I try not to, but I feel kind of sorry for him then, seeing he’s just as confused as I am about all this mess.

“Mister Johnny, this ain’t none a my business. But I can tell you Miss Celia ain’t having no relations outside a this house.”

He nods.“You’re right. That was a stupid thing to ask.”

I eye the door, wondering when Miss Celia’s going to be home. I don’t know what she’d do if she found Mister Johnny here.

“Look,” he says, “don’t say anything about meeting me. I’m going to let her tell me when she’s ready.”

I manage my first real smile.“So you want me to just go on like I been doing?”

“Look after her. I don’t like her in this big house by herself.”

“Yessuh. Whatever you say.”

“I came by today to surprise her. I was going to cut down that mimosa tree she hates so much, then take her into town for lunch. Pick out some jewelry for her Christmas present.” Mister Johnny walks to the window, looks out, and sighs. “I guess I’ll go get lunch in town somewhere.”

“I fix you something. What you want?”

He turns around, grinning like a kid. I start going through the refrigerator, pulling things out.

“Remember those pork chops we had that time?” He starts nibbling on his fingernail. “Will you make those for us this week?”

“I fix em for supper tonight. Got some in the freezer. And tomorrow night you having chicken and dumplings.”

“Oh, Cora Blue used to make us those.”

“Sit up there at the table and I’m on do you a good BLT to take with you in the truck.”

“And will you toast the bread?”

“A course. Can’t have no proper sandwich on no raw bread. And this afternoon I’ll make one a Minny’s famous caramel cakes. And next week we gone do you a fried catfish . . .”

I pull out the bacon for Mister Johnny’s lunch, get the skillet out to fry. Mister Johnny’s eyes are clear and wide. He’s smiling with every part of his face. I fix his sandwich and wrap it in waxed paper. Finally, somebody I get the satisfaction of feeding.

“Minny, I have to ask, ifyou’re here . . . what in the world is Celia doing all day?”

I shrug.“I ain’t never seen a white woman sit there like she do. Most of em is busy-busy, running errands, acting like they busier than me.”

“She needs some friends. I asked my buddy Will if he’d get his wife to come out and teach her to play bridge, get her in a group. I know Hilly’s the ringleader of all that stuff.”

I stare at him, like if I kept real still, maybe it wouldn’t be true. Finally I ask, “That Miss Hilly Holbrook you talking about?”

“You know her?” he asks.

“Mm-hmm.” I swallow the tire iron that’s rising up in my throat at the thought of Miss Hilly hanging around this house. Miss Celia finding out the truth about the Terrible Awful. There’s no way those two could be friends. But I bet Miss Hilly would do anything for Mister Johnny.

“I’ll call Will tonight and ask him again.” He pats me on my shoulder and I find myself thinking about that word again,truth. And Aibileen’s telling Miss Skeeter all about it. If the truth gets out on me, I’m done. I crossed the wrong person, and that’s all it takes.

“I’m going to give you my number at the office. Call me if you ever run into trouble, alright?”

“Yessuh,” I say, feeling my dread erase any relief I had coming to me today.

MISS SKEETER

Chapter 11

IT’S TECHNICALLY WINTER in most of the nation, but already there is gnashing of teeth and wringing of hands in my mother’s house. Signs of spring have come too early. Daddy’s in a cotton-planting frenzy, had to hire ten extra field workers to till and drive tractors to get the seed in the ground. Mother’s been studyingThe Farmer’s Almanac, but she’s hardly concerned with planting. She delivers the bad news to me with a hand on her forehead.

“They say this’ll be the most humid one in years.” She sighs. The Shinalator never did much good after those first few times. “I’d pick up some more spray cans down at Beemon’s, the new extra-heavy kind.”

She looks up from theAlmanac, narrows her eyes at me.“What are you dressed that way for?”

I have on my darkest dress, dark stockings. The black scarf over my hair probably makes me look more like Peter O’Toole inLawrence of Arabia than Marlene Dietrich. The ugly red satchel hangs from my shoulder.

“I have some errands to run tonight. Then I’m meeting . . . some girls. At church.”

“On a Saturday night?”

“Mama, God doesn’t care what day of the week it is,” I say and make for the car before she can ask any more questions. Tonight, I’m going to Aibileen’s for her first interview.

My heart racing, I drive fast on the paved town roads, heading for the colored part of town. I’ve never even sat at the same table with a Negro who wasn’t paid to do so. The interview has been delayed by over a month. First, the holidays came and Aibileen had to work late almost every night, wrapping presents and cooking for Elizabeth’s Christmas party. In January, I started to panic when Aibileen got the flu. I’m afraid I’ve waited so long, Missus Stein will have lost interest or forgotten why she even agreed to read it.

I drive the Cadillac through the darkness, turning on Gessum Avenue, Aibileen’s Street. I’d rather be in the old truck, but Mother would’ve been too suspicious and Daddy was using it in the fields. I stop in front of an abandoned, haunted-looking house three down from Aibileen’s, as we planned. The front porch of the spooky house is sagging, the windows have no panes. I step into the dark, lock the doors and walk quickly. I keep my head lowered, my noisy heels clicking on the pavement.

A dog barks and my keys jangle to the pavement. I glimpse around, pick them up. Two sets of colored people sit on porches, watching, rocking. There are no streetlights so it’s hard to say who else sees me. I keep walking, feeling as obvious as my vehicle: large and white.

I reach number twenty-five, Aibileen’s house. I give one last look around, wishing I wasn’t ten minutes early. The colored part of town seems so far away when, evidently, it’s only a few miles from the white part of town.