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the book business could use some rattling.”

      “You’d do that? Oh Missus Stein…”

      “I’m not saying I’m considering it. But… do the interview and I’ll let you know if it’s worth pursuing.”

      I stuttered a few unintelligible sounds, finally coming out with, “Thank you. Missus Stein, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.”

      “Don’t thank me yet. Call Ruth, my secretary, if you need to get in touch.” And she hung up.

* * *

      I lug an old satchel to bridge club at Elizabeth’s on Wednesday. It is red. It is ugly. And for today, at least, it is a prop.

      It’s the only bag in Mother’s house I could find large enough to carry the Miss Myrna letters. The leather is cracked and flaking, the thick shoulder strap leaves a brown mark on my blouse where the leather stain is rubbing off. It was my Grandmother Claire’s gardening bag. She used to carry her garden tools around the yard in it and the bottom is still lined with sunflower seeds. It matches absolutely nothing I own and I don’t care.

      “Two weeks,” Hilly says to me, holding up two fingers. “He’s coming.” She smiles and I smile back. “I’ll be right back,” I say and I slip into the kitchen, carrying my satchel with me.

      Aibileen is standing at the sink. “Afternoon,” she says quietly. It was a week ago that I visited her at her house.

      I stand there a minute, watching her stir the iced tea, feeling the discomfort in her posture, her dread that I might be about to ask for her help on the book again. I pull a few housekeeping letters out and, seeing this, Aibileen’s shoulders relax a little. As I read her a question about mold stains, she pours a little tea in a glass, tastes it. She spoons more sugar in the pitcher.

      “Oh, fore I forget, I got the answer on that water ring question. Minny say just rub you a little mayonnaise on it.” Aibileen squeezes half a lemon in the tea. “Then go on and throw that no-good husband out the door.” She stirs, tastes. “Minny don’t take too well to husbands[78].”

      “Thanks, I’ll put that down,” I say. As casually as I can, I pull an envelope from my bag. “And here. I’ve been meaning to give you this.”

      Aibileen stiffens back into her cautious pose, the one she had when I walked in. “What you got there?” she says without reaching for it.

      “For your help,” I say quietly. “I’ve put away five dollars for every article. It’s up to thirty-five dollars now.”

      Aibileen’s eyes move quickly back to her tea. “No thank you, ma’am.”

      “Please take it, you’ve earned it.”

      I hear chairs scraping on wood in the dining room, Elizabeth’s voice.

      “Please, Miss Skeeter. Miss Leefolt have a fit if she find you giving me cash,” Aibileen whispers.

      “She doesn’t have to know.”

      Aibileen looks up at me. The whites of her eyes are yellowed, tired. I know what she’s thinking.

      “I already told you, I’m sorry, I can’t help you with that book, Miss Skeeter.”

      I set the envelope on the counter, knowing I’ve made a terrible mistake.

      “Please. Find you another colored maid. A young’un. Somebody… else.”

      “But I don’t know any others well enough.” I am tempted to bring up the word friends, but I’m not that naïve. I know we’re not friends.

      Hilly’s head pops through the door. “Come on, Skeeter, I’m fixing to deal,” and she disappears.

      “I’m begging you,” Aibileen says, “put that money away so Miss Leefolt don’t see it.”

      I nod, embarrassed. I tuck the envelope in my bag, knowing we’re worse off than ever[79]. It’s a bribe, she thinks, to get her to let me interview her. A bribe disguised as goodwill and thanks. I’d been waiting to give her the money anyway, once it added up to something[80], but it’s true, my timing today had been deliberately planned. And now I’ve scared her off for good.

* * *

      “Darling, just try it on your head. It cost eleven dollars. It must be good.”

      Mother has me cornered in the kitchen. I glance at the door to the hall, the door to the side porch. Mother comes closer, the thing in hand, and I’m distracted by how thin her wrists look, how frail her arms are carrying the heavy gray machine. She pushes me down into a chair, not so frail after all, and squeezes a noisy, farty tube of goo on my head. Mother’s been chasing me with the Magic Soft & Silky Shinalator for two days now.

      She rubs the cream in my hair with both hands. I can practically feel the hope in her fingers. A cream will not straighten my nose or take a foot off my height. It won’t add distinction to my almost translucent eyebrows, nor add weight to my bony frame. And my teeth are already perfectly straight. So this is all she has left to fix, my hair.

      Mother covers my dripping head with a plastic cap. She fastens a hose from the cap into a square machine.

      “How long does this take, Mother?”

      She picks up the booklet with a sticky finger. “It says here, ‘Cover with the Miracle Straightening Cap, then turn on the machine and wait for the miraculous —’”

      “Ten minutes? Fifteen?”

      I hear a click, a rising rumble, then feel a slow, intense warmth on my head. But suddenly there’s a pop! The tube is loose from the machine and jerking around like a mad firehose. Mother shrieks, grabs at it and misses. Finally, she snatches it and reattaches it.

      She takes a deep breath and picks up the booklet again. “The Miracle Cap must remain on the head for two hours without removal or results —”

      “Two hours?”

      “I’ll have Pascagoula fix you a glass of tea, dear.” Mother pats me on the shoulder and swishes out through the kitchen door.

      For two hours, I smoke cigarettes and read Life magazine. I finish To Kill a Mockingbird[81]. Finally, I pick up the Jackson Journal, pick through it. It’s Friday, so there won’t be a Miss Myrna column. On page four, I read: Boy blinded over segregated bathroom, suspects questioned. It sounds… familiar. I remember then. This must be Aibileen’s neighbor.

      Twice this week, I’ve gone by Elizabeth’s house hoping she wouldn’t be home, so I could talk to Aibileen, try to find some way to convince her to help me. Elizabeth was hunched over her sewing machine, intent on getting a new dress ready for the Christmas season, and it is yet another green gown, cheap and frail. She must’ve gotten a steal at the bargain bin on green material. I wish I could go down to Kennington’s and charge her something new but just the offer would embarrass her to death.

      “So, do you know what you’re wearing for the date?” Hilly’d asked the second time I came by. “Next Saturday?”

      I’d shrugged. “I guess I have to go shopping.”

      Just then Aibileen brought a tray of coffee out and set it on the table.

      “Thank you.” Elizabeth nodded to her.

      “Why, thank you, Aibileen,” Hilly said, sugaring her cup. “I tell you, you make the best colored coffee in town[82].”

      “Thank you, ma’am.”

      “Aibileen,” Hilly continued, “how do you like your new bathroom out there? It’s nice to have a place of your own, now isn’t it?”

      Aibileen stared at the crack in the dining table. “Yes ma’am.”

      “You

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