I grab my bag and run inside without even knocking, al out of breath
and sweaty and windblown and there they are, the three of them, including my date. Having highbal s in the front living room.
I freeze in the entrance hal with al of them looking at me. Wil iam and Stuart both stand up. God, he’s tal , has at least four inches over me.
Hil y’s eyes are big when she grabs my arm. “Boys, we’l be right back. Y’al just sit tight and talk about quarterbacks or something.”
Hil y whisks me off to her dressing room and we both start groaning. It’s just so goddamn awful.
“Skeeter, you don’t even have lipstick on! Your hair looks like a rat’s nest!”
“I know, look at me!” Al traces of the Shinalator’s miracle are gone. “There’s no air-conditioning in the truck. I had to ride with the damn
windows down.”
I scrub my face and Hil y sits me in her dressing room chair. She starts combing my hair out the way my mother used to do, twisting it into
these giant rol ers, spraying it with Final Net.
“Wel ? What did you think of him?” she asks.
I sigh and close my unmascaraed eyes. “He looks handsome.”
I smear the makeup on, something I hardly even know how to do. Hil y looks at me and smudges it off with a tissue, reapplies it. I slip into the
black dress with the deep V in the front, the black Delman flats. Hil y quickly brushes out my hair. I wash my armpits with a wet rag and she rol s her eyes at me.
“I hit a cat,” I say.
“He’s already had two drinks waiting on you.”
I stand up and smooth my dress down. “Alright,” I say, “give it to me. One to ten.”
Hil y looks me up and down, stops on the dip in the front of the dress. She raises her eyebrows. I’ve never shown cleavage before in my life;
kind of forgot I had it.
“Six,” she says, like she is surprised herself.
We just look at each other a second. Hil y lets out a little squeal and I smile back. Hil y’s never given me higher than a four.
When we come back into the front living room, Wil iam’s pointing his finger at Stuart. “I’m going to run for that seat and by God, with your
daddy’s—”
“Stuart Whitworth,” Hil y announces, “I’d like to introduce Skeeter Phelan.”
He stands up, and for a minute my head is perfectly quiet inside. I make myself look, like self-inflicted torture, as he takes me in.
“Stuart here went to school over at the University of Alabama,” Wil iam says, adding, “Rol Tide.”
“Nice to meet you.” Stuart flips me a brief smile. Then he takes a long slurp of his drink until I hear the ice clink against his teeth. “So where
we off to?” he asks Wil iam.
We take Wil iam’s Oldsmobile to the Robert E. Lee Hotel. Stuart opens my door and sits beside me in the back, but then leans over the seat
talking to Wil iam about deer season the rest of the ride.
At the table, he pul s out my chair for me and I sit, smile, say thank you.
“You want a drink?” he asks me, not looking my way.
“No, thanks. Just water, please.”
He turns to the waiter and says, “Double Old Kentucky straight with a water back.”
I guess it’s some time after his fifth bourbon, I say, “So Hil y tel s me you’re in the oil business. That must be interesting.”
“The money’s good. If that’s what you real y want to know.”
“Oh, I didn’t…” But I stop because he’s craning his neck at something. I look up and see he’s staring at a woman who’s at the door, a busty
blonde with red lipstick and a tight green dress.
Wil iam turns to see what Stuart’s looking at, but he swings back around quickly. He shakes his head no, very slightly, at Stuart and I see,
heading out the door, it’s Hil y’s old boyfriend, Johnny Foote, with his new wife, Celia. They leave and Wil iam and I glance at each other, sharing
our relief that Hil y didn’t see them.
“Lord, that girl’s hot as Tunica blacktop,” Stuart says under his breath and I suppose that’s when I just stop caring what happens.
At some point, Hil y looks at me to see what’s going on. I smile like everything’s fine and she smiles back, happy to see it’s al working out.
“Wil iam! The lieutenant governor just walked in. Let’s go speak before he sits down.”
They go off together, leaving us, the two lovebirds sitting on the same side of the table, staring at al the happy couples in the room.
“So,” he says, hardly turning his head. “You ever go to any of the Alabama footbal games?”
I never even made it to Colonel Field and that was five thousand yards from my bed. “No, I’m not real y a footbal fan.” I look at my watch. It’s
hardly seven fifteen.
“That so.” He eyes the drink the waiter has handed him like he’d real y enjoy downing it. “Wel , what do you do with your time?”
“I write a…domestic maintenance column for the Jackson Journal. ”
He wrinkles his brow, then laughs. “Domestic maintenance. You mean…housekeeping?”
I nod.
“Jesus.” He stirs his drink. “I can’t think of anything worse than reading a column on how to clean house,” he says, and I notice that his front
tooth is the slightest bit crooked. I long to point this imperfection out to him, but he finishes his thought with, “Except maybe writing it.”
I just stare at him.
“Sounds like a ploy to me, to find a husband. Becoming an expert on keeping house.”
“Wel , you must be a genius. You’ve figured out my whole scheme.”
“Isn’t that what you women from Ole Miss major in? Professional husband hunting?”
I watch him, dumbfounded. I may not’ve had a date in umpteen years, but who does he think he is?
“I’m sorry, but were you dropped on your head as an infant?”
He blinks at me, then laughs for the first time al night.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” I say, “but I had to start somewhere if I plan on being a journalist.” I think I’ve actual y impressed him. But
then he throws back the drink and the look is gone.
We eat dinner, and from his profile I can see his nose is a little pointy. His eyebrows are too thick, and his light brown hair too coarse. We
say little else, to each other at least. Hil y chats, throwing things our way like, “Stuart, Skeeter here lives on a plantation just north of town. Didn’t the senator grow up on a peanut farm?”
Stuart orders yet another drink.
When Hil y and I go to the bathroom, she gives me a hopeful smile. “What do you think?”
“He’s…tal ,” I say, surprised she hasn’t noticed that not only is my date inexplicably rude, but drop-dead drunk.
The end of the meal final y comes and he and Wil iam split the check.
Stuart stands up and helps me with my jacket. At least he has nice manners.
“Jesus, I’ve never met a woman with such long arms,” he says.
“Wel , I’ve never met anybody with such a drinking problem.”
“Your coat smel s like—” He leans down and sniffs it, grimacing. “Fertilizer. ”
He strides off to the men’s room and I wish I could disappear.
The car ride, al three minutes of it, is impossibly silent. And long.
We go back inside Hil y’s house. Yule May comes out in her white uniform, says, “They al fine, went to bed good,” and she slips out through
the kitchen door. I excuse myself to the bathroom.
“Skeeter, why don’t you drive Stuart home?” Wil iam says when I come out. “I’m bushed, aren’t you, Hil y?”
Hil y’s looking at me like she’s trying to figure out what I want to do. I thought I’d made it obvious when I stayed in the bathroom for ten
minutes.
“Your…car’s not here?” I ask the air in front of Stuart.
“I don’t believe my cousin’s in a position to drive.” Wil iam laughs. Everyone’s quiet again.
“I came in a truck,” I say. “I’d hate for you to…”
“Shoot,” Wil iam says, slapping Stuart on the back. “Stuart doesn’t mind riding in a truck, do you, buddy?”
“Wil iam,” Hil y says, “why don’t you drive and, Skeeter, you can ride along.”
“Not me, I’m too boozed up myself,” Wil iam says even though he just drove us home.
Final y, I just walk out the door. Stuart fol ows me, doesn’t comment that I didn’t park in front of Hil y’s house or in Hil y’s driveway. When we
get to my truck, we both stop, stare at the fifteen-foot tractor hooked behind my vehicle.
“You pul ed that thing al by yourself?”
I sigh. I guess it’s because I’m a big person and have never felt petite or particularly feminine or girly, but that tractor. It just seems to sum up
so much.
“That is the funniest damn looking thing I have ever seen,” he says.
I step away from him. “Hil y can take you,” I say. “Hil y wil drive you.”
He turns and focuses on me for what, I’m pretty sure, is the first time al night. After several long moments of standing there being looked at,
my eyes fil with tears. I’m just so tired.
“Ah, shit,” he says and his body loosens. “Look, I told Hil y I wasn’t ready for any damn date.”
“Don’t…” I say, backing away from him, and I head back to the house.
SUNDAY MORNING I GET UP EARLY, before Hil y and Wil iam, before the kids and the church traffic. I drive home with the tractor rumbling behind me. The
fertilizer smel gives me a hangover even though I had nothing but water last night.
I’d gone back in Hil y’s house last night, Stuart trailing behind me. Knocking on Hil y’s bedroom door, I asked Wil iam, who already had a
mouth ful of toothpaste, would he mind driving Stuart home. I’d walked upstairs to the guest room before he even answered.
I step over Daddy’s dogs on the porch, go into my parents’ house. As soon as I see Mother, I give her a hug. When she tries to let go, I can’t
let her.
“What is it, Skeeter? You didn’t catch Hil y’s stomach bug, did you?”
“No, I’m fine.” I wish I could tel her about my night. I feel guilty for not being nicer to her, for not needing her until my own life turns bad. I feel bad for wishing Constantine was here instead.
Mother pats my windblown hair down since it must be adding at least two inches to my height. “You sure you’re not feeling bad?”
“I’m alright, Mama.” I am too tired to resist. I ache like someone kicked me in the stomach. With boots on. It won’t go away.
“You know,” she says, smiling, “I think this might be the one for Carlton.”
“Good, Mama,” I say. “I’m real y glad for him.”
AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK the next morning, the phone rings. Luckily, I’m in the kitchen and pick it up.
“Miss Skeeter?”
I stand very stil , then look out at Mother examining her checkbook at the dining room table. Pascagoula is pul ing a roast out of the oven. I go
into the pantry and shut the door.
“Aibileen?” I whisper.
She’s quiet a second and then she blurts it out. “What if—what if you don’t like what I got to say? I mean, about white peoples.”
“I—I…this isn’t about my opinion,” I say. “It doesn’t matter how I feel.”
“But how I know you ain’t gone get mad, turn around on me?”
“I don’t…I guess you’l just have to…trust me.” I hold my breath, hoping, waiting. There is a long pause.
“Law have mercy. I reckon I’m on do it.”
“Aibileen. ” My heart is pounding. “You have no idea how much I appreciate—”
“Miss Skeeter, we gone have to be real careful.”
“We wil , I promise. ”
“And you gone have to change my name. Mine, Miss Leefolt’s, everbody’s.”
“Of course.” I should’ve mentioned this. “When can we meet? Where can we meet?”
“Can’t do it in the white neighborhood, that’s for sure. I guess…we gone have to do it over at my house.”
“Do you know any other maids who might be interested?” I ask, even though Missus Stein has only agreed to read one. But I have to be
ready, on the slim chance she likes it.
Aibileen is quiet a moment. “I guess I could ask Minny. But she ain’t real keen on talking to white peoples.”
“Minny? You mean…Missus Walters’ old maid,” I say, feeling suddenly how incestuous this is turning. I wouldn’t just be peering into
Elizabeth’s life, but Hil y’s too.
“Minny got her some stories. Sho nuff.”
“Aibileen,” I say. “Thank you. Oh, thank you.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“I just…I have to ask you. What changed your mind?”
Aibileen doesn’t even pause. “Miss Hil y,” she says.
I go quiet, thinking of Hil y’s bathroom plan and accusing the maid of stealing and her talk of diseases. The name comes out flat, bitter as a
bad pecan.
MINNY
CHAPTER 10
I WALK INTO WORK with one thing on my mind. Today is the first day of December and while the rest of the United States is dusting off their manger scenes and pul ing out their old stinky stockings, I’ve got another man I’m waiting on. And it’s not Santy Claus and it’s not the Baby Jesus. It’s Mister Johnny Foote, Jr., who wil learn that Minny Jackson is his maid on Christmas Eve.
I am waiting on the twenty-fourth like a court date. I don’t know what Mister Johnny’s going to do when he finds out I’m working here. Maybe
he’l say, Good! Come clean my kitchen anytime! Here’s some money! But I’m not that stupid. This secret-keeping is way too fishy for him to be
some smiling whitey wanting to give me a raise. There’s a good chance I might not have a job come Christmas Day.
It’s eating me up, not knowing, but what I do know is, a month ago, I decided there had to be a more dignified way to die than having a heart
attack squatting on top of a white lady’s toilet lid. And after al that, it wasn’t even Mister Johnny that came home, it was just the damn meter man.
But there wasn’t much relief when it was over. What scared me worse was Miss Celia. Afterwards, during her cooking lesson, she was stil
shaking so bad, she couldn’t even measure the salt in a spoon.
MONDAY COMES AND I CAN’T stop thinking about Louvenia Brown’s grandson, Robert. He got out of the hospital this weekend, went to live with Louvenia,
what with his parents already dead and al . Last night, when I went over there to take them a caramel cake, Robert had a cast on his arm and
bandages over his eyes. “Oh, Louvenia,” was al I could say when I saw him. Robert was laid up on the sofa asleep. They’d shaved half his head to operate. Louvenia, with al her troubles, stil wanted to know how each and every person in my family was doing. And when Robert started to stir,
she asked if I wouldn’t mind going on home because Robert wakes up screaming. Terrified and remembering al over again that he’s blind. She
thought it might bother me. I can’t stop thinking about it.
“I’m going to the store after while,” I say to Miss Celia. I hold the grocery list out for her to see. Every Monday we do this. She gives me the
grocery cash and when I get home I push the receipt in her face. I want her to see that every penny of change matches the paper. Miss Celia just
shrugs but I keep those tickets safe in a drawer in case there’s ever any question.
Minny cooking:
1. Ham with pineapples
2. Black-eyed peas
3. Sweet potatoes
4. Apple pie
5. Biscuits
Miss Celia cooking:
1. Butter beans
“But I did butter beans last week.”
“Learn those, everything else come easy.”
“I guess it’s better anyway,” she says. “I can sit down and be stil when I’m shel ing.”
Almost three months and the fool stil can’t boil coffee. I pul out my pie dough, want to get it ready before I go to the store.
“Can we do a chocolate pie this time? I love chocolate pie.”
I grit my teeth. “I don’t know how to cook no chocolate pie,” I lie. Never. Never again after Miss Hilly.
“You can’t? Gosh, I thought you could cook anything. Maybe we ought to get us a recipe.”
“What else kind a pie you thinking about?”
“Wel , what about that peach pie you did that time?” she says, pouring a glass of milk. “That was real good.”
“Them peaches from Mexico. Peaches ain’t in season around here yet.”
“But I saw them advertised in the paper.”
I sigh. Nothing is easy with her, but at least she’s off the chocolate. “One thing you got to know, things is best when they in season. You don’t