The Help / Прислуга

A church baby we like to call it.

“Quit squirming, Mae Mobley,” Miss Fredericks snap, “or I’ll pinch you.”

I write it quickly on my pad. “Sit in the sun for how long?” “Bout an hour. Let it dry.” I pull out the next letter and, just as quickly, she answers it. After four or five, I exhale, relieved. “Thank you, Aibileen. You have no idea how much this helps.” “Ain’t no trouble. Long as Miss Leefolt don’t need me.” I gather up my papers and take a last sip of my Coke, letting myself relax for five seconds before I have to go write

Taking care a white babies, that’s what I do, along with all the cooking and the cleaning. I done raised seventeen kids in my lifetime.

there she be, red-hot and hollering with the colic, fighting that bottle like it’s a rotten turnip. Miss

seventeen kids in my lifetime. I know how to get them babies to sleep, stop crying, and go in the toilet bowl before they mamas even get out a bed in the

It’s not until after I mail the letter that I realize I probably chose those ideas she would think impressive, rather than ones I was really interested in.

see dark stains, deep and dried, on the front of her clothes. I squint my eyes, trying to see if the stains are really there. “Mama? Are you feeling bad?”

Finally, I lift up that funny-looking pink shag rug. Underneath, there’s a big, deep stain the color of rust. I shudder.

I look around the bedroom, sizing up the job. It’s big, with cream-colored carpet, a yellow king canopy bed, two fat yellow chairs. And it’s neat, with no clothes on the floor. The spread’s made up underneath her. The blanket on the chair’s folded nice. But I watch, I look. I can feel it. Something’s wrong. “When can we get to our first cooking lesson?” she asks. “Can we start today?”