about it in the paper all the time—they despise the whites that meet with the coloreds to help with the civil rights movement. This has nothing to do with integration, but why else would we be meeting? I didn’t even bring any Miss Myrna letters as backup.
I see open, honest fear on Aibileen’s face. Slowly the voices outside dissipate down the road. I exhale but Aibileen stays tense. She keeps her eyes on the curtains.
I look down at my list of questions, searching for something to draw this nervousness out of her, out of myself. I keep thinking about how much time I’ve lost already.
“And what . . . did you say you disliked about your job?”
Aibileen swallows hard.
“I mean, do you want to talk about the bathroom? Or about Eliz—Miss Leefolt? Anything about the way she pays you? Has she ever yelled at you in front of Mae Mobley?”
Aibileen takes a napkin and dabs it to her forehead. She starts to speak, but stops herself.
“We’ve talked plenty of times, Aibileen . . .”
She puts her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, I—” She gets up and walks quickly down the narrow hall. A door closes, rattling the teapot and the cups on the tray.
Five minutes pass. When she comes back, she holds a towel to her front, the way I’ve seen Mother do after she vomits, when she doesn’t make it to her toilet in time.
“I’m sorry. I thought I was . . . ready to talk.”
I nod, not sure what to do.
“I just . . . I know you already told that lady in New York I’s gone do this but . . .” She closes her eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can. I think I need to lay down.”
“Tomorrow night. I’ll . . . come up with a better way. Let’s just try again and . . .”
She shakes her head, clutches her towel.
On my drive home, I want to kick myself. For thinking I could just waltz in and demand answers. For thinking she’d stop feeling like the maid just because we were at her house, because she wasn’t wearing a uniform.
I look over at my notebook on the white leather seat. Besides where she grew up, I’ve gotten a total of twelve words. And four of them are yes ma’am and no ma’am.
PATSY CLINE’S VOICE DRIFTS out of WJDX radio. As I drive down the County Road, they’re playing “Walking After Midnight.” When I pull into Hilly’s driveway, they’re on “Three Cigarettes in an Ashtray.” Her plane crashed this morning and everyone from New York to Mississippi to Seattle is in mourning, singing her songs. I park the Cadillac and stare out at Hilly’s rambling white house. It’s been four days since Aibileen vomited in the middle of our interview and I’ve heard nothing from her.
I go inside. The bridge table is set up in Hilly’s antebellum-style parlor with its deafening grandfather clock and gold swag curtains. Everyone is seated—Hilly, Elizabeth, and Lou Anne Templeton, who has replaced Missus Walters. Lou Anne is one of those girls who wears a big eager smile—all the time, and it never stops. It makes me want to stick a straight pin in her. And when you’re not looking, she stares at you with that vapid, toothy smile. And she agrees with every single little thing Hilly says.
Hilly holds up a Life magazine, points to a spread of a house in California. “A den they’re calling it, like wild animals are living there.”
“Oh, isn’t that dreadful!” Lou Anne beams.
The picture shows wall-to-wall shag carpet and low, streamlined sofas, egg-shaped chairs and televisions that look like flying saucers. In Hilly’s parlor, a portrait of a Confederate general hangs eight feet tall. It is as prominent as if he were a grandfather and not a third cousin removed.
“That’s it. Trudy’s house looks just like that,” Elizabeth says. I’ve been so wrapped up in the interview with Aibileen, I’d almost forgotten Elizabeth’s trip last week to see her older sister. Trudy married a banker and they moved to Hollywood. Elizabeth went out there for four days to see her new house.
“Well, that’s just bad taste, is what it is,” Hilly says. “No offense to your family, Elizabeth.”
“What was Hollywood like?” Lou Anne asks.
“Oh, it was like a dream. And Trudy’s house—T.V. sets in every room. That same crazy space-age furniture you could hardly even sit in. We went to all these fancy restaurants, where the movie stars eat, and drank