The Help

“Go, Rebels!” cheers Mary Frances Truly, jumping up and down in her matching sweater set. I look at my nail where my cuticle hangs off, stinging and pink. The room is thick with bourbon-smell and red wool and diamond rings. I wonder if the girls really care about football, or if they just act this way to impress their husbands. In my four months of being in the League, I’ve never once had a girl ask me, “How bout them Rebs?”

I chat my way through some couples until I make it to the kitchen. Hilly’s tall, thin maid, Yule May, is folding dough around tiny sausages. Another colored girl, younger, washes dishes at the sink. Hilly waves me over, where she’s talking to Deena Doran.

“. . . best darn petit four I’ve ever tasted! Deena, you might be the most talented cook in the League!” Hilly stuffs the rest of the cake in her mouth, nodding and mm-mming.

“Why, thank you, Hilly, they’re hard but I think they’re worth it.” Deena is beaming, looks like she might cry under Hilly’s adoration.

“So you’ll do it? Oh, I’m so glad. The bake sale committee really needs somebody like you.”

“And how many did you need?”

“Five hundred, by tomorrow afternoon.”

Deena’s smile freezes. “Okay. I guess I can . . . work through the night.”

“Skeeter, you made it,” Hilly says and Deena wanders out of the kitchen.

“I can’t stay long,” I say, probably too quickly.

“Well, I found out.” Hilly smirks. “He is definitely coming this time. Three weeks from today.”

I watch Yule May’s long fingers pinch the dough off a knife and I sigh, knowing right away who she means. “I don’t know, Hilly. You’ve tried so many times. Maybe it’s a sign.” Last month, when he’d canceled the day before the date, I’d actually allowed myself a bit of excitement. I don’t really feel like going through that again.

“What? Don’t you dare say that.”

“Hilly,” I clench my teeth, because it’s time I finally just said it, “you know I won’t be his type.”

“Look at me,” she says. And I do as I’m told. Because that is what we do around Hilly.

“Hilly, you can’t make me go—”

“It is your time, Skeeter.” She reaches over and squeezes my hand, presses her thumb and fingers down as hard as Constantine ever did. “It is your turn. And damn it, I’m not going to let you miss this just because your mother convinced you you’re not good enough for somebody like him.”

I’m stung by her bitter, true words. And yet, I am awed by my friend, by her tenacity for me. Hilly and I’ve always been uncompromisingly honest with each other, even about the little things. With other people, Hilly hands out lies like the Presbyterians hand out guilt, but it’s our own silent agreement, this strict honesty, perhaps the one thing that has kept us friends.

Elizabeth comes in the kitchen carrying an empty plate. She smiles, then stops, and we all three look at each other.

“What?” Elizabeth says. I can tell she thinks we’ve been talking about her.

“Three weeks then?” Hilly asks me. “You coming?”

“Oh yes you are! You most certainly are going!” Elizabeth says.

I look in their smiling faces, at their hope for me. It’s not like Mother’s meddling, but a clean hope, without strings or hurt. I hate that my friends have discussed this, my one night’s fate, behind my back. I hate it and I love it too.

I HEAD back to the country before the game is over. Out the open window of the Cadillac, the fields look chopped and burned. Daddy finished the last harvest weeks ago, but the side of the road is still snowy with cotton stuck in the grass. Whiffs of it blow and float through the air.

I check the mailbox from the driver’s seat. Inside is The Farmer’s Almanac and a single letter. It is from Harper & Row. I turn into the drive, throw the gear into Park. The letter is handwritten, on small square notepaper.

Miss Phelan,

You certainly may hone your writing skills on such flat, passionless subjects as drunk driving and illiteracy. I’ d hoped, however, you’d choose topics that actually had some punch to them. Keep looking. If you find something original, only then may you write me again.

I slip past Mother in the dining room, invisible Pascagoula dusting pictures in the hall, up my steep, vicious stairs. My face burns. I fight the tears over Missus Stein’s letter, tell myself to pull it together. The worst part is, I don’t have any better ideas.