The Help. Part 44

"I'll make us some more coffee," Aibileen says.

On THE DRIVE back to Longleaf, I shudder, thinking about Minny's pie story. I don't know if we'd be safer leaving it out or putting it in. Not to mention, if I can't get it written in time to make the mail tomorrow, it will put us yet another day later, shorting our chances to make the deadline. I can picture the red fury on Hilly's face, the hate she still feels for Minny. I know my old friend well. If we're found out, Hilly will be our fiercest enemy. Even if we're not found out, printing the pie story will put Hilly in a rage like we've never seen. But Minny's right--it's our best insurance.

I look over my shoulder every quarter mile. I keep exactly to the speed limit and stay on the back roads. They will beat us They will beat us rings in my ears. rings in my ears.

I WRITE ALL NIGHT, grimacing over the details of Minny's story, and all the next day. At four in the afternoon, I jam the ma.n.u.script in a cardboard letter box. I quickly wrap the box in brown paper wrapping. Usually it takes seven or eight days, but it will somehow have to get to New York City in six days to make the deadline.

I speed to the post office, knowing it closes at four-thirty, despite my fear of the police, and rush inside to the window. I haven't gone to sleep since night before last. My hair is literally sticking straight up in the air. The postman's eyes widen.

"Windy outside?"

"Please. Can you get this out today? It's going to New York."

He looks at the address. "Out-a-town truck's gone, ma'am. It'll have to wait until morning."

He stamps the postage and I head back home.

As soon as I walk in, I go straight to the pantry and call Elaine Stein's office. Her secretary puts me through and I tell her, in a hoa.r.s.e, tired voice, I mailed the ma.n.u.script today.

"The last editors' meeting is in six days, Eugenia. Not only will it have to get here in time, I'll have to have time to read it. I'd say it's highly unlikely."

There is nothing left to say, so I just murmur, "I know. Thank you for the chance." And I add, "Merry Christmas, Missus Stein."

"We call it Hanukkah, but thank you, Miss Phelan."

chapter 28.

AFTER I Hang up the phone, I go stand on the porch and stare out at the cold land. I'm so dog-tired I hadn't even noticed Doctor Neal's car is here. He must've arrived while I was at the post office. I lean against the rail and wait for him to come out of Mother's room. Down the hall, through the open front door, I can see that her bedroom door is closed.

A little while later, Doctor Neal gently closes her door behind him and walks out to the porch. He stands beside me.

"I gave her something to help the pain," he says.

"The . . . pain? Was Mama vomiting this morning?"

Old Doctor Neal stares at me through his cloudy blue eyes. He looks at me long and hard, as if trying to decide something about me. "Your mother has cancer, Eugenia. In the lining of the stomach."

I reach for the side of the house. I'm shocked and yet, didn't I know this?

"She didn't want to tell you." He shakes his head. "But since she refuses to stay in the hospital, you need to know. These next few months are going to be . . . pretty hard." He raises his eyebrows at me. "On her and you too."

"Few months? Is that . . . all?" I cover my mouth with my hand, hear myself groan.

"Maybe longer, maybe sooner, honey." He shakes his head. "Knowing your mother, though," he glances into the house, "she's going to fight it like the devil."

I stand there in a daze, unable to speak.

"Call me anytime, Eugenia. At the office or at home."

I walk into the house, back to Mother's room. Daddy is on the settee by the bed, staring at nothing. Mother is sitting straight up. She rolls her eyes when she sees me.

"Well, I guess he told you," she says.

Tears drip off my chin. I hold her hands.

"How long have you known?"

"About two months."

"Oh, Mama. Mama."

"Now stop that, Eugenia. It can't be helped."

"But what can I . . . I can't just sit here and watch you . . ." I can't even say the word. All the words are too awful.

"You most certainly will not just sit sit here. Carlton is going to be a lawyer and you . . ." She shakes her finger at me. "Don't think you can just let yourself go after I'm gone. I am calling f.a.n.n.y Mae's the minute I can walk to the kitchen and make your hair appointments through 1975." here. Carlton is going to be a lawyer and you . . ." She shakes her finger at me. "Don't think you can just let yourself go after I'm gone. I am calling f.a.n.n.y Mae's the minute I can walk to the kitchen and make your hair appointments through 1975."

I sink down on the settee and Daddy puts his arm around me. I lean against him and cry.

THE CHRISTMAS TREE Jameso put up a week ago dries and drops needles every time someone walks into the relaxing room. It's still six days until Christmas, but no one's bothered to water it. The few presents Mother bought and wrapped back in July sit under the tree, one for Daddy that's obviously a church tie, something small and square for Carlton, a heavy box for me that I suspect is a new Bible. Now that everyone knows about Mother's cancer, it is as if she's let go of the few threads that kept her upright. The marionette strings are cut, and even her head looks wobbly on its post. The most she can do is get up and go to the bathroom or sit on the porch a few minutes every day.

In the afternoon, I take Mother her mail, Good Housekeeping Good Housekeeping magazine, church newsletters, DAR updates. magazine, church newsletters, DAR updates.

"How are you?" I push her hair back from her head and she closes her eyes like she relishes the feel. She is the child now and I am the mother.

"I'm alright."

Pascagoula comes in. She sets a tray of broth on the table. Mother barely shakes her head when she leaves, staring off at the empty doorway.

"Oh no," she says, grimacing, "I can't eat."

"You don't have to eat, Mama. We'll do it later."

"It's just not the same with Pascagoula here, is it?" she says.

"No," I say. "It's not." This is the first time she's mentioned Constantine since our terrible discussion.

"They say its like true love, good help. You only get one in a lifetime."

I nod, thinking how I ought to go write that down, include it in the book. But, of course, it's too late, it's already been mailed. There's nothing I can do, there's nothing any of us can do now, except wait for what's coming.

CHRISTMAS EVE is DEPRESSING and rainy and warm. Every half hour, Daddy comes out of Mother's room and looks out the front window and asks, "Is he here?" even if no one's listening. My brother, Carlton, is driving home tonight from LSU law school and we'll both be relieved to see him. All day, Mother has been vomiting and dry heaving. She can barely keep her eyes open, but she cannot sleep.

"Charlotte, you need to be in the hospital," Doctor Neal said that afternoon. I don't know how many times he's said that in the past week. "At least let me get the nurse out here to stay with you."

"Charles Neal," Mother said, not even raising her head from the mattress, "I am not spending my final days in a hospital, nor will I turn my own house into one."

Doctor Neal just sighed, gave Daddy more medicine, a new kind, and explained to him how to give it to her.

"But will it help her?" I heard Daddy whisper out in the hall. "Can it make her better?"

Doctor Neal put his hand on Daddy's shoulder. "No, Carlton."

At six o'clock that night, Carlton finally pulls up, comes in the house.

"Hey there, Skeeter." He hugs me to him. He is rumpled from the car drive, handsome in his college cable-knit sweater. The fresh air on him smells good. It's nice to have someone else here. "Jesus, why's it so hot in this house?"

"She's cold," I say quietly, "all the time."

I go with him to the back. Mother sits up when she sees him, holds her thin arms out. "Oh Carlton, you're home," she says.

Carlton stops still. Then he bends down and hugs her, very gently. He glances back at me and I can see the shock on his face. I turn away. I cover my mouth so I don't cry, because I won't be able to quit. Carlton's look tells me more than I want to know.

When Stuart drops by on Christmas Day, I don't stop him when he tries to kiss me. But I tell him, "I'm only letting you because my mother is dying."

"EUGENIA," I hear Mother calling. It is New Year's Eve and I'm in the kitchen getting some tea. Christmas has pa.s.sed and Jameso took the tree out this morning. Needles still litter the house, but I've managed to put away the decorations and store them back in the closet. It was tiring and frustrating, trying to wrap each ornament the way Mother likes, to get them ready for next year. I don't let myself question the futility of it.

I've heard nothing from Missus Stein and don't even know if the package made it on time. Last night, I broke down and called Aibileen to tell her I've heard nothing, just for the relief of talking about it to someone. "I keep thinking a things to put in," Aibileen says. "I have to remind myself we already done sent it off."

"Me too," I say. "I'll call you as soon as I hear something."

I go in the back. Mother is propped up on her pillows. The gravity of sitting upright, we've learned, helps keep the vomit down. The white enamel bowl is beside her.

"Hey, Mama," I say. "What can I get you?"

"Eugenia, you cannot wear those slacks to the Holbrook New Year's party." When Mother blinks, she keeps her eyes closed a second too long. She's exhausted, a skeleton in a white dressing gown with absurdly fancy ribbons and starched lace. Her neck swims in the neckline like an eighty-pound swan's. She cannot eat unless it's through a straw. She's lost her power of smell completely. Yet she can sense, from an entirely different room, if my wardrobe is disappointing.

"They canceled the party, Mama." Perhaps she is remembering Hilly's party last year. From what Stuart's told me, all the parties were canceled because of the President's death. Not that I'd be invited anyway. Tonight, Stuart's coming over to watch d.i.c.k Clark on the television.

Mother places her tiny, angular hand on mine, so frail the joints show through the skin. I was Mother's dress size when I was eleven.

She looks at me evenly. "I think you need to go on and put those slacks on the list, now."

"But they're comfortable and they're warm and--"

She shakes her head, shuts her eyes. "I'm sorry, Skeeter."

There is no arguing, anymore. "Al-right," I sigh.

Mother pulls the pad of paper from under the covers, tucked in the invisible pocket she's had sewn in every garment, where she keeps antivomiting pills, tissues. Tiny dictatorial lists. Even though she is so weak, I'm surprised by the steadiness of her hand as she writes on the "Do Not Wear" list: "Gray, shapeless, mannishly tailored pants." She smiles, satisfied.

It sounds macabre, but when Mother realized that after she's dead, she won't be able to tell me what to wear anymore, she came up with this ingenious postmortem system. She's a.s.suming I'll never go buy new, unsatisfactory clothes on my own. She's probably right.

"Still no vomiting yet?" I ask, because it's four o'clock and Mother's had two bowls of broth and hasn't been sick once today. Usually she's thrown up at least three times by now.

"Not even once," she says but then she closes her eyes and within seconds, she's asleep.

On NEW YEAR'S DAY, I come downstairs to start on the black-eyed peas for good luck. Pascagoula set them out to soak last night, instructed me on how to put them in the pot and turn on the flame, put the ham hock in with them. It's pretty much a two-step process, yet everyone seems nervous about me turning on the stove. I remember that Constantine always used to come by on January first and fix our good-luck peas for us, even though it was her day off. She'd make a whole pot but then deliver one single pea on a plate to everyone in the family and watch us to make sure we ate it. She could be superst.i.tious like that. Then she'd wash the dishes and go back home. But Pascagoula doesn't offer to come in on her holiday and, a.s.suming she's with her own family, I don't ask her to.

We're all sad that Carlton had to leave this morning. It's been nice having my brother around to talk to. His last words to me, before he hugged me and headed back to school, were, "Don't burn the house down." Then he added, "I'll call tomorrow, to see how she is."

After I turn off the flame, I walk out on the porch. Daddy's leaning on the rail, rolling cotton seeds around in his fingers. He's staring at the empty fields that won't be planted for another month.

"Daddy, you coming in for lunch?" I ask. "The peas are ready."

He turns and his smile is thin, starved for reason.

"This medicine they got her on . . ." He studies his seeds. "I think it's working. She keeps saying she feels better."

I shake my head in disbelief. He can't really believe this.

"She's gone two days and only gotten sick once . . ."

"Oh, Daddy. No . . . it's just a . . . Daddy, she still has it."

But there's an empty look in Daddy's eyes and I wonder if he even heard me.

"I know you've got better places to be, Skeeter." There are tears in his eyes. "But not a day pa.s.ses that I don't thank G.o.d you're here with her."

I nod, feel guilty that he thinks it's a choice I actually made. I hug him, tell him, "I'm glad I'm here too, Daddy."

WHEN THE CLUB REOPENS the first week of January, I put my skirt on and grab my racquet. I walk through the snack bar, ignoring Patsy Joiner, my old tennis partner who dumped me, and three other girls, all smoking at the black iron tables. They lean down and whisper to each other when I pa.s.s. I'll be skipping the League meeting tonight, and forever, for that matter. I gave in and sent a letter three days ago with my resignation.

I slam the tennis ball into the backboard, trying my best not to think about anything. Lately I've found myself praying, when I've never been a very religious person. I find myself whispering long, never-ending sentences to G.o.d, begging for Mother to feel some relief, pleading for good news about the book, sometimes even asking for some hint of what to do about Stuart. Often I catch myself praying when I didn't even know I was doing it.

When I get home from the club, Doctor Neal pulls up behind me in his car. I take him back to Mother's room, where Daddy's waiting, and they close the door behind them. I stand there, fidgeting in the hall like a kid. I can see why Daddy is hanging on to his thread of hope. Mother's gone four days now without vomiting the green bile. She's eating her oatmeal every day, even asked for more.

When Doctor Neal comes out, Daddy stays in the chair by the bed and I follow Doctor Neal out to the porch.

"She told you?" I ask. "About how she's feeling better?"

He nods, but then shakes his head. "There's no point in bringing her in for an X-ray. It would just be too hard on her."

"But . . . is she? Could she be improving?"

"I've seen this before, Eugenia. Sometimes people get a burst of strength. It's a gift from G.o.d, I guess. So they can go on and finish their business. But that's all it is, honey. Don't expect anything more."

"But did you see her color? She looks so much better and she's keeping the food--"

He shakes his head. "Just try and keep her comfortable."

On THE FIRST FRIDAY OF 1964, I can't wait any longer. I stretch the phone into the pantry. Mother is asleep, after having eaten a second bowl of oatmeal. Her door is open so I can hear her, in case she calls.