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THE HELP

THE HELP

Kathryn Stockett

AMY EINHORN BOOKS

PUBLISHED BY G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

A MEMBER OF PENGUIN GROUP (USA) INC.

NEW YORK



Published by G. P. Putnam’s Sons

Publishers Since 1838

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700,

Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin

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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Copyright © 2009 by Kathryn Stockett

Al rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do

not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Published simultaneously in Canada

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Stockett, Kathryn.

The help / Kathryn Stockett.

p. cm.

ISBN: 1-4406-9766-3

1. Civil rights movements—Fiction. 2. African American women—Fiction. 3. Jackson (Miss.)—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3619.T636H45 2009 2008030185

813'.6—dc22

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the

publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any

control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

To Grandaddy Stockett, the best storytel er of al





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


TOO LITTLE, TOO LATE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

AIBILEEN

CHAPTER 1

August 1962

MAE MOBLEY was born on a early Sunday morning in August, 1960. A church baby we like to cal it. Taking care a white babies, that’s what I do,

along with al the cooking and the cleaning. I done raised seventeen kids in my lifetime. I know how to get them babies to sleep, stop crying, and go

in the toilet bowl before they mamas even get out a bed in the morning.

But I ain’t never seen a baby yel like Mae Mobley Leefolt. First day I walk in the door, there she be, red-hot and hol ering with the colic,

fighting that bottle like it’s a rotten turnip. Miss Leefolt, she look terrified a her own child. “What am I doing wrong? Why can’t I stop it?”

It? That was my first hint: something is wrong with this situation.

So I took that pink, screaming baby in my arms. Bounced her on my hip to get the gas moving and it didn’t take two minutes fore Baby Girl

stopped her crying, got to smiling up at me like she do. But Miss Leefolt, she don’t pick up her own baby for the rest a the day. I seen plenty a

womens get the baby blues after they done birthing. I reckon I thought that’s what it was.

Here’s something about Miss Leefolt: she not just frowning al the time, she skinny. Her legs is so spindly, she look like she done growed em

last week. Twenty-three years old and she lanky as a fourteen-year-old boy. Even her hair is thin, brown, see-through. She try to tease it up, but it

only make it look thinner. Her face be the same shape as that red devil on the redhot candy box, pointy chin and al . Fact, her whole body be so ful

a sharp knobs and corners, it’s no wonder she can’t soothe that baby. Babies like fat. Like to bury they face up in you armpit and go to sleep. They

like big fat legs too. That I know.

By the time she a year old, Mae Mobley fol owing me around everwhere I go. Five o’clock would come round and she’d be hanging on my

Dr. Schol shoe, dragging over the floor, crying like I weren’t never coming back. Miss Leefolt, she’d narrow up her eyes at me like I done something

wrong, unhitch that crying baby off my foot. I reckon that’s the risk you run, letting somebody else raise you chil uns.

Mae Mobley two years old now. She got big brown eyes and honey-color curls. But the bald spot in the back of her hair kind a throw things

off. She get the same wrinkle between her eyebrows when she worried, like her mama. They kind a favor except Mae Mobley so fat. She ain’t gone

be no beauty queen. I think it bother Miss Leefolt, but Mae Mobley my special baby.



I LOST MY OWN BOY, Treelore, right before I started waiting on Miss Leefolt. He was twenty-four years old. The best part of a person’s life. It just wasn’t enough time living in this world.

He had him a little apartment over on Foley Street. Seeing a real nice girl name Frances and I spec they was gone get married, but he was

slow bout things like that. Not cause he looking for something better, just cause he the thinking kind. Wore big glasses and reading al the time. He

even start writing his own book, bout being a colored man living and working in Mississippi. Law, that made me proud. But one night he working

late at the Scanlon-Taylor mil , lugging two-by-fours to the truck, splinters slicing al the way through the glove. He too smal for that kind a work, too skinny, but he needed the job. He was tired. It was raining. He slip off the loading dock, fel down on the drive. Tractor trailer didn’t see him and

crushed his lungs fore he could move. By the time I found out, he was dead.

That was the day my whole world went black. Air look black, sun look black. I laid up in bed and stared at the black wal s a my house. Minny

came ever day to make sure I was stil breathing, feed me food to keep me living. Took three months fore I even look out the window, see if the

world stil there. I was surprise to see the world didn’t stop just cause my boy did.

Five months after the funeral, I lifted myself up out a bed. I put on my white uniform and put my little gold cross back around my neck and I

went to wait on Miss Leefolt cause she just have her baby girl. But it weren’t too long before I seen something in me had changed. A bitter seed

was planted inside a me. And I just didn’t feel so accepting anymore.



“GET THE HOUSE straightened up and then go on and fix some of that chicken salad now,” say Miss Leefolt.

It’s bridge club day. Every fourth Wednesday a the month. A course I already got everthing ready to go—made the chicken salad this

morning, ironed the tablecloths yesterday. Miss Leefolt seen me at it too. She ain’t but twenty-three years old and she like hearing herself tel me

what to do.

She already got the blue dress on I ironed this morning, the one with sixty-five pleats on the waist, so tiny I got to squint through my glasses to iron. I don’t hate much in life, but me and that dress is not on good terms.

“And you make sure Mae Mobley’s not coming in on us, now. I tel you, I am so burned up at her—tore up my good stationery into five

thousand pieces and I’ve got fifteen thank-you notes for the Junior League to do…”

I arrange the-this and the-that for her lady friends. Set out the good crystal, put the silver service out. Miss Leefolt don’t put up no dinky card

table like the other ladies do. We set at the dining room table. Put a cloth on top to cover the big L-shaped crack, move that red flower centerpiece

to the sideboard to hide where the wood al scratched. Miss Leefolt, she like it fancy when she do a luncheon. Maybe she trying to make up for her

house being smal . They ain’t rich folk, that I know. Rich folk don’t try so hard.

I’m used to working for young couples, but I spec this is the smal est house I ever worked in. It’s just the one story. Her and Mister Leefolt’s

room in the back be a fair size, but Baby Girl’s room be tiny. The dining room and the regular living room kind a join up. Only two bathrooms, which

is a relief cause I worked in houses where they was five or six. Take a whole day just to clean toilets. Miss Leefolt don’t pay but ninety-five cents an hour, less than I been paid in years. But after Treelore died, I took what I could. Landlord wasn’t gone wait much longer. And even though it’s smal ,

Miss Leefolt done the house up nice as she can. She pretty good with the sewing machine. Anything she can’t buy new of, she just get her some

blue material and sew it a cover.

The doorbel ring and I open it up.

“Hey, Aibileen,” Miss Skeeter say, cause she the kind that speak to the help. “How you?”

“Hey, Miss Skeeter. I’m alright. Law, it’s hot out there.”

Miss Skeeter real tal and skinny. Her hair be yel ow and cut short above her shoulders cause she get the frizz year round. She twenty-three

or so, same as Miss Leefolt and the rest of em. She set her pocketbook on the chair, kind a itch around in her clothes a second. She wearing a

white lace blouse buttoned up like a nun, flat shoes so I reckon she don’t look any tal er. Her blue skirt gaps open in the waist. Miss Skeeter always

look like somebody else told her what to wear.

I hear Miss Hil y and her mama, Miss Walter, pul up the driveway and toot the horn. Miss Hil y don’t live but ten feet away, but she always

drive over. I let her in and she go right past me and I figure it’s a good time to get Mae Mobley up from her nap.

Soon as I walk in her nursery, Mae Mobley smile at me, reach out her fat little arms.

“You already up, Baby Girl? Why you didn’t hol er for me?”

She laugh, dance a little happy jig waiting on me to get her out. I give her a good hug. I reckon she don’t get too many good hugs like this

after I go home. Ever so often, I come to work and find her bawling in her crib, Miss Leefolt busy on the sewing machine rol ing her eyes like it’s a

stray cat stuck in the screen door. See, Miss Leefolt, she dress up nice ever day. Always got her makeup on, got a carport, double-door Frigidaire

with the built-in icebox. You see her in the Jitney 14 grocery, you never think she go and leave her baby crying in her crib like that. But the help

always know.

Today is a good day though. That girl just grins.

I say, “Aibileen.”

She say, “Aib-ee.”

I say, “Love.”

She say, “Love.”

I say, “Mae Mobley.”

She say, “Aib-ee.” And then she laugh and laugh. She so tickled she talking and I got to say, it’s about time. Treelore didn’t say nothing til he

two either. By the time he in third grade, though, he get to talking better than the President a the United States, coming home using words like

conjugation and parliamentary. He get in junior high and we play this game where I give him a real simple word and he got to come up with a fancy one like it. I say housecat, he say domesticized feline, I say mixer and he say motorized rotunda. One day I say Crisco. He scratch his head. He just can’t believe I done won the game with something simple as Crisco. Came to be a secret joke with us, meaning something you can’t dress up

no matter how you try. We start cal ing his daddy Crisco cause you can’t fancy up a man done run off on his family. Plus he the greasiest no-count you ever known.

I tote Mae Mobley into the kitchen and put her in her high chair, thinking about two chores I need to finish today fore Miss Leefolt have a fit:

separate the napkins that started to fray and straighten up the silver service in the cabinet. Law, I’m on have to do it while the ladies is here, I guess.

I take the tray a devil eggs out to the dining room. Miss Leefolt setting at the head and to her left be Miss Hil y Holbrook and Miss Hil y’s

mama, Miss Walter, who Miss Hil y don’t treat with no respect. And then on Miss Leefolt’s right be Miss Skeeter.

I make the egg rounds, starting with ole Miss Walter first cause she the elder. It’s warm in here, but she got a thick brown sweater drooped

around her shoulders. She scoop a egg up and near bout drop it cause she getting the palsy. Then I move over to Miss Hil y and she smile and take

two. Miss Hil y got a round face and dark brown hair in the beehive. Her skin be olive color, with freckles and moles. She wear a lot a red plaid. And

she getting heavy in the bottom. Today, since it’s so hot, she wearing a red sleeveless dress with no waist to it. She one a those grown ladies that

stil dress like a little girl with big bows and matching hats and such. She ain’t my favorite.

I move over to Miss Skeeter, but she wrinkle her nose up at me and say, “No, thanks,” cause she don’t eat no eggs. I tel Miss Leefolt ever

time she have the bridge club and she make me do them eggs anyways. She scared Miss Hil y be disappointed.

Final y, I do Miss Leefolt. She the hostess so she got to pick up her eggs last. And soon as I’m done, Miss Hil y say, “Don’t mind if I do,” and

snatch herself two more eggs, which don’t surprise me.

“Guess who I ran into at the beauty parlor?” Miss Hil y say to the ladies.

“Who’s that?” ask Miss Leefolt.

“Celia Foote. And do you know what she asked me? If she could help with the Benefit this year.”

“Good,” Miss Skeeter say. “We need it.”

“Not that bad, we don’t. I told her, I said, ‘Celia, you have to be a League member or a sustainer to participate.’ What does she think the

Jackson League is? Open rush?”

“Aren’t we taking nonmembers this year? Since the Benefit’s gotten so big?” Miss Skeeter ask.

“Wel , yes,” Miss Hil y say. “But I wasn’t about to tel her that.”

“I can’t believe Johnny married a girl so tacky like she is,” Miss Leefolt say and Miss Hil y nod. She start dealing out the bridge cards.

I spoon out the congealed salad and the ham sandwiches, can’t help but listen to the chatter. Only three things them ladies talk about: they

kids, they clothes, and they friends. I hear the word Kennedy, I know they ain’t discussing no politic. They talking about what Miss Jackie done wore on the tee-vee.

When I get around to Miss Walter, she don’t take but one little old half a sandwich for herself.

“Mama,” Miss Hil y yel at Miss Walter, “take another sandwich. You are skinny as a telephone pole.” Miss Hil y look over at the rest a the

table. “I keep tel ing her, if that Minny can’t cook she needs to just go on and fire her.”

My ears perk up at this. They talking bout the help. I’m best friends with Minny.

“Minny cooks fine,” say ole Miss Walter. “I’m just not so hungry like I used to be.”

Minny near bout the best cook in Hinds County, maybe even al a Mississippi. The Junior League Benefit come around ever fal and they be

wanting her to make ten caramel cakes to auction off. She ought a be the most sought-after help in the state. Problem is, Minny got a mouth on her.

She always talking back. One day it be the white manager a the Jitney Jungle grocery, next day it be her husband, and ever day it’s gone be the

white lady she waiting on. The only reason she waiting on Miss Walter so long is Miss Walter be deaf as a doe-nob.

“I think you’re malnutritioned, Mama,” hol er Miss Hil y. “That Minny isn’t feeding you so that she can steal every last heirloom I have left.” Miss

Hil y huff out a her chair. “I’m going to the powder room. Y’al watch her in case she col apses dead of hunger.”

When Miss Hil y gone, Miss Walter say real low, “I bet you’d love that.” Everbody act like they didn’t hear. I better cal Minny tonight, tel her

what Miss Hil y said.

In the kitchen, Baby Girl’s up in her high chair, got purple juice al over her face. Soon as I walk in, she smile. She don’t make no fuss being

in here by herself, but I hate to leave her too long. I know she stare at that door real quiet til I come back.

I pat her little soft head and go back out to pour the ice tea. Miss Hil y’s back in her chair looking al bowed up about something else now.

“Oh Hil y, I wish you’d use the guest bathroom,” say Miss Leefolt, rearranging her cards. “Aibileen doesn’t clean in the back until after lunch.”

Hil y raise her chin up. Then she give one a her “ah-hem’s.” She got this way a clearing her throat real delicate-like that get everbody’s

attention without they even knowing she made em do it.

“But the guest bathroom’s where the help goes,” Miss Hil y say.
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