I guess we all get a little snippy when were not feeling good.
By the next Monday, the leaves on that mimosa tree have turned black like it burned instead of froze. I come in the kitchen ready to tell her how many days we have left, but Miss Celias staring at that tree, hating it with her eyes the same way she hates the stove. Shes pale, wont eat anything I put in front of her.
All day, instead of laying up in bed, she works on decorating the ten-foot Christmas tree in the foyer, making my life a vacuuming hell with all the needles flying around. Then she goes in the backyard, starts clipping the rose bushes and digging the tulip bulbs. Ive never seen her move that much, ever. She comes in for her cooking lesson afterward with dirt under her nails but shes still not smiling.
Six more days before we tell Mister Johnny, I say.
She doesnt say anything for a while, then her voice comes out flat as a pan. Are you sure I have to? I was thinking maybe we could wait.
I stop where I am, with buttermilk dripping off my hands. Ask me how sure I am again.
Alright, alright. And then she goes outside again to take up her new favorite pastime, staring down that mimosa tree with the axe in her hand. But she never takes a chop.
Wednesday night all I can think is just ninety-six more hours. Knowing I might not have a job after Christmas gnaws at my stomach. Ill have a lot more to worry about than just being shot dead. Miss Celias supposed to tell him on Christmas Eve, after I leave, before they go over to Mister Johnnys mamas house. But Miss Celias acting so strange, I wonder if shes going to try and back out. No maam, I say to myself all day. I intend to stay on her like hair on soap.
When I walk in Thursday morning though, Miss Celias not even home. I cant believe shes actually left the house. I sit at the table and pour myself a cup of coffee.
I look out at the backyard. Its bright, sunny. That black mimosa tree sure is ugly. I wonder why Mister Johnny doesnt just go ahead and cut that thing down.
I lean in a little closer to the window-sill. Well look a there. Down around the bottom, some green fronds are still hanging on, perking up a little in the sun.
That old tree just playing possum[98].
I pull a pad out of my pocketbook where I keep a list of what needs to be tended to, not for Miss Celia, but my own groceries, Christmas presents, things for my kids. Bennys asthma has gotten a little better but Leroy came home last night smelling like Old Crow again. He pushed me hard and I bumped my thigh on the kitchen table. He comes home like that tonight, Ill fix him a knuckle sandwich for supper[99].
I sigh. Seventy-two more hours and Im a free woman. Maybe fired, maybe dead after Leroy finds out, but free.
I try to concentrate on the week. Tomorrows heavy cooking and Ive got the church supper Saturday night and the service on Sunday. When am I going to clean my own house? Wash my own kids clothes? My oldest girl, Sugar, is sixteen and pretty good about keeping things neat, but I like to help her out on the weekends the way my mama never helped me. And Aibileen. She called me again last night, asked if Id help her and Miss Skeeter with the stories. I love Aibileen, I do. But I think shes making a king-sized mistake trusting a white lady. And I told her, too. Shes risking her job, her safety. Not to mention why anyone would want to help a friend of Miss Hillys.
Lord, I better get on with my work.
I pineapple the ham and get it in the oven. Then I dust the shelves in the hunting room, vacuum the bear while he stares at me like Im a snack. Just you and me today, I tell him. As usual he doesnt say much. I get my rag and my oil soap, work my way up the staircase, polishing each spoke on the banister as I go. When I make it to the top, I head into bedroom number one.
I clean upstairs for about an hour. Its chilly up here, no bodies to warm it up. I work my arm back and forth, back and forth across everything wood. Between the second and third bedrooms, I go downstairs to Miss Celias room before she comes back.
I get that eerie prickle, of being in a house so empty. Whered she go? After working here all this time and her only leaving three times and always telling me when and where and why shes leaving, like I care anyway, now shes gone like the wind. I ought to be happy. I ought to be glad that fools out of my hair[100]. But being here by myself, I feel like an intruder. I look down at the little pink rug that covers the bloodstain by the bathroom. Today I was going to take another crack at it. A chill blows through the room, like a ghost passing by. I shiver.
Maybe I wont work on that bloodstain today.
On the bed the covers, as usual, have been thrown off. The sheets are twisted and turned around the wrong way. It always looks like a wrestling match has gone on in here. I stop myself from wondering. You start to wonder about people in the bedroom, before you know it youre all wrapped up in their business.
I strip off one of the pillowcases. Miss Celias mascara smudged little charcoal butterflies all over it. The clothes on the floor I stuff into the pillowcase to make it easier to carry. I pick up Mister Johnnys folded pants off the yellow ottoman.