THAT AFTERNOON 21 page

Celia Foote and Johnny arrive later than they’d planned, at seven twenty-five. When Johnny came home from work, he stopped in the doorway of the bedroom, squinted at his wife, briefcase still in his hand. “Celia, you think that dress might be a little bit too . . . um . . . open at the top?”

Celia had pushed him toward the bathroom. “Oh Johnny, you men don’t know the first thing about fashion. Now hurry up and get ready.”

Johnny gave up before he even tried to change Celia’s mind. They were already late as it was.

They walk in behind Doctor and Missus Ball. The Balls step left, Johnny steps right, and for a moment, it is just Celia, standing under the holly berries in her sparkling hot pink gown.

In the lounge, the air seems to still. Husbands drinking their whiskeys stop in mid-sip, spotting this pink thing at the door. It takes a second for the image to register. They stare, but don’t see, not yet. But as it turns real—real skin, real cleavage, perhaps not-so-real blond hair—their faces slowly light up. They all seem to be thinking the same thing—Finally... But then, feeling the fingernails of their wives, also staring, digging into their arms, their foreheads wrinkle. Their eyes hint remorse, as marriages are scorned (she never lets me do anything fun), youth is remembered (why didn’t I go to California that summer?), first loves are recalled (Roxanne . . .). All of this happens in a span of about five seconds and then it is over and they are left just staring.

William Holbrook tips half his gin martini onto a pair of patent-leather shoes. The shoes are attached to the feet of his biggest campaign contributor.

“Oh, Claiborne, forgive my clumsy husband,” says Hilly. “William, get him a handkerchief!” But neither man moves. Neither, frankly, really cares to do more than just stare.

Hilly’s eyes follow the trail of gazes and finally land on Celia. The inch of skin showing on Hilly’s neck grows taut.

“Look at the chest on that one,” an old geezer says. “Feel like I’m not a year over seventy-five looking at those things.”

The geezer’s wife, Eleanor Causwell, an original founder of the League, frowns. “Bosoms,” she announces, with a hand to her own, “are for bedrooms and breastfeeding. Not for occasions with dignity.”

“Well, what do you want her to do, Eleanor? Leave them at home?”

“I want her to cover. Them. Up.”

Celia grabs for Johnny’s arm as they make their way into the room. She teeters a bit as she walks, but it’s not clear if it’s from alcohol or the high heels. They drift around, talking to other couples. Or at least Johnny talks; Celia just smiles. A few times she blushes, looks down at herself. “Johnny, do you think I might’ve overdressed a little for this thing? The invitation said formal, but these girls here all look like they’re dressed for church.”

Johnny gives her a sympathetic smile. He’d never tell her “I told you so,” and instead whispers, “You look gorgeous. But if you’re cold, you can put my jacket on.”

“I can’t wear a man’s jacket with a ball gown.” She rolls her eyes at him, sighs. “But thanks, honey.”

Johnny squeezes her hand, gets her another drink from the bar, her fifth, although he doesn’t know this. “Try and make some friends. I’ll be right back.” He heads for the men’s room.

Celia is left standing alone. She tugs a little at the neckline of her dress, shimmies down deeper into the waist.

“. . . there’s a hole in the buck-et dear Liza, dear Liza . . .” Celia sings an old county fair song softly to herself, tapping her foot, looking around the room for somebody she recognizes. She stands on tiptoe and waves over the crowd. “Hey Hilly, yoo-hoo.”

Hilly looks up from her conversation a few couples away. She smiles, gives a wave, but as Celia comes toward her, Hilly heads off into the crowd.

Celia stops where she is, takes another sip of her drink. All around her, tight little groups have formed, talking and laughing, she guesses, about all those things people talk and laugh about at parties.

“Oh, hey there, Julia,” Celia calls. They’d met at one of the few parties Celia and Johnny attended when they first got married.

Julia Fenway smiles, glances around.

“It’s Celia. Celia Foote. How are you? Oh, I just love that dress. Where’d you get that? Over at the Jewel Taylor Shoppe?”

“No, Warren and I were in New Orleans a few months ago . . .” Julia looks around, but there is no one near enough to save her. “And you look very... glamorous tonight.”

Celia leans closer. “Well, I asked Johnny, but you know how men are. Do you think I’m a tad overdressed?”

Julia laughs, but not once does she look Celia in the eye. “Oh no. You’re just perfect.”

A fellow Leaguer squeezes Julia on the forearm. “Julia, we need you over here a second, excuse us.” They walk away, heads leaned close together, and Celia is alone again.

Five minutes later, the doors to the dining room slide open. The crowd moves forward. Guests find their tables using the tiny cards in their hands as oohs and aahs come from the bidding tables along the walls. They are full of silver pieces and hand-sewn daygowns for infants, cotton handkerchiefs, monogrammed hand towels, a child’s tea set imported from Germany.

Minny is at a table in the back polishing glasses. “Aibileen,” she whispers. “There she is.”

Aibileen looks up, spots the woman who knocked on Miss Leefolt’s door a month ago. “Ladies better hold on to they husbands tonight,” she says.

Minny jerks the cloth around the rim of a glass. “Let me know if you see her talking to Miss Hilly.”

“I will. I been doing a super power prayer for you all day.”

“Look, there Miss Walters. Old bat. And there Miss Skeeter.”

Skeeter has on a long-sleeved black velvet dress, scooped at the neck, setting off her blond hair, her red lipstick. She has come alone and stands in a pocket of emptiness. She scans the room, looking bored, then spots Aibileen and Minny. They all look away at once.

One of the other colored helpers, Clara, moves to their table, picks up a glass. “Aibileen,” she whispers, but keeps her eyes on her polishing. “That the one?”

“One what?”

“One who taking down the stories bout the colored help. What she doing it for? Why she interested? I hear she been coming over to your house ever week.”

Aibileen lowers her chin. “Now look, we got to keep her a secret.”

Minny looks away. No one outside the group knows she’s part of this. They only know about Aibileen.

Clara nods. “Don’t worry, I ain’t telling nobody nothing.”

Skeeter jots a few words on her pad, notes for the newsletter article about the Benefit. She looks around the room, taking in the swags of green, the holly berries, red roses and dried magnolia leaves set as centerpieces on all the tables. Then her eyes land on Elizabeth, a few feet away, ticking through her handbag. She looks exhausted, having had her baby only a month ago. Skeeter watches as Celia Foote approaches Elizabeth. When Elizabeth looks up and sees who she’s been surrounded by, she coughs, draws her hand up to her throat as if she’s shielding herself from some kind of attack.

“Not sure which way to turn, Elizabeth?” asks Skeeter.

“What? Oh, Skeeter, how are you?” Elizabeth offers a quick, wide smile. “I was . . . feeling so warm in here. I think I need some fresh air.”

Skeeter watches Elizabeth rush away, at Celia Foote rattling after Elizabeth in her awful dress. That’s the real story, Skeeter thinks. Not the flower arrangements or how many pleats are around the rear end of Hilly’s dress. This year, it’s all about The Celia Foote Fashion Catastrophe.

Moments later, dinner is announced and everyone settles into their assigned seats. Celia and Johnny have been seated with a handful of out-of-town couples, friends of friends who aren’t really friends of anyone at all. Skeeter is seated with a few local couples, not President Hilly or even Secretary Elizabeth this year. The room is full of chatter, praise for the party, praise for the Chateaubriand. After the main course, Hilly stands behind the podium. There is a round of applause and she smiles at the crowd.

“Good evening. I sure do thank y’all for coming tonight. Everybody enjoying their dinner?”

There are nods and rumbles of consent.

“Before we start the announcements, I’d like to go ahead and thank the people who are making tonight such a success.” Without turning her head from the audience, Hilly gestures to her left, where two dozen colored women have lined up, dressed in their white uniforms. A dozen colored men are behind them, in gray-and-white tuxedos.

“Let’s give a special round of applause to the help, for all the wonderful food they cooked and served, and for the desserts they made for the auction.” Here, Hilly picks up a card and reads, “In their own way, they are helping the League reach its goal to feed the Poor Starving Children of Africa, a cause, I’m sure, dear to their own hearts as well.”

The white people at the tables clap for the maids and servers. Some of the servers smile back. Many, though, stare at the empty air just above the crowd’s heads.

“Next we’d like to thank those nonmembers in this room who have given their time and help, for it’s you who made our job that much easier.”

There is light applause, some cold smiles and nods between members and nonmembers. Such a pity, the members seem to be thinking. Such a shame you girls haven’t the gentility to join our club. Hilly goes on, thanking and recognizing in a musical, patriotic voice. Coffee is served and the husbands drink theirs, but most of the women keep rapt attention on Hilly. “. . . thanks to Boone Hardware . . . let us not forget Ben Franklin’s dime store . . .” She concludes the list with, “And of course we thank our anonymous contributor of, ahem, supplies, for the Home Help Sanitation Initiative.”

A few people laugh nervously, but most turn their heads to see if Skeeter has had the gall to show up.

“I just wish instead of being so shy, you’d step up and accept our gratitude. We honestly couldn’t have accomplished so many installations without you.”

Skeeter keeps her eyes on the podium, her face stoic and unyielding. Hilly gives a quick, brilliant smile. “And finally, a special thanks to my husband, William Holbrook, for donating a weekend at his deer camp.” She smiles down at her husband, adds in a lower tone, “And don’t forget, voters. Holbrook for State Senate.”

The guests offer an amicable laugh at Hilly’s plug.

“What’s that, Virginia?” Hilly cups her ear, then straightens. “No, I’m not running with him. But congressmen with us tonight, if you don’t straighten this thing out with the separate schools, don’t think I won’t come down there and do it myself.”

There is more laughter at this. Senator and Missus Whitworth, seated at a table in the front, nod and smile. At her table in the back, Skeeter looks down at her lap. They spoke earlier, during the cocktail hour. Missus Whitworth steered the Senator away from Skeeter before he could give her a second hug. Stuart didn’t come.

Once the dinner and the speech have ended, people get up to dance, husbands head for the bar. There is a scurry to the auction tables for last-minute bids. Two grandmothers are in a bidding war over the child’s antique tea set. Someone started the rumor that it had belonged to royalty and had been smuggled out via donkey cart across Germany until it eventually wound up in the Magnolia Antique Store on Fairview Street. The price shot up from fifteen dollars to eighty-five in no time.

In the corner by the bar, Johnny yawns. Celia’s brow is scrunched together. “I can’t believe what she said about nonmembers helping. She told me they didn’t need any help this year.”

“Well, you can help out next year,” Johnny says.

Celia spots Hilly. For the moment, Hilly has only a few people around her.

“Johnny, I’ll be right back,” Celia says.

“And then let’s get the hell out of here. I’m sick of this monkey suit.”

Richard Cross, who’s a member of Johnny’s duck camp, slaps Johnny’s back. They say something, then laugh. Their gazes sweep across the crowd.

Celia almost makes it to Hilly this time, only to have Hilly slip behind the podium table. Celia backs away, as if she’s afraid to approach Hilly where she’d seemed so powerful a few minutes ago.

As soon as Celia disappears into the ladies room, Hilly heads for the corner.

“Why Johnny Foote,” Hilly says. “I’m surprised to see you here. Everybody knows you can’t stand big parties like this.” She squeezes the crook of his arm.

Johnny sighs. “You are aware that doe season opens tomorrow?”

Hilly gives him an auburn-lipsticked smile. The color matches her dress so perfectly, it must have been searched out for days.

“I am so tired of hearing that from everybody. You can miss one day of hunting season, Johnny Foote. You used to for me.”

Johnny rolls his eyes. “Celia wouldn’t have missed this for anything.”

“Where is that wife of yours?” she asks. Hilly’s still got her hand tucked in the crook of Johnny’s arm and she gives it another pull. “Not at the LSU game serving hot dogs, is she?”

Johnny frowns down at her, even though it’s true, that’s how they met.

“Oh, now you know I’m just teasing you. We dated long enough to where I can do that, can’t I?”

Before Johnny can answer, Hilly’s shoulder is tapped and she glides over to the next couple, laughing. Johnny sighs when he sees Celia headed toward him. “Good,” he says to Richard, “we can go home. I’m getting up in,” he looks at his watch, “five hours.”

Richard keeps his eyes locked on Celia as she strides toward them. She stops and bends down to retrieve her dropped napkin, offering a generous view of her bosoms. “Going from Hilly to Celia must’ve been quite the change, Johnny.”

Johnny shakes his head. “Like living in Antarctica all my life and one day moving to Hawaii.”

Richard laughs. “Like going to bed in seminary and waking up at Ole Miss,” Richard says, and they both laugh.

Then Richard adds in a lower voice, “Like a kid eating ice cream for the very first time.”

Johnny gives him a look. “That’s my wife you’re talking about.”

“Sorry, Johnny,” Richard says, lowering his eyes. “No harm meant.”

Celia walks up, sighs with a disappointed smile.

“Hey Celia, how are you?” Richard says. “You sure are looking nice tonight.”

“Thanks, Richard.” Celia lets out a loud hiccup and she frowns, covers her mouth with a tissue.

“You getting tipsy?” asks Johnny.

“She’s just having fun, aren’t you, Celia?” Richard says. “In fact, I’m fixing to get you a drink you’re gonna love. It’s called an Alabama Slammer.”

Johnny rolls his eyes at his friend. “And then we’re going home.” Three Alabama Slammers later, the winners of the silent auction are announced. Susie Pernell stands behind the podium while people mill about drinking or smoking at the tables, dancing to Glenn Miller and Frankie Valli songs, talking over the din of the microphone. As names are read, items are received with the excitement of someone winning a real contest, as if the booty were free and not paid for at three, four, or five times the store value. Tablecloths and nightgowns with the lace tatted by hand bring in high bids. Odd sterling servers are popular, for spooning out deviled eggs, removing pimentos from olives, cracking quail legs. Then there are the desserts: cakes, slabs of pralines, divinity fudge. And of course, Minny’s pie.

“ . . . and the winner of Minny Jackson’s world-famous chocolate custard pie is . . . Hilly Holbrook!”

There is a little more applause for this one, not just because Minny’s known for her treats, but because the name Hilly elicits applause on any occasion.

Hilly turns from her conversation. “What? Was that my name? I didn’t bid on anything.”

She never does, Skeeter thinks, sitting alone, a table away.

“Hilly, you just won Minny Jackson’s pie! Congratulations,” says the woman to her left.

Hilly scans the room, eyes narrowed.

Minny, having heard her name called in the same sentence as Hilly’s, is suddenly very alert. She is holding a dirty coffee cup in one hand, a heavy silver tray in the other. But she stands stock-still.

Hilly spots her, but doesn’t move either, just smiles very slightly. “Well. Wasn’t that sweet? Someone must’ve signed me up for that pie.”

She doesn’t take her eyes off Minny and Minny can feel it. She stacks the rest of the cups on the tray, and heads for the kitchen as fast as she can.

“Why congratulations, Hilly. I didn’t know you were such a fan of Minny’s pies!” Celia’s voice is shrill. She’s come up from behind without Hilly noticing. As she trots toward Hilly, Celia stumbles over a chair leg. There are sideline giggles.

Hilly stands very still, watching her approach. “Celia, is this some kind of joke?”

Skeeter moves in closer too. She’s bored to death by this predictable evening. Tired of seeing embarrassed faces of old friends too scared to come and speak to her. Celia’s the only interesting thing to happen all night.

“Hilly,” Celia says, grasping Hilly’s arm, “I’ve been trying to talk to you all night. I think there’s been some kind of miscommunication between us and I just think if I explained . . .”

“What have you done? Let me go—” Hilly says between gritted teeth. She shakes her head, tries to walk off.

But Celia clutches Hilly’s long sleeve. “No, wait! Hang on, you got to listen—”

Hilly pulls away, but still Celia doesn’t let go. There’s a moment of determination between them—Hilly trying to escape, Celia holding on, and then a ripping sound cuts through the air.

Celia stares at the red material in her fingers. She’s torn the auburn cuff clear off Hilly’s arm.

Hilly looks down, touches her exposed wrist. “What are you trying to do to me?” she says in a low growl. “Did that Nigra maid put you up to this? Because whatever she told you and whatever you’ve blabbed to anyone else here—”

Several more people have gathered around them, listening, all looking at Hilly with frowns of concern.

“Blabbed? I don’t know what you—”

Hilly grabs Celia’s arm. “Who did you tell?” she snarls.

“Minny told me. I know why you don’t want to be friends with me.” Susie Pernell’s voice over the microphone announcing the winners grows louder, forcing Celia to raise her own voice. “I know you think me and Johnny went behind your back,” she yells, and there is laughter from the front of the room over some comment, and more applause. Just as Susie Pernell pauses over the microphone to look at her notes, Celia yells, “—but I got pregnant after you broke up.” The room echoes with the words. All is silent for a few long seconds.

The women around them wrinkle their noses, some start to laugh. “Johnny’s wife is d-r-u-n-k,” someone says.

Celia looks around her. She wipes at the sweat that’s beading on her makeuped forehead. “I don’t blame you for not liking me, not if you thought Johnny cheated on you with me.”

“Johnny never would’ve—”

“—and I’m sorry I said that, I thought you’d be tickled you won that pie.”

Hilly bends over, snatches her pearl button from the floor. She leans closer to Celia so no one else can hear. “You tell your Nigra maid if she tells anybody about that pie, I will make her suffer. You think you’re real cute signing me up for that auction, don’t you? What, you think you can blackmail your way into the League?”

“What?”

“You tell me right this minute who else you’ve told ab—”

“I didn’t tell nobody nothing about a pie, I—”

“You liar,” Hilly says, but she straightens quickly and smiles. “There’s Johnny. Johnny, I think your wife needs your attention.” Hilly flashes her eyes at the girls around them, as if they’re all in on a joke.

“Celia, what’s wrong?” Johnny says.

Celia scowls at him, then scowls at Hilly. “She’s not making sense, she called me a—a liar, and now she’s accusing me of signing her name on that pie and . . .” Celia stops, looks around like she recognizes no one around her. She has tears in her eyes. Then she groans and convulses. Vomit splatters onto the carpet.

“Oh shit!” Johnny says, pulling her back.

Celia pushes Johnny’s arm off her. She runs for the bathroom and he follows her.

Hilly’s hands are in fists. Her face is crimson, nearly the color of her dress. She marches over and grabs a waiter’s arm. “Get that cleaned up before it starts to smell.”

And then Hilly is surrounded by women, faces upturned, asking questions, arms out like they are trying to protect her.

“I heard Celia’s been battling with drinking, but this problem with lying now?” Hilly tells one of the Susies. It’s a rumor she’d intended to spread about Minny, in case the pie story ever got out. “What do they call that?”

“A compulsive liar?”

“That’s it, a compulsive liar.” Hilly walks off with the women. “Celia trapped him into that marriage, telling him she was pregnant. I guess she was a compulsive liar even back then.”

After Celia and Johnny leave, the party winds down quickly. Member wives look exhausted and tired of smiling. There is talk of the auction, of babysitters to get home to, but mostly of Celia Foote retching in the middle of it all.

When the room is nearly empty, at midnight, Hilly stands at the podium. She flips through the sheets of silent bids. Her lips move as she calculates. But she keeps looking off, shaking her head. Then she looks back down and curses because she has to start all over again.

“Hilly, I’m headed on back to your house.”

Hilly looks up from tallying. It is her mother, Missus Walters, looking even frailer than usual in her formalwear. She wears a floor-length gown, sky blue and beaded, from 1943. A white orchid wilts at her clavicle. A colored woman in a white uniform is attached to her side.

“Now, Mama, don’t you get in that refrigerator tonight. I won’t have you keeping me up all night with your indigestion. You go right to bed, you hear?”

“I can’t even have some of Minny’s pie?”

Hilly narrows her eyes at her mother. “That pie is in the garbage.”

“Well, why’d you throw it out? I won it just for you.”

Hilly is still a moment, letting this sink in. “You? You signed me up?”

“I may not remember my name or what country I live in, but you and that pie is something I will never forget.”

“You—you old, useless . . .” Hilly throws down the papers she’s holding, scattering them everywhere.

Missus Walters turns and hobbles toward the door, the colored nurse in tow. “Well, call the papers, Bessie,” she says. “My daughter’s mad at me again.”

MINNY

chapter 26

ON SATURDAY MORNING, I get up tired and sore. I walk in the kitchen where Sugar’s counting out her nine dollars and fifty cents, the money she earned at the Benefit last night. The phone rings and Sugar’s on it quicker than a grease fire. Sugar’s got a boyfriend and she doesn’t want her mama to know.

“Yessir,” Sugar whispers and hands me the phone.

“Hello?” I say.

“It’s Johnny Foote,” he says. “I’m up at deer camp but I just want you to know, Celia’s real upset. She had a rough time at the party last night.”

“Yessir, I know.”

“You heard, then, huh?” He sighs. “Well, keep an eye on her next week, will you, Minny? I’ll be gone and—I don’t know. Just call me if she doesn’t perk up. I’ll come home early if I need to.”

“I look after her. She gone be alright.”

I didn’t see myself what happened at the party, but I heard about it while I was doing dishes in the kitchen. All the servers were talking about it.

“You see that?” Farina said to me. “That big pink lady you work for, drunk as a Injun on payday.”

I looked up from my sink and saw Sugar headed straight for me with her hand up on her hip. “Yeah, Mama, she upchuck all over the floor. And everbody at the whole party see!” Then Sugar turned around, laughing with the others. She didn’t see the whap coming at her. Soapsuds flew through the air.

“You shut your mouth, Sugar.” I yanked her to the corner. “Don’t you never let me hear you talking bad about the lady who put food in your mouth, clothes on your back! You hear me?”

Sugar, she nodded and I went back to my dishes, but I heard her muttering. “You do it, all the time.”

I whipped around and put my finger in her face. “I got a right to. I earn it every day working for that crazy fool.”

WHEN I GET TO WORK on Monday, Miss Celia’s still laid up in bed with her face buried under the sheets.

“Morning, Miss Celia.”

But she just rolls over and won’t look at me.

At lunchtime, I take a tray of ham sandwiches to the bed.

“I’m not hungry,” she says and throws the pillow over her head.

I stand there looking at her, all mummified in the sheets.

“What you gone do, just lay there all day?” I ask, even though I’ve seen her do it plenty of times before. But this is different. There’s no goo on her skin or smile on her face.

“Please, just leave me alone.”

I start to tell her she needs to just get up, put on her tacky clothes, and forget about it, but the way she’s laying there so pitiful and poor, I keep quiet. I am not her psychiatrist and she’s not paying me to be one.

On Tuesday morning, Miss Celia’s still in the bed. Yesterday’s lunch tray’s on the floor without a single bite missing. She’s still in that ratty blue nightgown that looks left over from her Tunica County days, the gingham ruffle torn at the neck. Something that looks like charcoal stains on the front.

“Come on, lemme get to them sheets. Show bout to come on and Miss Julia gone be in trouble. You ain’t gone believe what that fool done yesterday with Doctor Bigmouth.”

But she just lays there.

Later on, I bring her a tray of chicken pot pie. Even though what I really want to do is tell Miss Celia to pull herself together and go in the kitchen and eat proper.

“Now, Miss Celia, I know it was terrible what happened at the Benefit. But you can’t set in here forever feeling sorry for yourself.”

Miss Celia gets up and locks herself in the bathroom.

I start stripping the bed. When I’m done, I pick up all the wet tissues and glasses off the nightstand. I see a stack of mail. At least the woman’s gotten up to go to the mailbox. I pick it up to wipe the table and there I see the letters H W H across the top of a card. Before I know it, I’ve read the whole note:

Dear Celia,

In lieu of reimbursing me for my dress you tore, we at the League would gladly receive a donation of no less than two hundred dollars. Furthermore, please withhold from volunteering for any nonmember activities in the future, as your name has been placed on a probationary list. Your cooperation in this matter is appreciated.

Date: 2015-01-02; view: 645