Читаем The Help полностью

THAT NIGHT, there’s a terrible storm. The thunder’s booming and I’m at my kitchen table sweating. I’m shaking, trying to write my prayers. Flora Lou got lucky, but what’s gone happen next? It’s just too much not knowing and worrying and—

Thunk thunk thunk. Somebody knocking on my front door.

Who that? I sit up straight. The clock over the stove say eight thirty-five. Outside, the rain is blowing hard. Anybody who know me good would use the back door.

I tiptoe to the front. They knock again, and I bout jump out a my shoes.

“Who—who is it?” I say. I check that the lock is on.

“It’s me.”

Law. I let out a breath and open the front door. There’s Miss Skeeter, wet and shivering. Her red satchel’s under her raincoat.

“Lord have mercy—”

“I couldn’t make it to the back door. The yard’s so thick with mud I couldn’t get through.”

She barefoot and holding her muddy shoes in her hand. I close the door quick behind her. “Nobody see you, did they?”

“You can’t see a thing out there. I would’ve called but the phone’s out with the storm.”

I know something must a happened, but I’m just so glad to see her face before she leaves for New York. We ain’t seen each other in person in six months. I give her a good hug.

“Law, let me see your hair.” Miss Skeeter pull back her hood, shake out her long hair past her shoulders.

“It is beautiful,” I say and I mean it.

She smile like she embarrassed and set her satchel on the floor. “Mother hates it.”

I laugh and then take a big breath, trying to get ready for whatever bad thing she got to tell me.

“The stores are asking for more books, Aibileen. Missus Stein called this afternoon.” She take my hands. “They’re going to do another print run. Five thousand more copies.”

I just look at her. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t even know they could do that,” I say and I cover my mouth. Our book is setting in five thousand houses, on they bookshelves, next to they night tables, behind they toilets?

“There’ll be more money coming. At least one hundred dollars to each of you. And who knows? Maybe there’ll be more.”

I put my hand on my heart. I ain’t spent a cent a the first sixty-one dollars and now she telling me they’s more?

“And there’s something else.” Miss Skeeter look down at the satchel. “I went to the paper on Friday and quit the Miss Myrna job.” She takes a deep breath. “And I told Mr. Golden, I think the next Miss Myrna should be you.”

“Me?”

“I told him you’ve been giving me the answers all along. He said he’d think about it and today he called me and said yes, as long as you don’t tell anybody and you write the answers like Miss Myrna did.”

She pull a blue-cloth notebook out a her satchel, hand it to me. “He said he’ll pay you the same as me, ten dollars a week.”

Me? Working for the white newspaper? I go to the sofa and open the notebook, see all them letters and articles from past times. Miss Skeeter set beside me.

“Thank you, Miss Skeeter. For this, for everthing.”

She smile, take a deep breath like she fighting back tears.

“I can’t believe you gone be a New Yorker tomorrow,” I say.

“Actually, I’m going to go to Chicago first. Only for one night. I want to see Constantine, her grave.”

I nod. “I’m glad.”

“Mother showed me the obituary. It’s right outside of town. And then I’ll go to New York the next morning.”

“You tell Constantine Aibileen say hello.”

She laugh. “I’m so nervous. I’ve never been to Chicago or New York. I’ve never even been on an airplane before.”

We set there a second, listening to the storm. I think about the first time Miss Skeeter came to my house, how awkward we was. Now I feel like we family.

“Are you scared, Aibileen?” she asks. “Of what might happen?”

I turn so she can’t see my eyes. “I’m alright.”

“Sometimes, I don’t know if this was worth it. If something happens to you . . . how am I going to live with that, knowing it was because of me?” She presses her hand over her eyes, like she don’t want to see what’s gone happen.

I go to my bedroom and bring out the package from Reverend Johnson. She take off the paper and stare at the book, all the names signed in it. “I was gone send it to you in New York, but I think you need to have it now.”

“I don’t . . . understand,” she say. “This is for me?”

“Yes ma’am.” Then I pass on the Reverend’s message, that she is part of our family. “You need to remember, ever one a these signatures means it was worth it.” She read the thank-yous, the little things they wrote, run her fingers over the ink. Tears fill up her eyes.

“I reckon Constantine would a been real proud a you.”

Miss Skeeter smile and I see how young she is. After all we written and the hours we spent tired and worried, I ain’t seen the girl she still is in a long, long time.

“Are you sure it’s alright? If I leave you, with everything so . . .”

“Go to New York, Miss Skeeter. Go find your life.”

She smile, blinking back the tears, and say, “Thank you.”