Stuart blinks at me a second. "Probably."

"Great. I can hardly wait."

"Mother's just...protective is all. She's worried I'll get hurt again." He looks off.

"Where is Patricia now? Does she still live here or--"

"No. She's gone. Moved to California. Can we talk about something else now?"

I sigh, fall back against the sofa.

"Well, do your parents at least know what happened? I mean, am I allowed to know that?" Because I feel a flash of anger that he won't tell me something as important as this.

"Skeeter, I told you, I hate talking . . ." But then he grits his teeth, lowers his voice. "Dad only knows part of it. Mother knows the real story, so do Patricia's parents. And of course her her." He throws back the rest of the drink. "She knows what she did, that's for G.o.dd.a.m.n sure."

"Stuart, I only want to know so I don't do the same thing."

He looks at me and tries to laugh but it comes out more like a growl. "You would never in a million years do what she did."

"What? What did she do?"

"Skeeter." He sighs and sets his gla.s.s down. "I'm tired. I better just go on home."

I Walk in THE STEAMY kitchen the next morning, dreading the day ahead. Mother is in her room getting ready for our shopping trip to outfit us both for supper at the Whitworths'. I have on blue jeans and an untucked blouse.

"Morning, Pascagoula."

"Morning, Miss Skeeter. You want your regular breakfast?"

"Yes, please," I say.

Pascagoula is small and quick on her feet. I told her last June how I liked my coffee black and toast barely b.u.t.tered and she never had to ask again. She's like Constantine that way, never forgetting things for us. It makes me wonder how many white women's breakfasts she has ingrained in her brain. I wonder how it would feel to spend your whole life trying to remember other people's preferences on toast b.u.t.ter and starch amounts and sheet changing.

She sets my coffee down in front of me. She doesn't hand it to me. Aibileen told me that's not how it's done, because then your hands might touch. I don't remember how Constantine used to do it.

"Thank you," I say, "very much."

She blinks at me a second, smiles weakly. "You . . . welcome." I realize this the first time I've ever thanked her sincerely. She looks uncomfortable.

"Skeeter, you ready?" I hear Mother call from the back. I holler that I am. I eat my toast and hope we can get this shopping trip over quickly. I am ten years too old to have my mother still picking out clothes for me. I look over and notice Pascagoula watching me from the sink. She turns away when I look at her.

I skim the Jackson Journal Jackson Journal sitting on the table. My next Miss Myrna column won't come out until next Monday, unlocking the mystery of hard-water stains. Down in the national news section, there's an article on a new pill, the "Valium" they're calling it, "to help women cope with everyday challenges." G.o.d, I could use about ten of those little pills right now. sitting on the table. My next Miss Myrna column won't come out until next Monday, unlocking the mystery of hard-water stains. Down in the national news section, there's an article on a new pill, the "Valium" they're calling it, "to help women cope with everyday challenges." G.o.d, I could use about ten of those little pills right now.

I look up and am surprised to see Pascagoula standing right next to me.

"Are you . . . do you need something, Pascagoula?" I ask.

"I need to tell you something, Miss Skeeter. Something bout that--"

"You cannot wear dungarees to Kennington's," Mother says from the doorway. Like vapor, Pascagoula disappears from my side. She's back at the sink, stretching a black rubber hose from the faucet to the dishwasher.

"You go upstairs and put on something appropriate."

"Mother, this is what I'm wearing. What's the point of getting dressed up to buy new clothes?"

"Eugenia, please let's don't make this any harder than it is."

Mother goes back to her bedroom, but I know this isn't the end of it. The whoosh whoosh of the dishwasher fills the room. The floor vibrates under my bare feet and the rumble is soothing, loud enough to cover a conversation. I watch Pascagoula at the sink. of the dishwasher fills the room. The floor vibrates under my bare feet and the rumble is soothing, loud enough to cover a conversation. I watch Pascagoula at the sink.

"Did you need to tell me something, Pascagoula?" I ask.

Pascagoula glances at the door. She's just a slip of a person, practically half of me. Her manner is so timid, I lower my head when I talk to her. She comes a little closer.

"Yule May my cousin cousin," Pascagoula says over the whir of the machine. She's whispering, but there's nothing timid about her tone now.

"I . . . didn't know that."

"We close kin and she come out to my house ever other weekend to check on me. She told me what it is you doing." She narrows her eyes and I think she's about to tell me to leave her cousin alone.

"I . . . we're changing the names. She told you that, right? I don't want to get anybody in trouble."

"She tell me Sat.u.r.day she gone help you. She try to call Aibileen but couldn't get her. I'd a tole you earlier but . . ." Again she glances at the doorway.

I'm stunned. "She is? She will will?" I stand up. Despite my better thinking, I can't help but ask. "Pascagoula, do you . . . want to help with the stories too?"

She gives me a long, steady look. "You mean tell you what it's like to work for . . . your mama?"

We look at each other, probably thinking the same thing. The discomfort of her telling, the discomfort of me listening.

"Not Mother," I say quickly. "Other jobs, ones you've had before this."

"This my first job working domestic. I use to work at the Old Lady Home serving lunch. Fore it move out to Flowood."

"You mean Mother didn't mind this being your first house job?"

Pascagoula looks at the red linoleum floor, timid again. "n.o.body else a work for her," she says. "Not after what happen with Constantine."

I place my hand carefully on the table. "What did you think about... that?"

Pascagoula's face turns blank. She blinks a few times, clearly outsmarting me. "I don't know nothing about it. I just wanted to tell you what Yule May say." She goes to the refrigerator, opens it and leans inside.

I let out a long, deep breath. One thing at a time.

SHOPPING WITH MOTHER isn't as unbearable as usual, probably because I'm in such a good mood from hearing about Yule May. Mother sits in a chair in the dressing lounge and I choose the first Lady Day suit I try on, light blue poplin with a round-collar jacket. We leave it at the store so they can take down the hem. I'm surprised when Mother doesn't try on anything. After only half an hour, she says she's tired, so I drive us back to Longleaf. Mother goes straight to her room to nap.

When we get home, I call Elizabeth's house, my heart pounding, but Elizabeth picks up the phone. I don't have the nerve to ask for Aibileen. After the satchel scare, I promised myself I'd be more careful.

So I wait until that night, hoping Aibileen's home. I sit on my can of flour, fingers working a bag of dry rice. She answers on the first ring.

"She'll help us, Aibileen. Yule May said yes!"

"Say what? When you find out?"

"This afternoon. Pascagoula told me. Yule May couldn't reach you."

"Law, my phone was disconnected cause I's short this month. You talk to Yule May?"

"No, I thought it would be better if you talked to her first."

"What's strange is I call over to Miss Hilly house this afternoon from Miss Leefolt's, but she say Yule May don't work there no more and hang up. I been asking around but n.o.body know a thing."

"Hilly fired her?"

"I don't know. I's hoping maybe she quit."

"I'll call Hilly and find out. G.o.d, I hope she's alright."

"And now that my phone's back on, I keep trying to call Yule May."

I call Hilly's house four times but the phone just rings. Finally I call Elizabeth's and she tells me Hilly's gone to Port Gibson for the night. That William's father is ill.

"Did something happen . . . with her maid?" I ask as casually as I can.

"You know, she mentioned something about Yule May, but then she said she was late and had to pack up the car."

I spend the rest of the night on the back porch, rehearsing questions, nervous about what stories Yule May might tell about Hilly. Despite our disagreements, Hilly is still one of my closest friends. But the book, now that it is going again, is more important than anything.

I lay on the cot at midnight. The crickets sing outside the screen. I let my body sink deep into the thin mattress, against the springs. My feet dangle off the end, dance nervously, relishing relief for the first time in months. It's not a dozen maids, but it's one more.

THE NEXT DAY, I'm sitting in front of the television set watching the twelve o'clock news. Charles Warring is reporting, telling me that sixty American soldiers have been killed in Vietnam. It's so sad to me. Sixty men, in a place far away from anyone they loved, had to die. I think it's because of Stuart that this bothers me so, but Charles Warring looks eerily thrilled by it all.

I pick up a cigarette and put it back down. I'm trying not to smoke, but I'm nervous about tonight. Mother's been nagging me about my smoking and I know I should stop, but it's not like it's going to kill me. I wish I could ask Pascagoula more about what Yule May said, but Pascagoula called this morning and said she had a problem and wouldn't be coming in until this afternoon.

I can hear Mother out on the back porch, helping Jameso make ice cream. Even in the front of the house, I can hear the rumbly noise of ice cracking, the salt crunching. The sound is delicious, makes me wish for some now, but it won't be ready for hours. Of course, no one makes ice cream at twelve noon on a hot day, it's a night ch.o.r.e, but Mother has it in her mind that she's going to make peach ice cream and the heat be d.a.m.ned.

I go out on the back porch and look. The big silver ice-cream maker is cold and sweating. The porch floor vibrates. Jameso's sitting on an upsidedown bucket, knees on either side of the machine, turning the wooden crank with gloved hands. Steam rises from the well of dry ice.

"Has Pascagoula come in yet?" Mama asks, feeding more cream into the machine.

"Not yet," I say. Mother is sweating. She pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I'll pour the cream awhile, Mama. You look hot."

"You won't do it right. I have to do it," she says and shoos me back inside.

On the news, now Roger Sticker is reporting in front of the Jackson post office with the same stupid grin as the war reporter. ". . . this modern postal addressing system is called a Z-Z-ZIP code, that's right, I said Z-Z-ZIP code, that's five numbers to be written along the bottom of your envelope . . ."

He's holding up a letter, showing us where to write the numbers. A man in overalls with no teeth says, "Ain't n.o.body gonna use them there numbers. Folks is still trying to get used to using the tellyphone."

I hear the front door close. A minute pa.s.ses and Pascagoula comes in the relaxing room.

"Mother's out on the back porch," I tell her but Pascagoula doesn't smile, doesn't even look up at me. She just hands me a small envelope.

"She was gone mail it but I told her I just carry it to you."

The front of the envelope is addressed to me, no return name on it. Certainly no ZIP code. Pascagoula walks off toward the back porch.

I open the letter. The handwriting is in black pen, written on the straight blue lines of school paper: Dear Miss Skeeter, I want you to know how sorry I am that I won't be able to help you with your stories. But now I can't and I want to be the one to tell you why. As you know, I used to wait on a friend of yours. I didn't like working for her and I wanted to quit many times but I was afraid to. I was afraid I might never get another job once she'd had her say.

You probably don't know that after I finished high school, I went on to college. I would've graduated except I decided to get married. It's one of my few regrets in life, not getting my college degree. I have twin boys that make it all worthwhile, though. For ten years, my husband and I have saved our money to send them to Tougaloo College, but as hard as we worked, we still didn't have enough for both. My boys are equally as smart, equally eager for an education. But we only had the money for one and I ask you, how do you choose which of your twin sons should go to college and which should take a job spreading tar? How do you tell one that you love him just as much as the other, but you've decided he won't be the one to get a chance in life? You don't. You find a way to make it happen. Any way at all.

I suppose you could look at this as a confession letter. I stole from that woman. An ugly ruby ring, hoping it would cover the rest of the tuition. Something she never wore and I felt she owed me for everything I'd been through working for her. Of course now, neither of my boys will be going to college. The court fine is nearly as much as we had saved.

Sincerely, Yule May Crookle Women's Block 9 Mississippi State Penitentiary The penitentiary. penitentiary. I shudder. I look around for Pascagoula but she's left the room. I want to ask her when this happened, how it happened so G.o.dd.a.m.n fast? What can be done? But Pascagoula's gone outside to help Mother. We can't talk out there. I feel sick, nauseous. I switch off the television. I shudder. I look around for Pascagoula but she's left the room. I want to ask her when this happened, how it happened so G.o.dd.a.m.n fast? What can be done? But Pascagoula's gone outside to help Mother. We can't talk out there. I feel sick, nauseous. I switch off the television.

I think about Yule May, sitting in a jail cell writing this letter. I bet I even know what ring Yule May's talking about--Hilly's mother gave it to her for her eighteenth birthday. Hilly had it appraised a few years ago and found out it wasn't even a ruby, just a garnet, hardly worth anything. Hilly never wore it again. My hands turn to fists.

The sound of the ice cream churning outside sounds like bones crunching. I go to the kitchen to wait for Pascagoula, to get answers. I'll tell Daddy. I'll see if there's anything he can do. If he knows any lawyers who would be willing to help her.

I Walk up AIBILEEN'S STEPS at eight o'clock that night. This was supposed to be our first interview with Yule May and even though I know that's not going to happen, I've decided to come anyway. It's raining and blowing hard and I hold my raincoat tight around me and the satchel. I kept thinking I'd call Aibileen to talk about the situation, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Instead, I practically dragged Pascagoula upstairs so Mother wouldn't see us talking and asked her everything. "Yule May had her a real good lawyer," Pascagoula said. "But everbody saying the judge wife be good friends with Miss Holbrook and how a regular sentence be six months for petty stealing, but Miss Holbrook, she get it pushed up to four years. That trial was done fore it even started."

"I could ask Daddy. He could try and get her a . . . white lawyer."

Pascagoula shakes her head, says, "He was was a white lawyer." a white lawyer."

I knock on Aibileen's door, feel a rush of shame. I shouldn't be thinking about my own problems when Yule May is in jail, but I know what this means for the book. If the maids were afraid to help us yesterday, I'm sure they're terrified today.

The door opens and a Negro man stands there looking at me, his white clerical collar gleaming. I hear Aibileen say, "It's okay, Reverend." He hesitates, but then moves back for me to come in.

I step inside and see at least twenty people packed in the tiny living room and hallway. I cannot see the floor. Aibileen's brought out the kitchen chairs, but most people stand. I spot Minny in the corner, still in her uniform. I recognize Lou Anne Templeton's maid, Louvenia, next to her, but everyone else is a stranger.

"Hey Miss Skeeter," whispers Aibileen. She's still in her white uniform and white orthopedic shoes.

"Should I . . ." I point behind me. "I'll come back later," I whisper.

Aibileen shakes her head. "Something awful happen to Yule May."

"I know," I say. The room is quiet except for a few coughs. A chair creaks. Hymn books are stacked on the small wooden table.

"I just find out today," Aibileen says. "She arrested on Monday, in the pen on Tuesday. They say the whole trial took fifteen minutes."

"She sent me a letter," I say. "She told me about her sons. Pascagoula gave it to me."

"She tell you she only short seventy-five dollars for that tuition? She ask Miss Hilly for a loan, you know. Say she'd pay her back some ever week, but Miss Hilly say no. That a true Christian don't give charity to those who is well and able. Say it's kinder to let them learn to work things out theyselves."

G.o.d, I can just imagine Hilly giving that G.o.dd.a.m.n speech. I can hardly look Aibileen in the face.

"The churches got together though. They gone send both them boys to college."

The room is dead quiet, except for Aibileen and my whispering. "Do you think there's anything I can do? Any way I can help? Money or . . ."