I chat my way through some couples until I make it to the kitchen. Hillys tall, thin maid, Yule May, is folding dough around tiny sausages. Another colored girl, younger, washes dishes at the sink. Hilly waves me over, where shes talking to Deena Doran.
best darn petit four[65] Ive ever tasted! Deena, you might be the most talented cook in the League! Hilly stuffs the rest of the cake in her mouth, nodding and mm-mming.
Why, thank you, Hilly, theyre hard but I think theyre worth it. Deena is beaming, looks like she might cry under Hillys adoration.
So youll do it? Oh, Im so glad. The bake sale committee really needs somebody like you.
And how many did you need?
Five hundred, by tomorrow afternoon.
Deenas smile freezes. Okay. I guess I can work through the night.
Skeeter, you made it[66], Hilly says and Deena wanders out of the kitchen.
I cant stay long, I say, probably too quickly.
Well, I found out. Hilly smirks. He is definitely coming this time. Three weeks from today.
I watch Yule Mays long fingers pinch the dough off a knife and I sigh, knowing right away who she means. I dont know, Hilly. Youve tried so many times. Maybe its a sign. Last month, when hed canceled the day before the date, Id actually allowed myself a bit of excitement. I dont really feel like going through that again.
What? Dont you dare say that.
Hilly, I clench my teeth, because its time I finally just said it, you know I wont be his type.
Look at me, she says. And I do as Im told. Because that is what we do around Hilly.
Hilly, you cant make me go
It is your time, Skeeter. She reaches over and squeezes my hand, presses her thumb and fingers down as hard as Constantine ever did. It is your turn. And damn it, Im not going to let you miss this just because your mother convinced you youre not good enough for somebody like him.
Im stung by her bitter, true words. And yet, I am awed by my friend, by her tenacity for me. Hilly and Ive always been uncompromisingly honest with each other, even about the little things. With other people, Hilly hands out lies like the Presbyterians hand out guilt, but its our own silent agreement, this strict honesty, perhaps the one thing that has kept us friends.
Elizabeth comes in the kitchen carrying an empty plate. She smiles, then stops, and we all three look at each other.
What? Elizabeth says. I can tell she thinks weve been talking about her.
Three weeks then? Hilly asks me. You coming?
Oh yes you are! You most certainly are going! Elizabeth says.
I look in their smiling faces, at their hope for me. Its not like Mothers meddling, but a clean hope, without strings or hurt. I hate that my friends have discussed this, my one nights fate, behind my back. I hate it and I love it too.
I head back to the country before the game is over. Out the open window of the Cadillac, the fields look chopped and burned. Daddy finished the last harvest weeks ago, but the side of the road is still snowy with cotton stuck in the grass. Whiffs of it blow and float through the air.
I check the mailbox from the drivers seat. Inside is The Farmers Almanac and a single letter. It is from Harper & Row. I turn into the drive, throw the gear into Park. The letter is handwritten, on small square notepaper.
Miss Phelan,
You certainly may hone your writing skills on such flat, passionless subjects as drunk driving and illiteracy. Id hoped, however, youd choose topics that actually had some punch to them. Keep looking. If you find something original, only then may you write me again.
I slip past Mother in the dining room, invisible Pascagoula dusting pictures in the hall, up my steep, vicious stairs. My face burns. I fight the tears over Missus Steins letter, tell myself to pull it together. The worst part is, I dont have any better ideas.
I bury myself in the next housekeeping article, then the League newsletter. For the second week in a row, I leave out Hillys bathroom initiative. An hour later, I find myself staring off at the window. My copy of Let Us Now Praise Famous Men sits on the window ledge. I walk over and pick it up, afraid the light will fade the paper jacket, the black-and-white photo of the humble, impoverished family on the cover. The book is warm and heavy from the sun. I wonder if Ill ever write anything worth anything at all. I turn when I hear Pascagoulas knock on my door. Thats when the idea comes to me.
No. I couldnt. That would be crossing the line.
But the idea wont go away.
Aibileen
Chapter 7
The heat wave finally passes round the middle a October and we get ourselves a cool fifty degrees. In the mornings, that bathroom seat get cold out there, give me a little start when I set down. Its just a little room they built inside the carport. Inside is a toilet and a little sink attached to the wall. A pull cord for the lightbulb. Paper have to set on the floor.
When I waited on Miss Caulier, her carport attach to the house so I didnt have to go outside. Place before that had a maid quarters. Plus my own little bedroom for when I sit at night. This one I got to cross through the weather to get there.