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姊妹

內容簡介

內容簡介 唯有愛與相助的光芒，才得以救贖全世界人的心！ ◎紐約時報、Publishers Weekly、Amazon等各大媒體暢銷榜#1，長距美國暢銷榜長達50週以上(目前仍在榜上)◎Amazon超過一千五百名讀者給予5顆星高度評價，引起熱烈討論：如「很久沒有這樣著迷地讀一本書了」、「忘記了時間」、「為她們哭，也為她們笑」，還有許多讀者說從這本書中找到生活的意義和信心...◎紐約時報2009年念度暢銷第二名，僅次於丹‧布朗的《The Lost Symbol失落的符號》◎Publishers Weekly 2009年年度暢銷榜第六名◎「(作者)卡特琳·斯基特（Kathryn Stockett）收集的故事尖銳無比且震撼人心，它們給予黑人群體希望與驕傲……這部作品充滿自信、真誠和歷史感，註定會登上暢銷榜。」--Publishers Weekly◎夢工廠(DreamWorks Studios)已拿到電影版權，將由導演塔特-泰勒(Tate Taylor)執導開拍。 這是一個發生在 1962 年美國南方的故事，二十一歲的 Skeeter 剛從大學畢業，回到密西西比州的家鄉，但是她的母親並不以 Skeeter 的學位為榮、也不贊成她想要成為一個作家的夢想，只是一味希望她早日找到歸宿。 另外，Skeeter 從小是被保姆 Constantine 帶大的，但是 Skeeter 這次回家卻發現 Constantine 失蹤了，沒有人願意告訴她發生了什麼事。Aibileen 則是一位黑人幫傭，在自己兒子因為主人的疏失而意外過世後，她一手帶大十七個白人雇主的小孩，付出了她的母愛，雖然她知道她和孩子之間的感情並不會被認同，只是在和孩子分離時徒然心碎而已。Minny 是 Aibileen 的好友，她廚藝傑出，但是常常因為語言衝突而遭到解雇，一直到鎮上搬來一戶新的人家，她才又找到新的工作，但是她發現女主人似乎也心事重重…。這三個看似不相干的女性，因為某個特別的原因而聚在一起，她們做出了對抗傳統、對抗整個時代價值觀的事，她們匿名發表文章，討論身份、種族的問題，抒發自己的想法，引起了整個城鎮一陣嘩然。 作者以自己在密西西比州成長的背景為基礎，再加入她讓黑人保姆帶大的親身經驗，成功塑造了三個個性與生活背景截然不同的女性，透過她們的眼光描述了 1960 年代種族隔離嚴重、黑白階級分明的社會，也透過三位女性的真心告白，陳述了人類最基本追求夢想、自由和平等的渴求。作者用充滿感情的筆調，佐以各種歷史背景與細節，寫下這一本獨特筆法的小說。本書在上市時即獲得 Publishers Weekly、The Washington Post、Bookmarks Magazine 等眾多媒體推薦，也成為 Amazon 網站 2009 年暢銷書的第二名（僅次於 Dan Brown 的《The Lost Symbol》），創下驚人的小說處女作成績。

作者介紹

作者介紹 Kathryn Stockett 生長在密西西比州的首府Jackson，在阿拉巴馬大學獲得英語與創作寫作學位，畢業後移居紐約，從事雜誌出版與行銷工作。本書是她的第一本小說。

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試閱文字

內文 : Two days later, I sit in my parents' kitchen, waiting for dusk to fall. I give in and light another cigarette even though last night the surgeon general came on the television set and shook his finger at everybody, trying to convince us that smoking will kill us. But Mother once told me tongue kissing would turn me blind and I'm starting to think it's all just a big plot between the surgeon general and Mother to make sure no one ever has any fun.

At eight o'clock that same night, I'm stumbling down Aibileen's street as discreetly as one can carrying a fifty-pound Corona typewriter. I knock softly, already dying for another cigarette to calm my nerves. Aibileen answers and I slip inside. She's wearing the same green dress and stiff black shoes as last time.

I try to smile, like I'm confident it will work this time, despite the idea she explained over the phone. "Could we…sit in the kitchen this time?" I ask. "Would you mind?"

"Alright. Ain't nothing to look at, but come on back."

The kitchen is about half the size of the living room and warmer. It smells like tea and lemons. The black-and-white linoleum floor has been scrubbed thin. There's just enough counter for the china tea set.

I set the typewriter on a scratched red table under the window. Aibileen starts to pour the hot water into the teapot.

"Oh, none for me, thanks," I say and reach in my bag. "I brought us some Co-Colas if you want one." I've tried to come up with ways to make Aibileen more comfortable. Number One: Don't make Aibileen feel like she has to serve me.

"Well, ain't that nice. I usually don't take my tea till later anyway." She brings over an opener and two glasses. I drink mine straight from the bottle and seeing this, she pushes the glasses aside, does the same.

I called Aibileen after Elizabeth gave me the note, and listened hopefully, as Aibileen told me her idea-for her to write her own words down and then show me what she's written. I tried to act excited. But I know I'll have to rewrite everything she's written, wasting even more time. I thought it might make it easier if she could see it in type-face instead of me reading it and telling her it can't work this way.

We smile at each other. I take a sip of my Coke, smooth my blouse. "So…" I say. Aibileen has a wire-ringed notebook in front of her. "Want me to… just go head and read?"

"Sure," I say.

We both take deep breaths and she begins reading in a slow, steady voice.

"My first white baby to ever look after was named Alton Carrington Speers. It was 1924 and I'd just turned fifteen years old. Alton was a long, skinny baby with hair fine as silk on a corn…"

I begin typing as she reads, her words rhythmic, pronounced more clearly than her usual talk. "Every window in that filthy house was painted shut on the inside, even though the house was big with a wide green lawn. I knew the air was bad, felt sick myself…"

"Hang on," I say. I've typed wide greem. I blow on the typing fluid, retype it. "Okay, go ahead."

"When the mama died, six months later," she reads, "of the lung disease, they kept me on to raise Alton until they moved away to Memphis. I loved that baby and he loved me and that's when I knew I was good at making children feel proud of themselves…"

I hadn't wanted to insult Aibileen when she told me her idea. I tried to urge her out of it, over the phone. "Writing isn't that easy. And you wouldn't have time for this anyway, Aibileen, not with a full-time job."

"Can't be much different than writing my prayers every night."

It was the first interesting thing she'd told me about herself since we'd started the project, so I'd grabbed the shopping pad in the pantry. "You don't say your prayers, then?"

"I never told nobody that before. Not even Minny. Find I can get my point across a lot better writing em down."

"So this is what you do on the weekends?" I asked. "In your spare time?" I liked the idea of capturing her life outside of work, when she wasn't under the eye of Elizabeth Leefolt.

"Oh no, I write a hour, sometimes two ever day. Lot a ailing, sick peoples in this town."

I was impressed. That was more than I wrote on some days. I told her we'd try it just to get the project going again.

Aibileen takes a breath, a swallow of Coke, and reads on.

She backtracks to her first job at thirteen, cleaning the Francis the First silver service at the governor's mansion. She reads how on her first morning, she made a mistake on the chart where you filled in the number of pieces so they'd know you hadn't stolen anything.

"I come home that morning, after I been fired, and stood outside my house with my new work shoes on. The shoes my mama paid a month's worth a light bill for. I guess that's when I understood what shame was and the color of it too. Shame ain't black, like dirt, like I always thought it was. Shame be the color of a new white uniform your mother ironed all night to pay for, white without a smudge or a speck a work-dirt on it."

Aibileen looks up to see what I think. I stop typing. I'd expected the stories to be sweet, glossy. I realize I might be getting more than I'd bargained for. She reads on.

"…so I go on and get the chiffarobe straightened out and before I know it, that little white boy done cut his fingers clean off in that window fan I asked her to take out ten times. I never seen that much red come out a person and I grab the boy, I grab them four fingers. Tote him to the colored hospital cause I didn't know where the white one was. But when I got there, a colored man stop me and say, Is this boy white?" The typewriter keys are clacking like hail on a roof. Aibileen is reading faster and I am ignoring my mistakes, stopping her only to put in another page. Every eight seconds, I fling the carriage aside.

"And I say, Yessuh, and he say, Is them his white fingers? And I say, Yessuh, and he say, Well, you better tell em he your high yellow cause that colored doctor won't operate on a white boy in a Negro hospital. And then a white policeman grab me and he say, Now you look a here-"

She stops. Looks up. The clacking ceases.

"What? The policeman said look a here what?"

"Well, that's all I put down. Had to catch the bus for work this morning."

I hit the return and the typewriter dings. Aibileen and I look each other straight in the eye. I think this might actually work.