I latched on to this small connection.“So . . . You know what it’s like then.”

“Enough to get me out of there,” she said, and I heard her exhale her smoke. “Look, I read your outline. It’s certainly . . . original, but it won’t work. What maid in her right mind would ever tell you the truth?”

I could see Mother’s pink slippers pass by the door. I tried to ignore them. I couldn’t believe Missus Stein was already calling my bluff. “The first interviewee is . . . Eager to tell her story.”

“Miss Phelan,” Elaine Stein said, and I knew it wasn’t a question, “this Negro actually agreed to talk to you candidly? About working for a white family? Because that seems like a hell of a risk in a place like Jackson, Mississippi.”

I sat blinking. I felt the first fingers of worry that Aibileen might not be as easy to convince as I’d thought. Little did I know what she would say to me on her front steps the next week.

“I watched them try to integrate your bus station on the news,” Missus Stein continued. “They jammed fifty-five Negroes in a jail cell built for four.”

I pursed my lips.“She has agreed. Yes, she has.”

“Well. That is impressive. But after her, you really think other maids will talk to you? What if the employers find out?”

“The interviews would be conducted secretly. Since, as you know, things are a little dangerous down here right now.” The truth was, I had very little idea how dangerous things were. I’d spent the past four years locked away in the padded room of college, reading Keats and Eudora Welty and worrying over term papers.

“A little dangerous?” She laughed. “The marches in Birmingham, Martin Luther King. Dogs attacking colored children. Darling, it’s the hottest topic in the nation. But, I’m sorry, this will never work. Not as an article, because no Southern newspaper would publish it. And certainly not as a book. A book ofinterviews would never sell.”

“Oh,” I heard myself say. I closed my eyes, feeling all the excitement drain out of me. I heard myself say again, “Oh.”

“I called because, frankly, it’s a good idea. But . . . there’s no possible way to take it to print.”

“But . . . what if . . .” My eyes started darting around the pantry, looking for something to bring back her interest. Maybe Ishould talk about it as an article, maybe a magazine, but she said no—

“Eugenia, who are you talking to in there?” Mother’s voice cut though the crack. She inched the door open and I yanked it closed again. I covered the receiver, hissed, “I’m talking toHilly, Mother—”

“In the pantry? You’re like a teenager again—”

“I mean—” Missus Stein let out a sharp tsk. “I suppose I could read what you get. God knows, the book business could use some rattling.”

“You’d do that? Oh Missus Stein . . .”

“I’m not saying I’m considering it. But . . . do the interview and I’ll let you know if it’s worth pursuing.”

I stuttered a few unintelligible sounds, finally coming out with,“Thank you. Missus Stein, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Call Ruth, my secretary, if you need to get in touch.” And she hung up.