I do, I just And thats when I see it. Weve been friends for sixteen years, since the day I moved from Greenwood to Jackson and we met at the bus stop. I can read Aibileen like the Sunday paper. You thinking about it, aint you, I say. You want a talk to Miss Skeeter.
She shrugs and I know Im right. But before Aibileen can confess, Reverend Johnson comes and sits down in the pew behind us, leans between our shoulders. Minny, Im sorry I havent had the chance to tell you congratulations on your new job.
I smooth my dress down. Why, thank you, Reverend Minister.
You must of been on Aibileens prayer list, he says, patting Aibileen on the shoulder.
Sure was. I told Aibileen, at this rate, she needs to start charging.
The Reverend laughs. He gets up and treads slowly to the pulpit. Everything goes still. I cant believe Aibileen wants to tell Miss Skeeter the truth.
Truth.
It feels cool, like water washing over my sticky-hot body. Cooling a heat thats been burning me up all my life.
Truth, I say inside my head again, just for that feeling.
Reverend Johnson raises his hands and speaks in a soft, deep voice. The choir behind him begins to hum Talking to Jesus and we all stand up. In half a minute Im sweating.
Think you might be interested? In talking to Miss Skeeter? whispers Aibileen.
I look back and theres Leroy with the kids, late as usual. Who, me? I say and my voice is loud against the soft music. I tamp it down, but not by much.
Aint no way Im gonna do something crazy as that.
For no reason but to irritate me, we get a heat wave in December. In forty degrees, I sweat like iced tea in August and here I woke up this morning to eighty-three on the dial. Ive spent half my life trying not to sweat so much: Dainty Lady sweat cream, frozen potatoes in my pockets, ice pack tied to my head (I actually paid a doctor for that fool advice), and I still soak my sweat pads through in five minutes. I tote my Fairley Funeral Home fan every place I go. Works good and it was free.
Miss Celia takes to the week of warm weather, though, and actually goes outside and sits by the pool in these tacky white sunglasses and a fuzzy bathrobe. Thank the Lord shes out of the house. At first I thought maybe she was sick in the body, but now Im wondering if shes sick in the head. I dont mean the talking to yourself variety you see in old ladies like Miss Walters where you know its just the old-timers disease, but the capital C crazy where you get hauled to Whitfield in a straitjacket.
I catch her slipping upstairs to the empty bedrooms almost every day now. I hear her sneaky little feet walking down the hall, passing over that little squeak in the floor. I dont think much of it heck, its her house. But then one day, she does it again, and then again, and its the fact that shes so darn sneaky about it, waiting until I turn on the Hoover or get busy on a cake, that makes me suspicious. She spends about seven or eight minutes up there and then pokes her little head around to make sure I dont see her come down again.
Dont go getting in her business, Leroy says. You just make sure she tells her mister you cleaning his house. Leroys been on the damn Crow the past couple of nights, drinking behind the power plant after his shift. Hes no fool. He knows if Im dead, that paycheck wont be showing up on its own.
After she makes her trip upstairs, Miss Celia comes to the kitchen table instead of going back to bed. I wish shed get on out of here. Im pulling chicken off the bone. Ive got the broth boiling and the dumplings already cut. I dont want her trying to help with this.
Just thirteen more days before you tell Mister Johnny about me, I say, and like I knew she would, Miss Celia gets up from the kitchen table and heads for her bedroom. But before she makes it out the door she mutters, Do you have to remind me of that fact every day of my life?
I stand up straighter. Thats the first time Miss Celias ever gotten cross with me. Mm-hmm, I tell her, not even looking up because I will remind her until Mister Johnnys shook my hand and said nice to meet you, Minny.
But then I look over and see Miss Celia still standing there. Shes holding on to the doorframe. Her face has gone flat white, like cheap wall-paint.
You been fooling with the raw chicken again?
No, Im just tired.
But the pricks of sweat on her makeup that nows gone gray tell me shes not fine. I help her to bed and bring her the Lady-a-Pinkam to drink. The pink label has a picture of a real proper lady on it with a turban on her head, smiling like she feels better. I hand Miss Celia the spoon to measure it out, but that tacky woman just drinks it straight from the bottle.
Afterward, I wash my hands. Whatever it is shes got, I hope it aint catching[95].
The day after Miss Celias face goes funny is change-the-damn-sheets day[96] and the day I hate the most. Sheets are just too personal a thing for folks who arent kin to be fooling with. They are full of hair and scabs and snot and the signs of jelly-rolling. But its the bloodstains that are the worst. Scrubbing those out with my bare hands, I gag over the sink. That goes for blood anywhere and anything with a suspicious resemblance. A stepped-on strawberry can hang me over the toilet bowl for the rest of the day.