But Mother is caught up in her own story. “And Constantine, she thought she could get me to change my mind. Miss Phelan, please, just let her stay at the house, she won’t come on this side again, I hadn’t seen her in so long.
“And that Lulabelle, with her hand up on her hip, saying, ‘Yeah, my daddy died and my mama was too sick to take care of me when I was a baby. She had to give me away. You can’t keep us apart.’ ”
Mother lowers her voice. She seems matter-of-fact now. “I looked at Constantine and I felt so much shame for her. To get pregnant in the first place and then to lie . . .”
I feel sick and hot. I’m ready for this to be over.
Mother narrows her eyes. “It’s time you learned, Eugenia, how things really are. You idolize Constantine too much. You always have.” She points her finger at me. “They are not like regular people.”
I can’t look at her. I close my eyes. “And then what happened, Mother?”
“I asked Constantine, just as plain as day, ‘Is that what you told her? Is that how you cover your mistakes?’ ”
This is the part I was hoping wasn’t true. This is what I’d hoped Aibileen had been wrong about.
“I told Lulabelle the truth. I told her, ‘Your daddy didn’t die. He left the day after you were born. And your mama hadn’t been sick a day in her life. She gave you up because you were too high yellow. She didn’t want you.’”
“Why couldn’t you let her believe what Constantine told her? Constantine was so scared she wouldn’t like her, that’s why she told her those things.”
“Because Lulabelle needed to know the truth. She needed to go back to Chicago where she belonged.”
I let my head sink into my hands. There is no redeeming piece of the story. I know why Aibileen hadn’t wanted to tell me. A child should never know this about her own mother.
“I never thought Constantine would go to Illinois with her, Eugenia. Honestly, I was . . . sorry to see her go.”
“You weren’t,” I say. I think about Constantine, after living fifty years in the country, sitting in a tiny apartment in Chicago. How lonely she must’ve felt. How bad her knees must’ve felt in that cold.
“I was. And even though I told her not to write you, she probably would’ve, if there’d been more time.”
“More time?”
“Constantine died, Skeeter. I sent her a check, for her birthday. To the address I found for her daughter, but Lulabelle . . . sent it back. With a copy of the obituary.”
“Constantine . . .” I cry. I wish I’d known. “Why didn’t you tell me, Mama?”
Mother sniffs, keeping her eyes straight ahead. She quickly wipes her eyes. “Because I knew you’d blame me when it—it wasn’t my fault.”
“When did she die? How long was she living in Chicago?” I ask.
Mother pulls the basin closer, hugs it to her side. “Three weeks.”
AIBILEEN OPENS HER back DOOR, lets me in. Minny is sitting at the table, stirring her coffee. When she sees me, she tugs the sleeve of her dress down, but I see the edge of a white bandage on her arm. She grumbles a hello, then goes back to her cup.
I put the manuscript down on the table with a thump.
“If I mail it in the morning, that still leaves six days for it to get there. We might just make it.” I smile through my exhaustion.
“Law, that is something. Look at all them pages.” Aibileen grins and sits on her stool. “Two hundred and sixty-six of em.”
“Now we just . . . wait and see,” I say and we all three stare at the stack.
“Finally,” Minny says, and I can see the hint of something, not exactly a smile, but more like satisfaction.
The room grows quiet. It’s dark outside the window. The post office is already closed so I brought it over to show to Aibileen and Minny one last time before I mail it. Usually, I only bring over sections at a time.
“What if they find out?” Aibleen says quietly.
Minny looks up from her coffee.
“What if folks find out Niceville is Jackson or figure out who who.”
“They ain’t gone know,” Minny says. “Jackson ain’t no special place. They’s ten thousand towns just like it.”
We haven’t talked about this in a while, and besides Winnie’s comment about tongues, we’ve haven’t really discussed the actual consequences besides the maids