“Is it…” She looks down at her chicken. “Because you’re colored? Or because you don’t…want to be friends with me?”
“So many reasons, you white and me colored just fal somewhere in between.”
She’s not smiling at al now. “But…why?”
“Because when I tel you I’m late on my light bil , I ain’t asking you for money,” I say.
“Oh Minny—”
“Because you don’t even give me the courtesy a tel ing your husband I’m working here. Because you in this house twenty-four hours a day
driving me insane.”
“You don’t understand, I can’t. I can’t leave.”
“But al that is nothing compared to what I know now.”
Her face goes a shade paler under her makeup.
“Al this time, there I was thinking you were dying a the cancer or sick in the head. Poor Miss Celia, al day long.”
“I know it’s been hard…”
“Oh, I know you ain’t sick. I seen you with them bottles upstairs. And you ain’t fooling me another second.”
“Bottles? Oh God, Minny, I—”
“I ought to pour them things down the drain. I ought to tel Mister Johnny right now—”
She stands up, knocking her chair over. “Don’t you dare tel —”
“You act like you want kids but you drinking enough to poison a elephant!”
“If you tel him, I’l fire you, Minny!” She’s got tears in her eyes. “If you touch those bottles, I’l fire you right now!”
But the blood’s running too hot in my head to stop now. “Fire me? Who else gone come out here and work in secret while you hang around
the house drunk al day?”
“You think I can’t fire you? You finish your work today, Minny!” She’s boo-hooing and pointing her finger at me. “You eat your chicken and
then you go home!”
She picks up her plate with the white meat and charges through the swinging door. I hear it clatter down on the long fancy dining room table,
the chair legs scraping against the floor. I sink down in my seat because my knees are shaking, and stare down at my chicken.
I just lost another damn job.
I WAKE UP SATURDAY MORNING at seven a.m. to a clanging headache and a raw tongue. I must’ve bitten down on it al night long.
Leroy looks at me through one eye because he knows something’s up. He knew it last night at supper and smel ed it when he walked in at
five o’clock this morning.
“What’s eating you? Ain’t got trouble at work, do you?” he asks for the third time.
“Nothing eating me except five kids and a husband. Y’al driving me up a wal .”
The last thing I need him to know is that I’ve told off another white lady and lost another job. I put on my purple housedress and stomp to the
kitchen. I clean it like it’s never been cleaned.
“Mama, where you going?” yel s Kindra. “I’m hungry.”
“I’m going to Aibileen’s. Mama need to be with somebody not pul ing on her for five minutes.” I pass Sugar sitting on the front steps. “Sugar,
go get Kindra some breakfast.”
“She already ate. Just a half hour ago.”
“Wel , she hungry again.”
I walk the two blocks to Aibileen’s house, across Tick Road onto Farish Street. Even though it’s hot as sin and steam’s already rising off the
blacktop, kids are throwing bal s, kicking cans, skipping rope. “Hey there, Minny,” someone says to me about every fifty feet. I nod, but I don’t get
friendly. Not today.
I cut through Ida Peek’s garden. Aibileen’s kitchen door is open. Aibileen’s sitting at her table reading one of those books Miss Skeeter got
her from the white library. She looks up when she hears the screen door whine. I guess she can tel I’m angry.
“Lord have mercy, who done what to you?”
“Celia Rae Foote, that’s who.” I sit down across from her. Aibileen gets up and pours me some coffee.
“What she do?”
I tel her about the bottles I found. I don’t know why I hadn’t told her a week and a half ago when I found them. Maybe I didn’t want her to know
something so awful about Miss Celia. Maybe I felt bad because Aibileen was the one who got me the job. But now I’m so mad I let it al spil out.
“And then she fired me.”
“Oh, Law, Minny.”
“Say she gone find another maid. But who gone work for that lady? Some nappy-headed country maid already living out there, won’t know
squat about serving from the left, clearing from the right.”
“You thought about apologizing? Maybe you go in Monday morning, talk to—”
“I ain’t apologizing to no drunk. I never apologized to my daddy and I sure ain’t apologizing to her.”
We’re both quiet. I throw back my coffee, watch a horsefly buzz against Aibileen’s screen door, knocking with its hard ugly head, whap,
whap, whap, until it fal s down on the step. Spins around like a crazy fool.
“Can’t sleep. Can’t eat,” I say.
“I tel you, that Celia must be the worst one you ever had to tend to.”
“They al bad. But she the worst of al .”
“Ain’t they? You remember that time Miss Walter make you pay for the crystal glass you broke? Ten dol ars out a your pay? Then you find out
them glasses only cost three dol ars apiece down at Carter’s?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Oh, and you remember that crazy Mister Charlie, the one who always cal you nigger to your face like he think it’s funny. And his wife, the
one who make you eat lunch outside, even in the middle a January? Even when it snowed that time?”
“Make me cold just thinking bout it.”
“And what—” Aibileen is chuckling, trying to talk at the same time. “What about that Miss Roberta? Way she make you sit at the kitchen
table while she try out her new hair dye solution on you?” Aibileen wipes at her eyes. “Lord, I never seen blue hair on a black woman before or
since. Leroy say you look like a cracker from outer space.”
“Ain’t nothing funny bout that. Took me three weeks and twenty-five dol ars to get my hair black again.”
Aibileen shakes her head, breathes out a high-keyed “Huhhhhm,” takes a sip of her coffee.
“Miss Celia though,” she says. “Way she treat you? How much she paying you to put up with Mister Johnny and the cooking lessons? Must
be less than al of em.”
“You know she paying me double.”
“Oh, that’s right. Wel , anyway, with al her friends coming over, specting you to clean up after em al the time.”
I just look at her.
“And them ten kids she got too.” Aibileen presses her napkin to her lips, hides her smile. “Must drive you insane the way they screaming al
day, messing up that big old house.”
“I think you done made your point, Aibileen.”
Aibileen smiles, pats me on the arm. “I’m sorry, honey. But you my best friend. And I think you got something pretty good out there. So what if she take a nip or two to get through the day? Go talk to her Monday.”
I feel my face crinkle up. “You think she take me back? After everthing I said?”
“Nobody else gone wait on her. And she know it.”
“Yeah. She dumb.” I sigh. “But she ain’t stupid.”
I go on home. I don’t tel Leroy what’s bothering me, but I think about it al day and al weekend long. I’ve been fired more times than I have
fingers. I pray to God I can get my job back on Monday.
CHAPTER 18
ON MONDAY MORNING, I drive to work rehearsing the whole way. I know I mouthed off…I walk into her kitchen. And I know I was out of place…I set my bag down in the chair, and…and… This is the hard part. And I’m sorry.
I brace myself when I hear Miss Celia’s feet padding through the house. I don’t know what to expect, if she’l be mad or cold or just flat out re-
fire me. Al I know is, I’m doing the talking first.
“Morning,” she says. Miss Celia’s stil in her nightgown. She hasn’t even brushed her hair, much less put the goo on her face.
“Miss Celia, I got to…tel you something…”
She groans, flattens her hand against her stomach.
“You…feel bad?”
“Yeah.” She puts a biscuit and some ham on a plate, then takes the ham back off.
“Miss Celia, I want you to know—”
But she walks right out while I’m talking and I know I am in some kind of trouble.
I go ahead and do my work. Maybe I’m crazy to act like the job’s stil mine. Maybe she won’t even pay me for today. After lunch, I turn on
Miss Christine on As the World Turns and do the ironing. Usual y, Miss Celia comes in and watches with me, but not today. When the program’s
over, I wait on her awhile in the kitchen, but Miss Celia doesn’t even come in for her lesson. The bedroom door stays closed, and by two o’clock I
can’t think of anything else to do except clean their bedroom. I feel a dread like a frying pan in my stomach. I wish I’d gotten my words in this
morning when I had the chance.
Final y, I go to the back of the house, look at that closed door. I knock and there’s no answer. Final y, I take a chance and open it.
But the bed is empty. Now I’ve got the shut bathroom door to contend with.
“I’m on do my work in here,” I cal out. There’s no answer, but I know she’s in there. I can feel her behind that door. I’m sweating. I want to get
this damn conversation over with.
I go around the room with my laundry sack, stuffing a weekend’s worth of clothes inside. The bathroom door stays closed with no sound. I
know that bathroom in there’s a mess. I listen for some life as I pul the sheets up taut on the bed. The pale yel ow bolster pil ow is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen, packaged on the ends like a big yel ow hotdog. I smack it down on the mattress, smooth the bedspread out.
I wipe down the bedside table, stack the Look magazines on her side, the bridge book she ordered. I straighten the books on Mister
Johnny’s. He reads a lot. I pick up To Kill a Mockingbird and turn it over.
“Wel look a there.” A book with black folks in it. It makes me wonder if, one day, I’l see Miss Skeeter’s book on a bedside table. Not with
my real name in it, that’s for sure.
Final y, I hear a noise, something scruff against the bathroom door. “Miss Celia,” I cal out again, “I’m out here. Just want you to know.”
But there’s nothing.
“That ain’t none a my business whatever’s going on in there,” I say to myself. Then I hol er, “Just gone do my work and get out a here before
Mister Johnny gets home with the pistol.” I’m hoping that’l draw her out. It doesn’t.
“Miss Celia, they’s some Lady-a-Pinkam under the sink. Drink that up and come out so I can do my work in there.”
Final y, I just stop, stare at the door. Am I fired or am I ain’t? And if I ain’t, then what if she’s so drunk, she can’t hear me? Mister Johnny
asked me to look after her. I don’t think this would qualify as looking after if she’s drunk in the bathtub.
“Miss Celia, just say something so I know you stil alive in there.”
“I’m fine.”
But she does not sound fine to me.
“It’s almost three o’clock.” I stand in the middle of the bedroom, waiting. “Mister Johnny be home soon.”
I need to know what’s going on in there. I need to know if she’s laid out drunk. And if I ain’t fired, then I need to clean that bathroom so Mister
Johnny doesn’t think the secret maid is slacking and fire me a second time.
“Come on, Miss Celia, you mess up the hair coloring again? I helped you fix it last time, remember? We got it back real pretty.”
The knob turns. Slowly, the door opens. Miss Celia’s sitting on the floor, to the right of the door. Her knees are drawn up inside her
nightgown.
I step a little closer. From the side, I can see her complexion is the color of fabric softener, a flat milky blue.
I can also see blood in the toilet bowl. A lot of it.
“You got the cramps, Miss Celia?” I whisper. I feel my nostrils flare.
Miss Celia doesn’t turn around. There’s a line of blood along the hem of her white nightgown, like it dipped down into the toilet.
“You want me to cal Mister Johnny?” I say. I try, but I can’t stop myself from looking at that red ful bowl. Because there’s something else
deep down in that red liquid. Something…solid-looking.
“No.” Miss Celia says, staring at the wal . “Fetch me…my phone book.”
I hurry to the kitchen, snatch the book from the table, rush back. But when I try to hand it to Miss Celia, she waves it away.
“Please, you cal ,” she says. “Under T, for Doctor Tate. I can’t do it again.”
I skip through the thin pages of the book. I know who Doctor Tate is. He doctors most of the white women I’ve waited on. He also gives his
“special treatment” to Elaine Fairley every Tuesday when his wife is at her hair appointment. Taft…Taggert…Tann. Thank the Lord.
My hands tremble around the rotary dial. A white woman answers. “Celia Foote, on Highway Twenty-Two out Madison County,” I tel her as
best I can without yacking on the floor. “Yes ma’am, lots and lots a blood coming out…Do he know how to get here?” She says yes, of course, and
hangs up.
“He’s coming?” asks Celia.
“He coming,” I say. Another wave of nausea sneaks up on me. It’l be a long time until I can scrub that toilet again without gagging.
“You want a Co-Cola? I’m on get you a Co-Cola.”
In the kitchen, I get a bottle of Coca-Cola from the refrigerator. I come back and set it on the tile and back away. As far from that red-fil ed
pot as I can without leaving Miss Celia alone.
“Maybe we should get you up in the bed, Miss Celia. You think you can stand up?”
Miss Celia leans forward, tries to push herself up. I step in to help her and see that the blood has soaked through the seat of her nightgown,
stained the blue tile with what looks like red glue, embedded in the grout. Stains that won’t be easy to get up.
Just as I raise her to her feet, Miss Celia slips in a spot of blood, catches the edge of toilet bowl to steady herself. “Let me stay—I want to
stay here.”
“Alright then.” I back away, into the bedroom. “Doctor Tate be here real soon. They cal ing him up at home.”
“Come and set with me, Minny? Please?”
But there’s a waft of warm, wretched air coming off that toilet. After some figuring, I sit with half my bottom in the bathroom, half out. And at
eye-level, I can real y smel it. It smel s like meat, like hamburger defrosting on the counter. I kind of panic when I put that one together.
“Come on out of here, Miss Celia. You need some air.”
“I can’t get the blood on the…rug or Johnny wil see it.” The veins on Miss Celia’s arm look black under her skin. Her face is getting whiter.
“You getting funny-looking. Drink you a little a this Co-Cola.”
She takes a sip, says, “Oh Minny.”
“How long you been bleeding?”
“Since this morning,” she says and starts crying into the crook of her arm.
“It’s alright, you gone be fine,” I say and I sound real soothing, real confident, but inside my heart is pounding. Sure, Doctor Tate’s coming to
help Miss Celia, but what about the thing in the toilet? What am I supposed to do, flush it? What if it gets stuck in the pipes? It’l have to be fished up.
Oh Lord, how am I going to make myself do that?
“There’s so much blood,” she moans, leaning against me. “Why’s there so much blood this time?”
I raise my chin and look, just a little, in the bowl. But I have to look down again quick.
“Don’t let Johnny see it. Oh God, when…what time is it?”
“Five to three. We got some time.”
“What should we do about it?” asks Miss Celia.
We. God forgive me, but I wish there wasn’t a “we” mixed up in this.
I shut my eyes, say, “I guess one a us is gone have to pul it out.”
Miss Celia turns to me with her red-rimmed eyes. “And put it where?”
I can’t look at her. “I guess…in the garbage pail.”
“Please, do it now.” Miss Celia buries her head in her knees like she’s ashamed.
There’s not even a we now. Now it’s wil you do it. Wil you fish my dead baby out of that toilet bowl.
And what choice do I have?
I hear a whine come out of me. The tile floor is smashing against my fat. I shift, grunt, try to think it through. I mean, I’ve done worse than this,
haven’t I? Nothing comes to mind, but there has to be something.
“Please,” Miss Celia says, “I can’t…look at it no more.”
“Alright.” I nod, like I know what I’m doing. “I’m on take care a this thing.”