“I write a . . . domestic maintenance column for the Jackson Journal.

He wrinkles his brow, then laughs. “Domestic maintenance. You mean . . . housekeeping?”

I nod.

“Jesus.” He stirs his drink. “I can’t think of anything worse than reading a column on how to clean house,” he says, and I notice that his front tooth is the slightest bit crooked. I long to point this imperfection out to him, but he finishes his thought with, “Except maybe writing it.”

I just stare at him.

“Sounds like a ploy to me, to find a husband. Becoming an expert on keeping house.”

“Well, you must be a genius. You’ve figured out my whole scheme.”

“Isn’t that what you women from Ole Miss major in? Professional husband hunting?”

I watch him, dumbfounded. I may not’ve had a date in umpteen years, but who does he think he is?

“I’m sorry, but were you dropped on your head as an infant?”

He blinks at me, then laughs for the first time all night.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” I say, “but I had to start somewhere if I plan on being a journalist.” I think I’ve actually impressed him. But then he throws back the drink and the look is gone.

We eat dinner, and from his profile I can see his nose is a little pointy. His eyebrows are too thick, and his light brown hair too coarse. We say little else, to each other at least. Hilly chats, throwing things our way like, “Stuart, Skeeter here lives on a plantation just north of town. Didn’t the senator grow up on a peanut farm?”

Stuart orders yet another drink.

When Hilly and I go to the bathroom, she gives me a hopeful smile. “What do you think?”

“He’s . . . tall,” I say, surprised she hasn’t noticed that not only is my date inexplicably rude, but drop-dead drunk.

The end of the meal finally comes and he and William split the check. Stuart stands up and helps me with my jacket. At least he has nice manners.

“Jesus, I’ve never met a woman with such long arms,” he says.

“Well, I’ve never met anybody with such a drinking problem.”

“Your coat smells like—” He leans down and sniffs it, grimacing. “Fertilizer.

He strides off to the men’s room and I wish I could disappear.

The car ride, all three minutes of it, is impossibly silent. And long.

We go back inside Hilly’s house. Yule May comes out in her white uniform, says, “They all fine, went to bed good,” and she slips out through the kitchen door. I excuse myself to the bathroom.

“Skeeter, why don’t you drive Stuart home?” William says when I come out. “I’m bushed, aren’t you, Hilly?”

Hilly’s looking at me like she’s trying to figure out what I want to do. I thought I’d made it obvious when I stayed in the bathroom for ten minutes.

“Your . . . car’s not here?” I ask the air in front of Stuart.

“I don’t believe my cousin’s in a position to drive.” William laughs. Everyone’s quiet again.

“I came in a truck,” I say. “I’d hate for you to . . .”

“Shoot,” William says, slapping Stuart on the back. “Stuart doesn’t mind riding in a truck, do you, buddy?”

“William,” Hilly says, “why don’t you drive and, Skeeter, you can ride along.”

“Not me, I’m too boozed up myself,” William says even though he just drove us home.

Finally, I just walk out the door. Stuart follows me, doesn’t comment that I didn’t park in front of Hilly’s house or in Hilly’s driveway. When we get to my truck, we both stop, stare at the fifteen-foot tractor hooked behind my vehicle.

“You pulled that thing all by yourself?”

I sigh. I guess it’s because I’m a big person and have never felt petite or particularly feminine or girly, but that tractor. It just seems to sum up so much.

“That is the funniest damn looking thing I have ever seen,” he says.

I step away from him. “Hilly can take you,” I say. “Hilly will drive you.” He turns and focuses on me for what, I’m pretty sure, is the first time all night. After several long moments of standing there being looked at, my eyes fill with tears. I’m just so tired.

“Ah, shit,” he says and his body loosens. “Look, I told Hilly I wasn’t ready for any damn date.”

“Don’t . . .” I say, backing away from him, and I head back to the house.

SUNDAY MORNING I GET UP EARLY, before Hilly and William, before the kids and the church traffic. I drive home with the tractor rumbling behind me. The fertilizer smell gives me a hangover even though I had nothing but water last night.

I’d gone back in Hilly’s house last night, Stuart trailing behind me. Knocking on Hilly’s bedroom door, I asked William, who already had a mouth full of toothpaste, would he mind driving Stuart home. I’d walked upstairs to the guest room before he even answered.

I step over Daddy’s dogs on the porch, go into my parents’ house. As soon as I see Mother, I give her a hug. When she tries to let go, I can’t let her.

“What is it, Skeeter? You didn’t catch Hilly’s stomach bug, did you?”

“No, I’m fine.” I wish I could tell her about my night. I feel guilty for not being nicer to her, for not needing her until my own life turns bad. I feel bad for wishing Constantine was here instead.

Mother pats my windblown hair down since it must be adding at least two inches to my height. “You sure you’re not feeling bad?”

“I’m alright, Mama.” I am too tired to resist. I ache like someone kicked me in the stomach. With boots on. It won’t go away.

“You know,” she says, smiling, “I think this might be the one for Carlton.”

“Good, Mama,” I say. “I’m really glad for him.”

AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK the next morning, the phone rings. Luckily, I’m in the kitchen and pick it up.

“Miss Skeeter?”

I stand very still, then look out at Mother examining her checkbook at the dining room table. Pascagoula is pulling a roast out of the oven. I go into the pantry and shut the door.

“Aibileen?” I whisper.

She’s quiet a second and then she blurts it out. “What if—what if you don’t like what I got to say? I mean, about white peoples.”

“I—I . . . this isn’t about my opinion,” I say. “It doesn’t matter how I feel.”

“But how I know you ain’t gone get mad, turn around on me?”

“I don’t . . . I guess you’ll just have to . . . trust me.” I hold my breath, hoping, waiting. There is a long pause.

“Law have mercy. I reckon I’m on do it.”

Aibileen.” My heart is pounding. “You have no idea how much I appreciate —”

“Miss Skeeter, we gone have to be real careful.”

“We will, I promise.

“And you gone have to change my name. Mine, Miss Leefolt’s, everbody’s.”

“Of course.” I should’ve mentioned this. “When can we meet? Where can we meet?”

“Can’t do it in the white neighborhood, that’s for sure. I guess . . . we gone have to do it over at my house.”

“Do you know any other maids who might be interested?” I ask, even though Missus Stein has only agreed to read one. But I have to be ready, on the slim chance she likes it.

Aibileen is quiet a moment. “I guess I could ask Minny. But she ain’t real keen on talking to white peoples.”

“Minny? You mean . . . Missus Walters’ old maid,” I say, feeling suddenly how incestuous this is turning. I

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