can do it on my own. I want him to think I’m . . . worth the trouble.”
“Miss Celia . . .” I shake my head, not believing I’m already arguing with this lady and I haven’t worked here two minutes. “I think you done burned up your cake.”
She grabs a rag and rushes to the oven and jerks the cake out. “Oww! Dawgon it!”
I set my pocketbook down, sidle her out of the way. “You can’t use no wet towel on a hot pan.”
I grab a dry rag and take that black cake out the door, set it down on the concrete step.
Miss Celia stares down at her burned hand. “Missus Walters said you were a real good cook.”
“That old woman eat two butterbeans and say she full. I couldn’t get her to eat nothing.”
“How much was she paying you?”
“Dollar an hour,” I say, feeling kind of ashamed. Five years and not even minimum wage.
“Then I’ll pay you two.”
And I feel all the breath slip out of me.
“When Mister Johnny get out the house in the morning?” I ask, cleaning up the butterstick melting right on the counter, not even a plate under it.
“Six. He can’t stand to do-dad around here very long. Then he heads back from his real estate office about five.”
I do some figuring and even with the fewer hours it’d be more pay. But I can’t get paid if I get shot dead. “I’ll leave at three then. Give myself two hours coming and going so I can stay out a his way.”
“Good.” She nods. “It’s best to be safe.”
On the back step, Miss Celia dumps the cake in a paper sack. “I’ll have to bury this in the waste bin so he won’t know I’ve burned up another one.”
I take the bag out of her hands. “Mister Johnny ain’t seeing nothing. I’ll throw it out at my house.”
“Oh, thank you.” Miss Celia shakes her head like that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for her. She holds her hands in tight little fists under her chin. I walk out to my car.
I sit in the sagging seat of the Ford Leroy’s still paying his boss twelve dollars every week for. Relief hits me. I have finally gotten myself a job. I don’t have to move to the North Pole. Won’t Santy Claus be disappointed.
“SIT DOWN On YOUR BEHIND, Minny, because I’m about to tell you the rules for working in a White Lady’s house.”
I was fourteen years old to the day. I sat at the little wooden table in my mama’s kitchen eyeing that caramel cake on the cooling rack, waiting to be iced. Birthdays were the only day of the year I was allowed to eat as much as I wanted.
I was about to quit school and start my first real job. Mama wanted me to stay on and go to ninth grade—she’d always wanted to be a schoolteacher instead of working in Miss Woodra’s house. But with my sister’s heart problem and my no-good drunk daddy, it was up to me and Mama. I already knew about housework. After school, I did most of the cooking and the cleaning. But if I was going off to work in somebody else’s house, who’d be looking after ours?
Mama turned me by the shoulders so I’d look at her instead of the cake. Mama was a crack-whip. She was proper. She took nothing from nobody. She shook her finger so close to my face, it made me cross-eyed.
“Rule Number One for working for a white lady, Minny: it is nobody’s business. You keep your nose out of your White Lady’s problems, you don’t go crying to her with yours—you can’t pay the light bill? Your feet are too sore? Remember one thing: white people are not your friends. They don’t want to hear about it. And when Miss White Lady catches her man with the lady next door, you keep out of it, you hear me?
“Rule Number Two: don’t you ever let that White Lady find you sitting on her toilet. I don’t care if you’ve got to go so bad it’s coming out of your hairbraids. If there’s not one out back for the help, you find yourself a time when she’s not there in a bathroom she doesn’t use.
“Rule Number Three—” Mama jerked my chin back around to
“Miss Celia . . .” I shake my head, not believing I’m already arguing with this lady and I haven’t worked here two minutes. “I think you done burned up your cake.”
She grabs a rag and rushes to the oven and jerks the cake out. “Oww! Dawgon it!”
I set my pocketbook down, sidle her out of the way. “You can’t use no wet towel on a hot pan.”
I grab a dry rag and take that black cake out the door, set it down on the concrete step.
Miss Celia stares down at her burned hand. “Missus Walters said you were a real good cook.”
“That old woman eat two butterbeans and say she full. I couldn’t get her to eat nothing.”
“How much was she paying you?”
“Dollar an hour,” I say, feeling kind of ashamed. Five years and not even minimum wage.
“Then I’ll pay you two.”
And I feel all the breath slip out of me.
“When Mister Johnny get out the house in the morning?” I ask, cleaning up the butterstick melting right on the counter, not even a plate under it.
“Six. He can’t stand to do-dad around here very long. Then he heads back from his real estate office about five.”
I do some figuring and even with the fewer hours it’d be more pay. But I can’t get paid if I get shot dead. “I’ll leave at three then. Give myself two hours coming and going so I can stay out a his way.”
“Good.” She nods. “It’s best to be safe.”
On the back step, Miss Celia dumps the cake in a paper sack. “I’ll have to bury this in the waste bin so he won’t know I’ve burned up another one.”
I take the bag out of her hands. “Mister Johnny ain’t seeing nothing. I’ll throw it out at my house.”
“Oh, thank you.” Miss Celia shakes her head like that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for her. She holds her hands in tight little fists under her chin. I walk out to my car.
I sit in the sagging seat of the Ford Leroy’s still paying his boss twelve dollars every week for. Relief hits me. I have finally gotten myself a job. I don’t have to move to the North Pole. Won’t Santy Claus be disappointed.
“SIT DOWN On YOUR BEHIND, Minny, because I’m about to tell you the rules for working in a White Lady’s house.”
I was fourteen years old to the day. I sat at the little wooden table in my mama’s kitchen eyeing that caramel cake on the cooling rack, waiting to be iced. Birthdays were the only day of the year I was allowed to eat as much as I wanted.
I was about to quit school and start my first real job. Mama wanted me to stay on and go to ninth grade—she’d always wanted to be a schoolteacher instead of working in Miss Woodra’s house. But with my sister’s heart problem and my no-good drunk daddy, it was up to me and Mama. I already knew about housework. After school, I did most of the cooking and the cleaning. But if I was going off to work in somebody else’s house, who’d be looking after ours?
Mama turned me by the shoulders so I’d look at her instead of the cake. Mama was a crack-whip. She was proper. She took nothing from nobody. She shook her finger so close to my face, it made me cross-eyed.
“Rule Number One for working for a white lady, Minny: it is nobody’s business. You keep your nose out of your White Lady’s problems, you don’t go crying to her with yours—you can’t pay the light bill? Your feet are too sore? Remember one thing: white people are not your friends. They don’t want to hear about it. And when Miss White Lady catches her man with the lady next door, you keep out of it, you hear me?
“Rule Number Two: don’t you ever let that White Lady find you sitting on her toilet. I don’t care if you’ve got to go so bad it’s coming out of your hairbraids. If there’s not one out back for the help, you find yourself a time when she’s not there in a bathroom she doesn’t use.
“Rule Number Three—” Mama jerked my chin back around to
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