The Help (36 page)

“Did something happen . . . with her maid?” I ask as casually as I can.

“You know, she mentioned something about Yule May, but then she said she was late and had to pack up the car.”

I spend the rest of the night on the back porch, rehearsing questions, nervous about what stories Yule May might tell about Hilly. Despite our disagreements, Hilly is still one of my closest friends. But the book, now that it is going again, is more important than anything.

I lay on the cot at midnight. The crickets sing outside the screen. I let my body sink deep into the thin mattress, against the springs. My feet dangle off the end, dance nervously, relishing relief for the first time in months. It’s not a dozen maids, but it’s one more.

 

 

 

THE NEXT DAY, I’m sitting in front of the television set watching the twelve o’clock news. Charles Warring is reporting, telling me that sixty American soldiers have been killed in Vietnam. It’s so sad to me. Sixty men, in a place far away from anyone they loved, had to die. I think it’s because of Stuart that this bothers me so, but Charles Warring looks eerily thrilled by it all.

I pick up a cigarette and put it back down. I’m trying not to smoke, but I’m nervous about tonight. Mother’s been nagging me about my smoking and I know I should stop, but it’s not like it’s going to kill me. I wish I could ask Pascagoula more about what Yule May said, but Pascagoula called this morning and said she had a problem and wouldn’t be coming in until this afternoon.

I can hear Mother out on the back porch, helping Jameso make ice cream. Even in the front of the house, I can hear the rumbly noise of ice cracking, the salt crunching. The sound is delicious, makes me wish for some now, but it won’t be ready for hours. Of course, no one makes ice cream at twelve noon on a hot day, it’s a night chore, but Mother has it in her mind that she’s going to make peach ice cream and the heat be damned.

I go out on the back porch and look. The big silver ice-cream maker is cold and sweating. The porch floor vibrates. Jameso’s sitting on an upsidedown bucket, knees on either side of the machine, turning the wooden crank with gloved hands. Steam rises from the well of dry ice.

“Has Pascagoula come in yet?” Mama asks, feeding more cream into the machine.

“Not yet,” I say. Mother is sweating. She pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll pour the cream awhile, Mama. You look hot.”

“You won’t do it right. I have to do it,” she says and shoos me back inside.

On the news, now Roger Sticker is reporting in front of the Jackson post office with the same stupid grin as the war reporter. “. . . this modern postal addressing system is called a Z-Z-ZIP code, that’s right, I said Z-Z-ZIP code, that’s five numbers to be written along the bottom of your envelope . . .”

He’s holding up a letter, showing us where to write the numbers. A man in overalls with no teeth says, “Ain’t nobody gonna use them there numbers. Folks is still trying to get used to using the tellyphone.”

I hear the front door close. A minute passes and Pascagoula comes in the relaxing room.

“Mother’s out on the back porch,” I tell her but Pascagoula doesn’t smile, doesn’t even look up at me. She just hands me a small envelope.

“She was gone mail it but I told her I just carry it to you.”

The front of the envelope is addressed to me, no return name on it. Certainly no ZIP code. Pascagoula walks off toward the back porch.

I open the letter. The handwriting is in black pen, written on the straight blue lines of school paper:

 

The
penitentiary.
I shudder. I look around for Pascagoula but she’s left the room. I want to ask her when this happened, how it happened so goddamn fast? What can be done? But Pascagoula’s gone outside to help Mother. We can’t talk out there. I feel sick, nauseous. I switch off the television.

I think about Yule May, sitting in a jail cell writing this letter. I bet I even know what ring Yule May’s talking about—Hilly’s mother gave it to her for her eighteenth birthday. Hilly had it appraised a few years ago and found out it wasn’t even a ruby, just a garnet, hardly worth anything. Hilly never wore it again. My hands turn to fists.

The sound of the ice cream churning outside sounds like bones crunching. I go to the kitchen to wait for Pascagoula, to get answers. I’ll tell Daddy. I’ll see if there’s anything he can do. If he knows any lawyers who would be willing to help her.

 

 

 

I Walk up AIBILEEN’S STEPS at eight o’clock that night. This was supposed to be our first interview with Yule May and even though I know that’s not going to happen, I’ve decided to come anyway. It’s raining and blowing hard and I hold my raincoat tight around me and the satchel. I kept thinking I’d call Aibileen to talk about the situation, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I practically dragged Pascagoula upstairs so Mother wouldn’t see us talking and asked her everything. “Yule May had her a real good lawyer,” Pascagoula said. “But everbody saying the judge wife be good friends with Miss Holbrook and how a regular sentence be six months for petty stealing, but Miss Holbrook, she get it pushed up to four years. That trial was done fore it even started.”

“I could ask Daddy. He could try and get her a . . . white lawyer.”

Pascagoula shakes her head, says, “He
was
a white lawyer.”

I knock on Aibileen’s door, feel a rush of shame. I shouldn’t be thinking about my own problems when Yule May is in jail, but I know what this means for the book. If the maids were afraid to help us yesterday, I’m sure they’re terrified today.

The door opens and a Negro man stands there looking at me, his white clerical collar gleaming. I hear Aibileen say, “It’s okay, Reverend.” He hesitates, but then moves back for me to come in.

I step inside and see at least twenty people packed in the tiny living room and hallway. I cannot see the floor. Aibileen’s brought out the kitchen chairs, but most people stand. I spot Minny in the corner, still in her uniform. I recognize Lou Anne Templeton’s maid, Louvenia, next to her, but everyone else is a stranger.

“Hey Miss Skeeter,” whispers Aibileen. She’s still in her white uniform and white orthopedic shoes.

“Should I . . .” I point behind me. “I’ll come back later,” I whisper.

Aibileen shakes her head. “Something awful happen to Yule May.”

“I know,” I say. The room is quiet except for a few coughs. A chair creaks. Hymn books are stacked on the small wooden table.

“I just find out today,” Aibileen says. “She arrested on Monday, in the pen on Tuesday. They say the whole trial took fifteen minutes.”

“She sent me a letter,” I say. “She told me about her sons. Pascagoula gave it to me.”

“She tell you she only short seventy-five dollars for that tuition? She ask Miss Hilly for a loan, you know. Say she’d pay her back some ever week, but Miss Hilly say no. That a true Christian don’t give charity to those who is well and able. Say it’s kinder to let them learn to work things out theyselves.”

God, I can just imagine Hilly giving that goddamn speech. I can hardly look Aibileen in the face.

“The churches got together though. They gone send both them boys to college.”

The room is dead quiet, except for Aibileen and my whispering. “Do you think there’s anything I can do? Any way I can help? Money or . . .”

“No. Church already set up a plan to pay the lawyer. To keep him on for when she come up for parole.” Aibileen lets her head hang. I’m sure it’s out of grief for Yule May, but I suspect she also knows the book is over. “They gone be seniors by the time she get out. Court give her four years and a five hundred dollar fine.”

“I’m so sorry, Aibileen,” I say. I glance around at the people in the room, their heads bowed as if looking at me might burn them. I look down.

“She evil, that woman!” Minny barks from the other side of the sofa and I flinch, hoping she doesn’t mean me.

“Hilly Holbrook been sent up here from the devil to ruirn as many lives as she can!” Minny wipes her nose across her sleeve.

“Minny, it’s alright,” the reverend says. “We’ll find something we can do for her.” I look at the drawn faces, wondering what that thing could possibly be.

The room goes unbearably quiet again. The air is hot and smells like burned coffee. I feel a profound singularity, here, in a place where I’ve almost grown comfortable. I feel the heat of dislike and guilt.

The bald reverend wipes his eyes with a handkerchief. “Thank you, Aibileen, for having us in your home for prayer.” People begin to stir, telling each other good night with solemn nods. Handbags are picked up, hats are put on heads. The reverend opens the door, letting in the damp outside air. A woman with curly gray hair and a black coat follows close behind him, but then stops in front of me where I’m standing with my satchel.

Her raincoat falls open a little to reveal a white uniform.

“Miss Skeeter,” she says, without a smile, “I’m on help you with the stories.”

I turn and look at Aibileen. Her eyebrows go up, her mouth opens. I turn back to the woman but she is already walking out the door.

“I’m on help you, Miss Skeeter.” This is another woman, tall and lean, with the same quiet look as the first.

“Um, thank . . . you,” I say.

“I am too, Miss Skeeter. I’m on help you.” A woman in a red coat walks by quickly, doesn’t even meet my eyes.

After the next one, I start counting. Five. Six. Seven. I nod back at them, can say nothing but thank you. Thank you. Yes, thank you, to each one. My relief is bitter, that it took Yule May’s internment to bring us to this.

Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. No one is smiling when they tell me they want to help. The room clears out, except for Minny. She stands in the far corner, arms clamped across her chest. When everyone is gone, she looks up and meets my gaze for hardly a second then jerks her eyes to the brown curtains, pinned tight across the window. But I see it, the flicker on her mouth, a hint of softness beneath her anger. Minny has made this happen.

 

 

 

WITH EVERYONE TRAVELING, our group hasn’t played bridge in a month. On Wednesday, we meet at Lou Anne Templeton’s house, greet with hand-patting and good-to-see-yous.

“Lou Anne, you poor thing, in those long sleeves in this heat. Is it the eczema again?” Elizabeth asks because Lou Anne’s wearing a gray wool dress in the heat of summer.

Lou Anne looks at her lap, clearly embarrassed. “Yes, it’s getting worse.”

But I cannot stand to touch Hilly when she reaches out to me. When I back away from her hug, she acts like she doesn’t notice. But during the game, she keeps looking at me with narrowed eyes.

“What are you going to do?” Elizabeth asks Hilly. “You’re welcome to bring the children over any time, but . . . well . . .” Before bridge club, Hilly dropped Heather and William at Elizabeth’s for Aibileen to look after while we play bridge. But I already know the message in Elizabeth’s sour smile: she worships Hilly, but Elizabeth does not care to share her help with anybody.

“I knew it. I knew that girl was a thief the day she started.” As Hilly tells us the story of Yule May, she makes a big circle with her finger to indicate a huge stone, the unimaginable worth of the “ruby.”

“I caught her taking the milk after it expired and that’s how it starts, you know, first it’s washing powder, then they work their way up to towels and coats. Before you know it, they’re taking the heirlooms, hocking them for liquor pints. God knows what else she took.”

I fight the urge to snap each of her flapping fingers in half, but I hold my tongue. Let her think everything is fine. It is safer for everyone.

After the game, I rush home to prepare for Aibileen’s that night, relieved there’s not a soul in the house. I quickly flip through Pascagoula’s messages for me—Patsy my tennis partner, Celia Foote, whom I hardly know. Why would Johnny Foote’s wife be calling me? Minny’s made me swear I’ll never call her back, and I don’t have the time to wonder. I have to get ready for the interviews.

 

 

 

I SIT AT AIBILEEN’S KITCHEN table at six o’clock that night. We’ve arranged for me to come over nearly every night until we’re finished. Every two days, a different colored woman will knock on Aibileen’s back door and sit at the table with me, tell me her stories. Eleven maids have agreed to talk to us, not counting Aibileen and Minny. That puts us at thirteen and Missus Stein asked for a dozen, so I think we’re lucky. Aibileen stands in the back of the kitchen, listening. The first maid’s name is Alice. I don’t ask for last names.