The Help

“Oh, now you know I’m just teasing you. We dated long enough to where I can do that, can’t I?”

Before Johnny can answer, Hilly’s shoulder is tapped and she glides over to the next couple, laughing. Johnny sighs when he sees Celia headed toward him. “Good,” he says to Richard, “we can go home. I’m getting up in,” he looks at his watch, “five hours.”

Richard keeps his eyes locked on Celia as she strides toward them. She stops and bends down to retrieve her dropped napkin, offering a generous view of her bosoms. “Going from Hilly to Celia must’ve been quite the change, Johnny.”

Johnny shakes his head. “Like living in Antarctica all my life and one day moving to Hawaii.”

Richard laughs. “Like going to bed in seminary and waking up at Ole Miss,” Richard says, and they both laugh.

Then Richard adds in a lower voice, “Like a kid eating ice cream for the very first time.”

Johnny gives him a look. “That’s my wife you’re talking about.”

“Sorry, Johnny,” Richard says, lowering his eyes. “No harm meant.”

Celia walks up, sighs with a disappointed smile.

“Hey Celia, how are you?” Richard says. “You sure are looking nice tonight.”

“Thanks, Richard.” Celia lets out a loud hiccup and she frowns, covers her mouth with a tissue.

“You getting tipsy?” asks Johnny.

“She’s just having fun, aren’t you, Celia?” Richard says. “In fact, I’m fixing to get you a drink you’re gonna love. It’s called an Alabama Slammer.”

Johnny rolls his eyes at his friend. “And then we’re going home.” Three Alabama Slammers later, the winners of the silent auction are announced. Susie Pernell stands behind the podium while people mill about drinking or smoking at the tables, dancing to Glenn Miller and Frankie Valli songs, talking over the din of the microphone. As names are read, items are received with the excitement of someone winning a real contest, as if the booty were free and not paid for at three, four, or five times the store value. Tablecloths and nightgowns with the lace tatted by hand bring in high bids. Odd sterling servers are popular, for spooning out deviled eggs, removing pimentos from olives, cracking quail legs. Then there are the desserts: cakes, slabs of pralines, divinity fudge. And of course, Minny’s pie.

“ . . . and the winner of Minny Jackson’s world-famous chocolate custard pie is . . . Hilly Holbrook!”

There is a little more applause for this one, not just because Minny’s known for her treats, but because the name Hilly elicits applause on any occasion.

Hilly turns from her conversation. “What? Was that my name? I didn’t bid on anything.”

She never does, Skeeter thinks, sitting alone, a table away.

“Hilly, you just won Minny Jackson’s pie! Congratulations,” says the woman to her left.

Hilly scans the room, eyes narrowed.

Minny, having heard her name called in the same sentence as Hilly’s, is suddenly very alert. She is holding a dirty coffee cup in one hand, a heavy silver tray in the other. But she stands stock-still.

Hilly spots her, but doesn’t move either, just smiles very slightly. “Well. Wasn’t that sweet? Someone must’ve signed me up for that pie.”

She doesn’t take her eyes off Minny and Minny can feel it. She stacks the rest of the cups on the tray, and heads for the kitchen as fast as she can.

“Why congratulations, Hilly. I didn’t know you were such a fan of Minny’s pies!” Celia’s voice is shrill. She’s come up from behind without Hilly noticing. As she trots toward Hilly, Celia stumbles over a chair leg. There are sideline giggles.

Hilly stands very still, watching her approach. “Celia, is this some kind of joke?”

Skeeter moves in closer too. She’s bored to death by this predictable evening. Tired of seeing embarrassed faces of old friends too scared to come and speak to her. Celia’s the only interesting thing to happen all night.

“Hilly,” Celia says, grasping Hilly’s arm, “I’ve been trying to talk to you all night. I think there’s been some kind of miscommunication between us and I just think if I explained . . .”

“What have you done? Let me go—” Hilly says between gritted teeth. She shakes her head, tries to walk off.

But Celia clutches Hilly’s long sleeve. “No, wait! Hang on, you got to listen—”

Hilly pulls away, but still Celia doesn’t let go. There’s a moment of determination between them—Hilly trying to escape, Celia holding on, and then a ripping sound cuts through the air.

Celia stares at the red material in her fingers. She’s torn the auburn cuff clear off Hilly’s arm.

Hilly looks down, touches her exposed wrist. “What are you trying to do to me?” she says in a low growl. “Did that Nigra maid put you up to this? Because whatever she told you and whatever you’ve blabbed to anyone else here—”

Several more people have gathered around them, listening, all looking at Hilly with frowns of concern.

“Blabbed? I don’t know what you—”

Hilly grabs Celia’s arm. “Who did you tell?” she snarls.