THAT AFTERNOON 23 page

I pause on the League steps, take in a deep breath of clean winter air. It’s pathetic, but I’m glad to still have the newsletter. Once a week, I actually feel like I’m a part of things. And who knows, maybe this time will be different, with the holidays starting and all.

But the minute I walk in, backs turn. My exclusion is tangible, as if concrete walls have formed around me. Hilly gives me a smirk, whips her head around to speak to someone else. I go deeper into the crowd and see Elizabeth. She smiles and I wave. I want to talk to her about Mother, tell her I’m getting worried, but before I get too close, Elizabeth turns, head down, and walks away. I go to my seat. This is new, from her, here.

Instead of my usual seat up front, I slip in the back row, angry that Elizabeth wouldn’t even say hello. Beside me is Rachel Cole Brant. Rachel hardly ever comes to meetings, with three kids, working on her master’s in English from Millsaps College. I wish we were better friends but I know she’s too busy. On my other side is damn Leslie Fullerbean and her cloud of hairspray. She must risk her life every time she lights a cigarette. I wonder, if I pushed the top of her head, would aerosol spray out of her mouth.

Almost every girl in the room has her legs crossed, a lit cigarette in her hand. The smoke gathers and curls around the ceiling. I haven’t smoked in two months and the smell makes me feel ill. Hilly steps up to the podium and announces the upcoming gimme-drives (coat drive, can drive, book drive, and a plain old money drive), and then we get to Hilly’s favorite part of the meeting, the trouble list. This is where she gets to call out the names of anyone late on their dues or tardy for meetings or not fulfilling their philanthropic duties. I’m always on the trouble list nowadays for something.

Hilly’s wearing a red wool A-line dress with a cape coat over it, Sherlock Holmes-style, even though it’s hot as fire in here. Every once in a while, she tosses back the front flap like it’s in her way, but she looks like she enjoys this gesture too much for it to really be a problem. Her helper Mary Nell stands next to her, handing her notes. Mary Nell has the look of a blond lapdog, the Pekingese kind with tiny feet and a nose that perks on the end.

“Now, we have something very exciting to discuss.” Hilly accepts the notes from the lapdog and scans over them.

“The committee has decided that our newsletter could use a little updating.”

I sit up straighter. Shouldn’t I decide on changes to the newsletter?

“First of all, we’re changing the newsletter from a weekly to a monthly. It’s just too much with stamps going up to six cents and all. And we’re adding a fashion column, highlighting some of the best outfits worn by our members, and a makeup column with all the latest trends. Oh, and the trouble list of course. That’ll be in there too.” She nods her head, making eye contact with a few members.

“And finally, the most exciting change: we’ve decided to name this new correspondence The Tattler. After the European magazine all the ladies over there read.”

“Isn’t that the cutest name?” says Mary Lou White and Hilly’s so proud of herself, she doesn’t even bang the gavel at her for speaking out of turn.

“Okay then. It is time to choose an editor for our new, modern monthly. Any nominations?”

Several hands pop up. I sit very still.

“Jeanie Price, what say ye?”

“I say Hilly. I nominate Hilly Holbrook.”

“Aren’t you the sweetest thing. Alright, any others?”

Rachel Cole Brant turns and looks at me like, Are you believing this? Evidently, she’s the only one in the room who doesn’t know about me and Hilly.

“Any seconds to . . .” Hilly looks down at the podium, like she can’t quite remember who’s been nominated. “To Hilly Holbrook as editor?”

“I second.”

“I third.”

Bang-bang goes the gavel and I’ve I lost my post as editor.

Leslie Fullerbean is staring at me with eyes so wide, I can see there isn’t anything back there where her brain should be.

“Skeeter, isn’t that your job?” Rachel says.

“It was my job,” I mutter and head straight for the doors when the meeting is over. No one speaks to me, no one looks me in the eye. I keep my head high.

In the foyer, Hilly and Elizabeth talk. Hilly tucks her dark hair behind her ears, gives me a diplomatic smile. She strides off to chat with someone else, but Elizabeth stays where she is. She touches my arm as I walk out.

“Hey, Elizabeth,” I murmur.

“I’m sorry, Skeeter,” she whispers and our eyes hang together. But then she looks away. I walk down the steps and into the dark parking lot. I thought she had something more to say to me, but I guess I was wrong.

I DON’T GO STRAIGHT HOME after the League meeting. I roll all the Cadillac windows down and let the night air blow on my face. It is warm and cold at the same time. I know I need to go home and work on the stories, but I turn onto the wide lanes of State Street and just drive. I’ve never felt so empty in my life. I can’t help but think of all that’s piling on top of me. I will never make this deadline, my friends despise me, Stuart is gone, Mother is...

I don’t know what Mother is, but we all know it’s more than just stomach ulcers.

The Sun and Sand Bar is closed and I go by slow, stare at how dead a neon sign seems when it’s turned off. I coast past the tall Lamar Life building, through the yellow blinking street lights. It’s only eight o’clock at night but everyone has gone to bed. Everyone’s asleep in this town in every way possible.

“I wish I could just leave here,” I say and my voice sounds eerie, with no one to hear it. In the dark, I get a glimpse of myself from way above, like in a movie. I’ve become one of those people who prowl around at night in their cars. God, I am the town’s Boo Radley, just like in To Kill a Mockingbird.

I flick on the radio, desperate for noise to fill my ears. “It’s My Party” is playing and I search for something else. I’m starting to hate the whiny teenage songs about love and nothing. In a moment of aligned wavelengths, I pick up Memphis WKPO and out comes a man’s voice, drunk-sounding, singing fast and bluesy. At a dead end street, I ease into the Tote-Sum store parking lot and listen to the song. It is better than anything I’ve ever heard.

. . . you’ll sink like a stone

For the times they are a-changin’.

A voice in a can tells me his name is Bob Dylan, but as the next song starts, the signal fades. I lean back in my seat, stare out at the dark windows of the store. I feel a rush of inexplicable relief. I feel like I’ve just heard something from the future.

At the phone booth outside the store, I put in a dime and call Mother. I know she’ll wait up for me until I get home.

“Hello?” It’s Daddy’s voice at eight-fifteen at night.

“Daddy . . . why are you up? What’s wrong?”

“You need to come on home now, darling.”

The streetlight suddenly feels too bright in my eyes, the night very cold. “Is it Mama? Is she sick?”

“Stuart’s been sitting on the porch for almost two hours now. He’s waiting on you.”

Stuart? It doesn’t make sense. “But Mama . . . she’s . . .”

“Oh, Mama’s fine. In fact, she’s brightened up a little. Come on home, Skeeter, and tend to Stuart now.”

THE DRIVE HOME has never felt so long. Ten minutes later, I pull in front of the house and see Stuart sitting on the top porch step. Daddy’s in a rocking chair. They both stand when I turn off the car.

“Hey, Daddy,” I say. I don’t look at Stuart. “Where’s Mama?”

“She’s asleep, I just checked on her.” Daddy yawns. I haven’t seen him up past seven o’clock in ten years, when the spring cotton froze.

“’Night, you two. Turn the lights out when you’re done.” Daddy goes inside and Stuart and I are left alone. The night is so black, so quiet, I can’t see stars or a moon or even a dog in the yard.

“What are you doing here?” I say and my voice, it sounds small.

“I came to talk to you.”

I sit on the front step and put my head down on my arms. “Just say it fast and then go on. I was getting better. I heard this song and almost felt better ten minutes ago.”

He moves closer to me, but not so close that we are touching. I wish we were touching.

“I came to tell you something. I came to say that I saw her.”

I lift my head up. The first word in my head is selfish. You selfish son-of-a-bitch, coming here to talk about Patricia.

“I went out there, to San Francisco. Two weeks ago. I got in my truck and drove for four days and knocked on the door of the apartment house her mama gave me the address to.”

I cover my face. All I can see is Stuart pushing her hair back like he used to with me. “I don’t want to know this.”

“I told her I thought that was the ugliest thing you could do to a person. Lie that way. She looked so different. Had on this prairie-looking dress and a peace sign and her hair was long and she didn’t have any lipstick on. And she laughed when she saw me. And then she called me a whore.” He rubs his eyes hard with his knuckles. “She, the one who took her clothes off for that guy—said I was a whore to my daddy, a whore to Mississippi.”

“Why are you telling me this?” My fists are clenched. I taste metal. I’ve bitten down on my tongue.

“I drove out there because of you. After we broke up, I knew I had to get her out of my head. And I did it, Skeeter. I drove two thousand miles there and back and I’m here to tell you. It’s dead. It’s gone.”

“Well, good, Stuart,” I say. “Good for you.”

He moves closer and leans down so I will look at him. And I feel sick, literally nauseated by the smell of bourbon on his breath. And yet I still want to fold myself up and put my entire body in his arms. I am loving him and hating him at the same time.

“Go home,” I say, hardly believing myself. “There’s no place left inside me for you.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“You’re too late, Stuart.”

“Can I come by on Saturday? To talk some more?”

I shrug, my eyes full of tears. I won’t let him throw me away again. It’s already happened too many times, with him, with my friends. I’d be stupid to let it happen again.

“I don’t really care what you do.”

I WAKE UP AT FIVE A.M. and start working on the stories. With only seventeen days until our deadline, I work through the day and night with a speed and efficiency I didn’t know I possessed. I finish Louvenia’s story in half the time it took me to write the others and, with an intense burning headache, I turn off the light as the first rays of sun peek through the window. If Aibileen will give me Constantine’s story by early next week, I just might be able to pull this off.

And then I realize I do not have seventeen more days. How dumb of me. I have ten days, because I haven’t accounted for the time it will take to mail it to New York.

I’d cry, if only I had the time to do it.

A few hours later, I wake up and go back to work. At five in the afternoon, I hear a car pull up and see Stuart climb out of his truck. I tear myself away from the typewriter and go out on the front porch.

“Hello,” I say, standing in the doorway.

“Hey, Skeeter.” He nods at me, shyly I think, compared to his way two nights ago. “Afternoon, Mister Phelan.”

“Hey there, son.” Daddy gets up from his rocking chair. “I’ll let you kids talk out here.”

“Don’t get up, Daddy. I’m sorry, but I’m busy today, Stuart. You’re welcome to sit out here with Daddy as long as you like.”

I go back in the house, pass Mother at the kitchen table drinking warm milk.

“Was that Stuart I saw out there?”

I go in the dining room. I stand back from the windows, where I know Stuart can’t see me. I watch until he drives away. And then I just keep watching.

THAT NIGHT, as usual, I go to Aibileen’s. I tell her about the deadline of only ten days, and she looks like she might cry. Then I hand her Louvenia’s chapter to read, the one I’ve written at lightning speed. Minny is at the kitchen table with us, drinking a Coke, looking out the window. I hadn’t known she’d be here tonight and wish she’d leave us to work.

Aibileen puts it down, nods. “I think this chapter is right good. Read just as well as the slow-wrote ones.”

I sigh, leaning back in my chair, thinking of what else needs to be done. “We need to decide on the title,” I say and rub my temples. “I’ve been working on a few. I think we should call it Colored Domestics and the Southern Families for Which They Work.”

“Say what?” Minny says, looking at me for the first time.

“That’s the best way to describe it, don’t you think?” I say.

“If you got a corn cob up you butt.”

“This isn’t fiction, Minny. It’s sociology. It has to sound exact.”

“But that don’t mean it have to sound boring,” Minny says.

“Aibileen,” I sigh, hoping we can resolve this tonight. “What do you think?”

Aibileen shrugs and I can see already, she’s putting on her peace-making smile. It seems she has to smooth things over every time Minny and I are in the same room. “That’s a good title. A course you gone get tired a typing all that on top a ever page,” she says. I’d told her this is how it has to be done.

“Well, we could shorten it a little . . .” I say and pull out my pencil.

Aibileen scratches her nose, says, “What you think about just calling it . . . Help?”

“Help,” Minny repeats, like she’s never heard of the word.

“Help,” I say.

Aibileen shrugs, looks down shyly, like she’s a little embarrassed. “I ain’t trying to take over your idea, I just... I like to keep things simple, you know?”

“I guess Help sound alright to me,” Minny says and crosses her arms.

“I like . . . Help,” I say, because I really do. I add, “I think we’ll still have to put the description underneath, so the category’s clear, but I think that’s a good title.”

“Good is right,” Minny says. “Cause if this thing gets printed, Lord knows we gone need some.”

On SUNDAY AFTERNOON, with eight days left, I come downstairs, dizzy and blinking from staring at pica type all day. I was almost glad when I heard Stuart’s car pull up the drive. I rub my eyes. Maybe I’ll sit with him awhile, clear my head, then go back and work through the night.

Stuart climbs out of his mud-splattered truck. He’s still in his Sunday tie and I try to ignore how handsome he looks. I stretch my arms. It’s ridiculously warm out, considering Christmas is in two and a half weeks. Mother’s sitting on the porch in a rocking chair, swathed in blankets.

“Hello, Missus Phelan. How are you feeling today?” Stuart asks.

Mother gives him a regal nod. “Fair. Thank you for asking.” I’m surprised by the coolness in her voice. She turns back to her newsletter and I can’t help but smile. Mother knows he’s been stopping by but she hasn’t mentioned it but once. I have to wonder when it will come.

“Hey,” he says to me quietly and we sit on the bottom porch step. Silently, we watch our old cat Sherman sneak around a tree, his tail swaying, going after some creature we can’t see.

Stuart puts his hand on my shoulder. “I can’t stay today. I’m heading to Dallas right now for an oil meeting and I’ll be gone three days,” he says. “I just came by to tell you.”

“Alright.” I shrug, like it makes no difference.

“Alright then,” he says and gets back in his truck.

When he has disappeared, Mother clears her throat. I don’t turn around and look at her in the rocking chair. I don’t want her to see the disappointment in my face that he’s gone.

“Go ahead, Mother,” I finally mutter. “Say what you want to say.”

“Don’t you let him cheapen you.”

I look back at her, eye her suspiciously, even though she is so frail under the wool blanket. Sorry is the fool who ever underestimates my mother.

“If Stuart doesn’t know how intelligent and kind I raised you to be, he can march straight on back to State Street.” She narrows her eyes out at the winter land. “Frankly, I don’t care much for Stuart. He doesn’t know how lucky he was to have you.”

I let Mother’s words sit like a tiny, sweet candy on my tongue. Forcing myself up from the step, I head for the front door. There is so much work to be done and not nearly enough time.

“Thank you, Mother.” I kiss her softly on the cheek and go inside.

I’M EXHAUSTED and IRRITABLE. For forty-eight hours I’ve done nothing but type. I am stupid with facts about other people’s lives. My eyes sting from the smell of typing ink. My fingers are striped with paper cuts. Who knew paper and ink could be so vicious.

With just six days left, I go over to Aibileen’s. She’s taken a weekday off from work, despite Elizabeth’s annoyance. I can tell she knows what we need to discuss before I even say it. She leaves me in the kitchen and comes back with a letter in her hand.

“Fore I give this to you . . . I think I ought to tell you some things. So you can really understand.”

I nod. I am tense in my chair. I want to tear the envelope open and get this over with.

Aibileen straightens her notebook that’s sitting on the kitchen table. I watch as she aligns her two yellow pencils. “Remember, I told you Constantine had a daughter. Well, Lulabelle was her name. Law, she come out pale as snow. Grew hair the color a hay. Not curly like yours. Straight it was.”

“She was that white?” I ask. I’ve wondered this ever since Aibileen told me about Constantine’s child, way back in Elizabeth’s kitchen. I think about how surprised Constantine must’ve been to hold a white baby and know it was hers.

She nods. “When Lulabelle was four years old, Constantine . . .” Aibileen shifts in her chair. “She take her to a . . . orphanage. Up in Chicago.”

“An orphanage? You mean . . . she gave her baby away?” As much as Constantine loved me, I can only imagine how much she must’ve loved her own child.

Aibileen looks me straight in the eye. I see something there I rarely see—frustration, antipathy. “A lot a colored womens got to give they children up, Miss Skeeter. Send they kids off cause they have to tend to a white family.”

I look down, wondering if Constantine couldn’t take care of her child because she had to take care of us.

“But most send em off to family. A orphanage is... different altogether.”

“Why didn’t she send the baby to her sister’s? Or another relative?”

“Her sister...she just couldn’t handle it. Being Negro with white skin . . . in Mississippi, it’s like you don’t belong to nobody. But it wasn’t just hard on the girl. It was hard on Constantine. She . . . folks would look at her. White folks would stop her, ask her all suspicious what she doing toting round a white child. Policeman used to stop her on State Street, told her she need to get her uniform on. Even colored folks . . . they treat her different, distrustful, like she done something wrong. It was hard for her to find somebody to watch Lulabelle while she at work. Constantine got to where she didn’t want to bring Lula . . . out much.”

“Was she already working for my mother then?”

“She’d been with your mama a few years. That’s where she met the father, Connor. He worked on your farm, lived back there in Hotstack.” Aibileen shakes her head. “We was all surprised Constantine would go and... get herself in the family way. Some folks at church wasn’t so kind about it, especially when the baby come out white. Even though the father was black as me.”

“I’m sure Mother wasn’t too pleased, either.” Mother, I’m sure, knew all about it. She’s always kept tabs on all the colored help and their situations— where they live, if they’re married, how many children they have. It’s more of a control thing than a real interest. She wants to know who’s walking around her property.

“Was it a colored orphanage or a white one?” Because I am thinking, I am hoping, maybe Constantine just wanted a better life for her child. Maybe she thought she’d be adopted by a white family and not feel so different.

“Colored. White ones wouldn’t take her, I heard. I guess they knew... maybe they seen that kind a thing before.

“When Constantine went to the train station with Lulabelle to take her up there, I heard white folks was staring on the platform, wanting to know why a little white girl was going in the colored car. And when Constantine left her at the place up in Chicago . . . four is . . . pretty old to get given up. Lulabelle was screaming. That’s what Constantine told somebody at our church. Said Lula was screaming and thrashing, trying to get her mama to come back to her. But Constantine, even with that sound in her ears . . . she left her there.”

As I listen, it starts to hit me, what Aibileen is telling me. If I hadn’t had the mother I have, I might not have thought it. “She gave her up because she was . . . ashamed? Because her daughter was white?”

Aibileen opens her mouth to disagree, but then she closes it, looks down. “A few years later, Constantine wrote the orphanage, told em she made a mistake, she wanted her girl back. But Lula been adopted already. She was gone. Constantine always said giving her child away was the worst mistake she’d ever made in her life.” Aibileen leans back in her chair. “And she said if she ever got Lulabelle back, she’d never let her go.”

I sit quietly, my heart aching for Constantine. I am starting to dread what this has to do with my mother.

“Bout two years ago, Constantine get a letter from Lulabelle. I reckon she was twenty-five by then, and it said her adoptive parents give her the address. They start writing to each other and Lulabelle say she want a come down and stay with her awhile. Constantine, Law, she so nervous she couldn’t walk straight. Too nervous to eat, wouldn’t even take no water. Kept throwing it up. I had her on my prayer list.”

Two years ago. I was up at school then. Why didn’t Constantine tell me in her letters what was going on?

“She took all her savings and bought new clothes for Lulabelle, hair things, had the church bee sew her a new quilt for the bed Lula gone sleep in. She told us at prayer meeting, What if she hate me? She’s gone ask me why I give her away and if I tell her the truth . . . she’ll hate me for what I done.”

Aibileen looks up from her cup of tea, smiles a little. “She tell us, I can’t wait for Skeeter to meet her, when she get back home from school. I forgot about that. I didn’t know who Skeeter was, back then.”

I remember my last letter from Constantine, that she had a surprise for me. I realize now, she’d wanted to introduce me to her daughter. I swallow back tears coming up in my throat. “What happened when Lulabelle came down to see her?”

Aibileen slides the envelope across the table. “I reckon you ought a read that part at home.”

AT HOME, I GO UPSTAIRS. Without even stopping to sit down, I open Aibileen’s letter. It is on notebook paper, covering the front and back, written in cursive pencil.

Afterward, I stare at the eight pages I’ve already written about walking to Hotstack with Constantine, the puzzles we worked on together, her pressing her thumb in my hand. I take a deep breath and put my hands on the typewriter keys. I can’t waste any more time. I have to finish her story.

I write about what Aibileen told me, that Constantine had a daughter and had to give her up so she could work for our family—the Millers I call us, after Henry, my favorite banned author. I don’t put in that Constantine’s daughter was high yellow; I just want to show that Constantine’s love for me began with missing her own child. Perhaps that’s what made it so unique, so deep. It didn’t matter that I was white. While she was wanting her own daughter back, I was longing for Mother not to be disappointed in me.

For two days, I write all the way through my childhood, my college years, where we sent letters to each other every week. But then I stop and listen to Mother coughing downstairs. I hear Daddy’s footsteps, going to her. I light a cigarette and stub it out, thinking, Don’t start up again. The toilet water rushes through the house, filled with a little more of my mother’s body. I light another cigarette and smoke it down to my fingers. I can’t write about what’s in Aibileen’s letter.

That afternoon, I call Aibileen at home. “I can’t put it in the book,” I tell her. “About Mother and Constantine. I’ll end it when I go to college. I just . . .”

“Miss Skeeter—”

“I know I should. I know I should be sacrificing as much as you and Minny and all of you. But I can’t do that to my mother.”

“No one expects you to, Miss Skeeter. Truth is, I wouldn’t think real high a you if you did.”

THE NEXT EVENING, I go to the kitchen for some tea.

“Eugenia? Are you downstairs?”

I tread back to Mother’s room. Daddy’s not in bed yet. I hear the television on out in the relaxing room. “I’m here, Mama.”

She is in bed at six in the evening, the white bowl by her side. “Have you been crying? You know how that ages your skin, dear.”

I sit in the straight cane chair beside her bed. I think about how I should begin. Part of me understands why Mother acted the way she did, because really, wouldn’t anyone be angry about what Lulabelle did? But I need to hear my mother’s side of the story. If there’s anything redeeming about my mother that Aibileen left out of the letter, I want to know.

“I want to talk about Constantine,” I say.

“Oh Eugenia,” Mother chides and pats my hand. “That was almost two years ago.”

“Mama,” I say and make myself look into her eyes. Even though she is terribly thin and her collarbone is long and narrow beneath her skin, her eyes are still as sharp as ever. “What happened? What happened with her daughter?”

Mother’s jaw tightens and I can tell she’s surprised that I know about her. I wait for her to refuse to talk about it, as before. She takes a deep breath, moves the white bowl a little closer to her, says, “Constantine sent her up to Chicago to live. She couldn’t take care of her.”

I nod and wait.

“They’re different that way, you know. Those people have children and don’t think about the consequences until it’s too late.”

They, those people. It reminds me of Hilly. Mother sees it on my face, too.

“Now you look, I was good to Constantine. Oh, she talked back plenty of times and I put up with it. But Skeeter, she didn’t give me a choice this time.”

“I know, Mother. I know what happened.”

“Who told you? Who else knows about this?” I see the paranoia rising in Mother’s eyes. It is her greatest fear coming true, and I feel sorry for her.

“I will never tell you who told me. All I can say is, it was no one . . . important to you,” I say. “I can’t believe you would do that, Mother.”

Date: 2015-01-02; view: 663