The Help. Part 16

I get that eerie p.r.i.c.kle, of being in a house so empty. Where'd she go? After working here all this time and her only leaving three times and always telling me when and where and why she's leaving, like I care anyway, now she's gone like the wind. I ought to be happy. I ought to be glad that fool's out of my hair. But being here by myself, I feel like an intruder. I look down at the little pink rug that covers the bloodstain by the bathroom. Today I was going to take another crack at it. A chill blows through the room, like a ghost pa.s.sing by. I s.h.i.+ver.

Maybe I won't work on that bloodstain today.

On the bed the covers, as usual, have been thrown off. The sheets are twisted and turned around the wrong way. It always looks like a wrestling match has gone on in here. I stop myself from wondering. You start to wonder about people in the bedroom, before you know it you're all wrapped up in their business.

I strip off one of the pillowcases. Miss Celia's mascara smudged little charcoal b.u.t.terflies all over it. The clothes on the floor I stuff into the pillowcase to make it easier to carry. I pick up Mister Johnny's folded pants off the yellow ottoman.

"Now how'm I sposed to know if these is clean or dirty?" I stick them in the sack anyway. My motto on housekeeping: when in doubt, wash it out.

I tote the bag over to the bureau. The bruise on my thigh burns when I bend down to pick up a pair of Miss Celia's silky stockings.

"Who are you you?"

I drop the sack.

Slowly, I back away until my bottom b.u.mps the bureau. He's standing in the doorway, eyes narrowed. Real slow, I look down at the axe hanging from his hand.

Oh Lord. I can't get to the bathroom because he's too close and he'd get in there with me. I can't make it past him out the door unless I pummel him, and the man has an axe. My head throbs hot I'm so panicked. I'm I can't get to the bathroom because he's too close and he'd get in there with me. I can't make it past him out the door unless I pummel him, and the man has an axe. My head throbs hot I'm so panicked. I'm cornered. cornered.

Mister Johnny stares down at me. He swings the axe a little. Tilts his head and smiles.

I do the only thing I can do. I wrinkle my face as mean as I can and pull my lips across my teeth and yell: "You and your axe better get out a my way." "You and your axe better get out a my way."

Mister Johnny looks down at the axe, like he forgot he had it. Then back up at me. We stare at each other a second. I don't move and I don't breathe.

He sneaks a look over at the sack I've dropped to see what I was stealing. The leg of his khakis is poking out the top. "Now, listen," I say, and tears spring up in my eyes. "Mister Johnny, I told Miss Celia to tell you about me. I must a asked her a thousand times--"

But he just laughs. He shakes his head. He thinks it's funny he's about to chop me up.

"Just listen to me, I told her--" I told her--"

But he's still chuckling. "Calm down, girl. I'm not going to get you," he says. "You surprised me, that's all."

I'm panting, easing my way toward the bathroom. He still has the axe in his hand, swinging it a little.

"What's your name, anyway?"

"Minny," I whisper. I've still got five feet to go.

"How long have you been coming, Minny?"

"Not long." I jiggle my head no.

"How long?" long?"

"Few . . . weeks," I say. I bite down on my lip. Three months. Three months.

He shakes his head. "Now, I know it's been longer than that."

I look at the bathroom door. What good would it do to be in a bathroom where the door won't even lock? When the man's got an axe to hack the door down with?

"I swear I'm not mad," he says.

"What about that axe?" I say, my teeth gritted.

He rolls his eyes, then he sets it on the carpet, kicks it to the side.

"Come on, let's go have us a talk in the kitchen."

He turns and walks away. I look down at the axe, wondering if I should take it. Just the sight of it scares me. I push it under the bed and follow him.

In the kitchen, I edge myself close to the back door, check the k.n.o.b to make sure it's unlocked.

"Minny, I promise. It's fine that you're here," he says.

I watch his eyes, trying to see if he's lying. He's a big man, six-two at least. A little paunch in the front, but strong looking. "I reckon you gone fire me, then."

"Fire you?" He laughs. "You're the best cook I've ever known. Look what you've done to me." He frowns down at his stomach that's just starting to poke out. "h.e.l.l, I haven't eaten like this since Cora Blue was around. She practically raised me."

I take a deep breath because his knowing Cora Blue seems to safen things up a little. "Her kids went to my church. I knew her."

"I sure do miss her." He turns, opens the refrigerator, stares in, closes it.

"When's Celia coming back? You know?" Mister Johnny asks.

"I don't know. I spec she went to get her hair done."

"I thought for a while there, when we were eating your food, she really did learn how to cook. Until that Sat.u.r.day, when you weren't here, and she tried to make hamburgers."

He leans against the sink board, sighs. "Why doesn't she want me to know about you?"

"I don't know. She won't tell me."

He shakes his head, looks up at the black mark on the ceiling from where Miss Celia burned up the turkey that time. "Minny, I don't care if Celia never lifts another finger for the rest of her life. But she says she wants to do things for me herself." He raises his eyebrows a little. "I mean, do you understand what I was eating before you got here?"

"She learning. Least she . . . trying to learn," but I kind of snort at this. Some things you just can't lie about.

"I don't care care if she can cook. I just want her here"--he shrugs--"with me." if she can cook. I just want her here"--he shrugs--"with me."

He rubs his brow with his white s.h.i.+rtsleeve and I see why his s.h.i.+rts are always so dirty. And he is is sort of handsome. For a white man. sort of handsome. For a white man.

"She just doesn't seem happy," he says. "Is it me? Is it the house? Are we too far away from town?"

"I don't know, Mister Johnny."

"Then what's going on?" He props his hands down on the counter behind him, grabs hold. "Just tell me. Is she"--he swallows hard--"is she seeing somebody else?"

I try not to, but I feel kind of sorry for him then, seeing he's just as confused as I am about all this mess.

"Mister Johnny, this ain't none a my business. But I can tell you Miss Celia ain't having no relations outside a this house."

He nods. "You're right. That was a stupid thing to ask."

I eye the door, wondering when Miss Celia's going to be home. I don't know what she'd do if she found Mister Johnny here.

"Look," he says, "don't say anything about meeting me. I'm going to let her tell me when she's ready."

I manage my first real smile. "So you want me to just go on like I been doing?"

"Look after her. I don't like her in this big house by herself."

"Yessuh. Whatever you say."

"I came by today to surprise her. I was going to cut down that mimosa tree she hates so much, then take her into town for lunch. Pick out some jewelry for her Christmas present." Mister Johnny walks to the window, looks out, and sighs. "I guess I'll go get lunch in town somewhere."

"I fix you something. What you want?"

He turns around, grinning like a kid. I start going through the refrigerator, pulling things out.

"Remember those pork chops we had that time?" He starts nibbling on his fingernail. "Will you make those for us this week?"

"I fix em for supper tonight. Got some in the freezer. And tomorrow night you having chicken and dumplings."

"Oh, Cora Blue used to make us those."

"Sit up there at the table and I'm on do you a good BLT to take with you in the truck."

"And will you toast the bread?"

"A course. Can't have no proper sandwich on no raw bread. And this afternoon I'll make one a Minny's famous caramel cakes. And next week we gone do you a fried catfish . . ."

I pull out the bacon for Mister Johnny's lunch, get the skillet out to fry. Mister Johnny's eyes are clear and wide. He's smiling with every part of his face. I fix his sandwich and wrap it in waxed paper. Finally, somebody I get the satisfaction of feeding.

"Minny, I have to ask, if you're you're here . . . what in the world is Celia doing all day?" here . . . what in the world is Celia doing all day?"

I shrug. "I ain't never seen a white woman sit there like she do. Most of em is busy-busy, running errands, acting like they busier than me."

"She needs some friends. I asked my buddy Will if he'd get his wife to come out and teach her to play bridge, get her in a group. I know Hilly's the ringleader of all that stuff."

I stare at him, like if I kept real still, maybe it wouldn't be true. Finally I ask, "That Miss Hilly Holbrook you talking about?"

"You know her?" he asks.

"Mm-hmm." I swallow the tire iron that's rising up in my throat at the thought of Miss Hilly hanging around this house. Miss Celia finding out the truth about the Terrible Awful. There's no way those two could be friends. But I bet Miss Hilly would do anything for Mister Johnny.

"I'll call Will tonight and ask him again." He pats me on my shoulder and I find myself thinking about that word again, truth. truth. And Aibileen's telling Miss Skeeter all about it. If the truth gets out on me, I'm done. I crossed the wrong person, and that's all it takes. And Aibileen's telling Miss Skeeter all about it. If the truth gets out on me, I'm done. I crossed the wrong person, and that's all it takes.

"I'm going to give you my number at the office. Call me if you ever run into trouble, alright?"

"Yessuh," I say, feeling my dread erase any relief I had coming to me today.

MISS SKEETER.

chapter 11.

IT'S TECHNICALLY WINTER in most of the nation, but already there is gnas.h.i.+ng of teeth and wringing of hands in my mother's house. Signs of spring have come too early. Daddy's in a cotton-planting frenzy, had to hire ten extra field workers to till and drive tractors to get the seed in the ground. Mother's been studying The Farmer's Almanac The Farmer's Almanac, but she's hardly concerned with planting. She delivers the bad news to me with a hand on her forehead.

"They say this'll be the most humid one in years." She sighs. The s.h.i.+nalator never did much good after those first few times. "I'd pick up some more spray cans down at Beemon's, the new extra-heavy kind."

She looks up from the Almanac Almanac, narrows her eyes at me. "What are you dressed that way for?"

I have on my darkest dress, dark stockings. The black scarf over my hair probably makes me look more like Peter O'Toole in Lawrence of Arabia Lawrence of Arabia than Marlene Dietrich. The ugly red satchel hangs from my shoulder. than Marlene Dietrich. The ugly red satchel hangs from my shoulder.

"I have some errands to run tonight. Then I'm meeting... some girls. At church."

"On a Sat.u.r.day night?"

"Mama, G.o.d doesn't care what day of the week it is," I say and make for the car before she can ask any more questions. Tonight, I'm going to Aibileen's for her first interview.

My heart racing, I drive fast on the paved town roads, heading for the colored part of town. I've never even sat at the same table with a Negro who wasn't paid to do so. The interview has been delayed by over a month. First, the holidays came and Aibileen had to work late almost every night, wrapping presents and cooking for Elizabeth's Christmas party. In January, I started to panic when Aibileen got the flu. I'm afraid I've waited so long, Missus Stein will have lost interest or forgotten why she even agreed to read it.

I drive the Cadillac through the darkness, turning on Gessum Avenue, Aibileen's Street. I'd rather be in the old truck, but Mother would've been too suspicious and Daddy was using it in the fields. I stop in front of an abandoned, haunted-looking house three down from Aibileen's, as we planned. The front porch of the spooky house is sagging, the windows have no panes. I step into the dark, lock the doors and walk quickly. I keep my head lowered, my noisy heels clicking on the pavement.

A dog barks and my keys jangle to the pavement. I glimpse around, pick them up. Two sets of colored people sit on porches, watching, rocking. There are no streetlights so it's hard to say who else sees me. I keep walking, feeling as obvious as my vehicle: large and white.

I reach number twenty-five, Aibileen's house. I give one last look around, wis.h.i.+ng I wasn't ten minutes early. The colored part of town seems so far away when, evidently, it's only a few miles from the white part of town.

I knock softly. There are footsteps, and something inside slams closed. Aibileen opens the door. "Come on in," she whispers and quickly shuts it behind me and locks it.

I've never seen Aibileen in anything but her whites. Tonight she has on a green dress with black piping. I can't help but notice, she stands a little taller in her own house.

"Make yourself comfortable. I be back real quick."

Even with the single lamp on, the front room is dark, full of browns and shadows. The curtains are pulled and pinned together so there's no gap. I don't know if they're like that all the time, or just for me. I lower myself onto the narrow sofa. There's a wooden coffee table with hand-tatted lace draped over the top. The floors are bare. I wish I hadn't worn such an expensive-looking dress.

A few minutes later, Aibileen comes back with a tray holding a teapot and two cups that don't match, paper napkins folded into triangles. I smell the cinnamon cookies she's made. As she pours the tea, the top to the pot rattles.

"Sorry," she says and holds the top down. "I ain't never had a white person in my house before."

I smile, even though I know it wasn't meant to be funny. I drink a sip of tea. It is bitter and strong. "Thank you," I say. "The tea is nice."