I race outside but Mother’s already down the lane. I look over and the old truck’s gone too, toting cotton seed somewhere in the fields. The dread in my stomach is flat and hard and hot, like a brick in the sun.
Down by the road, I watch the Cadil ac slow, then jerk to a stop. Then it goes again. Then stops. Then slowly reverses and zigzags its way
back up the hil . By the grace of a god I never real y liked, much less believed in, my mother is actual y coming back.
“I can’t believe I forgot Sue Anne’s casserole dish…”
I jump in the front passenger seat, wait until she climbs back into the car. She puts her hands on the wheel.
“Drive me by Hil y’s? I need to pick something up.” I press my hand to my forehead. “Oh God, hurry, Mother. Before I’m too late.”
Mother’s car hasn’t moved. “Skeeter, I have a mil ion things to do today—”
The panic is rising up in my throat. “Mama, please, just drive…”
But the Devil e sits in the gravel, ticking like a time bomb.
“Now look,” Mother says, “I have some personal errands to run and I just don’t think it’s a good time to have you tagging along.”
“It’l take you five minutes. Just drive, Mama!”
Mother keeps her white-gloved hands on the steering wheel, her lips pressed together.
“I happen to have something confidential and important to do today.”
I can’t imagine my mother has anything more important to do than what I’m staring down the throat of. “What? A Mexican’s trying to join the
DAR? Somebody got caught reading the New American Dictionary?”
Mother sighs, says, “Fine,” and moves the gear shift careful y into drive. “Alright, here we go.” We rol down the lane at about one-tenth of a
mile an hour, putting along so the gravel won’t knock at the paint job. At the end of the lane, she puts on her blinker like she’s doing brain surgery
and creeps the Cadil ac out onto the County Road. My fists are clenched. I press my imaginary accelerator. Every time’s Mother’s first time to drive.
On the County Road, she speeds up to fifteen and grips the wheel like we’re doing a hundred and five.
“Mama,” I final y say, “just let me drive the car.”
She sighs. I’m surprised that she pul s over into the tal grass.
I get out and run around the car while she slides over. I put the car in D and press it to seventy, praying, Please, Hilly, resist the temptation
to rummage through my personal business….
“So what’s the big secret, what do you have to do today?” I ask.
“I’m…I’m going to see Doctor Neal for some tests. It’s just routine, but I don’t want your daddy to know. You know how upset he gets every
time somebody goes to the doctor.”
“What kind of tests?”
“It’s just an iodine test for my ulcers, same as I have every year. Drop me at the Baptist and then you can take yourself to Hil y’s. At least I
won’t have to worry over parking.”
I glance at her to see if there’s more to this, but she’s sitting straight and starched in her light blue dress, her legs crossed at the ankles. I
don’t remember her having these tests last year. Even with me being up at school, Constantine would’ve written to me about them. Mother must’ve
kept them secret.
Five minutes later, at the Baptist Hospital, I come around and help her out of the car.
“Eugenia, please. Just because this is a hospital doesn’t mean I’m an invalid.”
I open the glass door for her and she walks in, head held high.
“Mother, do you…want me to come with you?” I ask, knowing I can’t—I have to deal with Hil y, but suddenly I don’t want to drop her off here,
like this.
“It’s routine. Go on to Hil y’s and come back in an hour.”
I watch her grow smal er down the long hal , clutching her handbag, knowing I should turn and run. But before I do, I wonder at how frail and
inconsequential my mother has become. She used to fil a room by just breathing and now there seems to be…less of her. She turns a corner and
disappears behind the pale yel ow wal s. I watch a second longer before I rush back to the car.
A MINUTE AND A HALF LATER, I’m ringing Hil y’s bel . If these were regular times, I’d talk to Hil y about Mama. But I can’t distract her. It is the first moment that wil tel me everything. Hil y is an exceptional liar, except for the moment right before she speaks.
Hil y opens the door. Her mouth is tight and red. I look down at her hands. They are knotted together like ropes. I’ve arrived too late.
“Wel , that was quick,” she says and I fol ow her inside. My heart is seizing inside my chest. I’m not sure I’m breathing at al .
“There it is, that ugly thing. I hope you don’t mind, I had to check something in the minutes from the meeting.”
I stare at her, my best friend, trying to see just what she’s read in my things. But her smile is professional if not sparkling. The tel ing
moments are gone.
“Can I get you something to sip on?”
“No, I’m fine.” Then I add, “Want to hit bal s at the club later? It’s so gorgeous out.”
“Wil iam’s got a campaign meeting and then we’re going to see It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. ”
I study her. Didn’t she ask me, just two hours ago, to double-date to this movie tomorrow night? Slowly, I move down to the end of the dining
table, like she might pounce on me if I move too fast. She picks up a sterling fork from the sideboard, thrums her index finger along the tines.
“Yes, um, I heard Spencer Tracy’s supposed to be divine,” I say. Casual y, I tick through the papers in my satchel. Aibileen and Minny’s notes
are stil tucked deep in the side pocket, the flap closed, the latch snapped. But Hil y’s bathroom initiative is in the open center section with the paper where I wrote Jim Crow or Hilly’s bathroom plan—what’s the difference? Besides this is the draft of the newsletter that Hil y has examined already.
But the booklet—the laws—I tick through again—they are gone.
Hil y tilts her head, narrows her eyes at me. “You know, I was just thinking about how Stuart’s daddy stood right next to Ross Barnett when
they fought that colored boy walking into Ole Miss. They’re awful y close, Senator Whitworth and Governor Barnett.”
I open my mouth to say something, anything, but then two-year-old Wil iam, Jr., totters in.
“There you are.” Hil y picks him up, nuzzles his neck. “You are perfect, my perfect boy!” she says. Wil iam looks at me and screams.
“Wel , enjoy the picture show,” I say, going for the front door.
“Alright,” she says. I walk down the steps. From her doorway, Hil y waves, flaps Wil iam’s hand bye-bye. She slams the door before I’ve even
made it to my car.
AIBILEEN
CHAPTER 14
I BEEN IN SOME tense situations, but to have Minny on one side a my living room and Miss Skeeter on the other, and the topic at hand be what it feel like being Negro and working for a white woman. Law, it’s a wonder they hadn’t been a injury.
We had some close cal s though.
Like last week, when Miss Skeeter showed me Miss Hil y’s reasons why colored folk need they own bathroom.
“Feel like I’m looking at something from the KKK,” I said to Miss Skeeter. We was in my living room and the nights had started to get warm.
Minny’d gone in the kitchen to stand in front a the icebox. Minny don’t stop sweating but for five minutes in January and maybe not even then.
“Hil y wants me to print it in the League newsletter,” Miss Skeeter said, shaking her head disgusted. “I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t have
shown it to you. But there’s no one else I can tel .”
A minute later, Minny come back from the kitchen. I gave Miss Skeeter a look, so she slid the list under her notebook. Minny didn’t look
much cooler. Fact, she looked hotter than ever.
“Minny, do you and Leroy ever talk about civil rights?” Miss Skeeter ask. “When he comes home from work?”
Minny had that big bruise on her arm cause that’s what Leroy do when he come home from work. He push her around.
“Nope” was al Minny said. Minny do not like people up in her business.
“Real y? He doesn’t share the way he feels about the marches and the segregation? Maybe at work, his bo—”
“Move off a Leroy.” Minny crossed her arms up so that bruise wouldn’t show.
I gave Skeeter a nudge on the foot. But Miss Skeeter, she had that look she gets when she’s al up in something.
“Aibileen, don’t you think it would be interesting if we could show a little of the husbands’ perspective? Minny, maybe—”
Minny stood so quick the lightshade rattled. “I ain’t doing this no more. You making this too personal. I don’t care about tel ing white people
how it feel.”
“Minny, okay, I’m sorry,” Miss Skeeter said. “We don’t have to talk about your family.”
“No. I change my mind. You find somebody else to spil the beans.” We been through this before. But this time, Minny snatched up her
pocketbook, grabbed her funeral fan that fel under the chair, and said, “I’m sorry, Aib. But I just can’t do this no more.”
I got a panicky feeling then. She real y gone leave. Minny can’t quit. She the only maid besides me who agreed to do it.
So I leant up, slipped Hil y’s piece a paper out from under Miss Skeeter’s notebook. My fingers stopped right in front a Minny.
She look down at it. “What that?”
I put on my blank face. Shrugged my shoulders. Couldn’t act like I real y wanted her to read it cause then she wouldn’t.
Minny picked it up and started skimming. Pretty soon, I could see al her front teeth. But she wasn’t smiling.
Then she looked at Miss Skeeter, long and heavy. She said, “Maybe we keep going then. But you stay out a my personal business, you
hear?”
Miss Skeeter nodded. She learning.
I MIX A EGG SALAD for Miss Leefolt and Baby Girl’s lunch, put them little pickles on the side to fancy it up. Miss Leefolt set at the kitchen table with Mae Mobley, start tel ing her how the baby’s gone be here in October, how she hope she don’t have to be in the hospital for the Ole Miss homecoming
game, how she might have her a little sister or a little brother and wonder what they gone name it. It’s nice, seeing them talking like this. Half the
morning, Miss Leefolt been on the phone with Miss Hil y gossiping about something, hardly noticing Baby Girl at al . And once the new baby come,
Mae Mobley ain’t gone get so much as a swat from her mama.
After lunch, I take Baby Girl out to the backyard and fil up the green plastic pool. It’s already ninety-five degrees outside. Mississippi got the
most unorganized weather in the nation. In February, it’l be fifteen degrees and you be wishing spring would come on, and the next day it’s ninety
degrees for the next nine months.
The sun shining. Mae Mobley’s setting in the middle a that pool in bathing bottoms. First thing she do is take off that top. Miss Leefolt come
outside and say, “That looks like fun! I’m fixing to cal Hil y, tel her to bring Heather and little Wil over here.”
And fore I know it, al three kids is playing in there, splashing around, having a good old time.
Heather, Miss Hil y’s girl, she pretty cute. She six months older than Mae Mobley and Mae Mobley just love her. Heather got dark, shiny curls
al over her head and some little freckles, and she real talkative. She pretty much just a short version a Miss Hil y, only it look better on a child. Little Wil iam, Jr., he two. He tow-headed and he don’t say nothing. Just waddle around like a duck, fol owing them girls to the high monkey grass on the
edge a the yard, to the swingset that hitch up on one side if you swing too high and scare me to death, and back into the baby pool.
One thing I got to say about Miss Hil y, she love her children. About every five minutes, she kiss little Wil on the head. Or she ask Heather, is
she having fun? Or come here and give Mama a hug. Always tel ing her she the most beautiful girl in the world. And Heather love her mama too.
She look at Miss Hil y like she looking up at the Statue a Liberty. That kind a love always make me want a cry. Even when it going to Miss Hil y.
Cause it makes me think about Treelore, how much he love me. I appreciate seeing a child adoring they mama.
We grown-ups is setting in the shade a the magnolia tree while the kids play. I put a few feet between me and the ladies so it’s proper. They
got towels down in them black iron chairs that gets so hot. I like to sit in the plastic green folding chair. Keep my legs cool.
I watch Mae Mobley make Barbie Dol do the skinny dip, jumping off the side a the pool. But I got my eye on the ladies too. I been noticing
how Miss Hil y act al sweet and happy when she talk to Heather and Wil iam, but ever time she turn to Miss Leefolt, she get a sneer on her face.
“Aibileen, get me a little more iced tea, would you, please?” Hil y ask. I go and get the pitcher from the refrigerator.
“See, that’s what I don’t understand,” I hear Miss Hil y say when I’m close enough. “Nobody wants to sit down on a toilet seat they have to
share with them.”
“It does make sense,” Miss Leefolt say, but then she hush up when I come over to fil up they glasses.
“Why, thank you,” Miss Hil y say. Then she give me a real perplexed look, say, “Aibileen, you like having your own toilet, don’t you?”
“Yes ma’am.” She stil talking about that pot even though it’s been in there six months.
“Separate but equal,” Miss Hil y say back to Miss Leefolt. “That’s what Governor Ross Barnett says is right, and you can’t argue with the
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 tel you what Raleigh said the other day?”
But Miss Hil y shaking her head. “Aibileen, you wouldn’t want to go to a school ful of white people, would you?”
“No ma’am,” I mumble. I get up and pul the ponytail holder out a Baby Girl’s head. Them green plastic bal s get al tangly when her hair get
wet. But what I real y 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 ful a just white people. But where the colored and the white folks is together.”
Hil y and Miss Leefolt both look at me. I look back down at the kids.
“But Aibileen”—Miss Hil y smile real cold—“colored people and white people are just so… 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 stil 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 Hil y 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!” hol er Heather from the pool. “Look at my pigtails!”
“I see you! I do! What with Wil iam 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 Hil y quiet, hunting for her comb in her pocketbook. Thunder boom over in South Jackson and way off we hear the wail a the
tornado bel . I’m trying to make sense a what Miss Hil y just said: 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’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 cal ed her house except two times cause I had no choice, when I told her I’d work on the stories, and then to tel her Minny would
too. I know it’s risky. Stil , I get up, put my hand on the wal 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 cal ing 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
pul her over a few weeks ago. She didn’t say nothing about Miss Hil y.
I huff in my chair awhile, wishing the phone would ring. I shoot up and race a cockroach across the floor with my workshoe. Cockroach win.
He crawl under that grocery bag a clothes Miss Hil y 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 til 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 smel 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 col ar, the pink jacket with the gravy stain on it, even the socks—they al got the letters 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 Hil y W.
Holbrook.
I get up and kick at the bag, but the cockroach don’t come out. So I take out my notebook, intending to start on my prayers, but I’m just too