I gasp. Shes telling me to write it! Shes telling me Are you saying youll publish it? If I can write it by
I said nothing of the sort, she snaps. I will read it. I look at a hundred manuscripts a month and reject nearly all of them.
Sorry, I just Ill write it, I say. Ill have it finished in January.
And four or five interviews wont be enough for a book. Youll need a dozen, maybe more. You have more interviews set up, I assume?
I press my lips together. Some more.
Good. Then get going. Before this civil rights thing blows over.
That evening, I go to Aibileens. I hand her three more books from her list. My back hurts from leaning over the typewriter. This afternoon, I wrote down everyone I know who has a maid (which is everyone I know), and their maids name. But some of the names I cant remember.
Good. Then get going. Before this civil rights thing blows over.
That evening, I go to Aibileens. I hand her three more books from her list. My back hurts from leaning over the typewriter. This afternoon, I wrote down everyone I know who has a maid (which is everyone I know), and their maids name. But some of the names I cant remember.
Thank you, oh Law, look at this. She smiles and flips to the first page of Walden[119], looks like she wants to start reading it right there.
I spoke to Missus Stein this afternoon, I say.
Aibileens hands freeze on the book. I knew something was wrong. I seen it on your face.
I take a deep breath. She said she likes your stories very much. But she wont say if shell publish it until weve written the whole thing. I try to look optimistic. We have to be finished just after the New Year.
But thats good news, aint it?
I nod, try to smile.
January, Aibileen whispers and she gets up and leaves the kitchen. She comes back with a Toms candy wall calendar. She sets it down on the table, flips through the months.
Seem a long ways off now, but January aint but two four six ten pages away. Gone be here before we know it. She grins.
She said we have to interview at least twelve maids for her to consider it, I say. The strain in my voice is starting to really come through.
But you aint got any other maids to talk to, Miss Skeeter.
I clench my hands. I close my eyes. I dont have anyone I can ask, Aibileen, I say, my voice rising. Ive spent the last four hours poring over this very fact. I mean, who is there? Pascagoula? If I talk to her, Mama will find out. Im not the one who knows the other maids.
Aibileens eyes drop from mine so fast I want to cry. Damn it, Skeeter. Any barrier that had eroded between us these past few months, Ive just built back up in a matter of seconds. Im sorry, I say quickly. Im sorry I raised my voice.
No, no, its alright. That was my job, to get the others.
What about Lou Annes maid, I say quietly, pulling out my list. Whats her name Louvenia? Do you know her?
Aibileen nods. I asked Louvenia. Her eyes are still on her lap. Her grandson the one got blinded. She say she real sorry, but she have to keep her mind on him.
And Hillys maid, Yule May? Youve asked her?
She say she too busy trying to get her boys into college next year.
Any other maids that go to your church? Have you asked them?
Aibileen nods. They all got excuses. But really, they just too scared.
But how many? How many have you asked?
Aibileen picks up her notebook, flips though a few pages. Her lips move, counting silently.
Thirty-one, Aibileen says.
I let out my breath. I didnt know Id been holding it.
Thats a lot, I say.
Aibileen finally meets my look. I didnt want a tell you, she says and her forehead wrinkles. Until we heard from the lady She takes off her glasses. I see the deep worry in her face. She tries to hide it with a trembling smile.
Im on ask em again, she says, leaning forward.
Alright, I sigh.
She swallows hard, nods rapidly to make me understand how much she means it. Please, dont give up on me. Let me stay on the project with you.
I close my eyes. I need a break from seeing her worried face. How could I have raised my voice to her? Aibileen, its alright. Were together on this.
A few days later, I sit in the hot kitchen, bored, smoking a cigarette, something I cant seem to stop doing lately. I think I might be addicted. Thats a word Mister Golden likes to use. The idjits are all addicts. He calls me in his office every once in a while[120], scans the months articles with a red pencil, marking and slashing and grunting.
Thats fine, hell say. You fine?
Im fine, I say.
Fine, then. Before I leave, the fat receptionist hands me my ten-dollar check and thats pretty much it for my Miss Myrna job.
The kitchen is hot, but I have to get out of my room, where all I do is worry because no other maids have agreed to work with us. Plus, I have to smoke in here because its about the only room in the house without a ceiling fan to blow ashes everywhere. When I was ten, Daddy tried to install one in the tin kitchen ceiling without asking Constantine. Shed pointed to it like hed parked the Ford on the ceiling.
Its for you, Constantine, so you dont get so hot being up in the kitchen all the time.