Kathryn Stockett - The Help

“Oh, hey there, Julia,” Celia calls. They’d met at one of the few parties Celia and Johnny attended when they first got married.

Julia Fenway smiles, glances around.

“It’s Celia. Celia Foote. How are you? Oh, I just love that dress. Where’d you get that? Over at the Jewel Taylor Shoppe?”

“No, Warren and I were in New Orleans a few months ago . . .” Julia looks around, but there is no one near enough to save her. “And you look very . . . glamorous tonight.”

Celia leans closer. “Well, I asked Johnny, but you know how men are. Do you think I’m a tad overdressed?”

Julia laughs, but not once does she look Celia in the eye. “Oh no. You’re just perfect .”

A fellow Leaguer squeezes Julia on the forearm. “Julia, we need you over here a second, excuse us.” They walk away, heads leaned close together, and Celia is alone again.

Five minutes later, the doors to the dining room slide open. The crowd moves forward. Guests find their tables using the tiny cards in their hands as oohs and aahs come from the bidding tables along the walls. They are full of silver pieces and hand-sewn daygowns for infants, cotton handkerchiefs, monogrammed hand towels, a child’s tea set imported from Germany.

Minny is at a table in the back polishing glasses. “Aibileen,” she whispers. “There she is.”

Aibileen looks up, spots the woman who knocked on Miss Leefolt’s door a month ago. “Ladies better hold on to they husbands tonight,” she says.

Minny jerks the cloth around the rim of a glass. “Let me know if you see her talking to Miss Hilly.”

“I will. I been doing a super power prayer for you all day.”

“Look, there Miss Walters. Old bat. And there Miss Skeeter.”

Skeeter has on a long-sleeved black velvet dress, scooped at the neck, setting off her blond hair, her red lipstick. She has come alone and stands in a pocket of emptiness. She scans the room, looking bored, then spots Aibileen and Minny. They all look away at once.

One of the other colored helpers, Clara, moves to their table, picks up a glass. “Aibileen,” she whispers, but keeps her eyes on her polishing. “That the one?”

“One what?”

“One who taking down the stories bout the colored help. What she doing it for? Why she interested? I hear she been coming over to your house ever week.”

Aibileen lowers her chin. “Now look, we got to keep her a secret.”

Minny looks away. No one outside the group knows she’s part of this. They only know about Aibileen.

Clara nods. “Don’t worry, I ain’t telling nobody nothing.”

Skeeter jots a few words on her pad, notes for the newsletter article about the Benefit. She looks around the room, taking in the swags of green, the holly berries, red roses and dried magnolia leaves set as centerpieces on all the tables. Then her eyes land on Elizabeth, a few feet away, ticking through her handbag. She looks exhausted, having had her baby only a month ago. Skeeter watches as Celia Foote approaches Elizabeth. When Elizabeth looks up and sees who she’s been surrounded by, she coughs, draws her hand up to her throat as if she’s shielding herself from some kind of attack.

“Not sure which way to turn, Elizabeth?” asks Skeeter.

“What? Oh, Skeeter, how are you?” Elizabeth offers a quick, wide smile. “I was . . . feeling so warm in here. I think I need some fresh air.”

Skeeter watches Elizabeth rush away, at Celia Foote rattling after Elizabeth in her awful dress. That’s the real story, Skeeter thinks. Not the flower arrangements or how many pleats are around the rear end of Hilly’s dress. This year, it’s all about The Celia Foote Fashion Catastrophe.

Moments later, dinner is announced and everyone settles into their assigned seats. Celia and Johnny have been seated with a handful of out-of-town couples, friends of friends who aren’t really friends of anyone at all. Skeeter is seated with a few local couples, not President Hilly or even Secretary Elizabeth this year. The room is full of chatter, praise for the party, praise for the Chateaubriand. After the main course, Hilly stands behind the podium. There is a round of applause and she smiles at the crowd.

“Good evening. I sure do thank y’all for coming tonight. Everybody enjoying their dinner?”

There are nods and rumbles of consent.

“Before we start the announcements, I’d like to go ahead and thank the people who are making tonight such a success.” Without turning her head from the audience, Hilly gestures to her left, where two dozen colored women have lined up, dressed in their white uniforms. A dozen colored men are behind them, in gray-and-white tuxedos.

“Let’s give a special round of applause to the help, for all the wonderful food they cooked and served, and for the desserts they made for the auction.” Here, Hilly picks up a card and reads, “In their own way, they are helping the League reach its goal to feed the Poor Starving Children of Africa, a cause, I’m sure, dear to their own hearts as well.”

The white people at the tables clap for the maids and servers. Some of the servers smile back. Many, though, stare at the empty air just above the crowd’s heads.

“Next we’d like to thank those nonmembers in this room who have given their time and help, for it’s you who made our job that much easier.”

There is light applause, some cold smiles and nods between members and nonmembers. Such a pity, the members seem to be thinking. Such a shame you girls haven’t the gentility to join our club. Hilly goes on, thanking and recognizing in a musical, patriotic voice. Coffee is served and the husbands drink theirs, but most of the women keep rapt attention on Hilly. “. . . thanks to Boone Hardware . . . let us not forget Ben Franklin’s dime store . . .” She concludes the list with, “And of course we thank our anonymous contributor of, ahem, supplies , for the Home Help Sanitation Initiative.”

A few people laugh nervously, but most turn their heads to see if Skeeter has had the gall to show up.

“I just wish instead of being so shy, you’d step up and accept our gratitude. We honestly couldn’t have accomplished so many installations without you.”

Skeeter keeps her eyes on the podium, her face stoic and unyielding. Hilly gives a quick, brilliant smile. “And finally, a special thanks to my husband, William Holbrook, for donating a weekend at his deer camp.” She smiles down at her husband, adds in a lower tone, “And don’t forget, voters. Holbrook for State Senate.”

The guests offer an amicable laugh at Hilly’s plug.

“What’s that, Virginia?” Hilly cups her ear, then straightens. “No, I’m not running with him. But congressmen with us tonight, if you don’t straighten this thing out with the separate schools, don’t think I won’t come down there and do it myself.”

There is more laughter at this. Senator and Missus Whitworth, seated at a table in the front, nod and smile. At her table in the back, Skeeter looks down at her lap. They spoke earlier, during the cocktail hour. Missus Whitworth steered the Senator away from Skeeter before he could give her a second hug. Stuart didn’t come.

Once the dinner and the speech have ended, people get up to dance, husbands head for the bar. There is a scurry to the auction tables for last-minute bids. Two grandmothers are in a bidding war over the child’s antique tea set. Someone started the rumor that it had belonged to royalty and had been smuggled out via donkey cart across Germany until it eventually wound up in the Magnolia Antique Store on Fairview Street. The price shot up from fifteen dollars to eighty-five in no time.

In the corner by the bar, Johnny yawns. Celia’s brow is scrunched together. “I can’t believe what she said about nonmembers helping. She told me they didn’t need any help this year.”