فصل 11

MISS SKEETER

chapter 11 IT’S TECHNICALLY WINTER in most of the nation, but already there is gnashing 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, 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 Shinalator 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, 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 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 Saturday night?” “Mama, God 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, wishing 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.” She sits and folds her hands in her lap, looks at me expectantly. “I thought we’d do a little background work and then just jump right in with the questions,” I say. I pull out my notebook and scan the questions I’ve prepared. They suddenly seem obvious, amateur. “Alright,” she says. She is sitting up very straight, on the sofa, turned toward me. “Well, to start, um, when and where were you born?” She swallows, nods. “Nineteen o-nine. Piedmont Plantation down in Cherokee County.” “Did you know when you were a girl, growing up, that one day you’d be a maid?” “Yes ma’am. Yes, I did.” I smile, wait for her to elucidate. There is nothing. “And you knew that . . . because . . . ?” “Mama was a maid. My granmama was a house slave.” “A house slave. Uh-huh,” I say, but she only nods. Her hands stay folded in her lap. She’s watching the words I’m writing on the page. “Did you . . . ever have dreams of being something else?” “No,” she says. “No ma’am, I didn’t.” It’s so quiet, I can hear both of us breathing. “Alright. Then . . . what does it feel like, to raise a white child when your own child’s at home, being . . .” I swallow, embarrassed by the question, “. . . looked after by someone else?” “It feel . . .” She’s still sitting up so straight it looks painful. “Um, maybe . . . we could go on to the next one.” “Oh. Alright.” I stare at my questions. “What do you like best about being a maid and what do you like least?” She looks up at me, like I’ve asked her to define a dirty word. “I—I spec I like looking after the kids best,” she whispers. “Anything . . . you’d like to add . . . about that?” “No ma’am.” “Aibileen, you don’t have to call me ‘ma’am.’ Not here.” “Yes ma’am. Oh. Sorry.” She covers her mouth. Loud voices shout in the street and both our eyes dart toward the window. We are quiet, stock-still. What would happen if someone white found out I was here on a Saturday night talking to Aibileen in her regular clothes? Would they call the police, to report a suspicious meeting? I’m suddenly sure they would. We’d be arrested because that is what they do. They’d charge us with integration violation—I read about it in the paper all the time—they despise the whites that meet with the coloreds to help with the civil rights movement. This has nothing to do with integration, but why else would we be meeting? I didn’t even bring any Miss Myrna letters as backup. I see open, honest fear on Aibileen’s face. Slowly the voices outside dissipate down the road. I exhale but Aibileen stays tense. She keeps her eyes on the curtains. I look down at my list of questions, searching for something to draw this nervousness out of her, out of myself. I keep thinking about how much time I’ve lost already. “And what . . . did you say you disliked about your job?” Aibileen swallows hard. “I mean, do you want to talk about the bathroom? Or about Eliz—Miss Leefolt? Anything about the way she pays you? Has she ever yelled at you in front of Mae Mobley?” Aibileen takes a napkin and dabs it to her forehead. She starts to speak, but stops herself. “We’ve talked plenty of times, Aibileen . . .” She puts her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, I—” She gets up and walks quickly down the narrow hall. A door closes, rattling the teapot and the cups on the tray. Five minutes pass. When she comes back, she holds a towel to her front, the way I’ve seen Mother do after she vomits, when she doesn’t make it to her toilet in time. “I’m sorry. I thought I was . . . ready to talk.” I nod, not sure what to do. “I just . . . I know you already told that lady in New York I’s gone do this but . . .” She closes her eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can. I think I need to lay down.” “Tomorrow night. I’ll . . . come up with a better way. Let’s just try again and . . .” She shakes her head, clutches her towel. On my drive home, I want to kick myself. For thinking I could just waltz in and demand answers. For thinking she’d stop feeling like the maid just because we were at her house, because she wasn’t wearing a uniform. I look over at my notebook on the white leather seat. Besides where she grew up, I’ve gotten a total of twelve words. And four of them are yes ma’am and no ma’am. PATSY CLINE’S VOICE DRIFTS out of WJDX radio. As I drive down the County Road, they’re playing “Walking After Midnight.” When I pull into Hilly’s driveway, they’re on “Three Cigarettes in an Ashtray.” Her plane crashed this morning and everyone from New York to Mississippi to Seattle is in mourning, singing her songs. I park the Cadillac and stare out at Hilly’s rambling white house. It’s been four days since Aibileen vomited in the middle of our interview and I’ve heard nothing from her. I go inside. The bridge table is set up in Hilly’s antebellum-style parlor with its deafening grandfather clock and gold swag curtains. Everyone is seated—Hilly, Elizabeth, and Lou Anne Templeton, who has replaced Missus Walters. Lou Anne is one of those girls who wears a big eager smile—all the time, and it never stops. It makes me want to stick a straight pin in her. And when you’re not looking, she stares at you with that vapid, toothy smile. And she agrees with every single little thing Hilly says. Hilly holds up a Life magazine, points to a spread of a house in California. “A den they’re calling it, like wild animals are living there.” “Oh, isn’t that dreadful!” Lou Anne beams. The picture shows wall-to-wall shag carpet and low, streamlined sofas, egg-shaped chairs and televisions that look like flying saucers. In Hilly’s parlor, a portrait of a Confederate general hangs eight feet tall. It is as prominent as if he were a grandfather and not a third cousin removed. “That’s it. Trudy’s house looks just like that,” Elizabeth says. I’ve been so wrapped up in the interview with Aibileen, I’d almost forgotten Elizabeth’s trip last week to see her older sister. Trudy married a banker and they moved to Hollywood. Elizabeth went out there for four days to see her new house. “Well, that’s just bad taste, is what it is,” Hilly says. “No offense to your family, Elizabeth.” “What was Hollywood like?” Lou Anne asks. “Oh, it was like a dream. And Trudy’s house—T.V. sets in every room. That same crazy space-age furniture you could hardly even sit in. We went to all these fancy restaurants, where the movie stars eat, and drank martinis and burgundy wine. And one night Max Factor himself came over to the table, spoke to Trudy like they’re just old friends”—she shakes her head—“like they were just passing by in the grocery store.” Elizabeth sighs. “Well, if you ask me, you’re still the prettiest in the family,” Hilly says. “Not that Trudy’s unattractive, but you’re the one with the poise and the real style.” Elizabeth smiles at this, but then drifts back to frowning. “Not to mention she has live-in help, every day, every hour. I hardly had to see Mae Mobley at all.” I cringe at this comment, but no one else seems to notice. Hilly’s watching her maid, Yule May, refill our tea glasses. She’s tall, slender, almost regal-looking and has a much better figure than Hilly. Seeing her makes me worry about Aibileen. I’ve called Aibileen’s house twice this week, but there wasn’t any answer. I’m sure she’s avoiding me. I guess I’ll have to go to Elizabeth’s house to talk to her whether Elizabeth likes it or not. “I was thinking next year we might do a Gone With the Wind theme for the Benefit,” Hilly says, “maybe rent the old Fairview Mansion?” “What a great idea!” Lou Anne says. “Oh Skeeter,” Hilly says, “I know you just hated missing it this year.” I nod, give a pitiful frown. I’d pretended to have the flu to avoid going alone. “I’ll tell you one thing,” Hilly says, “I won’t be hiring that rock-and-roll band again, playing all that fast dance music . . .” Elizabeth taps my arm. She has her handbag in her lap. “I almost forgot to give this to you. From Aibileen, for the Miss Myrna thing? I told her though, y’all cannot powwow on this today, not after all that time she missed in January.” I open the folded piece of paper. The words are in blue ink, in a lovely cursive hand. I know how to make the teapot stop rattling. “And who in the world cares about how to make a teapot not rattle?” Elizabeth says. Because of course she read it. It takes me two seconds and a drink of iced tea to understand. “You wouldn’t believe how hard it is,” I tell her. TWO DAYS LATER, I sit in my parents’ kitchen, waiting for dusk to fall. I give in and light another cigarette even though last night the surgeon general came on the television set and shook his finger at everybody, trying to convince us that smoking will kill us. But Mother once told me tongue kissing would turn me blind and I’m starting to think it’s all just a big plot between the surgeon general and Mother to make sure no one ever has any fun. At eight o’clock that same night, I’m stumbling down Aibileen’s street as discreetly as one can carrying a fifty-pound Corona typewriter. I knock softly, already dying for another cigarette to calm my nerves. Aibileen answers and I slip inside. She’s wearing the same green dress and stiff black shoes as last time. I try to smile, like I’m confident it will work this time, despite the idea she explained over the phone. “Could we . . . sit in the kitchen this time?” I ask. “Would you mind?” “Alright. Ain’t nothing to look at, but come on back.” The kitchen is about half the size of the living room, and warmer. It smells like tea and lemons. The black-and-white linoleum floor has been scrubbed thin. There’s just enough counter for the china tea set. I set the typewriter on a scratched red table under the window. Aibileen starts to pour the hot water into the teapot. “Oh, none for me, thanks,” I say and reach in my bag. “I brought us some Co-Colas if you want one.” I’ve tried to come up with ways to make Aibileen more comfortable. Number One: don’t make her feel like she has to serve me. “Well, ain’t that nice. I usually don’t take my tea till later anyway.” She brings over an opener and two glasses. I drink mine straight from the bottle and, seeing this, she pushes the glasses aside, does the same. I called Aibileen after Elizabeth gave me the note, and listened hopefully as Aibileen told me her idea—for her to write her own words down and then show me what’s she’s written. I tried to act excited. But I know I’ll have to rewrite everything she’s written, wasting even more time. I thought it might make it easier if she could see it in typeface instead of me reading it and telling her it can’t work this way. We smile at each other. I take a sip of my Coke, smooth my blouse. “So . . .” I say. Aibileen has a wire-ringed notebook in front of her. “Want me to . . . just go head and read?” “Sure,” I say. We both take deep breaths and she begins reading in a slow, steady voice. “My first white baby to ever look after was named Alton Carrington Speers. It was 1924 and I’d just turned fifteen years old. Alton was a long, skinny baby with hair fine as silk on a corn . . .” I begin typing as she reads, her words rhythmic, pronounced more clearly than her usual talk. “Every window in that filthy house was painted shut on the inside, even though the house was big with a wide green lawn. I knew the air was bad, felt sick myself . . .” “Hang on,” I say. I’ve typed wide greem. I blow on the typing fluid, retype it. “Okay, go ahead.” “When the mama died, six months later,” she reads, “of the lung disease, they kept me on to raise Alton until they moved away to Memphis. I loved that baby and he loved me and that’s when I knew I was good at making children feel proud of themselves . . .” I hadn’t wanted to insult Aibileen when she told me her idea. I tried to urge her out of it, over the phone. “Writing isn’t that easy. And you wouldn’t have time for this anyway, Aibileen, not with a full-time job.” “Can’t be much different than writing my prayers every night.” It was the first interesting thing she’d told me about herself since we’d started the project, so I’d grabbed the shopping pad in the pantry. “You don’t say your prayers, then?” “I never told nobody that before. Not even Minny. Find I can get my point across a lot better writing em down.” “So this is what you do on the weekends?” I asked. “In your spare time?” I liked the idea of capturing her life outside of work, when she wasn’t under the eye of Elizabeth Leefolt. “Oh no, I write a hour, sometimes two ever day. Lot a ailing, sick peoples in this town.” I was impressed. That was more than I wrote on some days. I told her we’d try it just to get the project going again. Aibileen takes a breath, a swallow of Coke, and reads on. She backtracks to her first job at thirteen, cleaning the Francis the First silver service at the governor’s mansion. She reads how on her first morning, she made a mistake on the chart where you filled in the number of pieces so they’d know you hadn’t stolen anything. “I come home that morning, after I been fired, and stood outside my house with my new work shoes on. The shoes my mama paid a month’s worth a light bill for. I guess that’s when I understood what shame was and the color of it too. Shame ain’t black, like dirt, like I always thought it was. Shame be the color of a new white uniform your mother ironed all night to pay for, white without a smudge or a speck a work-dirt on it.” Aibileen looks up to see what I think. I stop typing. I’d expected the stories to be sweet, glossy. I realize I might be getting more than I’d bargained for. She reads on. “. . . so I go on and get the chiffarobe straightened out and before I know it, that little white boy done cut his fingers clean off in that window fan I asked her to take out ten times. I never seen that much red come out a person and I grab the boy, I grab them four fingers. Tote him to the colored hospital cause I didn’t know where the white one was. But when I got there, a colored man stop me and say, Is this boy white?” The typewriter keys are clacking like hail on a roof. Aibileen is reading faster and I am ignoring my mistakes, stopping her only to put in another page. Every eight seconds, I fling the carriage aside. “And I say, Yessuh, and he say, Is them his white fingers? And I say, Yessuh, and he say, Well, you better tell em he your high yellow cause that colored doctor won’t operate on a white boy in a Negro hospital. And then a white policeman grab me and he say, Now you look a here—” She stops. Looks up. The clacking ceases. “What? The policeman said look a here what?” “Well, that’s all I put down. Had to catch the bus for work this morning.” I hit the return and the typewriter dings. Aibileen and I look each other straight in the eye. I think this might actually work.