In April of my senior year, a letter came from Constantine that said, I have a surprise for you, Skeeter. I am so excited I almost cant stand myself. And dont you go asking me about it neither. You will see for yourself when you come home.
Mothers letters said, Say your prayers and Dont wear heels because they make you too tall clipped to a check for thirty-five dollars.
In April of my senior year, a letter came from Constantine that said, I have a surprise for you, Skeeter. I am so excited I almost cant stand myself. And dont you go asking me about it neither. You will see for yourself when you come home.
That was close to final exams, with graduation only a month away. And that was the last letter I ever got from Constantine.
I skipped my graduation ceremony at Ole Miss. All my close friends had dropped out to get married and I didnt see the point in making Mama and Daddy drive three hours just to watch me walk across a stage, when what Mother really wanted was to watch me walk down the aisle[50]. I still hadnt heard from Harper & Row, so instead of buying a plane ticket to New York, I rode home to Jackson in sophomore Kay Turners Buick, squeezed in the front with my typewriter at my feet and her wedding dress between us. Kay Turner was marrying Percy Stanhope next month. For three hours I listened to her worry about cake flavors.
When I got home, Mother stepped back to get a better look at me. Well, your skin looks beautiful, she said, but your hair She sighed, shook her head.
Wheres Constantine? I asked. In the kitchen?
And like she was delivering the weather, Mother said, Constantine is no longer employed here. Now lets get all these trunks unpacked before you ruin your clothes.
I turned and blinked at her. I didnt think Id heard her correctly. What did you say?
Mother stood straighter, smoothing down her dress. Constantines gone, Skeeter. She went to live with her people up in Chicago.
But what? She didnt say anything in her letters about Chicago. I knew that wasnt her surprise. She wouldve told me such terrible news immediately.
Mother took a deep breath, straightened her back. I told Constantine she wasnt to write to you about leaving. Not in the middle of your final exams. What if youd flunked and had to stay on another year? God knows, four years of college is more than enough.
And she agreed to that? Not to write me and tell me she was leaving?
Mother looked off, sighed. Well discuss it later, Eugenia. Come on to the kitchen, let me introduce you to the new maid, Pascagoula.
But I didnt follow Mother to the kitchen. I stared down at my college trunks, terrified by the thought of unpacking here. The house felt vast, empty. Outside, a combine whirred in a cotton field.
By September, not only had I given up hope of ever hearing back from Harper & Row, I gave up on ever finding Constantine. No one seemed to know a thing or how I could reach her. I finally stopped asking people why Constantine had left. It was like shed simply disappeared. I had to accept that Constantine, my one true ally, had left me to fend for myself with these people.
Chapter 6
On a hot september morning, I wake up in my childhood bed, slip on the huarache shoes my brother, Carlton, brought me back from Mexico. A mans pair since, evidently, Mexican girls feet dont grow to size nine-and-a-half. Mother hates them and says theyre trashy-looking.
Over my nightgown, I put on one of Daddys old button-down shirts and slip out the front door. Mother is on the back porch with Pascagoula and Jameso while they shuck oysters.
You cannot leave a Negro and a Nigra together unchaperoned, Motherd whispered to me, a long time ago. Its not their fault, they just cant help it.
I head down the steps to see if my mail-order copy of Catcher in the Rye[51] is in the box. I always order the banned books from a black market dealer in California, figuring if the State of Mississippi banned them, they must be good. By the time I reach the end of the drive, my huaraches and ankles are covered with fine yellow dust.
On either side of me, the cotton fields are a glaring green, fat with bolls. Daddy lost the back fields to the rain last month, but the majority bloomed unharmed. The leaves are just starting to spot brown with defoliant and I can still smell the sour chemical in the air. There are no cars on the County Road. I open the mailbox.
And there, underneath Mothers Ladies Home Journal, is a letter addressed to Miss Eugenia Phelan. The red raised font in the corner says Harper & Row, Publishers. I tear it open right there in the lane, in nothing but my long nightgown and Daddys old Brooks Brothers shirt.
September 4, 1962
Dear Miss Phelan,
I am responding personally to your résumé because I found it admirable that a young lady with absolutely no work experience would apply for an editing job at a publisher as prestigious as ours. A minimum of five years in the business is mandatory for such a job. Youd know this if youd done any amount of research on the business.