Final Re-Write

The Help Celia Foote

1956

My name is Celia Foote, I’m just a small town girl, nothing special, I don’t own nice clothes although I have spent most of my life between the racks of Gucci and Chanel, but I will get back to that later. My father left my mother and I when his power plant started employing coloured people, our small town Bolingbrook just outside of Chicago was one of the first towns to hire coloured people to do every day white man’s jobs. This angered a lot of the small town folk, especially the white men who prided themselves on their work and providing for their family only for it to be taken away from them by the so called lazy coloured people. Everything went downhill from there; something snapped inside Momma, the only peace she found was when the last drops of Whiskey moisturized her lips. One afternoon I found her going through the trash outside, desperate for another drop.

Momma, what are you doing? I shouted at her as she threw bottle after bottle out of the trash and onto our lawn which was about 3 weeks over due for a mow. The grass had started to turn brown, the same tinge my mother’s eyes had started to go. She didn’t sleep; she didn’t do much of anything really, except curse every coloured person to come in walking distance.

‘It’s those Negros; they drove your father away. Now I have nothing! Nothing!’ She would shout, while searching for the next bottle.

I got my first black eye that day when an empty scotch bottle was sent flying at me.

‘What does it look like I’m doing? She hissed, throwing more bottles my way.

‘We ran out of Whisky! How have we run out!?’ She screamed. My hand rubbed my face as I felt the bruise start to slowly form.

‘I think there is some Gin still inside Momma’ I whispered, praying she would go inside and stop the neighbours from staring at me. Particularly Mrs Neale Hurston the coloured woman who had just moved across the street. She was a nice lady. Often gave me a muffin to eat on my way to school. Momma hated her though, said she was lazy and didn’t deserve to live in our too good town. Back then I didn’t understand how much hatred we Americans had in our hearts. It’s something that still haunts me to this day. Not long after Momma’s show in the yard she was arrested for trying to steal at the corner store, of course being a white folk she was only held for half an hour and then sent home, a full bottle of jack secured under her arm. Surprisingly at lot of people took pity on me, not what you would see these days though, In Jackson they would of stripped you down one by one until you were too ashamed to step out your own front door. In Bolingbrook they just simply patted me on the back and halved their meatloaf sandwiches with me. About two weeks later I found momma dead with a whisky bottle still in her ice cold hand.

To say I was alone after Momma died is an understatement. I had nobody. One good thing daddy left was the house, I was able to still go to school and have a roof over my head. Getting food however was a completely different story. I spent two weeks living off peoples left overs at school and the occasional loaf of bread I managed to steal. Mrs Neale Hurston was my saving grace. I didn’t care that she was a coloured woman, when she came knocking on my door with an apple pie still steaming with warmth I hugged her so hard the poor woman nearly fell head first into the thing!

‘My child, look at you, it’s like you haven’t eaten in months!’ she screeched while pulling my arms apart and pinching my stomach.

I shrugged back at her, my eyes never once leaving the apple pie still placed firmly in her hands.

She laughed at my shinning eyes and sat the pie and herself down on the sofa.

‘Go grab us some plates dear, we can eat it while it’s still hot.’ She smiled.

I practically ran to the kitchen and then back before setting down and taking a bite out of the most wonderful thing I have ever tasted. (This was true; right up until Minny came into my life.)

I ate the first piece in about 3 seconds; Mrs Neale Hurston smiled and added more and more onto my plate until I had finished the whole pie. She clapped her hands together and smiled at me, her eyes shining bright.

‘Wonderful. I have been worried about you dear. Where is your mother?’ she asked.

‘She died’ I sighed

Mrs Neale Hurston gasped and placed her hands on my shoulder, well it’s settled then, you will come stay with me. I can’t have you starving to death. She smiled a real smile, the whites of her teeth glowing next to the chocolate brown of her skin. To me she was beautiful and I felt a strong sense of trust I did the only thing I could think of doing. I flung my arms around her and sobbed for the first time. I sobbed for my mother and for my father but most importantly I sobbed for the love this coloured women was showing me, when all my life I had been taught to hate them.

Living with Mrs Neale Hurston was wonderful, she set me off to school in the mornings with a full lunch box, I came home to a wonderful roast dinner, usually meatloaf, Mrs Neale Hurston made a fine meatloaf, and she sent me off to bed with a warm mug of coco. She treated me like I was her own daughter and I loved her for it. We got a lot of strange looks from the neighbours, a white girl staying with a coloured women was not common and it was most certainly frowned upon, we kept it to ourselves for the most part, but the majority of the town new, especially when I went to a church full of coloured people, I loved it though, they were very welcoming to me and treated me as if I was one of them; It always saddened me that they could be so accepting when our society was doing everything in its power to make them feel like outcasts. I stayed with Mrs Neale Hurston until my senior year of high school, her husband had just got back from the war and wasn’t very happy to find a white girl living in his house. He tore through the house, smashing pictures off the walls; the freshly backed banana cake was now in pieces and wine glasses shattered on the floor while Mrs Neale Hurston stood in shock, her whole body violently shaking, tears streaming down her face as she watched her husband go on a rampage. I stood frozen behind the bathroom door, watching the scene play out. Wishing I could comfort Mrs Neale Hurston the way she had done for me so many times, but there I stood, frozen unable to move as if my feet were permantly glued to the ground.
‘Those white men treated me like I was one of them Japanese, do you know what that feels like to have someone from your own country treat you like the enemy. I don’t want that in my own home Neale. She had better be gone by the time I get back’ he shouted. Fist clenched to his sides as he pushed past Mrs Neale Hurston causing her to stumble and fall onto the hard wooden floors, her hands covering her face as she sobbed forcefully into them. The sight of her falling, snapped me out of my days and my legs soon found their strength again and I was soon at her side.

‘It’s alright, Mrs Neale Hurston you have had me for such a long time already and I’m ever so grateful, it’s probably about time I be headed off. Momma left me some money, I’ll be fine.’ I soothed. My head swam with thoughts. ‘What am I going to do?’ ‘How am I going to survive?’ ‘Will I ever see her again?’ I forced my eyes open and took a calming break as I quietly stood up and walked over to my room, packed a bag of the little things I did own and tip toed over to the door.

‘Goodbye Mrs Neale Hurston, I’ll be seeing you.’ I blinked away the tears as I closed the door behind me. The faint sobs of Mrs Neale Hurston aching in my heart.

1957

After I finally got my head around leaving Mrs Neale Hurston I walked to the bus station and hoped on the first bus I saw. ‘New York City’ as soon as I hoped of the bus I knew I had made the right decision. It was hard to leave behind my old life, but it was time to start a new one, one that would finally get out from the outside and become an insider, a person with friends. The city was as beautiful as I had imagined and white and coloured people both walked the streets equality, it was like a whole other universe to me. There was still some hostile attitude towards one another but nothing like I had previously experienced. I spent my first nights in the city under a bench at central park and brought my first meal after four days. I had been living off the scraps people left around the city. I showered in the many public toilets and by day I wondered around the city like a normal tourist and by night I watched the city lights. New York took my breath away, the fast cars, busy people off to work, like they had some sort of purpose I prayed to be one of them, wearing a Coco Chanel suit. It gave me chills just thinking about it. The women always looked so put together, with their light coloured dresses and matching high heels, hair pulled back and pined perfectly, their lips lined with the most beautiful lipsticks I had ever seen. To me they were all beautiful, each and every one of them, and the way they all laughed together, sipping tea and passing out baked goods, I craved to be one of them. To be considered worthy enough of the elite.

I got a job at a burlesque club in Manhattan, back then it was okay to go bare breasted, I never did though, although I did get plenty of offers, I just could never bring myself to do it. Even if it did mean more money for food that week, I was never that desperate. I tended to just help Georgia behind the bar. It was a fine place, had a little old room upstairs that I got to stay in. the owner was a coloured man called Randal Bethune he had no problem hiring white women, the only rule was that we were to treat everybody the same, even the customers. It was easy for me to do although the others did have a hard time, some of them were brought up with parents like mine, convinced that a person’s skin colour made them diseased.

‘I don’t even understand why they are even allowed in here, I don’t want them fawning all over me. I am a white woman. It’s just not natural.’ I overhead Maria talking to one of the other dancers.

‘You do realise that they only thing that makes them different than any other man in here are that they are black right?’ Rosalie answered. Sending a wink my way. I smiled back at her, happy to have someone else on my side.

1958

The year Johnny Foote entered my life I was still working at the Burlesque club, I remember walking in and seeing the most gorgeous man I had ever seen setting at the bar, Martini In hand while talking to another gentleman, both were dressed head to toe in a black suit, much to classy to be around these folk. I stood watching the two for a while before it was time for my shift to start. I took a deep breath before heading over to the two.

“Anything I can get you two?” I smiled.

Johnny looked up then and our eyes met for the longest time, both just happily studying each other.

Eventually his friend interrupted us out of our trance.

“Other martini would be great Miss, Anything else for you Johnny?” He asked. Nudging Johnny.

“Ah, Sure another martini please” he smiled.

The night went on in a daze and everywhere I turned I felt Johnny’s eyes on me. It was sweet really, him paying attention to a girl like me, when I was clearly not in the same class as he. His friend soon confirmed that later that night when I overheard the two talking whilst cleaning the bar.

‘Johnny, would you just stop with the staring already?’ He sighed.

‘I can’t help it man, there is just something about her. I wanna go talk to her.’

‘What Johnny are you crazy? You can’t. What about Hilly? This girl is working at a dam burlesque club with coloured women no less. You can’t. You’re mamma would have a heart attack and you know it. You know what they are like. Jackson is a tough place, if you isn’t on the same class as them, they will eat you alive. Don’t do that to her man. Just go back to Hilly. You’re mother loves Hilly, even if she is batshit crazy.' He took another sip of his martini and scanned the crowds. Before Johnny finally spoke up.

‘Stop talking about Hilly, it’s over with her. It has been for a while. I don’t matter to her, I never did. All she cared about was climbing that dam Social group. Can’t I just want someone for me and not because of my parents? And who cares if she works here, we don’t know anything about her. And for the last time, I’m sick of you tearing them coloured people down, what have they done to you? Except feed you every god dam day. Geez Phil, you needa get out of Jackson more before it swallows you up.” He slammed his drink down making the whole bar shake as I looked up and watched him walk away, My heart beating fast in my chest as he slipped through the front doors.

It was two days later when I saw Johnny waiting outside the club as I finished my shift.

‘Miss?’ He called. I looked over at him and smiled, he was still as handsome as ever, his hands place delicacy in his pockets.

‘Uh miss, I was wondering if I could take you out one night. You like dancing?’ you look like you would like dancing. But uh if not then that’s okay too, just would you please go out with me?’ his eyes shifted from mine to the ground and back again. A nervous habit I later came to realise.

‘Sure, I love dancing’ I smiled. He smiled back at me, and grabbed my hand before leading me down the New York Streets.

That night I learnt that Johnny had lived in Jackson his whole life, her parents weren’t ever home, his father busy at work and his mother busy with her social group, planning the next town function. He was now living in New York studying to become a lawyer, although he craved to go back to his hometown. He grew up with a black maid Martha who pretty much raised him. He spoke fondly of her and held my hand as I talked about my mother and Mrs Neale Hurston who I had learnt died that year, he wiped a stray tear away and squeezed my hand a little tighter before saying that she seemed like a wonderful women, and it was then that I realised that I could fall helpless in love with this man, and probably already was.

Johnny and I fell into an easy rhythm with each other. I would stay at his apartment whenever he was in town, which was a lot due to his studies, but he did go back to Jackson frequently. We fell in love fast and I soon found myself unable to imagine my life without him, but I did have my doubts. Especially after I began to experience a serious of miscarriages, you see we weren’t very careful back then. My worst fears were discovered when I finally visited the doctor only to be told that it would be unlikely for me to carry a full baby to term because of all the times I had missed my periods as a teenager due to lack of food. My struggling had left me infertile and it broke my heart. How was Johnny supposed to love me when I can’t even give him a child? They always said a woman was only valued in society by their ability to produce children and I probably couldn’t even do that? Not only was I not a part of the social elite, but I also couldn’t carry a child? How is he ever going to love me? Doubts flew across my mind and my heart ached with the possibility that Johnny and I wouldn’t be forever.

1960

When Johnny asked me to marry him I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry, was this gods some kind of sick joke? But I soon found it was my saving grace when he asked if we could move back to Jackson. Finally I would be placed upon one of the elite, I could make friends, learn how to cook, maybe finally carry a baby to term, I could finally make Johnny proud of me, and ensure he would love me forever. Jackson Mississippi would be the start of something special.

How wrong I was.