasks fall on the same day for every job I take: on Monday, I oil up the furniture. Tuesday, I wash and iron the d.a.m.n sheets, the day I hate. Wednesday is for scrubbing the bathtub real good even though I wipe it down every morning. Thursday is for polishing floors and sucking rugs, minding the antique ones with a hand broom so they don't thread. Friday is heavy cooking for the weekend and what-have-you. And every day is mopping, washing clothes and ironing shirts so they don't go getting out of hand, and generally keeping things clean. Silver and windows, they're as needed. Since there aren't any kids to look after, there's ample time left for Miss Celia's so-called cooking lesson.

Miss Celia never does any entertaining, so we just fix whatever she and Mister Johnny are having for supper: pork chops, fried chicken, roast beef, chicken pie, lamb rack, baked ham, fried tomatoes, mashed potatoes, plus the vegetables. Or at least I cook and Miss Celia fidgets, looking more like a five-year-old than the rich lady paying my rent. When the lesson's over, she rushes back to laying down. In fact, the only time Miss Celia walks ten feet is to come in the kitchen for her lesson or to sneak upstairs every two or three days, up in the creepy rooms.

I don't know what she does for five minutes on the second floor. I don't like it up there though. Those bedrooms should be stacked full of kids laughing and hollering and p.o.o.ping up the place. But it's none of my business what Miss Celia does with her day, and ask me, I'm glad she's staying out of my way. I've followed ladies around with a broom in one hand and a trash can in the other trying to keep up with their mess. As long as she stays in that bed, then I've got a job. Even though she has zero kids and nothing to do all day, she is the laziest woman I've ever seen. Including Including my sister Doreena who never lifted a royal finger growing up because she had the heart defect that we later found out was a fly on the X-ray machine. my sister Doreena who never lifted a royal finger growing up because she had the heart defect that we later found out was a fly on the X-ray machine.

And it's not just the bed. Miss Celia won't leave the house house except to get her hair frosted and her ends trimmed. So far, that's only happened once in the three weeks I've been working. Thirty-six years old and I can still hear my mama telling me, except to get her hair frosted and her ends trimmed. So far, that's only happened once in the three weeks I've been working. Thirty-six years old and I can still hear my mama telling me, It ain't n.o.body's business. It ain't n.o.body's business. But I want to know what that lady's so scared of outside this place. But I want to know what that lady's so scared of outside this place.

EVERY PAYDAY, I give Miss Celia the count. "Ninety-nine more days till you tell Mister Johnny bout me."

"Golly, the time's going by quick," she'll say with kind of a sick look.

"Cat got on the porch this morning, bout give me a cadillac arrest thinking it was Mister Johnny."

Like me, Miss Celia gets a little more nervous the closer we get to the deadline. I don't know what that man will do when she tells him. Maybe he'll tell her to fire me.

"I hope that's enough time, Minny. Do you think I'm getting any better at cooking?" she says, and I look at her. She's got a pretty smile, white straight teeth, but she is the worst cook I have ever seen.

So I back up and teach her the simplest things because I want her to learn and learn it fast. See, I need her to explain to her husband why a hundred-and-sixty-five-pound Negro woman has keys to his house. I need him to know why I have his sterling silver and Miss Celia's zillion-karat ruby earrings in my hand every day. I need need him to know this before he walks in one fine day and calls the police. Or saves a dime and takes care of business himself. him to know this before he walks in one fine day and calls the police. Or saves a dime and takes care of business himself.

"Get the ham hock out, make sure you got enough water in there, that's right. Now turn up the flame. See that little bubble there, that means the water's happy."

Miss Celia stares down into the pot like she's looking for her future. "Are you happy, Minny?"

"Why you ask me funny questions like that?"

"But are you?"

"Course I's happy. You happy too. Big house, big yard, husband looking after you." I frown at Miss Celia and I make sure she can see it. Because ain't that white people for you, wondering if they are happy enough enough.

And when Miss Celia burns the beans, I try and use some of that self-control my mama swore I was born without. "Alright," I say through my teeth, "we'll do another batch fore Mister Johnny get home."

Any other woman I've worked for, I would've loved to have had just one hour of bossing them around, see how they like it. But Miss Celia, the way she stares at me with those big eyes like I'm the best thing since hairspray in the can, I almost rather she'd order me around like she's supposed to. I start to wonder if her laying down all the time has anything to do with her not telling Mister Johnny about me. I guess she can see the suspicious in my eye too, because one day, out of the blue she says: "I get these nightmares a lot, that I have to go back to Sugar Ditch and live? That's why I lay down so much." Then she nods real fast, like she's been rehearsing this. "Cause I don't sleep real well at night."

I give her a stupid smile, like I really believe this, and go back to wiping the mirrors.

"Don't do it too good. Leave some smudges."

It's always something, mirrors, floors, a dirty gla.s.s in the sink or the trash can full. "We've got to make it believable," she'll say and I find myself reaching for that dirty gla.s.s a hundred times to wash it. I like things clean, put away.

"I WISH I COULD TEND to that azalea bush out there," Miss Celia says one day. She's taken to laying on the couch while my stories are on, interrupting the whole time. I've been tuned in to The Guiding Light The Guiding Light for twenty-four years, since I was ten years old and listening to it on Mama's radio. for twenty-four years, since I was ten years old and listening to it on Mama's radio.

A Dreft commercial comes on and Miss Celia stares out the back window at the colored man raking up the leaves. She's got so many azalea bushes, her yard's going to look like Gone With the Wind Gone With the Wind come spring. I don't like azaleas and I sure didn't like that movie, the way they made slavery look like a big happy tea party. If I'd played Mammy, I'd of told Scarlett to stick those green draperies up her white little p.o.o.per. Make her own d.a.m.n man-catching dress. come spring. I don't like azaleas and I sure didn't like that movie, the way they made slavery look like a big happy tea party. If I'd played Mammy, I'd of told Scarlett to stick those green draperies up her white little p.o.o.per. Make her own d.a.m.n man-catching dress.

"And I know I could make that rose bush bloom if I pruned it back," Miss Celia says. "But the first thing I'd do is cut down that mimosa tree."

"What's wrong with that tree?" I press the corner of my iron into Mister Johnny's collar-point. I don't even have a shrub, much less a tree, in my entire yard.

"I don't like those hairy flowers." She gazes off like she's gone soft in the head. "They look like little baby hairs."

I get the creepers with her talking that way. "You know about flowers?"

She sighs. "I used to love to tend to my flowers back in Sugar Ditch. I learned to grow things hoping I could pretty up all that ugliness."