She stops. Looks up. The clacking ceases.
What? The policeman said look a here what?
Well, thats all I put down. Had to catch the bus for work this morning.
I hit the return and the typewriter dings. Aibileen and I look each other straight in the eye. I think this might actually work.
Chapter 12
Every other night for the next two weeks, I tell Mother Im off to feed the hungry at the Canton Presbyterian Church, where we, fortunately, know not a soul. Of course shed rather I go down to the First Presbyterian, but Mothers not one to argue with Christian works and she nods approvingly, tells me on the side to make sure I wash my hands thoroughly with soap afterward.
Hour after hour, in Aibileens kitchen, she reads her writing and I type, the details thickening, the babies faces sliding into focus. At first, Im disappointed that Aibileen is doing most of the writing, with me just editing. But if Missus Stein likes it, Ill be writing the other maids stories and that will be more than enough work. If she likes it I find myself saying this over and over in my head, hoping it might make it so.
Aibileens writing is clear, honest. I tell her so.
Well, look who I been writing to. She chuckles. Cant lie to God.
Before I was born, she actually picked cotton for a week at Longleaf, my own familys farm. Once she lapses into talking about Constantine without my even asking.
Law, that Constantine could sing. Like a purebred angel standing in the front a the church. Give everbody chills, listening to that silky voice a hers and when she wouldnt sing no more after she had to give her baby to She stops. Looks at me.
Law, that Constantine could sing. Like a purebred angel standing in the front a the church. Give everbody chills, listening to that silky voice a hers and when she wouldnt sing no more after she had to give her baby to She stops. Looks at me.
She says, Anyway.
I tell myself not to press her. I wish I could hear everything she knows about Constantine, but Ill wait until weve finished her interviews. I dont want to put anything between us now.
Any word from Minny yet? I ask. If Missus Stein likes it, I say, practically chanting the familiar words, I just want to have the next interview set up and ready.
Aibileen shakes her head. I asked Minny three times and she still say she aint gone do it. I spec its time I believed her.
I try not to show my worry. Maybe you could ask some others? See if theyre interested? I am positive that Aibileen would have better luck convincing someone than I would.
Aibileen nods. I got some more I can ask. But how long you think its gone take for this lady to tell you if she like it?
I shrug. I dont know. If we mail it next week, maybe well hear from her by mid-February. But I cant say for sure.
Aibileen presses her lips together, looks down at her pages. I see something that I havent noticed before. Anticipation, a glint of excitement. Ive been so wrapped up in my own self, it hasnt occurred to me that Aibileen might be as thrilled as I am that an editor in New York is going to read her story. I smile and take a deep breath, my hope growing stronger.
On our fifth session, Aibileen reads to me about the day Treelore died. She reads about how his broken body was thrown on the back of a pickup by the white foreman. And then they dropped him off at the colored hospital. Thats what the nurse told me, who was standing outside. They rolled him off the truck bed and the white men drove away. Aibileen doesnt cry, just lets a parcel of time pass while I stare at the typewriter, she at the worn black tiles.
On the sixth session, Aibileen says, I went to work for Miss Leefolt in 1960. When Mae Mobley two weeks old, and I feel Ive passed through a leaden gate of confidence. She describes the building of the garage bathroom, admits she is glad it is there now. Its easier than listening to Hilly complain about sharing a toilet with the maid. She tells me that I once commented that colored people attend too much church. That stuck with her. I cringe, wondering what else Ive said, never suspecting the help was listening or cared.
One night she says, I was thinking But then she stops.
I look up from the typewriter, wait. It took Aibileen vomiting on herself for me to learn to let her take her time.
Is thinking I ought to do some reading. Might help me with my own writing.
Go down to the State Street Library. They have a whole room full of Southern writers. Faulkner[111], Eudora Welty
Aibileen gives me a dry cough. You know colored folks aint allowed in that library.
I sit there a second, feeling stupid. I cant believe I forgot that. The colored library must be pretty bad. There was a sit-in at the white library a few years ago and it made the papers. When the colored crowd showed up for the sit-in trial, the police department simply stepped back and turned the German shepherds loose[112]. I look at Aibileen and am reminded, once again, the risk shes taking talking to me. Ill be glad to pick the books up for you, I say.