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 wouldn’t just be peering into Elizabeth’s life, but Hilly’s too.
“Minny got her some stories. Sho nuff.”
“Aibileen,” I say. “Thank you. Oh, thank you.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“I just . . . I have to ask you. What changed your mind?”
Aibileen doesn’t even pause. “Miss Hilly,” she says.
I go quiet, thinking of Hilly’s bathroom plan and accusing the maid of stealing and her talk of diseases. The name comes out flat, bitter as a bad pecan.