Part 25 (2/2)

Aibileen nods, says, ”Alright then.” She keeps walking.

”Benny . . . might get the asthma again. I don't want a leave him.”

”Mm-hmm,” Aibileen says. ”You'n tell me the real reason when you ready.”

We turn on Gessum, walk around a car that's plumb died of heat stroke in the road. ”Oh, fore I forget, Miss Skeeter wants to come over early Tuesday night,” Aibileen says. ”Bout seven. You make it then?”

”Lord,” I say, getting irritated all over again. ”What am I doing? I must be crazy, giving the sworn secrets a the colored race to a white lady.”

”It's just Miss Skeeter, she ain't like the rest.”

”Feel like I'm talking behind my own back,” I say. I've met with Miss Skeeter at least five times now. It's not getting any easier.

”You want a stop coming?” Aibileen asks. ”I don't want you to feel like you have to.” I don't answer her.

”You still there, M?” she says.

”I just . . . I want things to be better for the kids,” I say. ”But it's a sorry fact that it's a white woman doing this.”

”Come to the community meeting with me on Wednesday. We talk more about it then,” Aibileen says with a little smile.

I knew Aibileen wouldn't drop it. I sigh. ”I got in trouble, alright?”

”With who?”

”s.h.i.+rley Boon,” I say. ”Last meeting everybody was holding hands and praying they gone let blacks in the white bathroom and talking about how they gone set down on a stool at Woolworth's and not fight back and they all smiling like this world gone be a s.h.i.+ny new place and I just . . . I popped. I told s.h.i.+rley Boon her a.s.s won't fit on no stool at Woolworth's anyway.”

”What s.h.i.+rley say?”

I pull out my teacher lady voice. ”'If you can't say nothing nice, then you ought not say nothing at all.'” ”'If you can't say nothing nice, then you ought not say nothing at all.'”

When we get to her house, I look over at Aibileen. She's holding down a laugh so hard she's gone purple.

”It ain't funny,” I say.

”I am glad you're my friend, Minny Jackson.” And she gives me a big hug until I roll my eyes and tell her I have to go.

I keep walking and turn at the corner. I didn't want Aibileen to know that. I don't want anybody to know how much I need those Skeeter stories. Now that I can't come to the s.h.i.+rley Boon meetings anymore, that's pretty much all I've got. And I am not saying the Miss Skeeter meetings are fun. Every time we meet, I complain. I moan. I get mad and throw a hot potato fit. But here's the thing: I like telling my stories. It feels like I'm doing something about it. When I leave, the concrete in my chest has loosened, melted down so I can breathe for a few days.

And I know there are plenty of other ”colored” things I could do besides telling my stories or going to s.h.i.+rley Boon's meetings--the ma.s.s meetings in town, the marches in Birmingham, the voting rallies upstate. But truth is, I don't care that much about voting. I don't care about eating at a counter with white people. What I care about is, if in ten years, a white lady will call my girls dirty and accuse them of stealing the silver.

AT HOME THAT NIGHT, I get the b.u.t.ter beans simmering, the ham in the skillet.

”Kindra, get everbody in here,” I say to my six-year-old. ”We ready to eat.”

”Suuuuppperrrrr,” Kindra yells, not moving an inch from where she's standing. Kindra yells, not moving an inch from where she's standing.

”You go get your daddy the proper way,” I yell. ”What I tell you about yelling in my house?”

Kindra rolls her eyes at me like she's just been asked to do the stupidest thing in the world. She stamps her feet down the hall. ”Suuupperrr! ” ”Suuupperrr! ”

”Kindra! ”

The kitchen is the only room in the house we can all fit in together. The rest are set up as bedrooms. Me and Leroy's room is in the back, next to that is a little room for Leroy Junior and Benny, and the front living room's been turned into a bedroom for Felicia, Sugar, and Kindra. So all that leaves is the kitchen. Unless it's crazy cold outside, our back door stays open with the screen shut to keep out the flies. All the time there's the roar of kids and cars and neighbors and dogs barking.

Leroy comes in and sits at the table next to Benny, who's seven. Felicia fills up the gla.s.ses with milk or water. Kindra carries a plate of beans and ham to her daddy and comes back to the stove for more. I hand her another plate.

”This one for Benny,” I say.

”Benny, get up and help your mama,” Leroy says.

”Benny got the asthma. He don't need to be doing nothing.” But my sweet boy gets up anyway, takes the plate from Kindra. My kids know how to work.

They all set at the table except me. Three children are home tonight. Leroy Junior, who's a senior at Lenier High, is bagging groceries at the Jitney 14. That's the white grocery store over in Miss Hilly's neighborhood. Sugar, my oldest girl, in tenth grade, babysits for our neighbor Tallulah who works late. When Sugar's finished, she'll walk home and drive her daddy to the late s.h.i.+ft at the pipe-fitting plant, then pick up Leroy Junior from the grocery. Leroy Senior will get a ride from the plant at four in the morning with Tallulah's husband. It all works out.

Leroy eats, but his eyes are on the Jackson Journal Jackson Journal next to his plate. He's not exactly known for his sweet nature when he wakes up. I glance over from the stove and see the sit-in at Brown's Drug Store is the front-page news. It's not s.h.i.+rley's group, it's people from Greenwood. A bunch of white teenagers stand behind the five protesters on their stools, jeering and jabbing, pouring ketchup and mustard and salt all over their heads. next to his plate. He's not exactly known for his sweet nature when he wakes up. I glance over from the stove and see the sit-in at Brown's Drug Store is the front-page news. It's not s.h.i.+rley's group, it's people from Greenwood. A bunch of white teenagers stand behind the five protesters on their stools, jeering and jabbing, pouring ketchup and mustard and salt all over their heads.

”How they do that?” Felicia points at the picture. ”Sit there without fighting back?”

”That's what they supposed to do,” says Leroy.

”I feel like spitting looking at that picture,” I say.

”We talk about it later.” Leroy folds the paper in quarters and tucks it under his thigh.

Felicia says to Benny, not quiet enough, ”Good thing Mama wasn't up on one a them stools. Else none a them white folks had any teeth left.”

”And Mama be in the Parchman jail,” says Benny for everybody to hear.

Kindra props her arm on her hip. ”Nuh-uh. Ain't n.o.body putting my mama in jail. I beat those white people with a stick till they bleed.”

Leroy points his finger at every one of them. ”I don't want to hear a word about it outside this house. It's too dangerous. You hear me, Benny? Felicia?” Then he points his finger at Kindra. ”You hear me?”

Benny and Felicia nod their heads, look down at their plates. I'm sorry I started all this and give Kindra the keep-it-shut look. But Little Miss Something slaps her fork down on the table, climbs out of her chair. ”I hate white people! And I'm on tell everbody if I want to!”

I chase her down the hall. When I catch her, I potato sack her back to the table.

”I'm sorry, Daddy,” Felicia says because she's the kind that's going to take the blame for everyone every time. ”And I look after Kindra. She don't know what she saying.”

But Leroy smacks his hand on the table. ”n.o.body's getting in that mess! Y'all hear me?” And he stares his children down. I turn to the stove so he can't see my face. Lord help me if he finds out what I'm doing with Miss Skeeter.

All THE NEXT WEEK, I hear Miss Celia on her bedroom phone, leaving messages at Miss Hilly's house, Elizabeth Leefolt's house, Miss Parker's house, both Caldwell sisters, and ten other society ladies. Even Miss Skeeter's house, which I don't like one bit. I told Miss Skeeter myself: Don't even think about calling her back. Don't tangle up this web any more than it already is. Don't even think about calling her back. Don't tangle up this web any more than it already is.

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