Part 25 (1/2)

She touch my arm and look me straight in the eyes again. I can't believe what I see. It's like she been waiting on me to ask her all this time.

Then she gone out the door. I stand in the corner a minute, drinking coffee too hot for the weather. I laugh and mutter to myself, even though everbody gone think I'm even crazier for it.

MINNY.

chapter 17.

GO ON OUT A HERE SO I CAN DO MY CLEANING.”.

Miss Celia draws the covers up around her chest like she's afraid I might jerk her out of bed. Nine months here and I still don't know if she's sick in the body or fried up her wits with the hair coloring. She does look better than when I started. Her tummy's got a little fat on it, her cheeks aren't so hollow as they were, out here starving her and Mister Johnny to death.

For a while, Miss Celia was working in the backyard all the time but now that crazy lady's back to sitting around the bed again. I used to be glad she stayed holed up in her room. Now that I've met Mister Johnny, though, I'm ready to work. work. And d.a.m.n it, I'm ready to get Miss Celia in shape too. And d.a.m.n it, I'm ready to get Miss Celia in shape too.

”You driving me crazy hanging around this house twenty-five hours a day. Get. Go chop down that poor mimosa tree you hate so much,” I say, because Mr. Johnny never did chop that thing down.

But when Miss Celia doesn't move from that mattress, I know it's time to pull out the big guns. ”When you gone tell Mister Johnny about me?” Because that always gets her moving. Sometimes I just ask it for my own entertainment.

I can't believe the charade has gone on this long, with Mister Johnny knowing about me, and Miss Celia walking around like a ding-a-ling, like she's still pulling her trick. It was no surprise when the Christmas deadline came and she begged for more time. Oh I railed her about it, but then the fool started boo-hooing so I let her off the hook just so she'd shut up, told her it was her Christmas present. She ought to get a stocking chock full of coal for all the lies she's told.

Thank the Lord Miss Hilly hasn't showed up here to play bridge, even though Mister Johnny tried to set it up again just two weeks ago. I know because Aibileen told me she heard Miss Hilly and Miss Leefolt laughing about it. Miss Celia got all serious, asking me what to cook if they come over. Ordered a book in the mail to learn the game, Bridge for the Beginner. Bridge for the Beginner. Ought to call it Ought to call it Bridge for the Brainless. Bridge for the Brainless. When it came this morning in the mailbox, she didn't read it for two seconds before she asked, ”Will you teach me to play, Minny? This bridge book doesn't make a lick of sense.” When it came this morning in the mailbox, she didn't read it for two seconds before she asked, ”Will you teach me to play, Minny? This bridge book doesn't make a lick of sense.”

”I don't know how to play no bridge,” I said.

”Yes, you do.”

”How you know what I can do?” I started banging pots around, irritated just by the looks of that stupid red cover. I finally got Mister Johnny out the way and now I have to worry about Miss Hilly coming over and ratting me out. She'll tell Miss Celia what I did for sure. Shoot. I'd fire my own self for what I did.

”Because Missus Walters told me you used to practice with her on Sat.u.r.day mornings.”

I started scrubbing the big pot. My knuckles. .h.i.t the sides, making a clanging noise.

”Playing cards is the devil's game,” I said. ”And I got too much to do already.”

”But I'll get all fl.u.s.tered with those girls over here trying to teach me. Won't you just show me a little?”

”No.”

Miss Celia hummed out a little sigh. ”It's cause I'm such a bad cook, isn't it? You think I can't learn anything now.”

”What you gone do if Miss Hilly and them ladies tell your husband you got a maid out here? Ain't that gone blow your cover?”

”I've already worked that out. I'll tell Johnny I'm bringing in some help for the day so it'll look proper and all for the other ladies.”

”Mm-hmm.”

”Then I'll tell him I like you so much I want to hire you full-time. I mean, I could tell him that . . . in a few months.”

I started to sweat then. ”When you think them ladies is coming over for your bridge party?”

”I'm just waiting for Hilly to call me back. Johnny told her husband I'd be calling. I left her two messages, so I'm sure she'll call me back anytime now.”

I stand there trying to think of something to stop this from happening. I look at the phone, pray it never rings again.

THE NEXT MORNING, when I get in for work, Miss Celia comes out of her bedroom. I think she's about to sneak upstairs, which she's started to do again, but then I hear her on the kitchen telephone asking for Miss Hilly. I get a sick, sick feeling.

”I was just calling again to see about getting a bridge game together!” she says all cheerful and I don't move until I know it's Yule May, Hilly's maid, she's talking to and not Miss Hilly herself. Miss Celia spells out her telephone number like a floor-mopping jingle, ”Emerson two-sixty-six-oh-nine!”

And half a minute later, she's calling up another name from the back of that stupid paper, like she's gotten into the habit of doing every other day. I know what that thing is, it's the newsletter from the Ladies League, and from the looks of it she found it in the parking lot of that ladies' club. It's rough as sandpaper and wilted, like it sat through a rainstorm after blowing out of somebody's pocketbook.

So far, not one of those girls has ever called her back, but every time that phone rings, she jumps on it like a dog on a c.o.o.n. It's always Mister Johnny.

”Alright...just...tell her I called again,” Miss Celia says into the phone.

I hear her hang it up real soft. If I cared, which I don't, I'd tell her those ladies ain't worth it. ”Those ladies ain't worth it, Miss Celia,” I hear myself saying. But she acts like she can't hear me. She goes back to the bedroom and closes the door.

I think about knocking, seeing if she needs anything. But I've got more important things to worry about than if Miss Celia's won the d.a.m.n popularity contest. What with Medgar Evers shot on his own doorstep and Felicia clammering for her driver's license, now that she's turned fifteen--she's a good girl but I got pregnant with Leroy Junior when I wasn't much older than her and a Buick had something to do with it. And on top of all that, now I've got Miss Skeeter and her stories to worry about.

AT THE End Of JUNE, a heat wave of a hundred degrees moves in and doesn't budge. It's like a hot water bottle plopped on top of the colored neighborhood, making it ten degrees worse than the rest of Jackson. It's so hot, Mister Dunn's rooster walks in my door and squats his red self right in front of my kitchen fan. I come in to find him looking at me like I ain't moving nowhere, lady. I ain't moving nowhere, lady. He'd rather get beat with a broom than go back out in that nonsense. He'd rather get beat with a broom than go back out in that nonsense.

Out in Madison County, the heat officially makes Miss Celia the laziest person in the U. S. of A. She won't even get the mail out the box anymore, I have to do it. It's even too hot for Miss Celia to sit out at the pool. Which is a problem for me.

See, I think if G.o.d had intended for white people and colored people to be this close together for so much of the day, he would've made us color-blind. And while Miss Celia's grinning and ”good morning” and ”glad to see”-ing me, I'm wondering, how did she get this far in life without knowing where the lines are drawn? I mean, a floozy calling the society ladies is bad enough. But she has sat down and eaten lunch with me every single day since I started working here. I don't mean in the same room, I mean at the same table. table. That little one up under the window. Every white woman I've ever worked for ate in the dining room as far away from the colored help as they could. And that was fine with me. That little one up under the window. Every white woman I've ever worked for ate in the dining room as far away from the colored help as they could. And that was fine with me.

”But why? I don't want to eat in there all by myself when I could eat in here with you,” Miss Celia said. I didn't even try to explain it to her. There are so many things Miss Celia is just plain ignorant ignorant about. about.

Every other white woman also knows that there is a time of the month when you do not not to talk to Minny. Even Miss Walters knew when the Min-O-Meter was running hot. She'd smell the caramel cooking and cane herself right out the door. Wouldn't even let Miss Hilly come over. to talk to Minny. Even Miss Walters knew when the Min-O-Meter was running hot. She'd smell the caramel cooking and cane herself right out the door. Wouldn't even let Miss Hilly come over.

Last week, the sugar and b.u.t.ter had filled Miss Celia's whole house with the smell of Christmas even though it was the crying shame of June. I was tense, as usual, turning my sugar to caramel. I asked her three times, very politely, very politely, if I couldn't do this by myself, but she wanted to be in there with me. Said she was getting lonely being in her bedroom all the day long. if I couldn't do this by myself, but she wanted to be in there with me. Said she was getting lonely being in her bedroom all the day long.

I tried to ignore her. Problem was, I have to talk to myself when I make a caramel cake or else I get too jittery.

I said, ”Hottest day in June history. A hundred and four outside.”

And she said, ”Do you have air-conditioning? Thank goodness we have it here cause I grew up without it and I know what it's like being hot.”

And I said, ”Can't afford no air-conditioning. Them things eat current like a boll weevil on cotton.” And I started stirring hard because the brown was just forming on the top and that's when you've really got to watch it and I say, ”We already late on the light bill,” because I'm not thinking straight and do you know what she said? She said, ”Oh, Minny, I wish I could loan you the money, but Johnny's been asking all these funny questions lately,” and I turned to inform her that every time a Negro complained about the cost of living didn't mean she was begging for money, but before I could say a word, I'd burned up my d.a.m.n caramel.

AT SUNDAY CHURCH SERVICE, s.h.i.+rley Boon gets up in front of the congregation. With her lips flapping like a flag, she reminds us that the ”Community Concerns” meeting is Wednesday night, to discuss a sit-in at the Woolworth's lunch counter on Amite Street. Big nosy s.h.i.+rley points her finger at us and says, ”The meeting is at seven so be on time. No excuses!” She reminds me of a big, white, ugly schoolteacher. The kind that n.o.body ever wants to marry.

”You coming on Wednesday?” asks Aibileen. We're walking home in the three o'clock heat. I've got my funeral fan in my fist. I'm waving it so fast it looks like it's got a motor on it.

”I ain't got time,” I say.

”You gone make me go by myself again? Come on, I'm on bring some gingerbread and some--”

”I said said I can't go.” I can't go.”