The Help

four.”

I pursed my lips. “She has agreed. Yes, she has.”

“Wel . That is impressive. But after her, you real y think other maids wil talk to you? What if the employers find out?”

“The interviews would be conducted secretly. Since, as you know, things are a little dangerous down here right now.” The truth was, I had

very little idea how dangerous things were. I’d spent the past four years locked away in the padded room of col ege, reading Keats and Eudora

Welty and worrying over term papers.

“A little dangerous?” She laughed. “The marches in Birmingham, Martin Luther King. Dogs attacking colored children. Darling, it’s the

hottest topic in the nation. But, I’m sorry, this wil never work. Not as an article, because no Southern newspaper would publish it. And certainly not

as a book. A book of interviews would never sel .”

“Oh,” I heard myself say. I closed my eyes, feeling al the excitement drain out of me. I heard myself say again, “Oh.”

“I cal ed because, frankly, it’s a good idea. But…there’s no possible way to take it to print.”

“But…what if…” My eyes started darting around the pantry, looking for something to bring back her interest. Maybe I should talk about it as

an article, maybe a magazine, but she said no—

“Eugenia, who are you talking to in there?” Mother’s voice cut though the crack. She inched the door open and I yanked it closed again. I

covered the receiver, hissed, “I’m talking to Hilly, Mother—”

“In the pantry? You’re like a teenager again—”

“I mean—” Missus Stein let out a sharp tsk. “I suppose I could read what you get. God knows, the book business could use some rattling.”

“You’d do that? Oh Missus Stein…”

“I’m not saying I’m considering it. But…do the interview and I’l let you know if it’s worth pursuing.”

I stuttered a few unintel igible sounds, final y coming out with, “Thank you. Missus Stein, I can’t tel you how much I appreciate your help.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Cal Ruth, my secretary, if you need to get in touch.” And she hung up.



I LUG AN OLD SATCHEL to bridge club at Elizabeth’s on Wednesday. It is red. It is ugly. And for today, at least, it is a prop.

It’s the only bag in Mother’s house I could find large enough to carry the Miss Myrna letters. The leather is cracked and flaking, the thick

shoulder strap leaves a brown mark on my blouse where the leather stain is rubbing off. It was my Grandmother Claire’s gardening bag. She used

to carry her garden tools around the yard in it and the bottom is stil lined with sun-flower seeds. It matches absolutely nothing I own and I don’t care.

“Two weeks,” Hil y says to me, holding up two fingers. “He’s coming.” She smiles and I smile back. “I’l be right back,” I say and I slip into the

kitchen, carrying my satchel with me.

Aibileen is standing at the sink. “Afternoon,” she says quietly. It was a week ago that I visited her at her house.

I stand there a minute, watching her stir the iced tea, feeling the discomfort in her posture, her dread that I might be about to ask for her help

on the book again. I pul a few housekeeping letters out and, seeing this, Aibileen’s shoulders relax a little. As I read her a question about mold

stains, she pours a little tea in a glass, tastes it. She spoons more sugar in the pitcher.

“Oh, fore I forget, I got the answer on that water ring question. Minny say just rub you a little mayonnaise on it.” Aibileen squeezes half a

lemon in the tea. “Then go on and throw that no-good husband out the door.” She stirs, tastes. “Minny don’t take too wel to husbands.”

“Thanks, I’l put that down,” I say. As casual y as I can, I pul an envelope from my bag. “And here. I’ve been meaning to give you this.”

Aibileen stiffens back into her cautious pose, the one she had when I walked in. “What you got there?” she says without reaching for it.

“For your help,” I say quietly. “I’ve put away five dol ars for every article. It’s up to thirty-five dol ars now.”

Aibileen’s eyes move quickly back to her tea. “No thank you, ma’am.”

“Please take it, you’ve earned it.”

I hear chairs scraping on wood in the dining room, Elizabeth’s voice.

“Please, Miss Skeeter. Miss Leefolt have a fit if she find you giving me cash,” Aibileen whispers.

“She doesn’t have to know.”

Aibileen looks up at me. The whites of her eyes are yel owed, tired. I know what she’s thinking.

“I already told you, I’m sorry, I can’t help you with that book, Miss Skeeter.”

I set the envelope on the counter, knowing I’ve made a terrible mistake.

“Please. Find you another colored maid. A young’un. Somebody…else.”

“But I don’t know any others wel enough.” I am tempted to bring up the word friends, but I’m not that naïve. I know we’re not friends.

Hil y’s head pops through the door. “Come on, Skeeter, I’m fixing to deal,” and she disappears.

“I’m begging you,” Aibileen says, “put that money away so Miss Leefolt don’t see it.”

I nod, embarrassed. I tuck the envelope in my bag, knowing we’re worse off than ever. It’s a bribe, she thinks, to get her to let me interview

her. A bribe disguised as goodwil and thanks. I’d been waiting to give her the money anyway, once it added up to something, but it’s true, my

timing today had been deliberately planned. And now I’ve scared her off for good.



“DARLING, just try it on your head. It cost eleven dol ars. It must be good.”

Mother has me cornered in the kitchen. I glance at the door to the hal , the door to the side porch. Mother comes closer, the thing in hand,

and I’m distracted by how thin her wrists look, how frail her arms are carrying the heavy gray machine. She pushes me down into a chair, not so frail

after al , and squeezes a noisy, farty tube of goo on my head. Mother’s been chasing me with the Magic Soft & Silky Shinalator for two days now.

She rubs the cream in my hair with both hands. I can practical y feel the hope in her fingers. A cream wil not straighten my nose or take a

foot off my height. It won’t add distinction to my almost translucent eyebrows, nor add weight to my bony frame. And my teeth are already perfectly

straight. So this is al she has left to fix, my hair.

Mother covers my dripping head with a plastic cap. She fastens a hose from the cap into a square machine.

“How long does this take, Mother?”

She picks up the booklet with a sticky finger. “It says here, ‘Cover with the Miracle Straightening Cap, then turn on the machine and wait for

the miraculous—’”

“Ten minutes? Fifteen?”

I hear a click, a rising rumble, then feel a slow, intense warmth on my head. But suddenly there’s a pop! The tube is loose from the machine

and jerking around like a mad firehose. Mother shrieks, grabs at it and misses. Final y, she snatches it and reattaches it.

She takes a deep breath and picks up the booklet again. “The Miracle Cap must remain on the head for two hours without removal or results

—”

“Two hours?”

“I’l have Pascagoula fix you a glass of tea, dear.” Mother pats me on the shoulder and swishes out through the kitchen door.

For two hours, I smoke cigarettes and read Life magazine. I finish To Kill a Mockingbird. Final y, I pick up the Jackson Journal, pick through

it. It’s Friday, so there won’t be a Miss Myrna column. On page four, I read: Boy blinded over segregated bathroom, suspects questioned. It sounds…familiar. I remember then. This must be Aibileen’s neighbor.

Twice this week, I’ve gone by Elizabeth’s house hoping she wouldn’t be home, so I could talk to Aibileen, try to find some way to convince

her to help me. Elizabeth was hunched over her sewing machine, intent on getting a new dress ready for the Christmas season, and it is yet another

green gown, cheap and frail. She must’ve gotten a steal at the bargain bin on green material. I wish I could go down to Kennington’s and charge her

something new but just the offer would embarrass her to death.

“So, do you know what you’re wearing for the date?” Hil y’d asked the second time I came by. “Next Saturday?”

I’d shrugged. “I guess I have to go shopping.”

Just then Aibileen brought a tray of coffee out and set it on the table.

“Thank you.” Elizabeth nodded to her.

“Why, thank you, Aibileen,” Hil y said, sugaring her cup. “I tel you, you make the best colored coffee in town.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Aibileen,” Hil y continued, “how do you like your new bathroom out there? It’s nice to have a place of your own, now isn’t it?”

Aibileen stared at the crack in the dining table. “Yes ma’am.”

“You know, Mister Holbrook arranged for that bathroom, Aibileen. Sent the boys over and the equipment, too.” Hil y smiled.

Aibileen just stood there and I wished I wasn’t in the room. Please, I thought, please don’t say thank you.

“Yes ma’am.” Aibileen opened a drawer and reached inside, but Hil y kept looking at her. It was so obvious what she wanted.

Another second passed with no one moving. Hil y cleared her throat and final y Aibileen lowered her head. “Thank you, ma’am,” she

whispered. She walked back into the kitchen. It’s no wonder she doesn’t want to talk to me.

At noon, Mother removes the vibrating cap from my head, washes the goo from my hair while I lean back in the kitchen sink. She quickly rol s

up a dozen curlers, puts me under her hair dryer hood in her bathroom.

An hour later, I emerge pink and soreheaded and thirsty. Mother stands me in front of the mirror, pul ing out curlers. She brushes out the

giant circular mounds on my head.

We stare, dumbfounded.

“Ho-ly shit,” I say. Al I’m thinking is, The date. The blind date is next weekend.

Mother smiles, shocked. She doesn’t even scold me for cursing. My hair looks great. The Shinalator actual y worked.

CHAPTER 9

ON SATURDAY, the day of my date with Stuart Whitworth, I sit for two hours under the Shinalator (results, it seems, only last until the next wash). When I’m dry, I go to Kennington’s and buy the flattest shoes I can find and a slim black crepe dress. I hate shopping, but I’m glad for the distraction, to not have to worry about Missus Stein or Aibileen for an afternoon. I charge the eighty-five dol ars to Mother’s account since she’s always begging me to

go buy new clothes. (“Something flattering for your size. ”) I know Mother would profoundly disapprove of the cleavage the dress enables me to have.

I’ve never owned a dress like this.

In the Kennington’s parking lot I start the car, but cannot drive for the sudden pains in my stomach. I grip the white padded steering wheel,

tel ing myself for the tenth time that it’s ridiculous to wish for something I’l never have. To think I know the color blue his eyes are from a black-and-white photograph. To consider something a chance that is nothing but paper and filament and postponed dinners. But the dress, with my new hair, it

actual y looks pretty good on me. And I can’t help but hope.



IT WAS FOUR MONTHS AGO when Hil y showed me the picture, out back by her swimming pool. Hil y was tanning in the sun, I was fanning in the murky shade.

My heat rash had flared in July and hadn’t subsided.

“I’m busy,” I said. Hil y sat on the edge of the pool, saggy and post-pregnant fat, inexplicably confident in her black swimsuit. Her stomach

was paunchy, but her legs, as always, were thin and pretty.

“I haven’t even told you when he’s coming,” she said. “And he comes from such a good family.” She was, of course, talking about her own.

He was Wil iam’s second cousin. “Just meet him and see what you think.”

I looked down at the picture again. He had clear open eyes, light brown curly hair, was the tal est in a group of men by a lake. But his body

was half-hidden by the others. He must not have al his limbs.

“There’s nothing wrong with him,” Hil y said. “Ask Elizabeth, she met him at the Benefit last year while you were up at school. Not to mention, he dated Patricia van Devender for forever.”

“Patricia van Devender?” Most Beautiful at Ole Miss, two years in a row?

“Plus he started his own oil business over in Vicksburg. So if it doesn’t work out, it’s not like you’l be running into him every day in town.”

“Alright,” I final y sighed, more than anything to get Hil y off my back.



IT’S PAST THREE O’CLOCK BY the time I get back home from buying the dress. I’m supposed to be at Hil y’s at six to meet Stuart. I check the mirror. The curls are starting to fray on the ends, but the rest of my hair is stil smooth. Mother was thril ed when I told her I wanted to try the Shinalator again and wasn’t even suspicious of why. She doesn’t know about my date tonight and if she some how finds out, the next three months wil be ful of

excruciating questions like “Did he cal ?” and “What did you do wrong?” when it doesn’t work out.

Mother’s downstairs in the relaxing room with Daddy, hol ering at the Rebel basketbal team. My brother, Carlton, is on the sofa with his

shiny new girlfriend. They drove up this afternoon from LSU. She has a dark straight pontytail and wears a red blouse.

When I get Carlton alone in the kitchen, he laughs, yanks my hair like we’re kids again. “So how are you, sister?”

I tel him about the job at the paper, that I’m editor of the League newsletter. I also tel him he better be moving back home after law school.

“You deserve some of Mother’s time too. I’m taking more than my fair share here,” I say through gritted teeth.

He laughs like he understands, but how could he real y? He’s three years older than me and great-looking, tal with wavy blond hair, finishing

LSU law school, protected by a hundred and seventy miles of badly paved roads.

When he goes back to his girlfriend, I search for Mother’s car keys, but I can’t find them anywhere. It’s already a quarter to five. I go and

stand in the doorway, try to catch Mother’s attention. I have to wait for her to finish firing questions at Ponytail Girl about her people and where she’s from, but Mother wil not let up until she finds at least one person they have in common. After that, it’s what sorority the girl was in at Vanderbilt, and she final y concludes by asking what her silver pattern is. It’s better than a horoscope, Mother always says.

Ponytail Girl says her family pattern is Chantil y, but she’l be picking out her own new pattern when she gets married. “Since I consider

myself an independent thinker and al .” Carlton pets her on the head and she nudges against his hand like a cat. They both look up at me and smile.

“Skeeter,” Ponytail Girl says to me across the room, “you’re so lucky to come from a Francis the First family pattern. Wil you keep it when

you get married?”

“Francis the First is just dreamy,” I beam. “Why, I pul those forks out al the time just to look at them.”

Mother narrows her eyes at me. I motion her to the kitchen, but another ten minutes pass until she comes in.

“Where in the world are your keys, Mama? I’m late for Hil y’s. I’m staying there tonight.”

“What? But Carlton’s home. What’s his new friend going to think if you leave for something better to do?”

I’ve put off tel ing her this because I knew, whether Carlton was home or not, it would turn into an argument.

“And Pascagoula made a roast and Daddy’s got the wood al ready for a fire tonight in the relaxing room.”

“It’s eighty-five degrees outside, Mama.”

“Now look. Your brother is home and I expect you to behave like a good sister. I don’t want you leaving until you’ve had a nice long visit with

this girl.” She’s looking at her watch while I remind myself I’m twenty-three years old. “Please, darling,” she says and I sigh and carry a damn tray of mint juleps out to the others.

“Mama,” I say back in the kitchen at five twenty-eight. “I’ve got to go. Where are your keys? Hil y’s waiting on me.”

“But we haven’t even had the pigs in a blanket yet.”

“Hil y’s got…a stomach bug,” I whisper. “And her help doesn’t come in tomorrow. She needs me to watch the kids.”

Mother sighs. “I guess that means you’re going to church with them too. And I thought we could al go tomorrow as a family. Have Sunday

dinner together.”

“Mama, please,” I say, rummaging through a basket where she keeps her keys. “I can’t find your keys anywhere. ”

“You can’t take the Cadil ac overnight. That’s our good Sunday church car.”

He’s going to be at Hil y’s in thirty minutes. I’m supposed to dress and do my makeup at Hil y’s so Mother won’t suspect anything. I can’t take

Daddy’s new truck. It’s ful of fertilizer and I know he’l need it at dawn tomorrow.

“Alright, I’l take the old truck, then.”

“I believe it has a trailer on it. Go ask your daddy.”

But I can’t ask Daddy because I can’t go through this in front of three other people who wil look al hurt that I’m leaving, so I grab the old truck

keys and say, “It doesn’t matter. I’m just going straight to Hil y’s,” and I huff outside only to find that not only does the old truck have a trailer hitched to it, but a half-ton tractor on top of that trailer.

So I drive into town for my first date in two years in a red 1941 Chevrolet four-on-the-floor with a John Deere motor grader hooked behind

me. The engine sputters and churns and I wonder if the truck wil make it. Chunks of mud spray behind me off the tires. The engine stal s on the

main road, sending my dress and bag flying onto the dirty floor. I have to restart twice.

At five forty-five, a black thing streaks out in front of me and I feel a thunk. I try to stop but braking’s just not something you can do very quickly with a 10,000-pound piece of machinery behind you. I groan and pul over. I have to go check. Remarkably, the cat stands up, looks around stunned,

and shoots back into the woods as quickly as it came.

At three minutes to six, after doing twenty in a fifty with horns honking and teenagers hol ering at me, I park down the street from Hil y’s house

since Hil y’s cul-de-sac doesn’t provide adequate parking for farm equipment.