deep worrying about Miss Hil y. Wondering what she meant when she said Read it.
After while, my mind done drifted to where I wish it wouldn’t. I reckon I know pretty wel what would happen if the white ladies found out we
was writing about them, tel ing the truth a what they real y like. Womens, they ain’t like men. A woman ain’t gone beat you with a stick. Miss Hil y
wouldn’t pul no pistol on me. Miss Leefolt wouldn’t come burn my house down.
No, white womens like to keep they hands clean. They got a shiny little set a tools they use, sharp as witches’ fingernails, tidy and laid out
neat, like the picks on a dentist tray. They gone take they time with em.
First thing a white lady gone do is fire you. You upset, but you figure you’l find another job, when things settle down, when the white lady get
around to forgetting. You got a month a rent saved. People bring you squash casseroles.
But then a week after you lost your job, you get this little yel ow envelope stuck in your screen door. Paper inside say NOTICE OF EVICTION. Ever
landlord in Jackson be white and ever one got a white wife that’s friends with somebody. You start to panic some then. You stil ain’t got no job
prospects. Everwhere you try, the door slams in your face. And now you ain’t got a place to live.
Then it starts to come a little faster.
If you got a note on your car, they gone repossess it.
If you got a parking ticket you ain’t paid, you going to jail.
If you got a daughter, maybe you go live with her. She tend to a white family a her own. But a few days later she come home, say, “Mama? I
just got fired.” She look hurt, scared. She don’t understand why. You got to tel her it’s cause a you.
Least her husband stil working. Least they can feed the baby.
Then they fire her husband. Just another little sharp tool, shiny and fine.
They both pointing at you, crying, wondering why you done it. You can’t even remember why. Weeks pass and nothing, no jobs, no money,
no house. You hope this is the end of it, that she done enough, she ready to forget.
It’l be a knock on the door, late at night. It won’t be the white lady at the door. She don’t do that kind a thing herself. But while the nightmare’s
happening, the burning or the cutting or the beating, you realize something you known al your life: the white lady don’t ever forget.
And she ain’t gone stop til you dead.
THE NEXT MORNING, Miss Skeeter pul her Cadil ac up in Miss Leefolt’s driveway. I got raw chicken on my hands and a flame on the stovetop and Mae
Mobley whining cause she starving to death but I can’t stand it another second. I walk in the dining room with my dirty hands up in the air.
Miss Skeeter, she asking Miss Leefolt about a list a girls who serving on a committee and Miss Leefolt say, “The head of the cupcake
committee is Eileen,” and Miss Skeeter say, “But the cupcake committee chairman is Roxanne,” and Miss Leefolt say, “No, the cupcake co-chair is
Roxanne and Eileen is the cupcake head,” and I’m getting so peckertated over this cupcake talk I want to poke Miss Skeeter with my raw-chicken
finger but I know better than to interrupt so I don’t. There ain’t no talk at al about the satchel.
Before I know it, Miss Skeeter out the door.
Law.
That night after supper, me and that cockroach stare each other down across the kitchen floor. He big, inch, inch an a half. He black. Blacker
than me. He making a crackling sound with his wings. I got my shoe in my hand.
The phone ring and we both jump.
“Hey, Aibileen,” Miss Skeeter say and I hear a door shut. “Sorry to cal so late.”
I breathe out. “I’m glad you did.”
“I was just cal ing to see if you had any…word. From any other maids, I mean.”
Miss Skeeter sound strange. Tight in the jaw. Lately, she been glowing like a firefly she so in love. My heart start drumming. Stil , I don’t jump
right in with my questions. I ain’t sure why.
“I asked Corrine who work at the Cooleys. She say no. Then Rhonda, and Rhonda’s sister who wait on the Mil ers…but both a them say no
too.”
“What about Yule May? Have you…talked to her recently?”
I wonder then if that’s why Miss Skeeter acting strange. See, I told Miss Skeeter a fib. I told her a month ago I asked Yule May, but I didn’t.
It’s not just that I don’t know Yule May wel . It’s that she Miss Hil y Holbrook’s maid, and anything having to do with that name make me nervous.
“Not real recent. Maybe…I try her again,” I lie, hating it.
Then I get back to jiggling my pencil. Ready to tel her what Miss Hil y said.
“Aibileen,” Miss Skeeter voice gone al shaky, “I have to tel you something.”
Miss Skeeter get quiet and it’s like them eerie seconds before a funnel cloud drop.
“What happen, Miss Skeeter?”
“I…left my satchel. At the League. Hil y picked it up.”
I squint my eyes, feel like I ain’t hearing too good. “The red one?”
She don’t reply.
“Aw… Law. ” This al starting to make a sick sense.
“The stories were in a flap pocket. On the side, in another folder. I think al she saw were Jim Crow laws, some…booklet I’d picked up at the
library but…I can’t say for sure.”
“Oh Miss Skeeter,” I say and shut my eyes. God help me, God help Minny…
“I know. I know,” Miss Skeeter say and start to cry into the phone.
“Alright. Alright, now.” I try to make myself swal ow my anger down. It was a accident, I tel myself. Kicking her ain’t gone do us no good.
But still.
“Aibileen, I am so so sorry.”
There’s a few seconds a nothing but heart-pumping. Real slow and scary, my brain start ticking through the few facts she given me, what I
know myself.
“How long ago this happen?” I ask.
“Three days ago. I wanted to find out what she knew before I told you.”
“You talked to Miss Hil y?”
“Just for a second when I picked it up. But I’ve talked to Elizabeth and Lou Anne and probably four other girls who know Hil y. Nobody’s said
anything about it. That was…that was why I asked about Yule May,” she say. “I was wondering if she’d heard anything at work.”
I draw in a breath, hating what I have to tel her. “I heard it. Yesterday. Miss Hil y was talking to Miss Leefolt about it.”
Miss Skeeter don’t say nothing. I feel like I’m waiting for a brick to come slamming through my window.
“She talking about Mister Holbrook running for office and how you supporting colored people and she say…she read something.” Saying it
out loud now, I’m shaking. And stil bobbing the pencil between my fingers.
“Did she say anything about maids?” Miss Skeeter ask. “I mean, was she only upset with me or did she mention you or Minny?”
“No, just…you.”
“Okay.” Miss Skeeter blow air into the phone. She sound upset, but she don’t know what could happen to me, to Minny. She don’t know
about them sharp, shiny utensils a white lady use. About that knock on the door, late at night. That there are white men out there hungry to hear about a colored person crossing whites, ready with they wooden bats, matchsticks. Any little thing’l do.
“I-I can’t say a hundred percent, but…” Miss Skeeter say, “if Hil y knew anything about the book or you or especially Minny, she’d be
spreading it al over town.”
I think on this, wanting so hard to believe her. “It’s true, she do not like Minny Jackson.”
“Aibileen,” Miss Skeeter say, and I hear her start to break down again. Tha
t calm-down in her voice is cracking. “We can stop. I understand
completely if you want to stop working on it.”
If I say I don’t want a do it anymore, then everthing I been writing and stil have to write ain’t gone get to be said. No, I think. I don’t want a stop. I’m surprised by how loud I think it.
“If Miss Hil y know, she know,” I say. “Stopping ain’t gone save us now.”
I DON’T SEE, hear, or smel Miss Hil y for two days. Even when I ain’t holding a pencil, my fingers is jiggling it, in my pocket, on the kitchen counter,
thumping like drumsticks. I got to find out what’s inside Miss Hil y’s head.
Miss Leefolt leave Yule May three messages for Miss Hil y, but she always at Mister Holbrook’s office—the “campaign H.Q.” is what Miss
Hil y been cal ing it. Miss Leefolt sigh, hang up the phone like she just don’t know how her brain gone operate without Miss Hil y coming over to push
the Think buttons. Ten times Baby Girl ask when little Heather gone come play in the plastic pool again. I reckon they’l be good friends growing up,
with Miss Hil y teaching them both how things is. By that afternoon, we al wandering around the house, jiggling our fingers, wondering when Miss
Hil y gone show up again.
After while, Miss Leefolt go to the material store. Say she gone make a cover for something. She don’t know what. Mae Mobley look at me
and I reckon we thinking the same thing: that woman’d cover us both up if she could.
I HAVE TO WORK REAL LATE that evening. I feed Baby Girl supper and put her to bed, cause Mister and Miss Leefolt gone to see a picture at the Lamar.
Mister Leefolt promise he take her and she hold him to it, even though it’s only the late show left. When they get home, they yawning, crickets is
cricking. Other houses, I’d sleep in the maid’s room, but they ain’t one here. I kind a hang around thinking Mister Leefolt gone offer to drive me
home, but he just go right to bed.
Outside, in the dark, I walk al the way up to Riverside, about ten minutes away, where they run a late bus for the nighttime water-plant
workers. The breeze is good enough keep the mosquitoes off. I sit on the edge a the park, in the grass under the streetlight. Bus come after while.
Ain’t but four people on there, two colored, two white, al mens. I don’t know any of em. I take a window seat behind a thin colored fel a. He got on a brown suit and a brown hat, be about my age.
We cross the bridge, head in the direction a the colored hospital, where the bus make its turn. I got my prayer book out so I can write some
things down. I concentrate on Mae Mobley, try to keep my mind off Miss Hil y. Show me how to teach Baby Girl to be kind, to love herself; to love
others, while I got time with her…
I look up. The bus done stopped in the middle a the road. I lean over into the aisle, see a few blocks up they’s blue lights flashing in the dark,
people standing around, a road block.
White driver stare ahead. He turn off the motor and my seat go stil , feel strange. He straighten his driver’s hat, hop out the seat. “Y’al stay
put. Let me find out what’s going on.”
So we al set there in the quiet, waiting. I hear a dog barking, not a house dog, but the kind that sound like he yel ing at you. After a ful five
minutes, driver get back on the bus, start the motor again. He toot his horn, wave his hand out the window, and start backing up real slow.
“Wha happen up there?” colored man in front a me cal to the driver.
Driver don’t answer. He keep backing up. The flashing lights is getting smal er, the dog barking fading off. Driver turn the bus around on
Farish Street. At the next corner, he stop. “Colored people off, last stop for you,” he hol er in the rearview. “White people lemme know where y’al
need to get to. I’l get you close as I can.”
The colored man look back at me. I guess we both ain’t got a good feeling. He stand up so I do too. I fol ow him to the front door. It’s eerie
quiet, just the sound a our feets.
White man lean up to the driver, say, “What’s going on?”
I fol ow the colored man down the steps a the bus. Behind me, I hear the driver say, “I don’t know, some nigger got shot. Where you
headed?”
The door swish closed. Oh Law, I think, please don’t let this be any a my peoples.
Ain’t a sound on Farish Street, or a person, cept us two. The man look at me. “You alright? You close to home?”
“I be alright. I’m close.” My house is seven blocks from here.
“Want me to walk you?”
I kind a do, but I shake my head. “Naw, thank you. I be fine.”
A news truck whiz by, way down at the intersection the bus turned off of. Big WLBT-TV letters on the side.
“Law, I hope this ain’t as bad as it—” but the man gone. They ain’t a soul now but me. I get that feeling people talk about, right before they
get mugged. In two seconds, my stockings is rubbing together so fast I sound like zippers zipping. Up ahead I see three people walking fast like
me. Al of em turn off, go into houses, shut the door.
I’m real sure I don’t want to be alone another second. I cut between Mule Cato’s house and the back a the auto repair, then through Oney
Black’s yard, trip on a hose-pipe in the dark. I feel like a burglar. Can see lights on inside the houses, heads bent down, lights that should be off this time a night. Whatever going on, everbody either talking about it or listening to it.
Final y, up ahead I see Minny’s kitchen light, back door open, screen door closed. The door make a whine when I push it. Minny setting at
the table with al five kids: Leroy Junior, Sugar, Felicia, Kindra, and Benny. I guess Leroy Senior gone to work. They al staring at the big radio in the middle a the table. A wave a static come in with me.
“What is it?” I say. Minny frown, fiddle with the dial. In a second I take in the room: a ham slice curled and red in a skil et. A tin can on the
counter, lid open. Dirty plates in the sink. Ain’t Minny’s kitchen at al .
“What happen?” I ask again.
The radio man come into tune, hol ering, “— almost ten years serving as the Field Secretary for the N-double-A-C-P. Still no word from the
hospital but wounds are said to be—”
“Who? ” I say.
Minny stare at me like I ain’t got my head on. “Medgar Evers. Where you been?”
“Medgar Evers? What happen?” I met Myrlie Evers, his wife, last fal , when she visit our church with Mary Bone’s family. She wore this smart
red-and-black scarf tied on her neck. I remember how she looked me in the eye, smiled like she was real glad to meet me. Medgar Evers like a
celebrity around here, being so high in the NAACP.
“Set down,” Minny say. I set in a wooden chair. They al ghost-faced, staring at the radio. It’s about half the size of a car engine, wood, four
knobs on it. Even Kindra quiet in Sugar’s lap.
“KKK shot him. Front a his house. A hour ago.”
I feel a prickle creep up my spine. “Where he live?”
“On Guynes,” Minny say. “The doctors got him at our hospital.”
“I…saw,” I say, thinking a the bus. Guynes ain’t but five minutes away from here if you got a car.
“…witnesses say it was a single man, a white male, who jumped from the bushes. Rumors of KKK involvement are…”
Now they’s some unorganized talking on the radio, some people yel ing, some fumbling round. I tense up like somebody watching us from
outside. Somebody white. The KKK was here, five minutes away, to hunt down a colored man. I want a close that back door.
“I was just informed,” the announcer say, panting, “that Medgar Evers is dead.”
“Me
dgar Evers,” he sound like he getting pushed around, voices round him, “I was just told. Has died.”
Oh Law.
Minny turn to Leroy Junior. Her voice low, steady.
“Take your brothers and your sisters in the bedroom. Get in bed. And stay back there.” It always sound scarier when a hol erer talk soft.
Even though I know Leroy Junior want a stay, he give em a look and they al disappear, quiet, quick. The radio man go quiet too. For a
second, that box nothing but brown wood and wires. “Medgar Evers,” he say, his voice sound like it’s rol ing backwards, “NAACP Field Secretary, is dead.” He sigh. “Medgar Evers is dead.”
I swal ow back a mouthful a spit and stare at Minny’s wal paint that’s gone yel ow with bacon grease, baby hands, Leroy’s Pal Mal s. No
pictures or calendars on Minny’s wal s. I’m trying not to think. I don’t want a think about a colored man dying. It’l make me remember Treelore.
Minny’s hands is in fists. She gritting her teeth. “Shot him right in front a his children, Aibileen.”
“We gone pray for the Everses, we gone pray for Myrlie…” but it just sound so empty, so I stop.
“Radio say his family run out the house when they heard the shots. Say he bloody, stumbling round, al the kids with blood al over em…” She
slap her hand on the table, rattling the wood radio.
I hold my breath, but I feel dizzy. I got to be the one who’s strong. I got to keep my friend here from losing it.
“Things ain’t never gone change in this town, Aibileen. We living in hel , we trapped. Our kids is trapped.”
Radio man get loud again, say, “…policemen everywhere, blocking the road. Mayor Thompson is expected to hold a press conference
shortly—”
I choke then. The tears rol down. It’s al them white peoples that breaks me, standing around the colored neighborhood. White peoples with
guns, pointed at colored peoples. Cause who gone protect our peoples? Ain’t no colored policemans.
Minny stare at the door the kids went through. Sweat’s dril ing down the sides a her face.
“What they gone do to us, Aibileen? If they catch us…”
I take a deep breath. She talking about the stories. “We both know. It be bad.”
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