I yank my stockings up from sagging around my feet the trouble of all fat, short women around the world. Then I rehearse what to say, what to keep to myself. I go ahead and punch the bell.
The doorbell rings a long bing-bong, fine and fancy for this big mansion out in the country. It looks like a castle, gray brick rising high in the sky and left and right too. Woods surround the lawn on every side. If this place was in a storybook, thered be witches in those woods. The kind that eat kids.
The doorbell rings a long bing-bong, fine and fancy for this big mansion out in the country. It looks like a castle, gray brick rising high in the sky and left and right too. Woods surround the lawn on every side. If this place was in a storybook, thered be witches in those woods. The kind that eat kids.
The back door opens and there stands Miss Marilyn Monroe[23]. Or something kin to her.
Hey there, youre right on time. Im Celia. Celia Rae Foote.
The white lady sticks her hand out to me and I study her. She might be built like Marilyn, but she aint ready for no screen test. Shes got flour in her yellow hairdo. Flour in her glue-on eyelashes. And flour all over that tacky pink pantsuit. Her standing in a cloud of dust and that pantsuit being so tight, I wonder how she can breathe.
Yes maam. Im Minny Jackson. I smooth down my white uniform instead of shaking her hand. I dont want that mess on me. You cooking something?
One of those upsidedown cakes from the magazine? She sighs. It aint working out too good.
I follow her inside and thats when I see Miss Celia Rae Footes suffered only a minor injury in the flour fiasco. The rest of the kitchen took the real hit. The countertops, the double-door refrigerator, the Kitchen-Aid mixer are all sitting in about a quarter-inch of snow flour. Its enough mess to drive me crazy. I aint even got the job yet, and Im already looking over at the sink for a sponge.
Miss Celia says, I guess I have some learning to do.
You sure do, I say. But I bite down hard on my tongue. Dont you go sassing this white lady like you done the other. Sassed her all the way to the nursing home.
But Miss Celia, she just smiles, washes the muck off her hands in a sink full of dishes. I wonder if maybe Ive found myself another deaf one, like Miss Walters was. Lets hope so.
I just cant seem to get the hang of kitchen work, she says and even with Marilyns whispery Hollywood voice, I can tell right off, shes from way out in the country. I look down and see the fool doesnt have any shoes on, like some kind of white trash. Nice white ladies dont go around barefoot.
Shes probably ten or fifteen years younger than me, twenty-two, twenty-three, and shes real pretty, but whys she wearing all that goo on her face? Ill bet shes got on double the makeup the other white ladies wear. Shes got a lot more bosom to her, too. In fact, shes almost as big as me except shes skinny in all those places I aint. I just hope shes an eater. Because Im a cooker and thats why people hire me.
Can I get you a cold drink? she asks. Set down and Ill bring you something.
And thats my clue: something funnys going on here.
Leroy, she got to be crazy, I said when she called me up three days ago and asked if Id come interview, cause everbody in town think I stole Miss Walters silver. And I know she do too cause she call Miss Walters up on the phone when I was there.
White people strange, Leroy said. Who knows, maybe that old woman give you a good word[24].
I look at Miss Celia Rae Foote hard. Ive never in my life had a white woman tell me to sit down so she can serve me a cold drink. Shoot, now Im wondering if this fool even plans on hiring a maid or if she just drug me all the way out here for sport.
Maybe we better go on and see the house first, maam.
She smiles like the thought never entered that hairsprayed head of hers, letting me see the house I might be cleaning.
Oh, of course. Come on in yonder, Maxie. Ill show you the fancy dining room first.
The name, I say, is Minny.
Maybe shes not deaf or crazy. Maybe shes just stupid. A shiny hope rises up in me again.
All over that big ole doodied up house she walks and talks and I follow. There are ten rooms downstairs and one with a stuffed grizzly bear that looks like it ate up the last maid and is biding for the next one. A burned-up Confederate flag[25] is framed on the wall, and on the table is an old silver pistol with the name Confederate General John Foote engraved on it. I bet Great-Grandaddy Foote scared some slaves with that thing.
We move on and it starts to look like any nice white house. Except this ones the biggest Ive ever been in and full of dirty floors and dusty rugs, the kind folks who dont know any better would say is worn out, but I know an antique when I see one. Ive worked in some fine homes. I just hope she aint so country she dont own a Hoover.
Johnnys mama wouldnt let me decorate a thing. I had my way, thered be wall-to-wall white carpet and gold trim and none of this old stuff.