He sighs heavily, hands me a thick folder of papers. I guess youll do. Miss Myrnas gone shit-house crazy on us, drunk hair spray or something. Read the articles, write the answers like she does, nobodyll know the damn difference.
I what? And I take the folder because I dont know what else to do.
I have no idea who this Miss Myrna is. I ask the only safe question I can think of. How much did you say it pays?
He gives me a surprisingly appreciative look, from my flat shoes to my flat hairstyle. Some dormant instinct tells me to smile, run my hand through my hair. I feel ridiculous, but I do it.
Eight dollars, every Monday.
I nod, trying to figure out how to ask him what the job is without giving myself away.
He leans forward. You do know who Miss Myrna is, dont you?
Of course. We girls read her all the time, I say, and again we stare at each other long enough for a distant telephone to ring three times.
What then? Eights not enough? Jesus, woman, go clean your husbands toilet for free.
I bite my lip. But before I can utter anything, he rolls his eyes.
Alright, ten. Copys due on Thursdays. And if I dont like your style, Im not printing it or paying you squat.
I take the folder, thank him more than I probably should. He ignores me and picks up his phone and makes a call before Im even out the door. When I get to my car, I sink down into the soft Cadillac leather. I sit there smiling, reading the pages in the folder.
I just got a job.
I come home standing up straighter than I have since I was twelve, before my growth spurt. I am buzzing with pride. Even though every cell in my brain says do not, somehow I cannot resist telling Mother. I rush into the relaxing room and tell her everything about how Ive gotten a job writing Miss Myrna, the weekly cleaning advice column.
Oh the irony of it. She lets out a sigh that means life is hardly worth living under such conditions. Pascagoula freshens her iced tea.
At least its a start, I say.
A start at what? Giving advice on how to keep up a home when She sighs again, long and slow like a deflating tire.
I look away, wondering if everyone in town will be thinking the same thing. Already the joy is fleeting.
Eugenia, you dont even know how to polish silver, much less advise on how to keep a house clean.
I hug the folder to my chest. Shes right, I wont know how to answer any of the questions. Still, I thought shed at least be proud of me.
And you will never meet anybody sitting at that typewriter. Eugenia, have some sense.
Anger works its way up my arms. I stand up straight again. You think I want to live here? With you? I laugh in a way Im hoping will hurt her.
I see the quick pain in her eyes. She presses her lips together at the sting. Still, I have no desire to take back my words because finally, finally, I have said something shes listening to.
I stand there, refusing to leave. I want to hear what shell say to this. I want to hear her say shes sorry.
I need to ask you something, Eugenia. She twists her handkerchief, grimaces. I read the other day about how some some girls get unbalanced, start thinking these well, these unnatural thoughts.
I have no idea what shes talking about. I look up at the ceiling fan. Someones set it going too fast. Clackety-clackety-clackety
Are you do you find men attractive? Are you having unnatural thoughts about She shuts her eyes tight. Girls or or women?
I stare at her, wishing the ceiling fan would fly from its post, crash down on us both.
Because it said in this article theres a cure, a special root tea
Mother, I say, shutting my eyes tight. I want to be with girls as much as youd like to be with Jameso. I head for the door. But I glance behind me. I mean, unless, of course, you do?
Mother straightens, gasps. I pound up the stairs.
The next day, I stack the Miss Myrna letters in a neat pile. I have thirty five dollars in my purse, the monthly allowance Mother still gives me. I go downstairs wearing a thick Christian smile. Living at home, whenever I want to leave Longleaf, I have to ask Mother if I can borrow her car. Which means shell ask where Im going. Which means I have to lie to her on a daily basis[53], which is in itself enjoyable but a little degrading at the same time.
Im going down to the church, see if they need any help getting ready for Sunday school.
Im going down to the church, see if they need any help getting ready for Sunday school.
Oh, darling, thats just wonderful. Take your time with the car.
I decided, last night, what I need is a professional to help me with the column. My first idea was to ask Pascagoula, but I hardly know her. Plus I couldnt stand the thought of Mother nosing around, criticizing me all over again. Hillys maid, Yule May, is so shy I doubt shed want to help me. The only other maid I see often enough is Elizabeths maid, Aibileen. Aibileen reminds me of Constantine in a way. Plus shes older and seems to have plenty of experience.
On my way to Elizabeths, I go by the Ben Franklin store and buy a clipboard, a box of number two pencils, a blue-cloth notebook. My first column is due tomorrow, on Mister Goldens desk by two oclock.