The Help

I go upstairs with my oil rags and I open that cupboard for myself. Two dozen flat whiskey bottles are hidden behind some ratty old blankets Miss Celia must’ve toted with her from Tunica County. The bottles don’t have any labels fastened to them, just the stamp Old KENTUCKY in the glass. Twelve are full, ready for tomorrow. Twelve are empty from last week. Just like all these damn bedrooms. No wonder the fool doesn’t have any kids.

On THE FIRST THURSDAY of July, at twelve noon, Miss Celia gets up from the bed for her cooking lesson. She’s dressed in a white sweater so tight it’d make a hooker look holy. I swear her clothes get tighter every week.

We settle in our places, me at the stovetop, her on her stool. I’ve hardly spoken word one to her since I found those bottles last week. I’m not mad. I’m irate. But I have sworn every day for the past six days that I would follow Mama’s Rule Number One. To say something would mean I cared about her and I don’t. It’s not my business or my concern if she’s a lazy, drunk fool.

We lay the battered raw chicken on the rack. Then I have to remind the ding-dong for the bobillionth time to wash her hands before she kills us both.

I watch the chicken sizzle, try to forget she’s there. Frying chicken always makes me feel a little better about life. I almost forget I’m working for a drunk. When the batch is done, I put most of it in the refrigerator for supper that night. The rest goes on a plate for our lunch. She sits down across from me at the kitchen table, as usual.

“Take the breast,” she says, her blue eyes bugging out at me. “Go ahead.”

“I eat the leg and the thigh,” I say, taking them from the plate. I thumb through the Jackson Journal to the Metro section. I pop up the spine of my newspaper in front of my face so I don’t have to look at her.

“But they don’t have hardly any meat on them.”

“They good. Greasy.” I keep reading, trying to ignore her.

“Well,” she says, taking the breast, “I guess that makes us perfect chicken partners then.” And after a minute she says, “You know, I’m lucky to have you as a friend, Minny.”

I feel thick, hot disgust rise up in my chest. I lower my paper and just look at her. “No ma’am. We ain’t friends.”

“Well . . . sure we are.” She smiles, like she’s doing me a big favor.

“No, Miss Celia. We ain’t.”

She blinks at me with her fake eyelashes. Stop it, Minny, my insides tell me. But I already know I can’t. I know by the fists in my hands that I can’t hold this in another minute.

“Is it . . .” She looks down at her chicken. “Because you’re colored? Or because you don’t . . . want to be friends with me?”

“So many reasons, you white and me colored just fall somewhere in between.”

She’s not smiling at all now. “But . . . why?”

“Because when I tell you I’m late on my light bill, I ain’t asking you for money,” I say.

“Oh Minny—”

“Because you don’t even give me the courtesy a telling your husband I’m working here. Because you in this house twenty-four hours a day driving me insane.”

“You don’t understand, I can’t. I can’t leave.”

“But all that is nothing compared to what I know now.”

Her face goes a shade paler under her makeup.

“All this time, there I was thinking you were dying a the cancer or sick in the head. Poor Miss Celia, all day long.”

“I know it’s been hard . . .”

“Oh, I know you ain’t sick. I seen you with them bottles upstairs. And you ain’t fooling me another second.”

“Bottles? Oh God, Minny, I—”

“I ought to pour them things down the drain. I ought to tell Mister Johnny right now—”

She stands up, knocking her chair over. “Don’t you dare tell—”

“You act like you want kids but you drinking enough to poison a elephant!”

“If you tell him, I’ll fire you, Minny!” She’s got tears in her eyes. “If you touch those bottles, I’ll fire you right now!”

But the blood’s running too hot in my head to stop now. “Fire me? Who else gone come out here and work in secret while you hang around the house drunk all day?”

“You think I can’t fire you? You finish your work today, Minny!” She’s boo-hooing and pointing her finger at me. “You eat your chicken and then you go home!”

She picks up her plate with the white meat and charges through the swinging door. I hear it clatter down on the long fancy dining room table, the chair legs scraping against the floor. I sink down in my seat because my knees are shaking, and stare down at my chicken.

I just lost another damn job.

I WAKE up SATURDAY MORNING at seven a.m. to a clanging headache and a raw tongue. I must’ve bitten down on it all night long.

Leroy looks at me through one eye because he knows something’s up. He knew it last night at supper and smelled it when he walked in at five o’clock this morning.

“What’s eating you? Ain’t got trouble at work, do you?” he asks for the third time.

“Nothing eating me except five kids and a husband. Y’all driving me up a wall.”