forward. Guests find their tables using the tiny
cards in their hands as oohs and aahs come from the bidding tables along the wal s. They are ful of silver pieces and hand-sewn
daygowns for infants, cotton handkerchiefs, monogrammed hand towels, a child’s tea set imported from Germany.
Minny is at a table in the back polishing glasses. “Aibileen,” she whispers. “There she is.”
Aibileen looks up, spots the woman who knocked on Miss Leefolt’s door a month ago. “Ladies better hold on to they
husbands tonight,” she says.
Minny jerks the cloth around the rim of a glass. “Let me know if you see her talking to Miss Hil y.”
“I wil . I been doing a super power prayer for you al day.”
“Look, there Miss Walters. Old bat. And there Miss Skeeter.”
Skeeter has on a long-sleeved black velvet dress, scooped at the neck, setting off her blond hair, her red lipstick. She has
come alone and stands in a pocket of emptiness. She scans the room, looking bored, then spots Aibileen and Minny. They al look
away at once.
One of the other colored helpers, Clara, moves to their table, picks up a glass. “Aibileen,” she whispers, but keeps her eyes
on her polishing. “That the one?”
“One what?”
“One who taking down the stories bout the colored help. What she doing it for? Why she interested? I hear she been coming
over to your house ever week.”
Aibileen lowers her chin. “Now look, we got to keep her a secret.”
Minny looks away. No one outside the group knows she’s part of this. They only know about Aibileen.
Clara nods. “Don’t worry, I ain’t tel ing nobody nothing.”
Skeeter jots a few words on her pad, notes for the newsletter article about the Benefit. She looks around the room, taking in
the swags of green, the hol y berries, red roses and dried magnolia leaves set as centerpieces on al the tables. Then her eyes land
on Elizabeth, a few feet away, ticking through her handbag. She looks exhausted, having had her baby only a month ago. Skeeter
watches as Celia Foote approaches Elizabeth. When Elizabeth looks up and sees who she’s been surrounded by, she coughs,
draws her hand up to her throat as if she’s shielding herself from some kind of attack.
“Not sure which way to turn, Elizabeth?” asks Skeeter.
“What? Oh, Skeeter, how are you?” Elizabeth offers a quick, wide smile. “I was…feeling so warm in here. I think I need some
fresh air.”
Skeeter watches Elizabeth rush away, at Celia Foote rattling after Elizabeth in her awful dress. That’s the real story, Skeeter
thinks. Not the flower arrangements or how many pleats are around the rear end of Hilly’s dress. This year, it’s all about The Celia
Foote Fashion Catastrophe.
Moments later, dinner is announced and everyone settles into their assigned seats. Celia and Johnny have been seated with a
handful of out of-town couples, friends of friends who aren’t real y friends of anyone at al . Skeeter is seated with a few local couples,
not President Hil y or even Secretary Elizabeth this year. The room is ful of chatter, praise for the party, praise for the Chateaubriand.
After the main course, Hil y stands behind the podium. There is a round of applause and she smiles at the crowd.
“Good evening. I sure do thank y’al for coming tonight. Everybody enjoying their dinner?”
There are nods and rumbles of consent.
“Before we start the announcements, I’d like to go ahead and thank the people who are making tonight such a success.”
Without turning her head from the audience, Hil y gestures to her left, where two dozen colored women have lined up, dressed in their
white uniforms. A dozen colored men are behind them, in gray-and-white tuxedos.
“Let’s give a special round of applause to the help, for al the wonderful food they cooked and served, and for the desserts they
made for the auction.” Here, Hil y picks up a card and reads, “In their own way, they are helping the League reach its goal to feed the
Poor Starving Children of Africa, a cause, I’m sure, dear to their own hearts as wel .”
The white people at the tables clap for the maids and servers. Some of the servers smile back. Many, though, stare at the
empty air just above the crowd’s heads.
“Next we’d like to thank those nonmembers in this room who have given their time and help, for it’s you who made our job that
much easier.”
There is light applause, some cold smiles and nods between members and nonmembers. Such a pity, the members seem to
be thinking. Such a shame you girls haven’t the gentility to join our club. Hil y goes on, thanking and recognizing in a musical,
patriotic voice. Coffee is served and the husbands drink theirs, but most of the women keep rapt attention on Hil y. “…thanks to
Boone Hardware…let us not forget Ben Franklin’s dime store…” She concludes the list with, “And of course we thank our
anonymous contributor of, ahem, supplies, for the Home Help Sanitation Initiative.”
A few people laugh nervously, but most turn their heads to see if Skeeter has had the gal to show up.
“I just wish instead of being so shy, you’d step up and accept our gratitude. We honestly couldn’t have accomplished so many
instal ations without you.”
Skeeter keeps her eyes on the podium, her face stoic and unyielding. Hil y gives a quick, bril iant smile. “And final y, a special
thanks to my husband, Wil iam Holbrook, for donating a weekend at his deer camp.” She smiles down at her husband, adds in a
lower tone, “And don’t forget, voters. Holbrook for State Senate.”
The guests offer an amicable laugh at Hil y’s plug.
“What’s that, Virginia?” Hil y cups her ear, then straightens. “No, I’m not running with him. But congressmen with us tonight, if
you don’t straighten this thing out with the separate schools, don’t think I won’t come down there and do it myself.”
There is more laughter at this. Senator and Missus Whitworth, seated at a table in the front, nod and smile. At her table in the
back, Skeeter looks down at her lap. They spoke earlier, during the cocktail hour. Missus Whitworth steered the Senator away from
Skeeter before he could give her a second hug. Stuart didn’t come.
Once the dinner and the speech have ended, people get up to dance, husbands head for the bar. There is a scurry to the
auction tables for last-minute bids. Two grandmothers are in a bidding war over the child’s antique tea set. Someone started the
rumor that it had belonged to royalty and had been smuggled out via donkey cart across Germany until it eventual y wound up in the
Magnolia Antique Store on Fairview Street. The price shot up from fifteen dol ars to eighty-five in no time.
In the corner by the bar, Johnny yawns. Celia’s brow is scrunched together. “I can’t believe what she said about nonmembers
helping. She told me they didn’t need any help this year.”
“Wel , you can help out next year,” Johnny says.
Celia spots Hil y. For the moment, Hil y has only a few people around her.
“Johnny, I’l be right back,” Celia says.
“And then let’s get the hel out of here. I’m sick of this monkey suit.”
Richard Cross, who’s a member of Johnny’s duck camp, slaps Johnny’s back. They say something, then laugh. Their gazes
sweep across the crowd.
Celia almost makes it to Hil y this time, only to have Hil y slip behind the podium table. Celia backs away, as if she’s afraid to
approach Hil y where she’d seemed so powerful a few minutes ago.
> As soon as Celia disappears into the ladies room, Hil y heads for the corner.
“Why Johnny Foote,” Hil y says. “I’m surprised to see you here. Everybody knows you can’t stand big parties like this.” She
squeezes the crook of his arm.
Johnny sighs. “You are aware that doe season opens tomorrow?”
Hil y gives him an auburn-lipsticked smile. The color matches her dress so perfectly, it must have been searched out for days.
“I am so tired of hearing that from everybody. You can miss one day of hunting season, Johnny Foote. You used to for me.”
Johnny rol s his eyes. “Celia wouldn’t have missed this for anything.”
“Where is that wife of yours?” she asks. Hil y’s stil got her hand tucked in the crook of Johnny’s arm and she gives it another
pul . “Not at the LSU game serving hot dogs, is she?”
Johnny frowns down at her, even though it’s true, that’s how they met.
“Oh, now you know I’m just teasing you. We dated long enough to where I can do that, can’t I?”
Before Johnny can answer, Hil y’s shoulder is tapped and she glides over to the next couple, laughing. Johnny sighs when he
sees Celia headed toward him. “Good,” he says to Richard, “we can go home. I’m getting up in,” he looks at his watch, “five hours.”
Richard keeps his eyes locked on Celia as she strides toward them. She stops and bends down to retrieve her dropped
napkin, offering a generous view of her bosoms. “Going from Hil y to Celia must’ve been quite the change, Johnny.”
Johnny shakes his head. “Like living in Antarctica al my life and one day moving to Hawaii.”
Richard laughs. “Like going to bed in seminary and waking up at Ole Miss,” Richard says, and they both laugh.
Then Richard adds in a lower voice, “Like a kid eating ice cream for the very first time.”
Johnny gives him a look. “That’s my wife you’re talking about.”
“Sorry, Johnny,” Richard says, lowering his eyes. “No harm meant.”
Celia walks up, sighs with a disappointed smile.
“Hey, Celia, how are you?” Richard says. “You sure are looking nice tonight.”
“Thanks, Richard.” Celia lets out a loud hiccup and she frowns, covers her mouth with a tissue.
“You getting tipsy?” asks Johnny.
“She’s just having fun, aren’t you, Celia?” Richard says. “In fact, I’m fixing to get you a drink you’re gonna love. It’s cal ed an
Alabama Slammer.”
Johnny rol s his eyes at his friend. “And then we’re going home.”
Three Alabama Slammers later, the winners of the silent auction are announced. Susie Pernel stands behind the podium
while people mil about drinking or smoking at the tables, dancing to Glenn Mil er and Frankie Val i songs, talking over the din of the
microphone. As names are read, items are received with the excitement of someone winning a real contest, as if the booty were free
and not paid for at three, four, or five times the store value. Tablecloths and nightgowns with the lace tatted by hand bring in high
bids. Odd sterling servers are popular, for spooning out deviled eggs, removing pimentos from olives, cracking quail legs. Then
there are the desserts: cakes, slabs of pralines, divinity fudge. And of course, Minny’s pie.
“…and the winner of Minny Jackson’s world-famous chocolate custard pie is…Hil y Holbrook!”
There is a little more applause for this one, not just because Minny’s known for her treats, but because the name Hilly elicits
applause on any occasion.
Hil y turns from her conversation. “What? Was that my name? I didn’t bid on anything.”
She never does, Skeeter thinks, sitting alone, a table away.
“Hil y, you just won Minny Jackson’s pie! Congratulations,” says the woman to her left.
Hil y scans the room, eyes narrowed.
Minny, having heard her name cal ed in the same sentence as Hil y’s, is suddenly very alert. She is holding a dirty coffee cup in
one hand, a heavy silver tray in the other. But she stands stock-stil .
Hil y spots her, but doesn’t move either, just smiles very slightly. “Wel . Wasn’t that sweet? Someone must’ve signed me up for
that pie.”
She doesn’t take her eyes off Minny and Minny can feel it. She stacks the rest of the cups on the tray, and heads for the
kitchen as fast as she can.
“Why congratulations, Hil y. I didn’t know you were such a fan of Minny’s pies!” Celia’s voice is shril . She’s come up from
behind without Hil y noticing. As she trots toward Hil y, Celia stumbles over a chair leg. There are sideline giggles.
Hil y stands very stil , watching her approach. “Celia, is this some kind of joke?”
Skeeter moves in closer too. She’s bored to death by this predictable evening. Tired of seeing embarrassed faces of old
friends too scared to come and speak to her. Celia’s the only interesting thing to happen al night.
“Hil y,” Celia says, grasping Hil y’s arm, “I’ve been trying to talk to you al night. I think there’s been some kind of
miscommunication between us and I just think if I explained…”
“What have you done? Let me go—” Hil y says between gritted teeth. She shakes her head, tries to walk off.
But Celia clutches Hil y’s long sleeve. “No, wait! Hang on, you got to listen—”
Hil y pul s away, but stil Celia doesn’t let go. There’s a moment of determination between them—Hil y trying to escape, Celia
holding on, and then a ripping sound cuts through the air.
Celia stares at the red material in her fingers. She’s torn the auburn cuff clear off Hil y’s arm.
Hil y looks down, touches her exposed wrist. “What are you trying to do to me?” she says in a low growl. “Did that Nigra maid
put you up to this? Because whatever she told you and whatever you’ve blabbed to anyone else here—”
Several more people have gathered around them, listening, al looking at Hil y with frowns of concern.
“Blabbed? I don’t know what you—”
Hil y grabs Celia’s arm. “Who did you tel ?” she snarls.
“Minny told me. I know why you don’t want to be friends with me.” Susie Pernel ’s voice over the microphone announcing the
winners grows louder, forcing Celia to raise her own voice. “I know you think me and Johnny went behind your back,” she yel s, and
there is laughter from the front of the room over some comment, and more applause. Just as Susie Pernel pauses over the
microphone to look at her notes, Celia yel s, “—but I got pregnant after you broke up.” The room echoes with the words. Al is silent
for a few long seconds.
The women around them wrinkle their noses, some start to laugh. “Johnny’s wife is d-r-u-n-k,” someone says.
Celia looks around her. She wipes at the sweat that’s beading on her makeuped forehead. “I don’t blame you for not liking me,
not if you thought Johnny cheated on you with me.”
“Johnny never would’ve—”
“—and I’m sorry I said that, I thought you’d be tickled you won that pie.”
Hil y bends over, snatches her pearl button from the floor. She leans closer to Celia so no one else can hear. “You tel your
Nigra maid if she tel s anybody about that pie, I wil make her suffer. You think you’re real cute signing me up for that auction, don’t
you? What, you think you can blackmail your way into the League?”
“What?”
“You tel me right this minute who else you’ve told ab—”
“I didn’t tel nobody nothing about a pie, I—”
“You liar,” Hil y says, but she straightens quickly and smiles. “There�
��s Johnny. Johnny, I think your wife needs your attention.”
Hil y flashes her eyes at the girls around them, as if they’re al in on a joke.
“Celia, what’s wrong?” Johnny says.
Celia scowls at him, then scowls at Hil y. “She’s not making sense, she cal ed me a—a liar, and now she’s accusing me of
signing her name on that pie and…” Celia stops, looks around like she recognizes no one around her. She has tears in her eyes.
Then she groans and convulses. Vomit splatters onto the carpet.
“Oh shit!” Johnny says, pul ing her back.
Celia pushes Johnny’s arm off her. She runs for the bathroom and he fol ows her.
Hil y’s hands are in fists. Her face is crimson, nearly the color of her dress. She marches over and grabs a waiter’s arm. “Get
that cleaned up before it starts to smel .”
And then Hil y is surrounded by women, faces upturned, asking questions, arms out like they are trying to protect her.
“I heard Celia’s been battling with drinking, but this problem with lying now?” Hil y tel s one of the Susies. It’s a rumor she’d
intended to spread about Minny, in case the pie story ever got out. “What do they cal that?”
“A compulsive liar?”
“That’s it, a compulsive liar.” Hil y walks off with the women. “Celia trapped him into that marriage, tel ing him she was
pregnant. I guess she was a compulsive liar even back then.”
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