The Help

I try to smile, like I’m confident it will work this time, despite the idea she explained over the phone.

I give in and light another cigarette even though last night the surgeon general came on the television set and shook his finger at everybody, trying to convince us that smoking will kill us.

At eight o’clock that same night, I’m stumbling down Aibileen’s street as discreetly as one can carrying a fifty-pound Corona typewriter.

Two days later, I sit in my parent’s kitchen, waiting for dusk to fall.

“Every window in that filthy house was painted shut on the inside, even though the house was big with a wide green lawn.

But Mother once told me tongue kissing would turn me blind and I’m starting to think it’s all just a big plot between the surgeon general and Mother to make sure no one ever has any fun.

I loved that baby and he loved me and that’s when I knew I was good at making children feel proud of themselvesâ€Â¦Ã¢€

“When the mama died, six months later,” she reads, “of the lung disease, they kept me on to raise Alton until they moved away to Memphis.

Alton was a long, skinny baby with hair fine as silk on a cornâ€Â¦Ã¢€

I begin typing as she reads, her words rhythmic, pronounced more clearly than her usual talk.

I set the typewriter on a scratched red table under the window.

I take a sip of my Coke, smooth my blouse.

We both take deep breaths and she begins reading in a slow, steady voice.

I drink mine straight from the bottle and seeing this, she pushes the glasses aside, does the same.

At eight o’clock that same night, I’m stumbling down Aibileen’s street as discreetly as one can carrying a fifty-pound Corona typewriter.