فصل 28

chapter 28

AFTER I Hang up the phone, I go stand on the porch and stare out at the cold land. I’m so dog-tired I hadn’t even noticed Doctor Neal’s car is here. He must’ve arrived while I was at the post office. I lean against the rail and wait for him to come out of Mother’s room. Down the hall, through the open front door, I can see that her bedroom door is closed. A little while later, Doctor Neal gently closes her door behind him and walks out to the porch. He stands beside me. “I gave her something to help the pain,” he says. “The . . . pain? Was Mama vomiting this morning?” Old Doctor Neal stares at me through his cloudy blue eyes. He looks at me long and hard, as if trying to decide something about me. “Your mother has cancer, Eugenia. In the lining of the stomach.” I reach for the side of the house. I’m shocked and yet, didn’t I know this? “She didn’t want to tell you.” He shakes his head. “But since she refuses to stay in the hospital, you need to know. These next few months are going to be . . . pretty hard.” He raises his eyebrows at me. “On her and you too.” “Few months? Is that . . . all?” I cover my mouth with my hand, hear myself groan. “Maybe longer, maybe sooner, honey.” He shakes his head. “Knowing your mother, though,” he glances into the house, “she’s going to fight it like the devil.” I stand there in a daze, unable to speak. “Call me anytime, Eugenia. At the office or at home.” I walk into the house, back to Mother’s room. Daddy is on the settee by the bed, staring at nothing. Mother is sitting straight up. She rolls her eyes when she sees me. “Well, I guess he told you,” she says. Tears drip off my chin. I hold her hands. “How long have you known?” “About two months.” “Oh, Mama.” “Now stop that, Eugenia. It can’t be helped.” “But what can I . . . I can’t just sit here and watch you . . .” I can’t even say the word. All the words are too awful. “You most certainly will not just sit here. Carlton is going to be a lawyer and you . . .” She shakes her finger at me. “Don’t think you can just let yourself go after I’m gone. I am calling Fanny Mae’s the minute I can walk to the kitchen and make your hair appointments through 1975.” I sink down on the settee and Daddy puts his arm around me. I lean against him and cry. THE CHRISTMAS TREE Jameso put up a week ago dries and drops needles every time someone walks into the relaxing room. It’s still six days until Christmas, but no one’s bothered to water it. The few presents Mother bought and wrapped back in July sit under the tree, one for Daddy that’s obviously a church tie, something small and square for Carlton, a heavy box for me that I suspect is a new Bible. Now that everyone knows about Mother’s cancer, it is as if she’s let go of the few threads that kept her upright. The marionette strings are cut, and even her head looks wobbly on its post. The most she can do is get up and go to the bathroom or sit on the porch a few minutes every day. In the afternoon, I take Mother her mail, Good Housekeeping magazine, church newsletters, DAR updates. “How are you?” I push her hair back from her head and she closes her eyes like she relishes the feel. She is the child now and I am the mother. “I’m alright.” Pascagoula comes in. She sets a tray of broth on the table. Mother barely shakes her head when she leaves, staring off at the empty doorway. “Oh no,” she says, grimacing, “I can’t eat.” “You don’t have to eat, Mama. We’ll do it later.” “It’s just not the same with Pascagoula here, is it?” she says. “No,” I say. “It’s not.” This is the first time she’s mentioned Constantine since our terrible discussion. “They say its like true love, good help. You only get one in a lifetime.” I nod, thinking how I ought to go write that down, include it in the book. But, of course, it’s too late, it’s already been mailed. There’s nothing I can do, there’s nothing any of us can do now, except wait for what’s coming. CHRISTMAS EVE is DEPRESSING and rainy and warm. Every half hour, Daddy comes out of Mother’s room and looks out the front window and asks, “Is he here?” even if no one’s listening. My brother, Carlton, is driving home tonight from LSU law school and we’ll both be relieved to see him. All day, Mother has been vomiting and dry heaving. She can barely keep her eyes open, but she cannot sleep. “Charlotte, you need to be in the hospital,” Doctor Neal said that afternoon. I don’t know how many times he’s said that in the past week. “At least let me get the nurse out here to stay with you.” “Charles Neal,” Mother said, not even raising her head from the mattress, “I am not spending my final days in a hospital, nor will I turn my own house into one.” Doctor Neal just sighed, gave Daddy more medicine, a new kind, and explained to him how to give it to her. “But will it help her?” I heard Daddy whisper out in the hall. “Can it make her better?” Doctor Neal put his hand on Daddy’s shoulder. “No, Carlton.” At six o’clock that night, Carlton finally pulls up, comes in the house. “Hey there, Skeeter.” He hugs me to him. He is rumpled from the car drive, handsome in his college cable-knit sweater. The fresh air on him smells good. It’s nice to have someone else here. “Jesus, why’s it so hot in this house?” “She’s cold,” I say quietly, “all the time.” I go with him to the back. Mother sits up when she sees him, holds her thin arms out. “Oh Carlton, you’re home,” she says. Carlton stops still. Then he bends down and hugs her, very gently. He glances back at me and I can see the shock on his face. I turn away. I cover my mouth so I don’t cry, because I won’t be able to quit. Carlton’s look tells me more than I want to know. When Stuart drops by on Christmas Day, I don’t stop him when he tries to kiss me. But I tell him, “I’m only letting you because my mother is dying.” “EUGENIA,” I hear Mother calling. It is New Year’s Eve and I’m in the kitchen getting some tea. Christmas has passed and Jameso took the tree out this morning. Needles still litter the house, but I’ve managed to put away the decorations and store them back in the closet. It was tiring and frustrating, trying to wrap each ornament the way Mother likes, to get them ready for next year. I don’t let myself question the futility of it. I’ve heard nothing from Missus Stein and don’t even know if the package made it on time. Last night, I broke down and called Aibileen to tell her I’ve heard nothing, just for the relief of talking about it to someone. “I keep thinking a things to put in,” Aibileen says. “I have to remind myself we already done sent it off.” “Me too,” I say. “I’ll call you as soon as I hear something.” I go in the back. Mother is propped up on her pillows. The gravity of sitting upright, we’ve learned, helps keep the vomit down. The white enamel bowl is beside her. “Hey, Mama,” I say. “What can I get you?” “Eugenia, you cannot wear those slacks to the Holbrook New Year’s party.” When Mother blinks, she keeps her eyes closed a second too long. She’s exhausted, a skeleton in a white dressing gown with absurdly fancy ribbons and starched lace. Her neck swims in the neckline like an eighty-pound swan’s. She cannot eat unless it’s through a straw. She’s lost her power of smell completely. Yet she can sense, from an entirely different room, if my wardrobe is disappointing. “They canceled the party, Mama.” Perhaps she is remembering Hilly’s party last year. From what Stuart’s told me, all the parties were canceled because of the President’s death. Not that I’d be invited anyway. Tonight, Stuart’s coming over to watch Dick Clark on the television. Mother places her tiny, angular hand on mine, so frail the joints show through the skin. I was Mother’s dress size when I was eleven. She looks at me evenly. “I think you need to go on and put those slacks on the list, now.” “But they’re comfortable and they’re warm and—” She shakes her head, shuts her eyes. “I’m sorry, Skeeter.” There is no arguing, anymore. “Al-right,” I sigh. Mother pulls the pad of paper from under the covers, tucked in the invisible pocket she’s had sewn in every garment, where she keeps antivomiting pills, tissues. Tiny dictatorial lists. Even though she is so weak, I’m surprised by the steadiness of her hand as she writes on the “Do Not Wear” list: “Gray, shapeless, mannishly tailored pants.” She smiles, satisfied. It sounds macabre, but when Mother realized that after she’s dead, she won’t be able to tell me what to wear anymore, she came up with this ingenious postmortem system. She’s assuming I’ll never go buy new, unsatisfactory clothes on my own. She’s probably right. “Still no vomiting yet?” I ask, because it’s four o’clock and Mother’s had two bowls of broth and hasn’t been sick once today. Usually she’s thrown up at least three times by now. “Not even once,” she says but then she closes her eyes and within seconds, she’s asleep. On NEW YEAR’S DAY, I come downstairs to start on the black-eyed peas for good luck. Pascagoula set them out to soak last night, instructed me on how to put them in the pot and turn on the flame, put the ham hock in with them. It’s pretty much a two-step process, yet everyone seems nervous about me turning on the stove. I remember that Constantine always used to come by on January first and fix our good-luck peas for us, even though it was her day off. She’d make a whole pot but then deliver one single pea on a plate to everyone in the family and watch us to make sure we ate it. She could be superstitious like that. Then she’d wash the dishes and go back home. But Pascagoula doesn’t offer to come in on her holiday and, assuming she’s with her own family, I don’t ask her to. We’re all sad that Carlton had to leave this morning. It’s been nice having my brother around to talk to. His last words to me, before he hugged me and headed back to school, were, “Don’t burn the house down.” Then he added, “I’ll call tomorrow, to see how she is.” After I turn off the flame, I walk out on the porch. Daddy’s leaning on the rail, rolling cotton seeds around in his fingers. He’s staring at the empty fields that won’t be planted for another month. “Daddy, you coming in for lunch?” I ask. “The peas are ready.” He turns and his smile is thin, starved for reason. “This medicine they got her on . . .” He studies his seeds. “I think it’s working. She keeps saying she feels better.” I shake my head in disbelief. He can’t really believe this. “She’s gone two days and only gotten sick once . . .” “Oh, Daddy. No . . . it’s just a . . . Daddy, she still has it.” But there’s an empty look in Daddy’s eyes and I wonder if he even heard me. “I know you’ve got better places to be, Skeeter.” There are tears in his eyes. “But not a day passes that I don’t thank God you’re here with her.” I nod, feel guilty that he thinks it’s a choice I actually made. I hug him, tell him, “I’m glad I’m here too, Daddy.” WHEN THE CLUB REOPENS the first week of January, I put my skirt on and grab my racquet. I walk through the snack bar, ignoring Patsy Joiner, my old tennis partner who dumped me, and three other girls, all smoking at the black iron tables. They lean down and whisper to each other when I pass. I’ll be skipping the League meeting tonight, and forever, for that matter. I gave in and sent a letter three days ago with my resignation. I slam the tennis ball into the backboard, trying my best not to think about anything. Lately I’ve found myself praying, when I’ve never been a very religious person. I find myself whispering long, never-ending sentences to God, begging for Mother to feel some relief, pleading for good news about the book, sometimes even asking for some hint of what to do about Stuart. Often I catch myself praying when I didn’t even know I was doing it. When I get home from the club, Doctor Neal pulls up behind me in his car. I take him back to Mother’s room, where Daddy’s waiting, and they close the door behind them. I stand there, fidgeting in the hall like a kid. I can see why Daddy is hanging on to his thread of hope. Mother’s gone four days now without vomiting the green bile. She’s eating her oatmeal every day, even asked for more. When Doctor Neal comes out, Daddy stays in the chair by the bed and I follow Doctor Neal out to the porch. “She told you?” I ask. “About how she’s feeling better?” He nods, but then shakes his head. “There’s no point in bringing her in for an X-ray. It would just be too hard on her.” “But . . . is she? Could she be improving?” “I’ve seen this before, Eugenia. Sometimes people get a burst of strength. It’s a gift from God, I guess. So they can go on and finish their business. But that’s all it is, honey. Don’t expect anything more.” “But did you see her color? She looks so much better and she’s keeping the food—” He shakes his head. “Just try and keep her comfortable.” On THE FIRST FRIDAY OF 1964, I can’t wait any longer. I stretch the phone into the pantry. Mother is asleep, after having eaten a second bowl of oatmeal. Her door is open so I can hear her, in case she calls. “Elaine Stein’s office.” “Hello, it’s Eugenia Phelan, calling long-distance. Is she available?” “I’m sorry, Miss Phelan, but Missus Stein isn’t taking any calls regarding her manuscript selection.” “Oh. But . . . can you at least tell me if she received it? I mailed it just before the deadline and—” “One moment please.” The phone goes silent, and a minute or so later she comes back. “I can confirm that we did receive your package at some point during the holidays. Someone from our office will notify you after Missus Stein has made her decision. Thank you for calling.” I hear the line on the other end click. A FEW NIGHTS LATER, after a riveting afternoon answering Miss Myrna letters, Stuart and I sit in the relaxing room. I’m glad to see him and to eradicate, for a while, the deadly silence of the house. We sit quietly, watching television. A Tareyton ad comes on, the one where the girl smoking the cigarette has a black eye—Us Tareyton smokers would rather fight than switch! Stuart and I have been seeing each other once a week now. We went to a movie after Christmas and once to dinner in town, but usually he comes out to the house because I don’t want to leave Mother. He is hesitant around me, kind of respectfully shy. There is a patience in his eyes that replaces my own panic that I felt with him before. We don’t talk about anything serious. He tells me stories about the summer, during college, he spent working on the oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico. The showers were saltwater. The ocean was crystal clear blue to the bottom. The other men were doing this brutal work to feed their families while Stuart, a rich kid with rich parents, had college to go back to. It was the first time, he said, he’d really had to work hard. “I’m glad I drilled on the rig back then. I couldn’t go off and do it now,” he’d said, like it was ages ago and not five years back. He seems older than I remember. “Why couldn’t you do it now?” I asked, because I am looking for a future for myself. I like to hear about the possibilities of others. He furrowed his brow at me. “Because I couldn’t leave you.” I tucked this away, afraid to admit how good it was to hear it. The commercial is over and we watch the news report. There is a skirmish in Vietnam. The reporter seems to thinks it’ll be solved without much fuss. “Listen,” Stuart says after a while of silence between us. “I didn’t want to bring this up before but . . . I know what people are saying in town. About you. And I don’t care. I just want you to know that.” My first thought is the book. He’s heard something. My entire body goes tense. “What did you hear?” “You know. About that trick you played on Hilly.” I relax some, but not completely. I’ve never talked to anyone about this except Hilly herself. I wonder if Hilly ever called him like she’d threatened. “And I could see how people would take it, think you’re some kind of crazy liberal, involved in all that mess.” I study my hands, still wary of what he might have heard, and a little irritated too. “How do you know,” I ask, “what I’m involved in?” “Because I know you, Skeeter,” he says softly. “You’re too smart to get mixed up in anything like that. And I told them, too.” I nod, try to smile. Despite what he thinks he “knows” about me, I can’t help but appreciate that someone out there cares enough to stand up for me. “We don’t have to talk about this again,” he says. “I just wanted you to know. That’s all.” On SATURDAY EVENING, I say good night to Mother. I have a long coat on so she can’t see my outfit. I keep the lights off so she can’t comment on my hair. Very little has changed with her health. She doesn’t seem to be getting any worse—the vomiting is still at bay—but her skin is grayish white. Her hair has started to fall out. I hold her hands, brush her cheek. “Daddy, you’ll call the restaurant if you need me?” “I will, Skeeter. Go have some fun.” I get in Stuart’s car and he takes me to the Robert E. Lee for dinner. The room is gaudy with gowns, red roses, silver service clinking. There is excitement in the air, the feeling that things are almost back to normal since President Kennedy died; 1964 is a fresh, new year. The glances our way are abundant. “You look . . . different,” Stuart says. I can tell he’s been holding in this comment all night, and he seems more confused than impressed. “That dress, it’s so . . . short.” I nod and push my hair back. The way he used to do. This morning, I told Mother I was going shopping. She looked so tired though, I quickly changed my mind. “Maybe I shouldn’t go.” But I’d already said it. Mother had me fetch the big checkbook. When I came back she tore out a blank check and then handed me a hundred-dollar bill she had folded in the side of her wallet. Just the word shopping seemed to’ve made her feel better. “Don’t be frugal, now. And no slacks. Make sure Miss LaVole helps you.” She rested her head back in her pillows. “She knows how young girls should dress.” But I couldn’t stand the thought of Miss LaVole’s wrinkled hands on my body, smelling of coffee and mothballs. I drove right through downtown and got on Highway 51 and headed for New Orleans. I drove through the guilt of leaving Mother for so long, knowing that Doctor Neal was coming by that afternoon and Daddy would be home all day with her. Three hours later, I walked into Maison Blanche’s department store on Canal Street. I’d been there umpteen times with Mother and twice with Elizabeth and Hilly, but I was mesmerized by the vast white marble floors, the miles of hats and gloves and powdered ladies looking so happy, so healthy. Before I could ask for help, a thin man said, “Come with me, I have it all upstairs,” and whisked me in the elevator to the third floor, to a room called MODERN WOMEN’S WEAR. “What is all this?” I asked. There were dozens of women and rock-and-roll playing and champagne glasses and bright glittering lights. “Emilio Pucci, darling. Finally!” He stepped back from me and said, “Aren’t you here for the preview? You do have an invitation, don’t you?” “Um, somewhere,” I said, but he lost interest as I faked through my handbag. All around me, clothes looked like they’d sprouted roots and bloomed on their hangers. I thought of Miss LaVole and laughed. No easter-egg suits here. Flowers! Big bright stripes! And hemlines that showed several inches of thigh. It was electric and gorgeous and dizzying. This Emilio Pucci character must stick his finger in a socket every morning. I bought with my blank check enough clothes to fill the back seat of the Cadillac. Then on Magazine Street, I paid forty-five dollars to have my hair lightened and trimmed and ironed straight. It had grown longer over the winter and was the color of dirty dishwater. By four o’clock I was driving back over the Lake Pontchartrain bridge with the radio playing a band called the Rolling Stones and the wind blowing through my satiny, straight hair, and I thought, Tonight, I’ll strip off all this armor and let it be as it was before with Stuart. STUART and I eat our Chateaubriand, smiling, talking. He looks off at the other tables, commenting on people he knows. But no one gets up to tell us hello. “Here’s to new beginnings,” Stuart says and raises his bourbon. I nod, sort of wanting to tell him that all beginnings are new. Instead, I smile and toast with my second glass of wine. I’ve never really liked alcohol, until today. After dinner, we walk out into the lobby and see Senator and Missus Whitworth at a table, having drinks. People are around them drinking and talking. They are home for the weekend, Stuart told me earlier, their first since they moved to Washington. “Stuart, there are your parents. Should we go say hello?” But Stuart steers me toward the door, practically pushes me outside. “I don’t want Mother to see you in that short dress,” he says. “I mean, believe me, it looks great on you, but . . .” He looks down at the hemline. “Maybe that wasn’t the best choice for tonight.” On the ride home, I think of Elizabeth, in her curlers, afraid the bridge club would see me. Why is it that someone always seems to be ashamed of me? By the time we make it back to Longleaf, it’s eleven o’clock. I smooth my dress, thinking Stuart is right. It is too short. The lights in my parents’ bedroom are off, so we sit on the sofa. I rub my eyes and yawn. When I open them, he’s holding a ring between his fingers. “Oh . . . Jesus.” “I was going to do it at the restaurant but . . .” He grins. “Here is better.” I touch the ring. It is cold and gorgeous. Three rubies are set on both sides of the diamond. I look up at him, feeling very hot all of a sudden. I pull my sweater off my shoulders. I am smiling and about to cry at the same time. “I have to tell you something, Stuart,” I blurt out. “Do you promise you won’t tell anyone?” He stares at me and laughs. “Hang on, did you say yes?” “Yes, but . . .” I have to know something first. “Can I just have your word?” He sighs, looks disappointed that I’m ruining his moment. “Sure, you have my word.” I am in shock from his proposal but I do my best to explain. Looking into his eyes, I spread out the facts and what details I can safely share about the book and what I’ve been doing over the past year. I leave out everyone’s name and I pause at the implication of this, knowing it’s not good. Even though he is asking to be my husband, I don’t know him enough to trust him completely. “This is what you’ve been writing about for the past twelve months? Not . . . Jesus Christ?” “No, Stuart. Not . . . Jesus.” When I tell him that Hilly found the Jim Crow laws in my satchel, his chin drops and I can see that I’ve confirmed something Hilly already told him about me—something he had the naïve trust not to believe. “The talk… in town. I told them they were dead wrong. But they were . . . right.” When I tell him about the colored maids filing past me after the prayer meeting, I feel a swell of pride over what we’ve done. He looks down into his empty bourbon glass. Then I tell him that the manuscript has been sent to New York. That if they decide to publish it, it would come out in, my guess is, eight months, maybe sooner. Right around the time, I think to myself, an engagement would turn into a wedding. “It’s been written anonymously,” I say, “but with Hilly around, there’s still a good chance people will know it was me.” But he’s not nodding his head or pushing my hair behind my ear and his grandmother’s ring is sitting on Mother’s velvet sofa like some ridiculous metaphor. We are both silent. His eyes don’t even meet mine. They stay a steady two inches to the right of my face. After a minute, he says, “I just . . . I don’t understand why you would do this. Why do you even . . . care about this, Skeeter?” I bristle, look down at the ring, so sharp and shiny. “I didn’t . . . mean it like that,” he starts again. “What I mean is, things are fine around here. Why would you want to go stirring up trouble?” I can tell, in his voice, he sincerely wants an answer from me. But how to explain it? He is a good man, Stuart. As much as I know that what I’ve done is right, I can still understand his confusion and doubt. “I’m not making trouble, Stuart. The trouble is already here.” But clearly, this isn’t the answer he is looking for. “I don’t know you.” I look down, remembering that I’d thought this same thing only moments ago. “I guess we’ll have the rest of our lives to fix that,” I say, trying to smile. “I don’t . . . think I can marry somebody I don’t know.” I suck in a breath. My mouth opens but I can’t say anything for a little while. “I had to tell you,” I say, more to myself than him. “You needed to know.” He studies me for a few moments. “You have my word. I won’t tell anyone,” he says, and I believe him. He may be many things, Stuart, but he’s not a liar. He stands up. He gives me one last, lost look. And then he picks up the ring and walks out. THAT NIGHT, after Stuart has left, I wander from room to room, dry-mouthed, cold. Cold is what I’d prayed for when Stuart left me the first time. Cold is what I got. At midnight, I hear Mother’s voice calling from her bedroom. “Eugenia? Is that you?” I walk down the hall. The door is half open and Mother is sitting up in her starchy white nightgown. Her hair is down around her shoulders. I am struck by how beautiful she looks. The back porch light is on, casting a white halo around her entire body. She smiles and her new dentures are still in, the ones Dr. Simon cast for her when her teeth starting eroding from the stomach acid. Her smile is whiter, even, than in her teen pageant pictures. “Mama, what can I get you? Is it bad?” “Come here, Eugenia. I want to tell you something.” I go to her quietly. Daddy is a long sleeping lump, his back to her. And I think, I could tell her a better version of tonight. We all know there’s very little time. I could make her happy in her last days, pretend that the wedding is going to happen. “I have something to tell you, too,” I say. “Oh? You go first.” “Stuart proposed,” I say, faking a smile. Then I panic, knowing she’ll ask to see the ring. “I know,” she says. “You do?” She nods. “Of course. He came by here two weeks ago and asked Carlton and me for your hand.” Two weeks ago? I almost laugh. Of course Mother was the first to know something so important. I’m happy she’s had so long to enjoy the news. “And I have something to tell you,” she says. The glow around Mother is unearthly, phosphorescent. It’s from the porch light, but I wonder why I’ve never seen it before. She clasps my hand in the air with the healthy grip of a mother holding her newly engaged daughter. Daddy stirs, then sits straight up. “What?” he gasps. “Are you sick?” “No, Carlton. I’m fine. I told you.” He nods numbly, closes his eyes, and is asleep before he has even lain down again. “What’s your news, Mama?” “I’ve had a long talk with your daddy and I have made a decision.” “Oh God,” I sigh. I can just see her explaining it to Stuart when he asked for my hand. “Is this about the trust fund?” “No, it’s not that,” she says and I think, Then it must be something about the wedding. I feel a shuddering sadness that Mother will not be here to plan my wedding, not only because she’ll be dead, but because there is no wedding. And yet, I also feel a horrifyingly guilty relief that I won’t have to go through this with her. “Now I know you’ve noticed that things have been on the uptick these past few weeks,” she says. “And I know what Doctor Neal says, that it’s some kind of last strength, some nonsense ab—” She coughs and her thin body arches over like a shell. I give her a tissue and she frowns, dabs at her mouth. “But as I said, I have made a decision.” I nod, listening, with the same numbness as my father a moment ago. “I have decided not to die.” “Oh . . . Mama. God, please . . .” “Too late,” she says, waving my hand away. “I’ve made my decision and that’s that.” She slides her palms across each other, as if throwing the cancer away. Sitting straight and prim in her gown, the halo of light glowing around her hair, I can’t keep from rolling my eyes. How dumb of me. Of course Mother will be as obstinate about her death as she has been about every detail of her life. THE DATE IS FRIDAY, JANUARY 18, 1964. I have on a black A-line dress. My fingernails are all bitten off. I will remember every detail of this day, I think, the way people are saying they’ll never forget what kind of sandwich they were eating, or the song on the radio, when they found out Kennedy was shot. I walk into what has become such a familiar spot to me, the middle of Aibileen’s kitchen. It is already dark outside and the yellow bulb seems very bright. I look at Minny and she looks at me. Aibileen edges between us as if to block something. “Harper and Row,” I say, “wants to publish it.” Everyone is quiet. Even the flies stop buzzing. “You kidding me,” says Minny. “I spoke to her this afternoon.” Aibileen lets out a whoop like I’ve never heard come out of her before. “Law, I can’t believe it!” she hollers, and then we are hugging, Aibileen and me, then Minny and Aibileen. Minny looks in my general direction. “Sit down, y’all!” Aibileen says. “Tell me what she say? What a we do now? Law, I ain’t even got no coffee ready!” We sit and they both stare at me, leaning forward. Aibileen’s eyes are big. I’ve been waiting at home with the news for four hours. Missus Stein told me, clearly, this is a very small deal. Keep our expectations between low and nonexistent. I feel obligated to communicate this to Aibileen so she doesn’t end up disappointed. I’ve hardly even figured out how I should feel about it myself. “Listen, she said not to get too excited. That the number of copies they’re going to put out is going to be very, very small.” I wait for Aibileen to frown, but she giggles. She tries to hide it with her hand. “Probably only a few thousand copies.” Aibileen presses her hand harder against her lips. “Pathetic . . . Missus Stein called it.” Aibileen’s face is turning darker. She giggles again into her knuckles. Clearly she’s not getting this. “And she said it’s one of the smallest advances she’s ever seen . . .” I am trying to be serious but I can’t because Aibileen is clearly about to burst. Tears are coming up in her eyes. “How . . . small?” she asks behind her hand. “Eight hundred dollars,” I say. “Divided thirteen ways.” Aibileen splits open in laughter. I can’t help but laugh with her. But it makes no sense. A few thousand copies and $61.50 a person? Tears run down Aibileen’s face and finally she just lays her head on the table. “I don’t know why I’m laughing. It just seem so funny all a sudden.” Minny rolls her eyes at us. “I knew y’all crazy. Both a you.” I do my best to tell them the details. I hadn’t acted much better on the phone with Missus Stein. She’d sounded so matter-of-fact, almost uninterested. And what did I do? Did I remain businesslike and ask pertinent questions? Did I thank her for taking on such a risky topic? No, instead of laughing, I started blubbering into the phone, crying like a kid getting a polio shot. “Calm down, Miss Phelan,” she’d said, “this is hardly going to be a best-seller,” but I just kept crying while she fed me the details. “We’re only offering a four-hundred-dollar advance and then another four hundred dollars when it’s finished… are you . . . listening?” “Ye-yes ma’am.” “And there’s definitely some editing you have to do. The Sarah section is in the best shape,” she’d said, and I tell Aibileen this through her fits and snorts. Aibileen sniffs, wipes her eyes, smiles. We finally calm down, drinking coffee that Minny had to get up and put on for us. “She really likes Gertrude, too,” I say to Minny. I pick up the paper and read the quote I’d written so I wouldn’t forget it. “ ‘Gertrude is every Southern white woman’s nightmare. I adore her.’ ” For a second, Minny actually looks me in the eye. Her face softens into a childlike smile. “She say that? Bout me?” Aibileen laughs. “It’s like she know you from five hundred miles away.” “She said it’ll be at least six months until it comes out. Sometime in August.” Aibileen is still smiling, completely undeterred by anything I’ve said. And honestly, I’m grateful for this. I knew she’d be excited, but I was afraid she’d be a little disappointed, too. Seeing her makes me realize, I’m not disappointed at all. I’m just happy. We sit and talk another few minutes, drinking coffee and tea, until I look at my watch. “I told Daddy I’d be home in an hour.” Daddy is at home with Mother. I took a risk and left him Aibileen’s number just in case, telling him I was going to visit a friend named Sarah. They both walk me to the door, which is new for Minny. I tell Aibileen I’ll call her as soon as I get Missus Stein’s notes in the mail. “So six months from now, we’ll finally know what’s gone happen,” Minny says, “good, bad, or nothing.” “It might be nothing,” I say, wondering if anyone will even buy the book. “Well, I’m counting on good,” Aibileen says. Minny crosses her arms over her chest. “I better count on bad then. Somebody got to.” Minny doesn’t look worried about book sales. She looks worried about what will happen when the women of Jackson read what we’ve written about them.