The Help (50 page)

“What is it? Somebody see you?”

“No,” I say, pulling papers from my satchel. “I talked to Missus Stein this morning.” I tell her everything I know, about the deadline, about “The Pile.”

“Alright, so . . .” Aibileen is counting days in her head, the same way I have been all afternoon. “So we got two and a half weeks stead a six weeks. Oh Law, that ain’t enough time. We still got to finish writing the Louvenia section and smooth out Faye Belle—and the Minny section, it ain’t right yet . . . Miss Skeeter, we ain’t even got a title yet.”

I put my head in my hands. I feel like I’m slipping underwater. “That’s not all,” I say. “She . . . wants me to write about Constantine. She asked me . . . what happened to her.”

Aibileen sets her cup of tea down.

“I can’t write it if I don’t know what happened, Aibileen. So if you can’t tell me . . . I was wondering if there’s someone else who will.”

Aibileen shakes her head. “I reckon they is,” she says, “but I don’t want nobody else telling you that story.”

“Then . . . will you?”

Aibileen takes off her black glasses, rubs her eyes. She puts them back on and I expect to see a tired face. She’s worked all day and she’ll be working even harder now to try to make the deadline. I fidget in my chair, waiting for her answer.

But she doesn’t look tired at all. She’s sitting up straight and gives me a defiant nod. “I’ll write it down. Give me a few days. I’ll tell you ever thing that happened to Constantine.”

 

 

 

I WORK FOR FIFTEEN HOURS straight on Louvenia’s interview. On Thursday night, I go to the League meeting. I’m dying to get out of the house, antsy from nerves, jittery about the deadline. The Christmas tree is starting to smell too rich, the spiced oranges sickly decadent. Mother is always cold and my parents’ house feels like I’m soaking in a vat of hot butter.

I pause on the League steps, take in a deep breath of clean winter air. It’s pathetic, but I’m glad to still have the newsletter. Once a week, I actually feel like I’m a part of things. And who knows, maybe this time will be different, with the holidays starting and all.

But the minute I walk in, backs turn. My exclusion is tangible, as if concrete walls have formed around me. Hilly gives me a smirk, whips her head around to speak to someone else. I go deeper into the crowd and see Elizabeth. She smiles and I wave. I want to talk to her about Mother, tell her I’m getting worried, but before I get too close, Elizabeth turns, head down, and walks away. I go to my seat. This is new, from her, here.

Instead of my usual seat up front, I slip in the back row, angry that Elizabeth wouldn’t even say hello. Beside me is Rachel Cole Brant. Rachel hardly ever comes to meetings, with three kids, working on her master’s in English from Millsaps College. I wish we were better friends but I know she’s too busy. On my other side is damn Leslie Fullerbean and her cloud of hairspray. She must risk her life every time she lights a cigarette. I wonder, if I pushed the top of her head, would aerosol spray out of her mouth.

Almost every girl in the room has her legs crossed, a lit cigarette in her hand. The smoke gathers and curls around the ceiling. I haven’t smoked in two months and the smell makes me feel ill. Hilly steps up to the podium and announces the upcoming gimme-drives (coat drive, can drive, book drive, and a plain old money drive), and then we get to Hilly’s favorite part of the meeting, the trouble list. This is where she gets to call out the names of anyone late on their dues or tardy for meetings or not fulfilling their philanthropic duties. I’m always on the trouble list nowadays for something.

Hilly’s wearing a red wool A-line dress with a cape coat over it, Sherlock Holmes-style, even though it’s hot as fire in here. Every once in a while, she tosses back the front flap like it’s in her way, but she looks like she enjoys this gesture too much for it to really be a problem. Her helper Mary Nell stands next to her, handing her notes. Mary Nell has the look of a blond lapdog, the Pekingese kind with tiny feet and a nose that perks on the end.

“Now, we have something very exciting to discuss.” Hilly accepts the notes from the lapdog and scans over them.

“The committee has decided that our newsletter could use a little updating.”

I sit up straighter. Shouldn’t I decide on changes to the newsletter?

“First of all, we’re changing the newsletter from a weekly to a monthly. It’s just too much with stamps going up to six cents and all. And we’re adding a fashion column, highlighting some of the best outfits worn by our members, and a makeup column with all the latest trends. Oh, and the trouble list of course. That’ll be in there too.” She nods her head, making eye contact with a few members.

“And finally, the most exciting change: we’ve decided to name this new correspondence
The Tattler.
After the European magazine all the ladies over there read.”

“Isn’t that the cutest name?” says Mary Lou White and Hilly’s so proud of herself, she doesn’t even bang the gavel at her for speaking out of turn.

“Okay then. It is time to choose an editor for our new, modern monthly. Any nominations?”

Several hands pop up. I sit very still.

“Jeanie Price, what say ye?”

“I say Hilly. I nominate Hilly Holbrook.”

“Aren’t you the sweetest thing. Alright, any others?”

Rachel Cole Brant turns and looks at me like,
Are you believing this?
Evidently, she’s the only one in the room who doesn’t know about me and Hilly.

“Any seconds to . . .” Hilly looks down at the podium, like she can’t quite remember who’s been nominated. “To Hilly Holbrook as editor?”

“I second.”

“I third.”

Bang-bang
goes the gavel and I’ve I lost my post as editor.

Leslie Fullerbean is staring at me with eyes so wide, I can see there isn’t anything back there where her brain should be.

“Skeeter, isn’t that
your
job?” Rachel says.

“It
was
my job,” I mutter and head straight for the doors when the meeting is over. No one speaks to me, no one looks me in the eye. I keep my head high.

In the foyer, Hilly and Elizabeth talk. Hilly tucks her dark hair behind her ears, gives me a diplomatic smile. She strides off to chat with someone else, but Elizabeth stays where she is. She touches my arm as I walk out.

“Hey, Elizabeth,” I murmur.

“I’m sorry, Skeeter,” she whispers and our eyes hang together. But then she looks away. I walk down the steps and into the dark parking lot. I thought she had something more to say to me, but I guess I was wrong.

 

 

 

I DON’T GO STRAIGHT HOME after the League meeting. I roll all the Cadillac windows down and let the night air blow on my face. It is warm and cold at the same time. I know I need to go home and work on the stories, but I turn onto the wide lanes of State Street and just drive. I’ve never felt so empty in my life. I can’t help but think of all that’s piling on top of me.
I will never make this deadline, my friends despise me, Stuart is gone, Mother is...

I don’t know what Mother is, but we all know it’s more than just stomach ulcers.

The Sun and Sand Bar is closed and I go by slow, stare at how dead a neon sign seems when it’s turned off. I coast past the tall Lamar Life building, through the yellow blinking street lights. It’s only eight o’clock at night but everyone has gone to bed. Everyone’s asleep in this town in every way possible.

“I wish I could just leave here,” I say and my voice sounds eerie, with no one to hear it. In the dark, I get a glimpse of myself from way above, like in a movie. I’ve become one of those people who prowl around at night in their cars. God, I am the town’s Boo Radley, just like in
To Kill a Mockingbird.

I flick on the radio, desperate for noise to fill my ears. “It’s My Party” is playing and I search for something else. I’m starting to hate the whiny teenage songs about love and nothing. In a moment of aligned wavelengths, I pick up Memphis WKPO and out comes a man’s voice, drunk-sounding, singing fast and bluesy. At a dead end street, I ease into the Tote-Sum store parking lot and listen to the song. It is better than anything I’ve ever heard.

 

A voice in a can tells me his name is Bob Dylan, but as the next song starts, the signal fades. I lean back in my seat, stare out at the dark windows of the store. I feel a rush of inexplicable relief. I feel like I’ve just heard something from the future.

At the phone booth outside the store, I put in a dime and call Mother. I know she’ll wait up for me until I get home.

“Hello?” It’s Daddy’s voice at eight-fifteen at night.

“Daddy . . . why are you up? What’s wrong?”

“You need to come on home now, darling.”

The streetlight suddenly feels too bright in my eyes, the night very cold. “Is it Mama? Is she sick?”

“Stuart’s been sitting on the porch for almost two hours now. He’s waiting on you.”

Stuart? It doesn’t make sense. “But Mama . . . she’s . . .”

“Oh, Mama’s fine. In fact, she’s brightened up a little. Come on home, Skeeter, and tend to Stuart now.”

 

 

 

THE DRIVE HOME has never felt so long. Ten minutes later, I pull in front of the house and see Stuart sitting on the top porch step. Daddy’s in a rocking chair. They both stand when I turn off the car.

“Hey, Daddy,” I say. I don’t look at Stuart. “Where’s Mama?”

“She’s asleep, I just checked on her.” Daddy yawns. I haven’t seen him up past seven o’clock in ten years, when the spring cotton froze.

“’Night, you two. Turn the lights out when you’re done.” Daddy goes inside and Stuart and I are left alone. The night is so black, so quiet, I can’t see stars or a moon or even a dog in the yard.

“What are you doing here?” I say and my voice, it sounds small.

“I came to talk to you.”

I sit on the front step and put my head down on my arms. “Just say it fast and then go on. I was getting better. I heard this song and almost felt better ten minutes ago.”

He moves closer to me, but not so close that we are touching. I wish we were touching.

“I came to tell you something. I came to say that I saw her.”

I lift my head up. The first word in my head is
selfish.
You selfish son-of-a-bitch, coming here to talk about Patricia.

“I went out there, to San Francisco. Two weeks ago. I got in my truck and drove for four days and knocked on the door of the apartment house her mama gave me the address to.”

I cover my face. All I can see is Stuart pushing her hair back like he used to with me. “I don’t want to know this.”

“I told her I thought that was the ugliest thing you could do to a person. Lie that way. She looked so different. Had on this prairie-looking dress and a peace sign and her hair was long and she didn’t have any lipstick on. And she laughed when she saw me. And then she called me a whore.” He rubs his eyes hard with his knuckles. “She, the one who took her clothes off for that guy—said I was a whore to my daddy, a whore to Mississippi.”

“Why are you telling me this?” My fists are clenched. I taste metal. I’ve bitten down on my tongue.

“I drove out there because of you. After we broke up, I knew I had to get her out of my head. And I did it, Skeeter. I drove two thousand miles there and back and I’m here to tell you. It’s dead. It’s gone.”

“Well, good, Stuart,” I say. “Good for you.”

He moves closer and leans down so I will look at him. And I feel sick, literally nauseated by the smell of bourbon on his breath. And yet I still want to fold myself up and put my entire body in his arms. I am loving him and hating him at the same time.

“Go home,” I say, hardly believing myself. “There’s no place left inside me for you.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“You’re too late, Stuart.”

“Can I come by on Saturday? To talk some more?”

I shrug, my eyes full of tears. I won’t let him throw me away again. It’s already happened too many times, with him, with my friends. I’d be stupid to let it happen again.

“I don’t really care what you do.”

 

 

 

I WAKE UP AT FIVE A.M. and start working on the stories. With only seventeen days until our deadline, I work through the day and night with a speed and efficiency I didn’t know I possessed. I finish Louvenia’s story in half the time it took me to write the others and, with an intense burning headache, I turn off the light as the first rays of sun peek through the window. If Aibileen will give me Constantine’s story by early next week, I just might be able to pull this off.

And then I realize I do not have seventeen more days. How
dumb
of me. I have ten days, because I haven’t accounted for the time it will take to mail it to New York.

I’d cry, if only I had the time to do it.

A few hours later, I wake up and go back to work. At five in the afternoon, I hear a car pull up and see Stuart climb out of his truck. I tear myself away from the typewriter and go out on the front porch.

“Hello,” I say, standing in the doorway.

“Hey, Skeeter.” He nods at me, shyly I think, compared to his way two nights ago. “Afternoon, Mister Phelan.”

“Hey there, son.” Daddy gets up from his rocking chair. “I’ll let you kids talk out here.”

“Don’t get up, Daddy. I’m sorry, but I’m busy today, Stuart. You’re welcome to sit out here with Daddy as long as you like.”

I go back in the house, pass Mother at the kitchen table drinking warm milk.

“Was that Stuart I saw out there?”

I go in the dining room. I stand back from the windows, where I know Stuart can’t see me. I watch until he drives away. And then I just keep watching.