The Help. Part 49

MINNY.

chapter 32.

ANOTHER DAY Pa.s.sES, and still I can hear Miss Hilly's voice talking the words, reading the lines. I don't hear the scream. Not yet. But she's getting close.

Aibileen told me what the ladies in the Jitney said yesterday, but we haven't heard another thing since. I keep dropping things, broke my last measuring cup tonight and Leroy's eyeing me like he knows. Right now he's drinking coffee at the table and the kids are draped all over the kitchen doing their homework.

I jump when I see Aibileen standing at the screen door. She puts her finger to her lips and nods to me. Then she disappears.

"Kindra, get the plates, Sugar, watch the beans, Felicia, get Daddy to sign that test, Mama needs some air." Poof I disappear out the screen door.

Aibileen's standing on the side of the house in her white uniform.

"What happen?" I ask. Inside I hear Leroy yell, "A Eff? Eff? " He won't touch the kids. He'll yell, but that's what fathers are supposed to do. " He won't touch the kids. He'll yell, but that's what fathers are supposed to do.

"One-arm Ernestine call and say Miss Hilly's talking all over town about who's in the book. She telling white ladies to fire they maids and she ain't even guessing the right ones!" Aibileen looks so upset, she's shaking. She's twisting a cloth into a white rope. I'll bet she doesn't even realize she carried over her real dinner napkin.

"Who she saying?"

"She told Miss Sinclair to fire Annabelle. So Miss Sinclair fired her and then took her car keys away cause she loaned her half the money to buy the car. Annabelle already paid most of it back but it's gone."

"That witch witch," I whisper, grinding my teeth.

"That ain't all, Minny."

I hear bootsteps in the kitchen. "Hurry, fore Leroy catch us whispering."

"Miss Hilly told Miss Lou Anne, 'Your Louvenia's in here. I know she is and you need to fire her. You ought to send that Nigra to jail.' "

"But Louvenia didn't say a single bad thing about Miss Lou Anne!" I say. "And she got Robert to take care of! What Miss Lou Anne say?"

Aibileen bites her lip. She shakes her head and the tears come down her face.

"She say . . . she gone think about it."

"Which one? The firing or the jail?"

Aibileen shrug. "Both, I reckon."

"Jesus Christ," I say, wanting to kick something. Somebody.

"Minny, what if Miss Hilly don't ever finish reading it?"

"I don't know, Aibileen. I just don't know."

Aibileen's eyes jerk up to the door and there's Leroy, watching us from behind the screen. He stands there, quiet, until I tell Abileen goodbye and come back inside.

AT FIVE-THIRTY THAT MORNING, Leroy falls into bed next to me. I wake up to the squawk of the frame and the stench of the liquor. I grit my teeth, praying he doesn't try to start a fight. I am too tired for it. Not that I was asleep good anyway, worrying about Aibileen and her news. For Miss Hilly, Louvenia would just be another jail key on that witch's belt.

Leroy flops around and tosses and turns, never mind his pregnant wife's trying to sleep. When the fool finally gets settled, I hear his whisper.

"What's the big secret, Minny?"

I can feel him watching me, feel his liquor breath on my shoulder. I don't move.

"You know I'll find out," he hisses. "I always do."

In about ten seconds, his breathing slows to almost dead and he throws his hand across me. Thank you for this baby Thank you for this baby, I pray. Because that's the only thing that saved me, this baby in my belly. And that is the ugly truth.

I lay there grinding my teeth, wondering, worrying. Leroy, he's onto something. And G.o.d knows what'll happen to me if he finds out. He knows about the book, everybody does, just not that his wife was a part of it, thank you. People probably a.s.sume I don't care if he finds out--oh I know what people think. They think big strong Minny, she sure can stand up for herself. But they don't know what a pathetic mess I turn into when Leroy's beating on me. I'm afraid to hit back. I'm afraid he'll leave me if I do. I know it makes no sense and I get so mad at myself for being so weak! How can I love a man who beats me raw? Why do I love a fool drinker? One time I asked him, "Why? Why are you hitting me?" He leaned down and looked me right in the face.

"If I didn't hit you, Minny, who knows knows what you become." what you become."

I was trapped in the corner of the bedroom like a dog. He was beating me with his belt. It was the first time I'd ever really thought about it.

Who knows knows what I could become, if Leroy would stop G.o.dd.a.m.n hitting me. what I could become, if Leroy would stop G.o.dd.a.m.n hitting me.

THE NEXT NIGHT, I make everybody go to bed early, including myself. Leroy's at the plant until five and I'm feeling too heavy for my time. Lord, maybe it's twins. I'm not paying a doctor to tell me that bad news. All I know is, this baby's already bigger than the others when they came out, and I'm only six months.

I fall into a heavy sleep. I'm dreaming I'm at a long wooden table and I'm at a feast. I'm gnawing on a big roasted turkey leg.

I fly upright in my bed. My breath is fast. "Who there?"

My heart's flinging itself against my chest. I look around my dark bedroom. It's half-past midnight. Leroy's not here, thank G.o.d. But something woke me for sure.

And then I realize what it was that woke me. I heard what I've been waiting on. What we've all been waiting on.

I heard Miss Hilly's scream.

MISS SKEETER.

chapter 33.

MY EYES POP OPEN. My chest is pumping. I'm sweating. The greenvined wallpaper is snaking up the walls. What woke me? What was was that? that?

I get out of bed and listen. It didn't sound like Mother. It was too high-pitched. It was a scream, like material ripping into two shredded pieces.

I sit back on the bed and press my hand to my heart. It's still pounding. Nothing is going as planned. People know the book is about Jackson. I can't believe I forgot what a slow G.o.dd.a.m.n reader Hilly is. I'll bet she's telling people she's read more than she has. Now things are spinning out of control, a maid named Annabelle was fired, white women are whispering about Aibileen and Louvenia and who knows who else. And the irony is, I'm gnawing my hands waiting for Hilly to speak up when I'm the only one in this town who doesn't care what she has to say anymore.

What if the book was a horrible mistake?

I take a deep, painful breath. I try to think of the future, not the present. A month ago, I mailed out fifteen resumes to Dallas, Memphis, Birmingham, and five other cities, and once again, New York. Missus Stein told me I could list her as a reference, which is probably the only notable thing on the page, having a recommendation from someone in publis.h.i.+ng. I added the jobs I've held for the past year: Weekly Housekeeping Columnist for the Jackson Journal Newspaper Editor of the Junior League of Jackson Newsletter Author of Help, a controversial book about colored housekeepers and their white employers, Harper & Row I didn't really include the book, I just wanted to type it out once. But now, even if I did get a job offer in a big city, I can't abandon Aibileen in the middle of this mess. Not with things going so badly.

But G.o.d, I have to get out of Mississippi. Besides Mother and Daddy, I have nothing left here, no friends, no job I really care about, no Stuart. But it's not just out of here. When I addressed my resume to the New York Post, The New York Times, Harper's Magazine, The New Yorker New York Post, The New York Times, Harper's Magazine, The New Yorker magazine, I felt that surge again, the same I'd felt in college, of how much I want to be there. Not Dallas, not Memphis-- magazine, I felt that surge again, the same I'd felt in college, of how much I want to be there. Not Dallas, not Memphis--New York City, where writers are supposed to live. But I've heard nothing back from any of them. What if I never leave? What if I'm stuck. Here. Forever?

I lie down and watch the first rays of sun coming through the window. I s.h.i.+ver. That ripping scream, I realize, was me. me.

I'm STANDING IN BRENT'S Drug Store picking out Mother's l.u.s.tre Cream and a Vinolia soap bar, while Mr. Roberts works on her prescription. Mother says she doesn't need the medicine anymore, that the only cure for cancer is having a daughter who won't cut her hair and wears dresses too high above the knee even on Sunday, because who knows what tackiness I'd do to myself if she died.

I'm just grateful Mother's better. If my fifteen-second engagement to Stuart is what spurred Mother's will to live, the fact that I'm single again fueled her strength even more. She was clearly disappointed by our breakup, but then bounced back superbly. Mother even went so far as to set me up with a third cousin removed, who is thirty-five and beautiful and clearly h.o.m.os.e.xual. "Mother," I'd said when he left after supper, for how could she not see it? "He's . . ." but I'd stopped. I'd patted her hand instead. "He said I wasn't his type."

Now I'm hurrying to get out of the drugstore before anyone I know comes in. I should be used to my isolation by now, but I'm not. I miss having friends. Not Hilly, but sometimes Elizabeth, the old, sweet Elizabeth back in high school. It got harder when I finished the book and I couldn't even visit Aibileen anymore. We decided it was too risky. I miss going to her house and talking to her more than anything.

Every few days, I speak to Aibileen on the phone, but it's not the same as sitting with her. Please, Please, I think when she updates me on what's going on around town, I think when she updates me on what's going on around town, please let some good come out of this. please let some good come out of this. But so far, nothing. Just girls gossiping and treating the book like a game, trying to guess who is who and Hilly accusing the wrong people. I was the one who a.s.sured the colored maids we wouldn't be found out, and I am the one responsible for this. But so far, nothing. Just girls gossiping and treating the book like a game, trying to guess who is who and Hilly accusing the wrong people. I was the one who a.s.sured the colored maids we wouldn't be found out, and I am the one responsible for this.

The front bell tinkles. I look over and in walk Elizabeth and Lou Anne Templeton. I slip back into beauty creams, hoping they don't see me. But then I peek over the shelves to look. They're heading for the lunch counter, huddled together like schoolgirls. Lou Anne's wearing her usual long sleeves in the summer heat and her constant smile. I wonder if she knows she's in the book.

Elizabeth's got her hair poufed up in front and she's covered the back in a scarf, the yellow scarf I gave her for her twenty-third birthday. I stand there a minute, letting myself feel how strange this all is, watching them, knowing what I know. She has read up to Chapter Ten, Aibileen told me last night, and still doesn't have the faintest idea that she's reading about herself and her friends.

"Skeeter?" Mr. Roberts calls out from his landing above the register. "Your mama's medicine's ready."

I walk to the front of the store, and have to pa.s.s Elizabeth and Lou Anne at the lunch counter. They keep their backs to me, but I can see their eyes in the mirror, following me. They look down at the same time.

I pay for the medicine and Mother's tubes and goo and work my way back through the aisles. As I try to escape along the far side of the store, Lou Anne Templeton steps from behind the hairbrush rack.

"Skeeter," she says. "You have a minute?"

I stand there blinking, surprised. No one's asked me for even a second, much less a minute, in over eight months. "Um, sure," I say, wary.

Lou Anne glances out the window and I see Elizabeth heading for her car, a milkshake in hand. Lou Anne motions me closer, by the shampoos and detanglers.

"Your mama, I hope she's still doing better?" Lou Anne asks. Her smile is not quite as beaming as usual. She pulls at the long sleeves of her dress, even though a fine sweat covers her forehead.

"She's fine. Still . . . in remission."

"I'm so glad." She nods and we stand there awkwardly, looking at each other. Lou Anne takes a deep breath. "I know we haven't talked in a while but," she lowers her voice, "I just thought you should know what Hilly's saying. She's saying you wrote that book... about the maids."

"I heard that book was written anonymously," is my quick answer, not sure I even want to act like I've read it. Even though everyone in town's reading it. All three bookstores are sold out and the library has a two-month waiting list.

She holds up her palm, like a stop sign. "I don't want to know if it's true. But Hilly . . ." She steps closer to me. "Hilly Holbrook called me the other day and told me to fire my maid Louvenia." Her jaw tightens and she shakes her head.

Please. I hold my breath. I hold my breath. Please don't say you fired her. Please don't say you fired her.

"Skeeter, Louvenia . . ." Lou Anne looks me in the eye, says, "she's the only reason I can get out of bed sometimes."

I don't say anything. Maybe this is a trap Hilly's set.

"And I'm sure you think I'm just some dumb girl . . . that I agree with everything Hilly says." Tears come up in her eyes. Her lips are trembling. "The doctors want me to go up to Memphis for... shock treatment shock treatment . . ." She covers her face but a tear slips through her fingers. "For the depression and the . . . the tries," she whispers. . . ." She covers her face but a tear slips through her fingers. "For the depression and the . . . the tries," she whispers.

I look down at her long sleeves and I wonder if that's what she's been hiding. I hope I'm not right, but I shudder.

"Of course, Henry says I need to shape up or s.h.i.+p out." She makes a marching motion, trying to smile, but it falls quickly and the sadness flickers back into her face.

"Skeeter, Louvenia is the bravest person I know. Even with all her own troubles, she sits down and talks to me. She helps me get through my days. When I read what she wrote about me, about helping her with her grandson, I've never been so grateful in my life. It was the best I'd felt in months."

I don't know what to say. This is the only good thing I've heard about the book and I want her to tell me more. I guess Aibileen hasn't heard this yet, either. But I'm worried too because, clearly, Lou Anne knows.

"If you did write it, if Hilly's rumor is true, I just want you to know, I will never fire Louvenia. I told Hilly I'd think about it, but if Hilly Holbrook ever says that to me again, I will tell her to her face she deserved that pie and more."

"How do--what makes you think that was Hilly?" Our protection--our insurance, it's gone if the pie secret is out. Our protection--our insurance, it's gone if the pie secret is out.

"Maybe it was and maybe it wasn't. But that's the talk." Lou Anne shakes her head. "Then this morning I heard Hilly's telling everybody the book's not even about Jackson. Who knows why."

I suck in a breath, whisper, "Thank G.o.d."

"Well, Henry'll be home soon." She pulls her handbag up on her shoulder and stands up straighter. The smile comes back on her face like a mask.

She turns for the door, but looks back at me as she opens it. "And I'll tell you one more thing. Hilly Holbrook's not getting my vote for League president in January. Or ever again, for that matter."

On that, she walks out, the bell tinkling behind her.

I linger at the window. Outside, a fine rain has started to fall, misting the gla.s.sy cars and slicking the black pavement. I watch Lou Anne slip away in the parking lot, thinking, There is so much you don't know about a person. There is so much you don't know about a person. I wonder if I could've made her days a little bit easier, if I'd tried. If I'd treated her a little nicer. Wasn't that the point of the book? For women to realize, I wonder if I could've made her days a little bit easier, if I'd tried. If I'd treated her a little nicer. Wasn't that the point of the book? For women to realize, We are just two people. Not that much separates us. Not nearly as much as I' d thought. We are just two people. Not that much separates us. Not nearly as much as I' d thought.

But Lou Anne, she understood the point of the book before she ever read it. The one who was missing the point this time was me.

THAT EVENING, I call Aibileen four times, but her phone line is busy. I hang up and sit for a while in the pantry, staring at the jars of fig preserves Constantine put up before the fig tree died. Aibileen told me that the maids talk all the time about the book and what's happening. She gets six or seven phone calls a night.

I sigh. It's Wednesday. Tomorrow I turn in my Miss Myrna column that I wrote six weeks ago. Again, I've stockpiled two dozen of them, because I have nothing else to do. After that, there's nothing left to think about, except worry.

Sometimes, when I'm bored, I can't help but think what my life would be like if I hadn't written the book. Monday, I would've played bridge. And tomorrow night, I'd be going to the League meeting and turning in the newsletter. Then on Friday night, Stuart would take me to dinner and we'd stay out late and I'd be tired when I got up for my tennis game on Sat.u.r.day. Tired and content and . . . frustrated. frustrated.

Because Hilly would've called her maid a thief that afternoon, and I would've just sat there and listened to it. And Elizabeth would've grabbed her child's arm too hard and I would've looked away, like I didn't see it. And I'd be engaged to Stuart and I wouldn't wear short dresses, only short hair, or consider doing anything risky like write a book about colored housekeepers, too afraid he'd disapprove. And while I'd never lie and tell myself I actually changed the minds of people like Hilly and Elizabeth, at least I don't have to pretend I agree with them anymore.

I get out of that stuffy pantry with a panicky feeling. I slip on my man huaraches and walk out into the warm night. The moon is full and there's just enough light. I forgot to check the mailbox this afternoon and I'm the only one who ever does it. I open it and there's one single letter. It's from Harper & Row, so it must be from Missus Stein. I'm surprised she would send something here since I have all the book contracts sent to a box at the post office, just in case. It's too dark to read, so I tuck it in the back pocket of my blue jeans.

Instead of walking up the lane, I cut through the "orchard," feeling the soft gra.s.s under my feet, stepping around the early pears that have fallen. It is September again and I'm here. Still here. Even Stuart has moved on. An article a few weeks ago about the Senator said that Stuart moved his oil company down to New Orleans so that he can spend time out on the rigs at sea again.

I hear the rumble of gravel. I can't see the car driving up the lane, though, because for some reason, the headlights aren't on.

I WATCH HER park the Oldsmobile in front of the house and turn off the engine, but she stays inside. Our front porch lights are on, yellow and flickering with night bugs. She's leaning over her steering wheel, like she's trying to see who's home. What the h.e.l.l does she want? I watch a few seconds. Then I think, Get to her first. Get to her first. Get to her before she does whatever it is she's planning. Get to her before she does whatever it is she's planning.

I walk quietly through the yard. She lights a cigarette, throws the match out the open window into our drive.