LITMIR.BIZ

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reappears, thumbs me to follow her, cigarette dangling in her hand. “Come on back.” Despite my nerves, all I can think of is the old college rule, A Chi Omega never walks with a cigarette.[52] I follow her through the desks of staring men, the haze of smoke, to an interior office.

      “Close that thing back,” Mister Golden hollers as soon as I’ve opened the door and stepped in. “Don’t let all that damn smoke in here.”

      Mister Golden stands up behind his desk. He’s about six inches shorter than me, trim, younger than my parents. He has long teeth and a sneer, the greased black hair of a mean man.

      “Didn’t you hear?” he said. “They announced last week cigarettes’ll kill you.”

      “I hadn’t heard that.” I can only hope it hadn’t been on the front page of his newspaper.

      “Hell, I know niggers a hundred years old look younger than those idjits out there.” He sits back down, but I keep standing because there are no other chairs in the room.

      “Alright, let’s see what you got.” I hand him my résumé and sample articles I’d written in school. I grew up with the Journal sitting on our kitchen table, open to the farm report or the local sports page. I rarely had time to read it myself.

      Mister Golden doesn’t just look at my papers, he edits them with a red pencil. “Murrah High editor three years, Rebel Rouser editor two years, Chi Omega editor three years, double major English and journalism, graduated number four… Damn, girl,” he mutters, “didn’t you have any fun?”

      I clear my throat. “Is… that important?”

      He looks up at me. “You’re peculiarly tall but I’d think a pretty girl like you’d be dating the whole goddamn basketball team.”

      I stare at him, not sure if he’s making fun of me or paying me a compliment.

      “I assume you know how to clean…” He looks back to my articles, strikes them with violent red marks.

      My face flushes hot and quick. “Clean? I’m not here to clean. I’m here to write.”

      Cigarette smoke is bleeding under the door. It’s like the entire place is on fire. I feel so stupid that I thought I could just walk in and get a job as a journalist.

      He sighs heavily, hands me a thick folder of papers. “I guess you’ll do. Miss Myrna’s gone shit-house crazy on us, drunk hair spray or something. Read the articles, write the answers like she does, nobody’ll know the damn difference.”

      “I… what?” And I take the folder because I don’t know what else to do.

      I have no idea who this Miss Myrna is. I ask the only safe question I can think of. “How much… did you say it pays?”

      He gives me a surprisingly appreciative look, from my flat shoes to my flat hairstyle. Some dormant instinct tells me to smile, run my hand through my hair. I feel ridiculous, but I do it.

      “Eight dollars, every Monday.”

      I nod, trying to figure out how to ask him what the job is without giving myself away.

      He leans forward. “You do know who Miss Myrna is, don’t you?”

      “Of course. We… girls read her all the time,” I say, and again we stare at each other long enough for a distant telephone to ring three times.

      “What then? Eight’s not enough? Jesus, woman, go clean your husband’s toilet for free.”

      I bite my lip. But before I can utter anything, he rolls his eyes.

      “Alright, ten. Copy’s due on Thursdays. And if I don’t like your style, I’m not printing it or paying you squat.”

      I take the folder, thank him more than I probably should. He ignores me and picks up his phone and makes a call before I’m even out the door. When I get to my car, I sink down into the soft Cadillac leather. I sit there smiling, reading the pages in the folder.

      I just got a job.

      I come home standing up straighter than I have since I was twelve, before my growth spurt. I am buzzing with pride. Even though every cell in my brain says do not, somehow I cannot resist telling Mother. I rush into the relaxing room and tell her everything about how I’ve gotten a job writing Miss Myrna, the weekly cleaning advice column.

      “Oh the irony of it.” She lets out a sigh that means life is hardly worth living under such conditions. Pascagoula freshens her iced tea.

      “At least it’s a start,” I say.

      “A start at what? Giving advice on how to keep up a home when…” She sighs again, long and slow like a deflating tire.

      I look away, wondering if everyone in town will be thinking the same thing. Already the joy is fleeting.

      “Eugenia, you don’t even know how to polish silver, much less advise on how to keep a house clean.”

      I hug the folder to my chest. She’s right, I won’t know how to answer any of the questions. Still, I thought she’d at least be proud of me.

      “And you will never meet anybody sitting at that typewriter. Eugenia, have some sense.”

      Anger works its way up my arms. I stand up straight again. “You think I want to live here? With you?” I laugh in a way I’m hoping will hurt her.

      I see the quick pain in her eyes. She presses her lips together at the sting. Still, I have no desire to take back my words because finally, finally, I have said something she’s listening to.

      I stand there, refusing to leave. I want to hear what she’ll say to this. I want to hear her say she’s sorry.

      “I need to… ask you something, Eugenia.” She twists her handkerchief, grimaces. “I read the other day about how some… some girls get unbalanced, start thinking these – well, these unnatural thoughts.”

      I have no idea what she’s talking about. I look up at the ceiling fan. Someone’s set it going too fast. Clackety-clackety-clackety…

      “Are you… do you… find men attractive? Are you having unnatural thoughts about…” She shuts her eyes tight. “Girls or – or women?”

      I stare at her, wishing the ceiling fan would fly from its post, crash down on us both.

      “Because it said in this article there’s a cure, a special root tea —”

      “Mother,” I say, shutting my eyes tight. “I want to be with girls as much as you’d like to be with… Jameso.” I head for the door. But I glance behind me. “I mean, unless, of course, you do?”

      Mother straightens, gasps. I pound up the stairs.

      The next day, I stack the Miss Myrna letters in a neat pile. I have thirty five dollars in my purse, the monthly allowance Mother still gives me. I go downstairs wearing a thick Christian smile. Living at home, whenever I want to leave Longleaf, I have to ask Mother if I can borrow her car. Which means she’ll ask where I’m going. Which means I have to lie to her on a daily basis[53], which is in itself enjoyable but a little degrading at the same time.

      “I’m going down to the church, see if they need any help getting ready for Sunday school.”

      “Oh, darling, that’s just wonderful. Take your time with the car.”

      I decided, last night, what I need is a professional to help me with the column. My first idea was to ask Pascagoula, but I hardly know her. Plus I couldn’t stand the thought of Mother nosing around, criticizing me all over again. Hilly’s maid, Yule May, is so shy I doubt she’d want to help me. The only other maid I see often enough is Elizabeth’s maid, Aibileen. Aibileen reminds me of Constantine in a way. Plus she’s older and seems to have plenty of experience.

      On my way to Elizabeth’s, I go by the Ben Franklin store and buy a clipboard,

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