WE STAND in the relaxing room, Mother and Daddy and I, staring at the silver box in the window. It is the size of a truck engine, nosed in knobs, shiny with chrome, gleaming with modern-day hope. Fedders, it reads.
“Who are these Fedders anyway?” Mother asks. “Where are their people from?”
“Go on and turn the crank, Charlotte.”
“Oh I can’t. It’s too tacky.”
“Jesus, Mama, Doctor Neal said you need it. Now stand back.” My parents glare at me. They do not know Stuart broke up with me after the Whitworth supper. Or the relief I long for from this machine. That every minute I feel so hot, so goddamn singed2 and hurt, I think I might catch on fire.
I flip3 the knob to “1.” Overhead, the chandelier bulbs dim. The whir climbs slowly like it’s working its way up a hill. I watch a few tendrils of Mother’s hair lift gently into the air.
“Oh . . . my,” Mother says and closes her eyes. She’s been so tired lately and her ulcers4 are getting worse. Doctor Neal said keeping the house cool would at least make her more comfortable.
“It’s not even on full blast,” I say and I turn it up a notch5, to “2.” The air blows a little harder, grows colder, and we all three smile, our sweat evaporating from our foreheads.
“Well, heck, let’s just go all the way,” Daddy says, and turns it up to “3,” which is the highest, coldest, most wonderful setting of all, and Mother giggles6. We stand with our mouths open like we could eat it. The lights brighten again, the whir grows louder, our smiles lift higher, and then it all stops dead. Dark.
“What . . . happened?” Mama says.
Daddy looks up at the ceiling. He walks out into the hall.
“Damn thing blew the current.”
Mother fans her handkerchief on her neck. “Well, good heavens, Carlton, go fix it.”
For an hour, I hear Daddy and Jameso throwing switches and clanking tools, boots knocking on the porch. After they’ve fixed7 it and I sit through a lecture from Daddy to never turn it to “3” again or it will blow the house to pieces, Mother and I watch as an icy mist grows on the windows. Mother dozes8 in her blue Queen Anne chair, her green blanket pulled to her chest. I wait until she is asleep, listening for the soft snore, the pucker9 of her forehead. On tiptoe, I turn out all the lamps, the television, every electricity sucker downstairs save the refrigerator. I stand in front of the window and unbutton my blouse. Carefully, I turn the dial to “3”. Because I long to feel nothing. I want to be frozen inside. I want the icy cold to blow directly on my heart.
The power blows out in about three seconds.
FOR THE NEXT TWO WEEKS, I submerge myself in the interviews. I keep my typewriter on the back porch and work most of the day long and into the night. The screens give the green yard and fields a hazy10 look. Sometimes I catch myself staring off at the fields, but I am not here. I am in the old Jackson kitchens with the maids, hot and sticky in their white uniforms. I feel the gentle bodies of white babies breathing against me. I feel what Constantine felt when Mother brought me home from the hospital and handed me over to her. I let their colored memories draw me out of my own miserable11 life.
“Skeeter, we haven’t heard from Stuart in weeks,” Mother says for the eighth time. “He’s not cross with you, now, is he?”
At the moment, I am writing the Miss Myrna column. Once ahead by three months, somehow I’ve managed to almost miss my deadline. “He’s fine, Mother. He doesn’t have to call every minute of the day.” But then I soften12 my voice. Every day she seems thinner. The sharpness of her collarbone is enough to tamp13 down my irritation14 at her comment. “He’s just traveling is all, Mama.”
This seems to placate15 her for the moment and I tell the same story to Elizabeth, with a few more details to Hilly, pinching my arm to bear her insipid16 smile. But I do not know what to tell myself. Stuart needs “space” and “time,” as if this were physics and not a human relationship.
So instead of feeling sorry for myself every minute of the day, I work. I type. I sweat. Who knew heartbreak would be so goddamn hot. When Mother’s lying down on her bed, I pull my chair up to the air conditioner and stare into it. In July, it becomes a silver shrine17. I find Pascagoula pretending to dust with one hand, while holding up her hairbraids at the thing with the other. It’s not as if it’s a new invention, air-conditioning, but every store in town that has it puts a sign in the window, prints it on its ads because it is so vital. I make a cardboard sign for the Phelan house, place it on the front doorknob, NOW AIR-CONDITIONED. Mother smiles, but pretends she’s not amused.
On a rare evening home, I sit with Mother and Daddy at the dinner table. Mother nibbles18 on her supper. She spent the afternoon trying to keep me from finding out she’d been vomiting19. She presses her fingers along the top of her nose to hold back her headache and says, “I was thinking about the twenty-fifth, do you think that’s too soon to have them over?” and I still cannot bring myself to tell her that Stuart and I have broken up.
But I can see it on her face, that Mother feels worse than bad tonight. She is pale and trying to sit up longer than I know she wants to. I take her hand and say, “Let me check, Mama. I’m sure the twenty-fifth will be fine.” She smiles for the first time all day.
AIBILEEN SMILES AT THE STACK of pages on her kitchen table. It’s an inch thick, double-spaced, and starting to look like something that can sit on a shelf. Aibileen is as exhausted20 as I am, surely more since she works all day and then comes home to the interviews at night.
“Look a that,” she says. “That thing’s almost a book.”
I nod, try to smile, but there is so much work left to do. It’s nearly August and even though it’s not due until January, we still have five more interviews to sort through. With Aibileen’s help, I’ve molded and cut and arranged five of the women’s chapters including Minny’s, but they still need work. Thankfully, Aibileen’s section is done. It is twenty-one pages, beautifully written, simple.
There are several dozen made-up names, both white and colored, and at times, it is hard to keep them all straight. All along, Aibileen has been Sarah Ross. Minny chose Gertrude Black, for what reason I don’t know. I have chosen Anonymous21, although Elaine Stein doesn’t know this yet. Niceville, Mississippi, is the name of our town because it doesn’t exist, but we decided22 a real state name would draw interest. And since Mississippi happens to be the worst, we figured we’d better use it.
A breeze blows through the window and the top pages flutter. We both slam our palms down to catch them.
“You think . . . she gone want a print it?” asks Aibileen. “When it’s done?”
I try to smile at Aibileen, show some false confidence. “I hope so,” I say as brightly as I can manage. “She seemed interested in the idea and she . . . well, the march is coming up and . . .”
I hear my own voice taper23 off. I truly don’t know if Missus Stein will want to print it. But what I do know is, the responsibility of the project lays on my shoulders and I see it in their hardworking, lined faces, how much the maids want this book to be published. They are scared, looking at the back door every ten minutes, afraid they’ll get caught talking to me. Afraid they’ll be beaten like Louvenia’s grandson, or, hell, bludgeoned in their front yard like Medgar Evers. The risk they’re taking is proof they want this to get printed and they want it bad.
I no longer feel protected just because I’m white. I check over my shoulder often when I drive the truck to Aibileen’s. The cop who stopped me a few months back is my reminder24: I am now a threat to every white family in town. Even though so many of the stories are good, celebrating the bonds of women and family, the bad stories will be the ones that catch the white people’s attention. They will make their blood boil and their fists swing. We must keep this a perfect secret.
I’m DELIBERATELY25 FIVE MINUTES LATE for the Monday night League meeting, our first in a month. Hilly’s been down at the coast, wouldn’t dare allow a meeting without her. She’s tan and ready to lead. She holds her gavel like a weapon. All around me, women sit and smoke cigarettes, tip them into glass ashtrays26 on the floor. I chew my nails to keep from smoking one. I haven’t smoked in six days.
Besides the cigarette missing from my hand, I’m jittery27 from the faces around me. I easily spot seven women in the room who are related to someone in the book, if not in it themselves. I want to get out of here and get back to work, but two long, hot hours pass before Hilly finally bangs her gavel. By then, even she looks tired of hearing her own voice.
Girls stand and stretch. Some head out, eager to attend to their husbands. Others dawdle28, the ones with a kitchen full of kids and help that has gone home. I gather my things quickly, hoping to avoid talking to anyone, especially Hilly.
But before I can escape, Elizabeth catches my eye, waves me over. I haven’t seen her for weeks and I can’t avoid speaking to her. I feel guilty that I haven’t been to see her. She grabs the back of her chair and raises herself up. She is six months pregnant, woozy from the pregnancy29 tranquilizers.
“How are you feeling?” I ask. Everything on her body is the same except her stomach is huge and swollen30. “Is it any better this time?”
“God, no, it’s awful and I still have three months to go.”
We’re both quiet. Elizabeth burps faintly, looks at her watch. Finally, she picks up her bag, about to leave, but then she takes my hand. “I heard,” she whispers, “about you and Stuart. I’m so sorry.”
I look down. I’m not surprised she knows, only that it took this long for anyone to find out. I haven’t told anyone, but I guess Stuart has. Just this morning, I had to lie to Mother and tell her the Whitworths would be out of town on the twenty-fifth, Mother’s so-called date to have them over.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” I say. “I don’t like talking about it.”
“I understand. Oh shoot, I better go on, Raleigh’s probably having a fit by himself with her.” She gives a last look at Hilly. Hilly smiles and nods her excusal.
I gather my notes quickly, head for the door. Before I make it out, I hear her.
“Wait a sec, would you, Skeeter?”
I sigh, turn around and face Hilly. She’s wearing the navy blue sailor number, something you’d dress a five-year-old in. The pleats around her hips31 are stretched open like accordion32 bellows33. The room is empty except for us now.
“Can we discuss this, please, ma’am?” She holds up the most recent newsletter and I know what’s coming.
“I can’t stay. Mother’s sick—”
“I told you five months ago to print my initiative and now another week has passed and you still haven’t followed my instructions.”
I stare at her and my anger is sudden, ferocious34. Everything I’ve kept down for months rises and erupts in my throat.
“I will not print that initiative.”
She looks at me, holding very still. “I want that initiative in the newsletter before election time,” she says and points to the ceiling, “or I’m calling upstairs, missy.”
“If you try to throw me out of the League, I will dial up Genevieve von Hapsburg in New York City myself,” I hiss35, because I happen to know Genevieve’s Hilly’s hero. She’s the youngest national League president in history, perhaps the only person in this world Hilly’s afraid of. But Hilly doesn’t even flinch36.
“And tell her what, Skeeter? Tell her you’re not doing your job? Tell her you’re carrying around Negro activist37 materials?”
I’m too angry to let this unnerve me. “I want them back, Hilly. You took them and they don’t belong to you.”
“Of course I took them. You have no business carrying around something like that. What if somebody saw those things?”
“Who are you to say what I can and cannot carry ar—”
“It is my job, Skeeter! You know well as I do, people won’t buy so much as a slice of pound cake from an organization that harbors racial integrationists!”
“Hilly.” I just need to hear her say it. “Just who is all that pound cake money being raised for, anyway?”
She rolls her eyes. “The Poor Starving Children of Africa?”
I wait for her to catch the irony38 of this, that she’ll send money to colored people overseas, but not across town. But I get a better idea. “I’m going to call up Genevieve right now. I’m going to tell her what a hypocrite you are.”
Hilly straightens. I think for a second I’ve tapped a crack in her shell with those words. But then she licks her lips, takes a deep, noisy sniff39.
“You know, it’s no wonder Stuart Whitworth dropped you.”
I keep my jaw40 clenched41 so that she cannot see the effect these words have on me. But inside, I am a slow, sliding scale. I feel everything inside of me slipping down into the floor. “I want those laws back,” I say, my voice shaking.
“Then print the initiative.”
I turn and walk out the door. I heave my satchel42 into the Cadillac and light a cigarette.
MOTHER’S LIGHT is Off when I get home and I’m grateful. I tiptoe down the hall, onto the back porch, easing the squeaky screen door closed. I sit down at my typewriter.
But I cannot type. I stare at the tiny gray squares of the back porch screen. I stare so hard, I slip through them. I feel something inside me crack open then. I am vaporous. I am crazy. I am deaf to that stupid, silent phone. Deaf to Mother’s retching in the house. Her voice through the window, “I’m fine, Carlton, it’s passed.” I hear it all and yet, I hear nothing. Just a high buzzing in my ears.
I reach in my satchel and pull out the page of Hilly’s bathroom initiative. The paper is limp, already damp with humidity. A moth1 lands in the corner then flutters away, leaving a brown smudge of wing chalk.
With slow, deliberate strokes, I start typing the newsletter: Sarah Shelby to marry Robert Pryor; please attend a baby-clothes showing by Mary Katherine Simpson; a tea in honor of our loyal sustainers. Then I type Hilly’s initiative. I place it on the second page, opposite the photo ops. This is where everyone will be sure to see it, after they look at themselves at the Summer Fun Jamboree. All I can think while I’m typing is, What would Constantine think of me?
收听单词发音 |
1
moth
|
|
| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
singed
|
|
| v.浅表烧焦( singe的过去式和过去分词 )；（毛发）燎，烧焦尖端[边儿] | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
flip
|
|
| vt.快速翻动；轻抛；轻拍；n.轻抛；adj.轻浮的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
ulcers
|
|
| n.溃疡( ulcer的名词复数 )；腐烂物；道德败坏；腐败 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
notch
|
|
| n.(V字形)槽口，缺口，等级 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
giggles
|
|
| n.咯咯的笑( giggle的名词复数 )；傻笑；玩笑；the giggles 止不住的格格笑v.咯咯地笑( giggle的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
dozes
|
|
| n.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的名词复数 )v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
pucker
|
|
| v.撅起，使起皱；n.（衣服上的）皱纹，褶子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
hazy
|
|
| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
soften
|
|
| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
tamp
|
|
| v.捣实，砸实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
irritation
|
|
| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
placate
|
|
| v.抚慰，平息(愤怒) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
insipid
|
|
| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
shrine
|
|
| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
nibbles
|
|
| vt.& vi.啃，一点一点地咬（nibble的第三人称单数形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
vomiting
|
|
| 吐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
exhausted
|
|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
anonymous
|
|
| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
taper
|
|
| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
reminder
|
|
| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
deliberately
|
|
| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
ashtrays
|
|
| 烟灰缸( ashtray的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
jittery
|
|
| adj. 神经过敏的, 战战兢兢的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
dawdle
|
|
| vi.浪费时间；闲荡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
pregnancy
|
|
| n.怀孕，怀孕期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
swollen
|
|
| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
hips
|
|
| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
accordion
|
|
| n.手风琴；adj.可折叠的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
bellows
|
|
| n.风箱；发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的名词复数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的第三人称单数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
ferocious
|
|
| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
hiss
|
|
| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
flinch
|
|
| v.畏缩，退缩 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
activist
|
|
| n.活动分子，积极分子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
irony
|
|
| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
sniff
|
|
| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
jaw
|
|
| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
clenched
|
|
| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
satchel
|
|
| n.(皮或帆布的)书包 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |