still want to fold myself up and put my entire body in his arms. I am loving him and hating him at the same time.
“Go home,” I say, hardly believing myself. “There’s no place left inside me for you.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“You’re too late, Stuart.”
“Can I come by on Saturday? To talk some more?”
I shrug, my eyes full of tears. I won’t let him throw me away again. It’s already happened too many times, with him, with my friends. I’d be stupid to let it happen again.
“I don’t really care what you do.”
I WAKE UP AT FIVE A.M. and start working on the stories. 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. I finish Louvenia’s story in half the time it took me to write the others and, with an intense burning headache, I turn off the light as the first rays of sun peek through the window. If Aibileen will give me Constantine’s story by early next week, I just might be able to pull this off.
And then I realize I do not have seventeen more days. How dumb of me. I have ten days, because I haven’t accounted for the time it will take to mail it to New York.
I’d cry, if only I had the time to do it.
A few hours later, I wake up and go back to work. At five in the afternoon, I hear a car pull up and see Stuart climb out of his truck. I tear myself away from the typewriter and go out on the front porch.
“Hello,” I say, standing in the doorway.
“Hey, Skeeter.” He nods at me, shyly I think, compared to his way two nights ago. “Afternoon, Mister Phelan.”
“Hey there, son.” Daddy gets up from his rocking chair. “I’ll let you kids talk out here.”
“Don’t get up, Daddy. I’m sorry, but I’m busy today, Stuart. You’re welcome to sit out here with Daddy as long as you like.”
I go back in the house, pass Mother at the kitchen table drinking warm milk.
“Was that Stuart I saw out there?”
I go in the dining room. I stand back from the windows, where I know Stuart can’t see me. I watch until he drives away. And then I just keep watching.
THAT NIGHT, as usual, I go to Aibileen’s. I tell her about the deadline of only ten days, and she looks like she might cry. Then I hand her Louvenia’s chapter to read, the one I’ve written at lightning speed. Minny is at the kitchen table with us, drinking a Coke, looking out the window. I hadn’t known she’d be here tonight and wish she’d leave us to work.
Aibileen puts it down, nods. “I think this chapter is right good. Read just as well as the slow-wrote ones.”
I sigh, leaning back in my chair, thinking of what else needs to be done. “We need to decide on the title,” I say and rub my temples. “I’ve been working on a few. I think we should call it Colored Domestics and the Southern Families for Which They Work.”
“Say what?” Minny says, looking at me for the first time.
“That’s the best way to describe it, don’t you think?” I say.
“If you got a corn cob up you butt.”
“This isn’t fiction, Minny. It’s sociology. It has to sound exact.”
“But that don’t mean it have to sound boring,” Minny says.
“Aibileen,” I sigh, hoping we can resolve this tonight. “What do you think?”
Aibileen shrugs and I can see already, she’s putting on her peace-making smile. It seems she has to smooth things over every time Minny and I are in the same room. “That’s a good title. A course you gone get tired a typing all that on top a ever page,” she says. I’d told her this is how it has to be done.
“Well, we could shorten it a little . . .” I say and pull out my pencil.
Aibileen scratches her nose, says, “What you think about just calling it . . . Help?”
“Help,” Minny repeats, like she’s never heard of the word.
“Help,” I say.
Aibileen shrugs, looks down shyly, like she’s a little embarrassed. “I ain’t trying to take over your idea, I just... I like to keep things simple, you know?”
“I guess Help sound alright to me,” Minny says and crosses her arms.
“I like . . . Help,” I say, because I really do. I add, “I think we’ll still have to put the description underneath, so the