The Help: Chapters 27–34

December twenty-first is when everyone leaves for vacation and then in the new year we’re deluged with projects from our own list of authors and journalists.

“I am going over to Senator Whitworth's house myself and telling him you, Skeeter Phelan, will be a blight on his campaign in Washington. A wart on the face of his reputation if Stuart ever associates with you again!”

She’s sitting up straight and gives me a defiant nod.

The Christmas tree is starting to smell too rich, the spiced oranges sickly decadent.

But the minute I walk in, backs turn. My exclusion is tangible, as if concrete walls have formed around me.

Hilly steps up to the podium and announces the upcoming gimme-drives (coat drive, can drive, book drive, and a plain old money drive), and then we get to Hilly’s favorite part of the meeting, the trouble list. This is where she gets to call out the names of anyone late on their dues or tardy for meetings or not fulfilling their philanthropic duties.

Hilly tucks her dark hair behind her ears, gives me a diplomatic smile.

With only seventeen days until our deadline, I work through the day and night with a speed and efficiency I didn’t know I possessed.

Aibileen looks me straight in the eye. I see something there I rarely see—frustration, antipathy.

“Oh Eugenia,” Mother chides and pats my hand. “That was almost two years ago.”

I pulled her into the kitchen and I said, Lulabelle, you can’t stay here. You need to go on, and oh she looked at me haughty. She said, What, you don’t allow colored Negroes in your living room if we’re not cleaning up?

Now that everyone knows about Mother’s cancer, it is as if she’s let go of the few threads that kept her upright. The marionette strings are cut, and even her head looks wobbly on its post.

It was tiring and frustrating, trying to wrap each ornament the way Mother likes, to get them ready for next year. I don’t let myself question the futility of it.

It sounds macabre, but when Mother realized that after she’s dead, she won’t be able to tell me what to wear anymore, she came up with this ingenious postmortem system.

It sounds macabre, but when Mother realized that after she’s dead, she won’t be able to tell me what to wear anymore, she came up with this ingenious postmortem system.

I’m glad to see him and to eradicate, for a while, the deadly silence of the house.

There is a skirmish in Vietnam. The reporter seems to thinks it’ll be solved without much fuss.

“And I could see how people would take it, think you’re some kind of crazy liberal, involved in all that mess.”

When I came back she tore out a blank check and then handed me a hundred-dollar bill she had folded in the side of her wallet. Just the word shopping seemed to’ve made her feel better.
“Don’t be frugal, now. And no slacks. Make sure Miss LaVole helps you.”

The glow around Mother is unearthly, phosphorescent. It’s from the porch light, but I wonder why I’ve never seen it before.

Did I remain businesslike and ask pertinent questions?

Miss Skeeter say maybe don’t spec nothing at all, that most Southern peoples is “repressed.” If they feel something, they might not say a word.

I want to yell—That’s my book! That’s my book on the tee-vee! But I got to keep still, like I’m watching something humdrum.

“...called Help with testimonies from some of Mississippi’s very own housekeepers—”

“Do not buy this book! Ladies of Jackson, do not support this slander with your husbands’ hard-earned—”

I get to park in front now since Miss Celia finally dropped the ruse and told Mister Johnny what he already knew.

The next morning, I’m near about hyperventilating at the bus stop thinking about what Miss Hilly gone do when she get to her part, wondering if Miss Leefolt done read Chapter Two yet.

Missus Stein told me I could list her as a reference, which is probably the only notable thing on the page, having a recommendation from someone in publishing.

“She’s fine. Still...in remission.”

“To tell you I’ve contacted my lawyer, Hibbie Goodman, who happens to be the number one expert on the libel laws in Mississippi, and you are in big trouble, missy. You’re going to jail, you know that?”

“You can’t prove anything, Hilly.” I’ve had this discussion with the legal department of Harper & Row. We were very careful in our obscurity.

“And you tell that Aibileen, the next time she wants to write about my dear friend Elizabeth, uh-huh,” she says, flashing a crude smile.

Polishing Grand Baroque with all its loops and curls is a two-arm job.

Miss Hilly scoff real loud. “Do you hear her, Elizabeth? She’s trying to blame it on a toddler.”

“Then it behooves me to inform you that you are fired, Aibileen.”