The Help

There are nods and rumbles of consent.

“Before we start the announcements, I’d like to go ahead and thank the people who are making tonight such a success.” Without turning her head from the audience, Hilly gestures to her left, where two dozen colored women have lined up, dressed in their white uniforms. A dozen colored men are behind them, in gray-and-white tuxedos.

“Let’s give a special round of applause to the help, for all the wonderful food they cooked and served, and for the desserts they made for the auction.” Here, Hilly picks up a card and reads, “In their own way, they are helping the League reach its goal to feed the Poor Starving Children of Africa, a cause, I’m sure, dear to their own hearts as well.”

The white people at the tables clap for the maids and servers. Some of the servers smile back. Many, though, stare at the empty air just above the crowd’s heads.

“Next we’d like to thank those nonmembers in this room who have given their time and help, for it’s you who made our job that much easier.”

There is light applause, some cold smiles and nods between members and nonmembers. Such a pity, the members seem to be thinking. Such a shame you girls haven’t the gentility to join our club. Hilly goes on, thanking and recognizing in a musical, patriotic voice. Coffee is served and the husbands drink theirs, but most of the women keep rapt attention on Hilly. “. . . thanks to Boone Hardware . . . let us not forget Ben Franklin’s dime store . . .” She concludes the list with, “And of course we thank our anonymous contributor of, ahem, supplies, for the Home Help Sanitation Initiative.”

A few people laugh nervously, but most turn their heads to see if Skeeter has had the gall to show up.

“I just wish instead of being so shy, you’d step up and accept our gratitude. We honestly couldn’t have accomplished so many installations without you.”

Skeeter keeps her eyes on the podium, her face stoic and unyielding. Hilly gives a quick, brilliant smile. “And finally, a special thanks to my husband, William Holbrook, for donating a weekend at his deer camp.” She smiles down at her husband, adds in a lower tone, “And don’t forget, voters. Holbrook for State Senate.”

The guests offer an amicable laugh at Hilly’s plug.

“What’s that, Virginia?” Hilly cups her ear, then straightens. “No, I’m not running with him. But congressmen with us tonight, if you don’t straighten this thing out with the separate schools, don’t think I won’t come down there and do it myself.”

There is more laughter at this. Senator and Missus Whitworth, seated at a table in the front, nod and smile. At her table in the back, Skeeter looks down at her lap. They spoke earlier, during the cocktail hour. Missus Whitworth steered the Senator away from Skeeter before he could give her a second hug. Stuart didn’t come.

Once the dinner and the speech have ended, people get up to dance, husbands head for the bar. There is a scurry to the auction tables for last-minute bids. Two grandmothers are in a bidding war over the child’s antique tea set. Someone started the rumor that it had belonged to royalty and had been smuggled out via donkey cart across Germany until it eventually wound up in the Magnolia Antique Store on Fairview Street. The price shot up from fifteen dollars to eighty-five in no time.

In the corner by the bar, Johnny yawns. Celia’s brow is scrunched together. “I can’t believe what she said about nonmembers helping. She told me they didn’t need any help this year.”

“Well, you can help out next year,” Johnny says.

Celia spots Hilly. For the moment, Hilly has only a few people around her.

“Johnny, I’ll be right back,” Celia says.

“And then let’s get the hell out of here. I’m sick of this monkey suit.”

Richard Cross, who’s a member of Johnny’s duck camp, slaps Johnny’s back. They say something, then laugh. Their gazes sweep across the crowd.

Celia almost makes it to Hilly this time, only to have Hilly slip behind the podium table. Celia backs away, as if she’s afraid to approach Hilly where she’d seemed so powerful a few minutes ago.

As soon as Celia disappears into the ladies room, Hilly heads for the corner.

“Why Johnny Foote,” Hilly says. “I’m surprised to see you here. Everybody knows you can’t stand big parties like this.” She squeezes the crook of his arm.

Johnny sighs. “You are aware that doe season opens tomorrow?”

Hilly gives him an auburn-lipsticked smile. The color matches her dress so perfectly, it must have been searched out for days.

“I am so tired of hearing that from everybody. You can miss one day of hunting season, Johnny Foote. You used to for me.”

Johnny rolls his eyes. “Celia wouldn’t have missed this for anything.”

“Where is that wife of yours?” she asks. Hilly’s still got her hand tucked in the crook of Johnny’s arm and she gives it another pull. “Not at the LSU game serving hot dogs, is she?”

Johnny frowns down at her, even though it’s true, that’s how they met.