The Help

parts of her hang over the chair. I’m stil nervous from the interview with Gretchen.

I wait for Cal ie to stir her tea. There’s a grocery sack in the corner of Aibileen’s kitchen. It’s ful of clothes, and a pair of white pants hangs

over the top. Aibileen’s house is always so neat. I don’t know why she never does anything with that sack.

Cal ie begins talking slowly and I start to type, grateful of her slow pace. She stares off as if she can see a movie screen behind me, playing

the scenes she’s describing.

“I worked for Miss Margaret thirty-eight years. She had her a baby girl with the colic and the only thing that stopped the hurting was to hold

her. So I made me a wrap. I tied her up on my waist, toted her around al day with me for a entire year. That baby like to break my back. Put ice

packs on it ever night and stil do. But I loved that girl. And I loved Miss Margaret.”

She takes a sip of her tea while I type her last words. I look up and she continues.

“Miss Margaret always made me put my hair up in a rag, say she know coloreds don’t wash their hair. Counted ever piece a silver after I

done the polishing. When Miss Margaret die of the lady problems thirty years later, I go to the funeral. Her husband hug me, cry on my shoulder.

When it’s over, he give me a envelope. Inside a letter from Miss Margaret reading, ‘Thank you. For making my baby stop hurting. I never forgot it.’”

Cal ie takes off her black-rimmed glasses, wipes her eyes.

“If any white lady reads my story, that’s what I want them to know. Saying thank you, when you real y mean it, when you remember what

someone done for you”—she shakes her head, stares down at the scratched table—“it’s so good.”

Cal ie looks up at me, but I can’t meet her eyes.

“I just need a minute,” I say. I press my hand on my forehead. I can’t help but think about Constantine. I never thanked her, not properly. It

never occurred to me I wouldn’t have the chance.

“You feel okay, Miss Skeeter?” Aibileen asks.

“I’m…fine,” I say. “Let’s keep going.”

Cal ie goes on to her next story. The yel ow Dr. Schol ’s shoebox is on the counter behind her, stil ful of envelopes. Except for Gretchen, al

ten women have asked that the money go toward Yule May’s boys’ education.

CHAPTER 20

THE PHELAN FAMILY stands tense, waiting on the brick steps of State Senator Whitworth’s house. The house is in the center of town, on North Street. It is tal and white-columned, appropriately azalea-ed. A gold plaque declares it a historical landmark. Gas lanterns flicker despite the hot six o’clock

sun.

“Mother,” I whisper because I cannot repeat it enough times. “Please, please don’t forget the thing we talked about.”

“I said I wouldn’t mention it, darling.” She touches the pins holding up her hair. “Unless it’s appropriate.”

I have on the new light blue Lady Day skirt and matching jacket. Daddy has on his black funeral suit. His belt is cinched too tight to be

comfortable much less fashionable. Mother is wearing a simple white dress—like a country bride wearing a hand-me-down, I suddenly think, and I

feel a rush of panic that we have overdressed, al of us. Mother’s going to bring up the ugly girl’s trust fund and we look like countryfolk on a big

damn visit to town.

“Daddy, loosen your belt, it’s hitching your pants up.”

He frowns at me and looks down at his pants. Never once have I told my daddy what to do. The door opens.

“Good evening.” A colored woman in a white uniform nods to us. “They expecting y’al .”

We step into the foyer and the first thing I see is the chandelier, sparkling, gauzy with light. My eyes rise up the hol ow twirl of the staircase

and it is as if we are inside a gigantic seashel .

“Why, hel o there.”

I look down from my lol ygagging. Missus Whitworth is clicking into the foyer, hands extended. She has on a suit like mine, thankful y, but in

crimson. When she nods, her graying-blond hair does not move.

“Hel o, Missus Whitworth, I am Charlotte Boudreau Cantrel e Phelan. We thank you so much for having us.”

“Delighted,” she says and shakes both my parents’ hands. “I’m Francine Whitworth. Welcome to our home.”

She turns to me. “And you must be Eugenia. Wel . It is so nice to final y meet you.” Missus Whitworth grasps my arms and looks me in the

eyes. Hers are blue, beautiful, like cold water. Her face is plain around them. She is almost my height in her peau de soie heels.

“So nice to meet you,” I say. “Stuart’s told me so much about you and Senator Whitworth.”

She smiles and slides her hand down my arm. I gasp as a prong of her ring scratches my skin.

“There she is!” Behind Missus Whitworth, a tal , bul -chested man lumbers toward me. He hugs me hard to him, then just as quickly flings me

back. “Now I told Little Stu a month ago to get this gal up to the house. But frankly,” he lowers his voice, “he’s stil a little gun-shy after that other one.”

I stand there blinking. “Very nice to meet you, sir.”

The Senator laughs loudly. “You know I’m just teasing you,” he says, gives me another drastic hug, clapping me on the back. I smile, try to

catch my breath. Remind myself he is a man with al sons.

He turns to Mother, solemnly bows and extends his hand.

“Hel o, Senator Whitworth,” Mother says. “I’m Charlotte.”

“Very nice to meet you, Charlotte. And you cal me Stooley. Al my friends do.”

“Senator,” Daddy says and pumps his hand hard. “We thank you for al you did on that farm bil . Made a heck of a difference.”

“Shee-oot. That Bil ups tried to wipe his shoes on it and I told him, I said, Chico, if Mississippi don’t have cotton, hel , Mississippi don’t have

nothing.”

He slaps Daddy on the shoulder and I notice how smal my father looks next to him.

“Y’al come on in,” the Senator says. “I can’t talk politics without a drink in my hand.”

The Senator pounds his way out of the foyer. Daddy fol ows and I cringe at the fine line of mud on the back of his shoe. One more swipe of

the rag would’ve gotten it, but Daddy’s not used to wearing good loafers on a Saturday.

Mother fol ows him out and I give one last glance up at the sparkling chandelier. As I turn, I catch the maid staring at me from the door. I smile

at her and she nods. Then she nods again, and drops her eyes to the floor.

Oh. My nervousness rises like a tril in my throat as I realize, she knows. I stand, frozen by how duplicitous my life has become. She could show up at Aibileen’s, start tel ing me al about serving the Senator and his wife.

“Stuart’s stil driving over from Shreveport,” the Senator hol ers. “Got a big deal brewing over there, I hear.”

I try not to think about the maid and take a deep breath. I smile like this is fine, just fine. Like I’ve met so many boyfriends’ parents before.

We move into a formal living room with ornate molding and green velvet settees, so ful of heavy furniture I can hardly see the floor.

“What can I get y’al to drink?” Mister Whitworth grins like he’s offering children candy. He has a heavy, broad forehead and the shoulders of

an aging linebacker. His eyebrows are thick and wiry. They wiggle when he talks.

Daddy asks for a cup of coffee, Mother and I for iced tea. The Senator’s grin deflates and he looks back at the maid to col ect these

mundane drinks. In the corner, he pours himself and his wife something brown. The velvet sofa groans when he sits.

“Your home is just lovely. I hear it’s the centerpiece of the tour,” Mother says. This is what Mother’s been dying to say since she found out

about this dinner. Mother’s been on the dinky Ridgeland County Historic Home Council forever, but refers to Jackson’s home tour as “high cotton”

compared to theirs. “Now, do y’al do any kind of dress-up or staging for the tours?”

Senator and Missus Whitworth glance at each other. Then Missus Whitworth smiles. “We took it off the tour this year. It was just…too much.”

“Off? But it’s one of the most important houses in Jackson. Why, I heard Sherman said the house was too pretty to burn.”

Missus Whitworth just nods, sniffs. She is ten years younger than my mother but looks older, especial y now as her face turns long and

prudish.

“Surely you must feel some obligation, for the sake of history…” Mother says, and I shoot her a look to let it go.

No one says anything for a second and then the Senator laughs loudly. “There was kind of a mix-up,” he booms. “Patricia van Devender’s

mother is head of the council so after al that…ruck-a-muck with the kids, we decided we’d just as soon get off the tour.”

I glance at the door, praying Stuart wil get here soon. This is the second time she has come up. Missus Whitworth gives the Senator a

deafening look.

“Wel , what are we gonna do, Francine? Just never talk about her again? We had the damn gazebo built in the backyard for the wedding.”

Missus Whitworth takes a deep breath and I am reminded of what Stuart said to me, that the Senator only knows part of it, but his mother,

she knows al . And what she knows must be much worse than just “ruck-a-muck.”

“Eugenia”—Missus Whitworth smiles—“I understand you aim to be a writer. What kinds of things do you like to write?”

I put my smile back on. From one good subject to the next. “I write the Miss Myrna column in the Jackson Journal. It comes out every

Monday.”

“Oh, I think Bessie reads that, doesn’t she, Stooley? I’l have to ask her when I go in the kitchen.”

“Wel , if she doesn’t, she sure as hel wil now.” The Senator laughs.

“Stuart said you were trying to get into more serious subjects. Anything particular?”

Now everyone is looking at me, including the maid, a different one from the door, as she hands me a glass of tea. I don’t look at her face,

terrified of what I’l see there. “I’m working on a…a few—”

“Eugenia is writing about the life of Jesus Christ,” Mother pops in and I recal my most recent lie to cover my nights out, cal ing it “research.”

“Wel ,” Missus Whitworth nods, looks impressed by this, “that’s certainly an honorable subject.”

I try to smile, disgusted by my own voice. “And such an…important one.” I glance at Mother. She’s beaming.

The front door slams, sending al the glass lamps into a furious tinkle.

“Sorry I’m so late.” Stuart strides in, wrinkled from the car, pul ing on his navy sportscoat. We al stand up and his mother holds out her arms

to him but he heads straight for me. He puts his hands on my shoulders and kisses my cheek. “Sorry,” he whispers and I breathe out, final y relax

half an inch. I turn and see his mother smiling like I just snatched her best guest towel and wiped my dirty hands al over it.

“Get yourself a drink, son, sit down,” the Senator says. When Stuart has his drink, he settles next to me on the sofa, squeezes my hand and

doesn’t let go.

Missus Whitworth gives one glance at our hand-holding and says, “Charlotte, why don’t I give you and Eugenia a tour of the house?”

For the next fifteen minutes, I fol ow Mother and Missus Whitworth from one ostentatious room to the next. Mother gasps over a genuine

Yankee bul ethole in the front parlor, the bul et stil lodged in the wood. There are letters from Confederate soldiers lying on a Federal desk,

strategical y placed antique spectacles and handkerchiefs. The house is a shrine to the War Between the States and I wonder what it must’ve been

like for Stuart, growing up in a home where you can’t touch anything.

On the third floor, Mother gaggles over a canopy bed where Robert E. Lee slept. When we final y come down a “secret” staircase, I linger

over family pictures in the hal way. I see Stuart and his two brothers as babies, Stuart holding a red bal . Stuart in a christening gown, held by a

colored woman in white uniform.

Mother and Missus Whitworth move down the hal , but I keep looking, for there is something so deeply dear in Stuart’s face as a young boy.

His cheeks were fat and his mother’s blue eyes shone the same as they do now. His hair was the whitish-yel ow of a dandelion. At nine or ten, he

stands with a hunting rifle and a duck. At fifteen, next to a slain deer. Already he is good-looking, rugged. I pray to God he never sees my teenage

pictures.

I walk a few steps and see high school graduation, Stuart proud in a military school uniform. In the center of the wal , there is an empty space

without a frame, a rectangle of wal paper just the slightest shade darker. A picture has been removed.

“Dad, that is enough about—” I hear Stuart say, his voice strained. But just as quickly, there is silence.

“Dinner is served,” I hear a maid announce and I weave my way back into the living room. We al trail into the dining room to a long, dark

table. The Phelans are seated on one side, the Whitworths on the other. I am diagonal from Stuart, placed as far as possible from him. Around the

room, the wainscoting panels have been painted to depict scenes of pre–Civil War times, happy Negroes picking cotton, horses pul ing wagons,

white-bearded statesmen on the steps of our capitol. We wait while the Senator lingers in the living room. “I’l be right there, y’al go ahead and

start.” I hear the clink of ice, the clop of the bottle being set down two more times before he final y comes in and sits at the head of the table.

Waldorf salads are served. Stuart looks over at me and smiles every few minutes. Senator Whitworth leans over to Daddy and says, “I came

from nothing, you know. Jefferson County, Mississippi. My daddy dried peanuts for eleven cents a pound.”

Daddy shakes his head. “Doesn’t get much poorer than Jefferson County.”

I watch as Mother cuts off the tiniest bite of apple. She hesitates, chews it for the longest time, winces as it goes down. She wouldn’t al ow

me to tel Stuart’s parents about her stomach problem. Instead, Mother ravishes Missus Whitworth with degustationary compliments. Mother views

this supper as an important move in the game cal ed “Can My Daughter Catch Your Son?”

“The young people so enjoy each other’s company.” Mother smiles. “Why, Stuart comes out to see us at the house nearly twice a week.”

“Is that right?” says Missus Whitworth.

“We’d be delighted if you and the Senator could drive out to the plantation for supper sometime, take a walk around the orchard?”

I look at Mother. Plantation is an outdated term she likes to use to gloss up the farm, while the “orchard” is a barren apple tree. A pear tree with a worm problem.

But Missus Whitworth has stiffened around the mouth. “Twice a week? Stuart, I had no idea you came to town that often.”

Stuart’s fork stops in midair. He casts a sheepish look at his mother.

“Y’al are so young.” Missus Whitworth smiles. “Enjoy yourselves. There’s no need to get serious so quickly.”

The Senator leans his elbows on the table. “From a woman who practical y proposed to the other one herself, she was in such a hurry.”

“Dad,” Stuart says through gritted teeth, banging his fork against his plate.

The table is silent, except for Mother’s thorough, methodical chewing to try to turn solid food into paste. I touch the scratch, stil pink along my

arm.

The maid lays pressed chicken on our plates, tops it with a perky dol op of mayonnaisey dressing, and we al smile, glad for the mood

breaker. As we eat, Daddy and the Senator talk about cotton prices, bol weevils. I can stil see the anger on Stuart’s face from when the Senator

mentioned Patricia. I glance at him every few seconds, but the anger doesn’t seem to be fading. I wonder if that’s what they’d argued about earlier,

when I was in the hal .

The Senator leans back in his chair. “Did you see that piece they did in Life magazine? One before Medgar Evers, about what’s-’is-name—

Carl…Roberts?”

I look up, surprised to find the Senator is aiming this question at me. I blink, confused, hoping it’s because of my job at the newspaper. “It

was…he was lynched. For saying the governor was…” I stop, not because I’ve forgotten the words, but because I remember them.

“Pathetic,” the Senator says, now turning to my father. “With the morals of a streetwalker. ”

I exhale, relieved the attention is off me. I look at Stuart to gauge his reaction to this. I’ve never asked him his position on civil rights. But I

don’t think he’s even listening to the conversation. The anger around his mouth has turned flat and cold.

My father clears his throat. “I’l be honest,” he says slowly. “It makes me sick to hear about that kind of brutality.” Daddy sets his fork down silently. He looks Senator Whitworth in the eye. “I’ve got twenty-five Negroes working my fields and if anyone so much as laid a hand on them, or

any of their families…” Daddy’s gaze is steady. Then he drops his eyes. “I’m ashamed, sometimes, Senator. Ashamed of what goes on in

Mississippi.”

Mother’s eyes are big, set on Daddy. I am shocked to hear this opinion. Even more shocked that he’d voice it at this table to a politician. At

home, newspapers are folded so the pictures face down, television channels are turned when the subject of race comes up. I’m suddenly so proud

of my daddy, for many reasons. For a second, I swear, I see it in Mother’s eyes too, beneath her worry that Father has obliterated my future. I look at Stuart and his face registers concern, but in which way, I do not know.

The Senator has his eyes narrowed on Daddy.

“I’l tel you something, Carlton,” the Senator says. He jiggles the ice around in his glass. “Bessie, bring me another drink, would you please.”

He hands his glass to the maid. She quickly returns with a ful one.

“Those were not wise words to say about our governor,” the Senator says.

“I agree one hundred percent,” Daddy says.

“But the question I’ve been asking myself lately is, are they true?”

“Stooley,” Missus Whitworth hisses. But then just as quickly she smiles, straightens. “Now, Stooley,” she says like she’s talking to a child,