I fight the urge to snap each of her flapping fingers in half, but I hold my tongue. Let her think everything is fine. It is safer for everyone.

After the game, I rush home to prepare for Aibileen’s that night, relieved there’s not a soul in the house. I quickly flip through Pascagoula’s messages for me—Patsy my tennis partner, Celia Foote, whom I hardly know. Why would Johnny Foote’s wife be calling me? Minny’s made me swear I’ll never call her back, and I don’t have the time to wonder. I have to get ready for the interviews.

I SIT AT AIBILEEN’S KITCHEN table at six o’clock that night. We’ve arranged for me to come over nearly every night until we’re finished. Every two days, a different colored woman will knock on Aibileen’s back door and sit at the table with me, tell me her stories. Eleven maids have agreed to talk to us, not counting Aibileen and Minny. That puts us at thirteen and Missus Stein asked for a dozen, so I think we’re lucky. Aibileen stands in the back of the kitchen, listening. The first maid’s name is Alice. I don’t ask for last names.

I explain to Alice that the project is a collection of true stories about maids and their experiences waiting on white families. I hand her an envelope with forty dollars from what I’ve saved from the Miss Myrna column, my allowance, money Mother has forced into my hands for beauty parlor appointments I never went to.

“There’s a good chance it may never be published,” I tell each individually, “and even if it is, there will be very little money from it.” I look down the first time I say this, ashamed, I don’t know why. Being white, I feel it’s my duty to help them.

“Aibileen been clear on that,” several say. “That ain’t why I’m doing this.”

I repeat back to them what they’ve already decided among themselves. That they need to keep their identities secret from anyone outside the group. Their names will be changed on paper; so will the name of the town and the families they’ve worked for. I wish I could slip in, as the last question, “By the way, did you know Constantine Bates?” but I’m pretty sure Aibileen would tell me it’s a bad idea. They’re scared enough as it is.

“Now, Eula, she gone be like prying a dead clam open.” Aibileen preps me before each interview. She’s as afraid as I am that I’ll scare them off before it even starts. “Don’t get frustrated if she don’t say much.”

Eula, the dead clam, starts talking before she’s even sat in the chair, before I can explain anything, not stopping until ten o’clock that night.

“When I asked for a raise they gave it to me. When I needed a house, they bought me one. Doctor Tucker came over to my house himself and picked a bullet out my husband’s arm because he was afraid Henry’d catch something at the colored hospital. I have worked for Doctor Tucker and Miss Sissy for forty-four years. They been so good to me. I wash her hair ever Friday. I never seen that woman wash her own hair.” She stops for the first time all night, looks lonesome and worried. “If I die before her, I don’t know what Miss Sissy gone do about getting her hair washed.”

I try not to smile too eagerly. I don’t want to look suspicious. Alice, Fanny Amos, and Winnie are shy, need coaxing, keep their eyes down to their laps. Flora Lou and Cleontine let the doors fly open and the words tumble out while I type as fast as I can, asking them every five minutes to please, please, slow down. Many of the stories are sad, bitter. I expected this. But there are a surprising number of good stories too. And all of them, at some point, look back at Aibileen as if to ask,Are you sure? Can I really tell a white woman this?

“Aibileen? What’s gone happen if... this thing get printed and people find out who we are?” shy Winnie asks. “What you think they do to us?”

Our eyes form a triangle in the kitchen, one looking at the other. I take a deep breath, ready to assure her of how careful we’re being.

“My husband cousin... they took her tongue out. A while back it was. For talking to some Washington people about the Klan. You think they gone take our tongues? For talking to you?”

I don’t know what to say.Tongues... God, this hadn’t exactly crossed my mind. Only jail and perhaps fake charges or fines. “I... we’re being extremely careful,” I say but it comes out thin and unconvincing. I look at Aibileen, but she is looking worried too.

“We won’t know till the time comes, Winnie,” Aibileen says softly. “Won’t be like what you see on the news, though. A white lady do things different than a white man.”

I look at Aibileen. She’s never shared with me the specifics of what she thinks would happen. I want to change the subject. It won’t do us any good to discuss it.

“Naw.” Winnie shakes her head. “I reckon not. Fact, a white lady might do worse.”

“WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” Mother calls from the relaxing room. I have my satchel and the truck keys. I keep heading for the door.

“To the movies,” I call.

“You went to the movies last night. Come here, Eugenia.”

I backtrack, stand in the doorway. Mother’s ulcers have been acting up. At supper she’s been eating nothing but chicken broth, and I feel bad for her. Daddy went to bed an hour ago, but I can’t stay here with her. “I’m sorry, Mother, I’m late. Do you want me to bring you anything?”

“What movie and with whom? You’ve been out almost every night this week.”

“Just... some girls. I’ll be home by ten. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she sighs. “Go on, then.”

I head to the car, feeling guilty because I’m leaving Mother alone when she’s not feeling well. Thank God Stuart’s in Texas because I doubt I could lie to him so easily. When he came over three nights ago, we sat out on the porch swing listening to the crickets. I was so tired from working late the night before, I could barely keep myeyes open, but I didn’t want him to leave. I lay with my head in his lap. I reached up and rubbed my hand against the bristles on his face.

“When’re you going to let me read something you’ve written?” he asked.

“You can read the Miss Myrna column. I did a great piece on mildew last week.”

He smiled, shook his head.“No, I mean I want to read what you’rethinking. I’m pretty sure it’s not about housekeeping.”

Дата добавления: 2015-10-31