Chapter 1
　　124 WAS SPITEFUL. Full of a baby's venom. The women in the house knew it and so did thechildren. For years each put up with the spite in his own way, but by 1873 Sethe and her daughterDenver were its only victims. The grandmother, Baby Suggs, was dead, and the sons, Howard andBuglar, had run away by the time they were thirteen years old — as soon as merely looking in amirror shattered it (that was the signal for Buglar); as soon as two tiny hand prints appeared in thecake (that was it for Howard). Neither boy waited to see more; another kettleful of chickpeassmoking in a heap on the floor; soda crackers crumbled and strewn in a line next to the door sill.
　　Nor did they wait for one of the relief periods: the weeks, months even, when nothing was disturbed. No. Each one fled at once — the moment the house committed what was for him theone insult not to be borne or witnessed a second time. Within two months, in the dead of winter,leaving their grandmother, Baby Suggs; Sethe, their mother; and their little sister, Denver, all bythemselves in the gray and white house on Bluestone Road. It didn't have a number then, becauseCincinnati didn't stretch that far. In fact, Ohio had been calling itself a state only seventy yearswhen first one brother and then the next stuffed quilt packing into his hat, snatched up his shoes,and crept away from the lively spite the house felt for them.
　　Baby Suggs didn't even raise her head. From her sickbed she heard them go but that wasn't thereason she lay still. It was a wonder to her that her grandsons had taken so long to realize thatevery house wasn't like the one on Bluestone Road. Suspended between the nastiness of life andthe meanness of the dead, she couldn't get interested in leaving life or living it, let alone the frightof two creeping-off boys. Her past had been like her present — intolerable — and since she knewdeath was anything but forgetfulness, she used the little energy left her for pondering color.
　　"Bring a little lavender in, if you got any. Pink, if you don't."And Sethe would oblige her with anything from fabric to her own tongue. Winter in Ohio wasespecially rough if you had an appetite for color. Sky provided the only drama, and counting on aCincinnati horizon for life's principal joy was reckless indeed. So Sethe and the girl Denver didwhat they could, and what the house permitted, for her. Together they waged a perfunctory battleagainst the outrageous behavior of that place; against turned-over slop jars, smacks on the behind,and gusts of sour air. For they understood the source of the outrage as well as they knew the sourceof light.
　　Baby Suggs died shortly after the brothers left, with no interest whatsoever in their leave-taking orhers, and right afterward Sethe and Denver decided to end the persecution by calling forth theghost that tried them so. Perhaps a conversation, they thought, an exchange of views or somethingwould help. So they held hands and said, "Come on. Come on. You may as well just come on."The sideboard took a step forward but nothing else did.
　　"Grandma Baby must be stopping it," said Denver. She was ten and still mad at Baby Suggs fordying.
　　Sethe opened her eyes. "I doubt that," she said.
　　"Then why don't it come?""You forgetting how little it is," said her mother. "She wasn't even two years old when she died.
　　Too little to understand. Too little to talk much even.""Maybe she don't want to understand," said Denver.
　　"Maybe. But if she'd only come, I could make it clear to her."Sethe released her daughter's hand and together they pushed the sideboard back against the wall.
　　Outside a driver whipped his horse into the gallop local people felt necessary when they passed124.
　　"For a baby she throws a powerful spell," said Denver.
　　"No more powerful than the way I loved her," Sethe answered and there it was again. Thewelcoming cool of unchiseled headstones; the one she selected to lean against on tiptoe, her kneeswide open as any grave. Pink as a fingernail it was, and sprinkled with glittering chips. Tenminutes, he said. You got ten minutes I'll do it for free.
　　Ten minutes for seven letters. With another ten could she have gotten "Dearly" too? She had notthought to ask him and it bothered her still that it might have been possible — that for twenty minutes, a half hour, say, she could have had the whole thing, every word she heard the preachersay at the funeral (and all there was to say, surely) engraved on her baby's headstone: DearlyBeloved. But what she got, settled for, was the one word that mattered. She thought it would beenough, rutting among the headstones with the engraver, his young son looking on, the anger in hisface so old; the appetite in it quite new. That should certainly be enough. Enough to answer onemore preacher, one more abolitionist and a town full of disgust.
　　Counting on the stillness of her own soul, she had forgotten the other one: the soul of her baby girl.
　　Who would have thought that a little old baby could harbor so much rage? Rutting among thestones under the eyes of the engraver's son was not enough. Not only did she have to live out heryears in a house palsied by the baby's fury at having its throat cut, but those ten minutes she spentpressed up against dawn-colored stone studded with star chips, her knees wide open as the grave,were longer than life, more alive, more pulsating than the baby blood that soaked her fingers likeoil. "We could move," she suggested once to her mother-in-law.
　　"What'd be the point?" asked Baby Suggs. "Not a house in the country ain't packed to its rafterswith some dead Negro's grief. We lucky this ghost is a baby. My husband's spirit was to come backin here? or yours? Don't talk to me. You lucky. You got three left.
　　Three pulling at your skirts and just one raising hell from the other side. Be thankful, why don'tyou? I had eight. Every one of them gone away from me. Four taken, four chased, and all, I expect,worrying somebody's house into evil." Baby Suggs rubbed her eyebrows.
　　"My first-born. All I can remember of her is how she loved the burned bottom of bread. Can youbeat that? Eight children and that's all I remember.""That's all you let yourself remember," Sethe had told her, but she was down to one herself — onealive, that is — the boys chased off by the dead one, and her memory of Buglar was fading fast.
　　Howard at least had a head shape nobody could forget. As for the rest, she worked hard toremember as close to nothing as was safe. Unfortunately her brain was devious. She might behurrying across a field, running practically, to get to the pump quickly and rinse the chamomile sapfrom her legs. Nothing else would be in her mind. The picture of the men coming to nurse her wasas lifeless as the nerves in her back where the skin buckled like a washboard. Nor was there thefaintest scent of ink or the cherry gum and oak bark from which it was made. Nothing. Just thebreeze cooling her face as she rushed toward water. And then sopping the chamomile away withpump water and rags, her mind fixed on getting every last bit of sap off — on her carelessness intaking a shortcut across the field just to save a half mile, and not noticing how high the weeds hadgrown until the itching was all the way to her knees. Then something. The plash of water, the sightof her shoes and stockings awry on the path where she had flung them; or Here Boy lapping in thepuddle near her feet, and suddenly there was Sweet Home rolling, rolling, rolling out before hereyes, and although there was not a leaf on that farm that did not make her want to scream, it rolleditself out before her in shameless beauty. It never looked as terrible as it was and it made herwonder if hell was a pretty place too. Fire and brimstone all right, but hidden in lacy groves. Boyshanging from the most beautiful sycamores in the world. It shamed her — remembering thewonderful soughing trees rather than the boys. Try as she might to make it otherwise, thesycamores beat out the children every time and she could not forgive her memory for that.
　　When the last of the chamomile was gone, she went around to the front of the house, collecting hershoes and stockings on the way.
　　As if to punish her further for her terrible memory, sitting on the porch not forty feet away was Paul D, the last of the Sweet Home men. And although she she said, "Is that you?""What's left." He stood up and smiled. "How you been, girl, besides barefoot?"When she laughed it came out loose and young. "Messed up my legs back yonder. Chamomile."He made a face as though tasting a teaspoon of something bitter. "I don't want to even hear 'bout it.
　　Always did hate that stuff."Sethe balled up her stockings and jammed them into her pocket. "Come on in.""Porch is fine, Sethe. Cool out here." He sat back down and looked at the meadow on the otherside of the road, knowing the eagerness he felt would be in his eyes.
　　"Eighteen years," she said softly.
　　"Eighteen," he repeated. "And I swear I been walking every one of em. Mind if I join you?" Henodded toward her feet and began unlacing his shoes.
　　"You want to soak them? Let me get you a basin of water." She moved closer to him to enter thehouse.
　　"No, uh uh. Can't baby feet. A whole lot more tramping they got to do yet.""You can't leave right away, Paul D. You got to stay awhile.""Well, long enough to see Baby Suggs, anyway. Where is she?""Dead.""Aw no. When?""Eight years now. Almost nine.""Was it hard? I hope she didn't die hard."Sethe shook her head. "Soft as cream. Being alive was the hard part. Sorry you missed her though.
　　Is that what you came by for?""That's some of what I came for. The rest is you. But if all the truth be known, I go anywhere thesedays. Anywhere they let me sit down.""You looking good.""Devil's confusion. He lets me look good long as I feel bad." He looked at her and the word "bad"took on another meaning.
　　Sethe smiled. This is the way they were — had been. All of the Sweet Home men, before and afterHalle, treated her to a mild brotherly flirtation, so subtle you had to scratch for it.
    124号恶意充斥。充斥着一个婴儿的怨毒。房子里的女人们清楚，孩子们也清楚。多年以来，每个人都以各自的方式忍受着这恶意，可是到了1873年，塞丝和女儿丹芙成了它仅存的受害者。
　　祖母贝比•萨格斯已经去世，两个儿子，霍华德和巴格勒，在他们十三岁那年离家出走了———当时，镜子一照就碎（那是让巴格勒逃跑的信号）；蛋糕上出现了两个小手印（这个则马上把霍华德逼出了家门）。两个男孩谁也没有等着往下看：又有一锅鹰嘴豆堆在地板上冒着热气；苏打饼干被捻成碎末，沿门槛撒成一道线。他们也没有再等一个间歇期，几个星期、甚至几个月的风平浪静。没有。他们当即逃之夭夭———就在这座凶宅向他们分别施以不能再次忍受和目睹的侮辱的时刻。在两个月之内，在残冬，相继离开他们的祖母贝比•萨格斯，母亲塞丝，还有小妹妹丹芙，把她们留在蓝石路上这所灰白两色的房子里。当时它还没有门牌号，因为辛辛那提还没扩展到那儿呢。事实上，当兄弟俩一个接一个地把被子里的棉絮塞进帽子、抓起鞋子，偷偷逃离这所房子用来试探他们的活生生的恶意时，俄亥俄独立成州也不过七十年光景。
　　贝比•萨格斯连头都没抬。她是在病榻上听见他们离去的，但这并非她躺着一动不动的缘故。对她来说，孙子们花了这么长时间才认识到蓝石路上这所房子的与众不同，倒真是不可思议。悬在生活的龌龊与死者的刻毒之间，她对生或死都提不起兴致，更不用说两个出逃的孩子的恐惧心理了。她的过去跟她的现在一样———难以忍受。既然她认识到死亡偏偏不是遗忘，她便用残余的一点精力来玩味色彩。
　　“给我来点儿淡紫，要是你有的话。要是没有，就粉红吧。
　　”
　　塞丝就用一切来满足她，从布料到自己的舌头。如果你对色彩有所奢望，那么俄亥俄的冬天就尤其不堪忍受。只有天空有戏可唱，要把辛辛那提的地平线算作生活的主要乐趣，那简直是乱弹琴。于是，塞丝和女儿丹芙为她做了她们力所能及，而且为房子所允许的一切。她们一起针对那里的暴行进行了一场敷衍塞责的斗争；同倒扣的泔水桶、屁股上挨的巴掌，以及阵阵的酸气作斗争。
　　因为她们就像知道光的来源一样明晓这些暴行的来源。
　　兄弟俩出走不久，贝比•萨格斯就去世了，无论对他们的还是她自己的离去都兴味索然。随即，塞丝和丹芙决定召唤那个百般折磨她们的鬼魂，以结束这场迫害。也许来一次对话、交换一下看法什么的会管用，她们想。于是她们手拉着手，说道：
　　“来吧。来吧。你干脆出来吧。
　　”
　　碗柜向前进了一步，可是别的东西都没动。
　　“肯定是贝比奶奶在拦它。
　　”丹芙说。她十岁了，仍然在为贝比•萨格斯的去世而生她的气。
　　塞丝睁开眼睛。
　　“我不信。
　　”她说。
　　“那它怎么不出来？
　　”
　　“你忘了它有多小，”妈妈说，“她死的时候还不到两岁呢。小得还不懂事。小得话都说不了几句。”
　　“也许她不愿意懂事。
　　”丹芙道。
　　“也许吧。但只要她出来，我就会对她讲清楚。
　　”塞丝放开女儿的手，两人一齐把碗柜推回墙边。门外，一个车夫把马抽打得飞跑起来———当地居民路过124号时都觉得有这必要。
　　“这么小的小孩，魔法可真够厉害的。
　　”丹芙说。
　　“不比我对她的爱更厉害。
　　”塞丝答道，于是，那情景登时重现。那些未经雕凿的墓石凉意沁人；那一块，她挑出来踮着脚靠上去，双膝像所有墓穴一样敞开。它像指甲一样粉红，遍布晶亮的颗粒。十分钟，他说。你出十分钟我就免费给你刻。
　　七个字母十分钟。再出十分钟她也能得到“亲爱的”么？她没想到去问他，而这种可能至今仍困扰着她———就是说，付出二十分钟，或者半个小时，她就能让他在她的宝贝的墓碑上把整句话都刻上，刻上她在葬礼上听见牧师说的每个字（当然，也只有那么几个字值得一说）：亲爱的宠儿。但是她得到和解决的，是关键的那个词。她以为那应该足够了：在墓石中间与刻字工交媾，他的小儿子在一旁观看着，脸上的愤怒那么苍老，欲望又如此新鲜。那当然应该足够了。再有一个牧师、一个废奴主义者和一座人人嫌恶她的城市，那也足以回答了。
　　只想着自己灵魂的安宁，她忘记了另一个灵魂：她的宝贝女儿的亡灵。谁能想到一个小小的婴儿会心怀这么多的愤懑？在石头中间，在刻字工的儿子眼皮底下与人苟合还不够。她不仅必须在那因割断喉咙的婴儿的暴怒而瘫痪的房子里度日，而且她紧贴着缀满星斑的曙色墓石、双膝墓穴般敞开所付出的十分钟，比生命更长，更活跃，比那油一般浸透手指的婴儿的鲜血更加脉动不息。
　　“我们可以搬家。
　　”有一次她向婆婆建议。
　　“有什么必要呢？
　　”贝比•萨格斯问。
　　“在这个国家里，没有一座房子不是从地板到房梁都塞满了黑人死鬼的悲伤。我们还算幸运，这个鬼不过是个娃娃。是我男人的魂儿能回到这儿来，还是你男人的能回来？别跟我说这个。你够走运的。你还剩了三个呢。剩下三个牵着你的裙子，只有一个从阴间过来折腾。知足吧，干吗不呢？我生过八个。每一个都离开了我。四个给逮走了，四个被人追捕，到头来呀，我估计，个个儿都在谁家里闹鬼呢。
　　”贝比•萨格斯揉着眉毛。
　　“我的头一胎。想起她，我只记得她多么爱吃煳面包嘎巴。你比得了吗？八个孩子，可我只记得这么点儿。”
　　“你只让自己记得这么点儿。
　　”塞丝这样告诉她，然而她自己也面临着同一个难题———那可是个大活人呐———儿子们让死的那个赶跑了，而她对巴格勒的记忆正迅速消失着。霍华德好歹还有一个谁也忘不了的头形呢。至于其余的一切，她尽量不去记忆，因为只有这样才是安全的。遗憾的是她的脑子迂回曲折，难以捉摸。比如，她正匆匆穿过一片田地，简直是在奔跑，就为尽快赶到压水井那里，洗掉腿上的春黄菊汁。她脑子里没有任何别的东西。那两个家伙来吃她奶水时的景象，已经同她后背上的神经一样没有生命（背上的皮肤像块搓衣板似的起伏不平）。脑子里也没有哪怕最微弱的墨水气味，或者用来造墨水的樱桃树胶和橡树皮的气味。什么也没有。只有她奔向水井时冷却她的脸庞的轻风。然后她用破布蘸上压水井的水，泡湿春黄菊，头脑完全专注于把最后一滴汁液洗掉———由于疏忽，仅仅为了省半英里路，她抄近道穿过田野，直到膝盖觉得刺痒，才留意野草已长得这么高了。然后就有了什么。也许是水花的飞溅声，被她扔在路上的鞋袜七扭八歪的样子，或者浸在脚边的水洼里的“来，小鬼”；接着，猛然间，“甜蜜之家”到了，滚哪滚哪滚着展现在她眼前，尽管那个农庄里没有一草一木不令她失声尖叫，它仍然在她面前展开无耻的美丽。
　　它看上去从来没有实际上那样可怖，这使她怀疑，是否地狱也是个可爱的地方。毒焰和硫磺当然有，却藏在花边状的树丛里。小伙子们吊死在世上最美丽的梧桐树上。这令她感到耻辱———对那些美妙的飒飒作响的树的记忆比对小伙子的记忆更清晰。她可以企图另作努力，但是梧桐树每一次都战胜小伙子。她因而不能原谅自己的记忆。
　　 最后一滴春黄菊汁洗掉，她绕到房子前面，一路上将鞋袜拾起来。好像是为了她糟糕的记忆而进一步惩罚她，在不到四十英尺远的门廊台阶上，赫然坐着保罗•D———“甜蜜之家”的最后一个男人。虽然她永远不可能把他的脸跟别人的搞混，她还是问道：
　　“那是你吗？
　　”
　　“还没死的那个。
　　”他站起来，微笑道，“你过得怎么样，姑娘，除了脚还光着？
　　”
　　她也笑了，笑得轻松而年轻。
　　“在那边把腿弄脏了。春黄菊。
　　”
　　他扮了个鬼脸，好像在尝一勺很苦的东西。
　　“我听着都难受。从来都讨厌那玩意儿。
　　”
　　塞丝团起袜子，塞进衣袋。
　　“进来吧。
　　”
　　“门廊上挺好，塞丝。外边凉快。
　　”他重新坐下，知道自己心中的热望会从眼里流露，便转头去望路另一侧的草地。
　　“十八年了。
　　”她轻声说。
　　“十八年。
　　”他重复道，“我敢发誓我每一年都在走。不介意我跟你搭伴吧？
　　”他冲着她的脚点点头，开始解鞋带。
　　“想泡泡吗？我去给你端盆水。
　　”她走近他，准备进屋。
　　“不，不用。不能宝贝脚丫子。它们还有好多路要走哩。
　　”
　　“你不能马上就走，保罗•D。你得多待一会儿。
　　”
　　“好吧，反正得看看贝比•萨格斯。她在哪儿？
　　”
　　“死了。
　　”
　　“噢不。什么时候？
　　”
　　“到现在八年。快九年了。
　　”
　　“遭罪吗？但愿她死得不遭罪。
　　”
　　塞丝摇了摇头。
　　“轻柔得像奶油似的。活着才遭罪呢。不过你没见到她真遗憾。是专为这个来的吗？
　　”
　　“那是一部分原因。再有就是你。可说老实话，我如今什么地方都去。只要能让我坐下，哪儿都行。
　　”
　　“你看起来挺好。
　　”
　　“见鬼。只要我感觉坏，魔鬼就让我看起来好。
　　”他看着她，“坏”这个词说的是另一个意思。
　　塞丝笑了。这是他们的方式———从前的。无论嫁给黑尔之前还是之后，所有“甜蜜之家”的男人都温柔地兄弟般地与她调情，那样微妙，你只能去捕捉。
Chapter 2
    Except for a heap more hair and some waiting in his eyes, he looked the way he had in Kentucky.
　　Peachstone skin; straight- backed.
　　For a man with an immobile face it was amazing how ready it was to smile, or blaze or be sorrywith you. As though all you had to do was get his attention and right away he produced the feelingyouwere feeling. With less than a blink, his face seemed to change — underneath it lay the activity.
　　"I wouldn't have to ask about him, would I? You'd tell me if there was anything to tell, wouldn'tyou?" Sethe looked down at her feet and saw again the sycamores.
　　"I'd tell you. Sure I'd tell you. I don't know any more now than I did then." Except for the churn, hethought, and you don't need to know that. "You must think he's still alive.""No. I think he's dead. It's not being sure that keeps him alive.""What did Baby Suggs think?""Same, but to listen to her, all her children is dead. Claimed she felt each one go the very day andhour.""When she say Halle went?""Eighteen fifty-five. The day my baby was born.""You had that baby, did you? Never thought you'd make it."He chuckled. "Running off pregnant.""Had to. Couldn't be no waiting." She lowered her head andthought, as he did, how unlikely it was that she had made it. And if it hadn't been for that girllooking for velvet, she never would have. "All by yourself too." He was proud of her and annoyedby her.
　　Proud she had done it; annoyed that she had not needed Halle or him in the doing.
　　"Almost by myself. Not all by myself. A whitegirl helped me.""Then she helped herself too, God bless her.""You could stay the night, Paul D.""You don't sound too steady in the offer."Sethe glanced beyond his shoulder toward the closed door. "Oh it's truly meant. I just hope you'llpardon my house. Come on in. Talk to Denver while I cook you something."Paul D tied his shoes together, hung them over his shoulder and followed her through the doorstraight into a pool of red and undulating light that locked him where he stood.
　　"You got company?" he whispered, frowning.
　　"Off and on," said Sethe.
　　"Good God." He backed out the door onto the porch. "What kind of evil you got in here?""It's not evil, just sad. Come on. Just step through."He looked at her then, closely. Closer than he had when she first rounded the house on wet andshining legs, holding her shoes and stockings up in one hand, her skirts in the other. Halle's girl —the one with iron eyes and backbone to match. He had never seen her hair in Kentucky. Andthough her face was eighteen years older than when last he saw her, it was softer now. Because ofthe hair. A face too still for comfort; irises the same color as her skin, which, in that still face, usedto make him think of a mask with mercifully punched out eyes. Halle's woman. Pregnant everyyear including the year she sat by the fire telling him she was going to run. Her three children shehad already packed into a wagonload of others in a caravan of Negroes crossing the river. Theywere to be left with Halle's mother near Cincinnati. Even in that tiny shack, leaning so close to thefire you could smell the heat in her dress, her eyes did not pick up a flicker of light. They were liketwo wells into which he had trouble gazing. Even punched out they needed to be covered, lidded,marked with some sign to warn folks of what that emptiness held. So he looked instead at the firewhile she told him, because her husband was not there for the telling. Mr. Garner was dead and hiswife had a lump in her neck the size of a sweet potato and unable to speak to anyone. She leanedas close to the fire as her pregnant belly allowed and told him, Paul D, the last of the Sweet Homemen. There had been six of them who belonged to the farm, Sethe the only female. Mrs. Garner,crying like a baby, had sold his brother to pay off the debts that surfaced the minute she waswidowed. Then schoolteacher arrived to put things in order. But what he did broke three moreSweet Home men and punched the glittering iron out of Sethe's eyes, leaving two open wells thatdid not reflect firelight.
　　Now the iron was back but the face, softened by hair, made him trust her enough to step inside herdoor smack into a pool of pulsing red light.
　　She was right. It was sad. Walking through it, a wave of grief soaked him so thoroughly he wantedto cry. It seemed a long way to the normal light surrounding the table, but he made it — dry-eyed and lucky.
　　"You said she died soft. Soft as cream," he reminded her.
　　"That's not Baby Suggs," she said.
　　"Who then?""My daughter. The one I sent ahead with the boys.""She didn't live?""No. The one I was carrying when I run away is all I got left.
　　Boys gone too. Both of em walked off just before Baby Suggs died."Paul D looked at the spot where the grief had soaked him. The red was gone but a kind of weepingclung to the air where it had been.
　　Probably best, he thought. If a Negro got legs he ought to use them. Sit down too long, somebodywill figure out a way to tie them up. Still ... if her boys were gone ...
　　"No man? You here by yourself?""Me and Denver," she said.
　　"That all right by you?""That's all right by me."She saw his skepticism and went on. "I cook at a restaurant in town. And I sew a little on the sly."Paul D smiled then, remembering the bedding dress. Sethe was thirteen when she came to SweetHome and already iron-eyed. She was a timely present for Mrs. Garner who had lost Baby Suggsto her husband's high principles. The five Sweet Home men looked at the new girl and decided tolet her be. They were young and so sick with the absence of women they had taken to calves. Yetthey let the iron-eyed girl be, so she could choose in spite of the fact that each one would havebeaten the others to mush to have her. It took her a year to choose — a long, tough year ofthrashing on pallets eaten up with dreams of her. A year of yearning, when rape seemed thesolitary gift of life. The restraint they had exercised possible only because they were Sweet Homemen — the ones Mr. Garner bragged about while other farmers shook their heads in warning at thephrase.
　　"Y'all got boys," he told them. "Young boys, old boys, picky boys, stroppin boys. Now at SweetHome, my niggers is men every one of em. Bought em thataway, raised em thataway. Men everyone.""Beg to differ, Garner. Ain't no nigger men.""Not if you scared, they ain't." Garner's smile was wide. "But if you a man yourself, you'll wantyour niggers to be men too.""I wouldn't have no nigger men round my wife."It was the reaction Garner loved and waited for. "Neither would I," he said. "Neither would I," andthere was always a pause before the neighbor, or stranger, or peddler, or brother-in-law or whoeverit was got the meaning. Then a fierce argument, sometimes a fight, and Garner came home bruisedand pleased, having demonstrated one more time what a real Kentuckian was: one tough enoughand smart enough to make and call his own niggers men.
　　And so they were: Paul D Garner, Paul F Garner, Paul A Garner, Halle Suggs and Sixo, the wildman. All in their twenties, minus women, fucking cows, dreaming of rape, thrashing on pallets,rubbing their thighs and waiting for the new girl — the one who took Baby Suggs' place afterHalle bought her with five years of Sundays.
　　Maybe that was why she chose him. A twenty-year-old man so in love with his mother he gave upfive years of Sabbaths just to see her sit down for a change was a serious recommendation.
　　She waited a year. And the Sweet Home men abused cows while they waited with her. She choseHalle and for their first bedding she sewed herself a dress on the sly.
　　"Won't you stay on awhile? Can't nobody catch up on eighteen years in a day."Out of the dimness of the room in which they sat, a white staircase climbed toward the blue-andwhitewallpaper of the second floor.
　　Paul D could see just the beginning of the paper; discreet flecks of yellow sprinkled among ablizzard of snowdrops all backed by blue.
　　The luminous white of the railing and steps kept him glancing toward it. Every sense he had toldhim the air above the stairwell was charmed and very thin. But the girl who walked down out ofthat air was round and brown with the face of an alert doll.
　　Paul D looked at the girl and then at Sethe who smiled saying, "Here she is my Denver. This isPaul D, honey, from Sweet Home.""Good morning, Mr. D.""Garner, baby. Paul D Garner.""Yes sir.""Glad to get a look at you. Last time I saw your mama, you were pushing out the front of herdress.""Still is," Sethe smiled, "provided she can get in it."Denver stood on the bottom step and was suddenly hot and shy. It had been a long time sinceanybody (good-willed whitewoman, preacher, speaker or newspaperman) sat at their table, theirsympathetic voices called liar by the revulsion in their eyes. For twelve years, long beforeGrandma Baby died, there had been visitors of any sort and certainly no friends. Nocoloredpeople.Certainlynohazelnutman(no) with too long hair and no notebook, no charcoal, nooranges, no questions. Someone her mother wanted to talk to and would even consider talking towhile barefoot. Looking, in fact acting, like a girl instead of the quiet, queenly woman Denver hadknown all her life. The one who never looked away, who when a man got stomped to death by amare right in front of Sawyer's restaurant did not look away; and when a sow began eating her ownlitter did not look away then either. And when the baby's spirit picked up Here Boy and slammedhim into the wall hard enough to break two of his legs and dislocate his eye, so hard he went intoconvulsions and chewed up his tongue, still her mother had not looked away. She had taken ahammer, knocked the dog unconscious, wiped away the blood and saliva, pushed his eye back inhis head and set his leg bones. He recovered, mute and off-balance, more because of hisuntrustworthy eye than his bent legs, and winter, summer, drizzle or dry, nothing could persuadehim to enter the house again.
    除了多出一大堆头发和眼睛里的期待，他看上去还是在肯塔基的那副模样。核桃色的皮肤；腰板笔直。一个面部僵硬的男人，这么愿意微笑、激动，这么愿意和你一道悲伤，真是令人惊奇。好像你只消引起他的注意，他就立即产生和你一样的情感。一眨眼的工夫，他的脸似乎就变了———里面蕴藏着活力。
　　“我不是非打听他不可，对吧？假如有的说，你会告诉我的，是不是？
　　”塞丝盯着自己的脚，又看见了梧桐树。
　　“我会告诉你。我当然会告诉你。我现在知道的不比当时多一丁点儿。
　　”搅乳机的事除外，他想，而你又并不需要知道那个。
　　“你必须认为他还活着。
　　”
　　“不，我想他死了。一厢情愿又不能让他活命。
　　”
　　“贝比•萨格斯怎么想的？
　　”
　　“一样。可要是听她的话，她所有的孩子还都死了呢。口口声声说什么她感觉到每一个都在某一天某一时辰走了。
　　”
　　“她说黑尔什么时候走的？
　　”
　　“1855年。我孩子出生的那天。
　　”
　　“你生下了那个孩子，是吧？从来没想过你能成功。
　　”他格格地笑了，“怀着孩子逃跑。
　　”
　　“没办法。等不下去了。
　　”她低下头，像他一样想，她的成功是多么不可思议呀。还有，如果没有那个找天鹅绒的姑娘，她绝对做不到。
　　“而且全靠你自己。
　　”他为她感到骄傲，也有些不快。骄傲的是她挺下来了；不快的是她始终没有需要黑尔，也没有需要他。
　　“差不多全靠我自己。并不全靠我自己。一个白人姑娘帮了我的忙。
　　”
　　“那么她也帮了她自己，上帝保佑她。
　　”
　　“你可以在这儿过夜，保罗•D。”
　　“你发邀请的声音听起来可不够坚决啊。
　　”
　　塞丝越过他的肩膀瞥了一眼关着的门。
　　“噢，我可是诚心诚意的。只是希望你别介意我的房子。进来吧。跟丹芙说说话，我去给你做点吃的。
　　”
　　保罗•D把两只鞋子拴在一起搭到肩膀上，跟着她进了门。他径直走进一片颤动的红光，立时被那红光当场罩住。
　　“你有伴儿？
　　”他皱着眉头，悄声问。
　　“时有时无吧。
　　”塞丝说。
　　“我的上帝啊。
　　”他退出门，直退到门廊，“你这儿的邪恶是哪一种？
　　”
　　“它不邪恶，只是悲伤。来吧。走过来。
　　”
　　这时，他开始仔细地端详她。比刚才她一手提着鞋袜、一手提着裙子，两腿湿淋淋亮晶晶地从房后绕出来的时候端详得更仔细。黑尔的姑娘———铁的眼睛，铁的脊梁。在肯塔基他从来没见过她的头发。她的脸尽管比上次见时多经了十八年风雨，现在却更柔和了。是因为头发。一张平静得毋须抚慰的脸；那张平静的脸上与她皮肤同色的虹膜，让他不时想起一副仁慈的挖空了眼睛的面具。黑尔的女人。年年怀孕，包括她坐在炉火旁告诉他她要逃走的那一年。她的三个孩子已经被她塞进别人的大车，随着一车队的黑人过了河。他们将留在辛辛那提附近黑尔的母亲那里。在那间小木屋里，尽管靠火这样近，你甚至能闻到她裙子里的热气，她的眼里还是没有映出一丝光芒。它们就像两口深井，让他不敢凝视。即使毁掉了，它们仍需要盖上，遮住，标上记号，警告人们提防那空虚所包含的一切。所以她开口的时候他就把目光投向火，因为她的丈夫不在那里听她诉说。加纳先生死了，他的太太脖子上又长了一个甘薯那么大的包，不能讲话。她挺着大肚子，尽量靠近火堆，倾诉给他，保罗•D，最后一个“甜蜜之家”的男人。
　　农庄上的奴隶一共有六个，塞丝是他们中唯一的女性。加纳太太哭得像个孩子似的卖掉了保罗•D的哥哥，以偿还刚一守寡就欠下的债务。然后“学校老师”来到，收拾这副烂摊子。但是他的所作所为就是再毁掉三个“甜蜜之家”的男人，抠掉塞丝眼中的闪亮的铁，只留下两口不反射火光的深井。
　　现在铁又回来了，可是有了那张因头发而柔和的脸，他就能够信任她，迈进她的门，跌入一片颤动的红光。
　　她说得对。是悲伤。走过红光的时候，一道悲伤的浪头如此彻底地浸透了他，让他想失声痛哭。桌子周围平常的光亮显得那么遥远；然而，他走过去了———没有流泪，很幸运。
　　“你说她死得很轻柔。轻柔得像奶油似的。
　　”他提醒她。
　　“那不是贝比•萨格斯。
　　”她说。
　　“那是谁呢？
　　”
　　“我的女儿。跟两个男孩一起先送走的那个。
　　”
　　“她没活下来？
　　”
　　“没有。我现在就剩下逃跑时怀的那个了。儿子也都走了。他们俩正好是在贝比•萨格斯去世之前出走的。
　　”
　　保罗•D看着那个用悲伤浸透他的地方。红光消散了，可是一种啜泣的声音还滞留在空气里。
　　也许这样最好，他想。一个黑人长了两条腿就该用。坐下来的时间太长了，就会有人想方设法拴住它们。不过……如果她的儿子们走了……“没有男人？就你自己在这儿？
　　”
　　“我和丹芙。
　　”她说。
　　“你这样挺好么？
　　”
　　“我这样挺好。
　　”
　　她觉察到他的疑惑，继续道：
　　“我在城里一家餐馆做饭。还偷着给人做点针线活儿。
　　”
　　这时保罗•D想起了那条睡裙，不禁哑然失笑。塞丝来“甜蜜之家”时只有十三岁，已经有铁的眼睛了。她是送给加纳太太的一件及时的礼物，因为加纳先生的崇高原则使太太失去了贝比•萨格斯。那五个“甜蜜之家”的男人看着这个新来的姑娘，决定不去碰她。他们血气方刚，苦于没有女人，只好去找小母牛出火。然而，尽管事实上每个人为了夺到她完全可以把其他几个打倒，他们还是不去碰那个眼睛像铁的姑娘，所以她能够自己挑选。她挑了整整一年———漫长、难熬的一年，他们在草荐上翻来覆去，被有关她的梦苦苦纠缠。渴望的一年，强奸似乎成了生活唯一的馈赠。他们使克制成为可能，仅仅因为他们是“甜蜜之家”的男人———当其他农庄主对这个说法警觉地摇头时，加纳先生吹嘘的那几个人。
　　“你们都有奴隶，”他对他们说，“年纪轻的，上了岁数的，起刺儿的，磨洋工的。如今在‘甜蜜之家’，我的黑鬼个个都是男子汉。那么买的，也是那么培养的。个个都是男子汉。
　　”
　　“抱歉，加纳，不敢苟同。根本没有黑鬼男子汉。
　　”
　　“要是你自己胆小，他们就不是了。
　　”加纳咧开嘴笑了，“可如果你自己是个男子汉，你就希望你的黑鬼也是男子汉。
　　”
　　“我可不乐意我的老婆周围尽是些黑鬼男子汉。
　　”
　　这正是加纳酷爱和期待的反应。
　　“我也不乐意，”他说道，“我也不乐意。
　　”无论什么人，邻居、陌生人、小贩或是内兄弟，都得等一会儿才能领会这个意思。然后是一场激烈的争论，有时还要打上一架，但每次加纳遍体鳞伤、洋洋得意地回家时，他已再一次向人们表明了什么是真正的肯塔基人：勇敢和聪明得足以塑造和称呼他的黑鬼们为男子汉。
　　于是这就是他们：保罗•D.加纳，保罗•F.加纳，保罗•A.加纳，黑尔•萨格斯，还有狂人西克索。都是二十来岁，没沾过女人，操母牛，梦想强奸，在草荐上辗转反侧、摩擦大腿等待着新来的姑娘———黑尔用五年的礼拜天赎出贝比•萨格斯之后顶替她位置的那个姑娘。也许那就是为什么她选中了他。一个二十岁的男人这样爱他的母亲，放弃了五年的安息日，只为了看到她坐下来有个变化，这绝对是个真正的可取之处。
　　她等了一年。
　　“甜蜜之家”的男人在与她一起等待的时候虐待母牛。她选中了黑尔。为了第一次结合，她偷偷地为自己缝了条裙子。
　　“你不多待一阵子吗？谁也不能在一天里捋清十八年。
　　”
　　在他们坐着的房间的昏暗之外，白色的楼梯爬向二楼蓝白相间的墙纸。保罗•D刚好能看到墙纸的开头：蓝色的背景上，黄色斑点独具匠心地洒在暴风雪的雪花中间。明亮的白栏杆和白楼梯吸引了他的目光。他的所有感觉都告诉他，楼梯井上面的空气既迷人又异常稀薄。但从那空气中走下来的棕色皮肤的女孩却是圆乎乎的，一张脸长得好像警觉的娃娃。
　　保罗•D看看女孩，又看看塞丝。塞丝笑吟吟地说：
　　“瞧，这就是我的丹芙。这是‘甜蜜之家’的保罗•D，亲爱的。
　　”
　　“早安，D先生。
　　”
　　“加纳，宝贝儿。保罗•D.加纳。
　　”
　　“是，先生。
　　”
　　“很高兴见到你。我上次见你妈妈的时候，你正从她裙子里面往外拱呢。
　　”
　　“如今也一样，”塞丝笑道，“要是她还能钻回去的话。
　　”
　　丹芙站在最低一磴楼梯上，突然间又烫又羞。好久没有什么人（好心的白女人、牧师、演说家或是报社记者———他们眼中的反感证明他们同情的声音不过是谎言）来坐在她们家的桌子旁边了。远在贝比奶奶去世以前，整整十二年时间里，从没有过任何一种来访者，当然也就没有朋友。
　　没有黑人。当然更没有头发这么长的榛色男人，更没有笔记本，没有炭煤，没有橙子，没有一大堆问题。没有妈妈愿意与之交谈的人，甚至光着脚也居然情愿与之交谈的人。妈妈看起来好像———实际上装成———个小姑娘，而不是丹芙一直熟识的那个安静的、王后般的女人。那个从不旁视的女人，看到一个人就在索亚餐馆门前被母马踢死也不把脸扭开的女人；看到一只母猪开始吃自己的幼崽时也不把脸扭开的女人。就是那一次，“来，小鬼”被婴儿的鬼魂提起来狠狠地扔到墙上，摔得它断了两条腿，眼睛错位，浑身抽搐，嚼碎了自己的舌头，她的妈妈也仍然没有把脸扭开。她抄起一把榔头把狗打昏，擦去血迹和唾沫，把眼睛按回脑袋，接好腿骨。后来它痊愈了，成了哑巴，走路摇摇摆摆的，不仅因为弯曲的腿，更因为不中用的眼睛。无论冬夏，不分晴雨，什么也不能说服它再走进这房子一次。
Chapter 3
    Now here was this woman with the presence of mind to repair a dog gone savage with painrocking her crossed ankles and looking away from her own daughter's body. As though the size ofit was more than vision could bear. And neither she nor he had on shoes. Hot, shy, now Denverwas lonely. All that leaving: first her brothers, then her grandmother — serious losses since therewere no children willing to circle her in a game or hang by their knees from her porch railing.
　　None of that had mattered as long as her mother did not look away as she was doing now, makingDenver long, downright long, for a sign of spite from the baby ghost.
　　"She's a fine-looking young lady," said Paul D. "Fine-looking.
　　Got her daddy's sweet face.""You know my father?""Knew him. Knew him well.""Did he, Ma'am?" Denver fought an urge to realign her affection.
　　"Of course he knew your daddy. I told you, he's from Sweet Home."Denver sat down on the bottom step. There was nowhere else gracefully to go. They were atwosome, saying "Your daddy" and "Sweet Home" in a way that made it clear both belonged tothem and not to her. That her own father's absence was not hers. Once the absence had belonged toGrandma Baby — a son, deeply mourned because he was the one who had bought her out of there.
　　Then it was her mother's absent husband. Now it was this hazelnut stranger's absent friend. Onlythose who knew him ("knew him well") could claim his absence for themselves. Just as only thosewho lived in Sweet Home could remember it, whisper it and glance sideways at one another whilethey did. Again she wished for the baby ghost — its anger thrilling her now where it used to wearher out. Wear her out.
　　"We have a ghost in here," she said, and it worked. They were not a twosome anymore. Hermother left off swinging her feet and being girlish. Memory of Sweet Home dropped away fromthe eyes of the man she was being girlish for. He looked quickly up the lightning-white stairsbehind her.
　　"So I hear," he said. "But sad, your mama said. Not evil.""No sir," said Denver, "not evil. But not sad either.""What then?""Rebuked. Lonely and rebuked.""Is that right?" Paul D turned to Sethe.
　　"I don't know about lonely," said Denver's mother. "Mad, maybe, but I don't see how it could belonely spending every minute with us like it does.""Must be something you got it wants."Sethe shrugged. "It's just a baby.""My sister," said Denver. "She died in this house."Paul D scratched the hair under his jaw. "Reminds me of that headless bride back behind SweetHome. Remember that, Sethe? Used to roam them woods regular.""How could I forget? Worrisome . . .""How come everybody run off from Sweet Home can't stop talking about it? Look like if it was sosweet you would have stayed.""Girl, who you talking to?"Paul D laughed. "True, true. She's right, Sethe. It wasn't sweet and it sure wasn't home." He shookhis head.
　　"But it's where we were," said Sethe. "All together. Comes back whether we want it to or not." Sheshivered a little. A light ripple of skin on her arm, which she caressed back into sleep. "Denver,"she said, "start up that stove. Can't have a friend stop by and don't feed him.""Don't go to any trouble on my account," Paul D said.
　　"Bread ain't trouble. The rest I brought back from where I work. Least I can do, cooking fromdawn to noon, is bring dinner home. You got any objections to pike?""If he don't object to me I don't object to him."At it again, thought Denver. Her back to them, she jostled the kindlin and almost lost the fire.
　　"Why don't you spend the night, Mr. Garner? You and Ma'am can talk about Sweet Home all nightlong."Sethe took two swift steps to the stove, but before she could yank Denver's collar, the girl leanedforward and began to cry.
　　"What is the matter with you? I never knew you to behave this way.""Leave her be," said Paul D. "I'm a stranger to her.""That's just it. She got no cause to act up with a stranger. Oh baby, what is it? Did somethinghappen?"But Denver was shaking now and sobbing so she could not speak.
　　The tears she had not shed for nine years wetting her far too womanly breasts.
　　"I can't no more. I can't no more.""Can't what? What can't you?""I can't live here. I don't know where to go or what to do, but I can't live here. Nobody speaks tous. Nobody comes by. Boys don't like me. Girls don't either.""Honey, honey.""What's she talking 'bout nobody speaks to you?" asked Paul D. "It's the house. People don't — ""It's not! It's not the house. It's us! And it's you!""Denver!""Leave off, Sethe. It's hard for a young girl living in a haunted house. That can't be easy.""It's easier than some other things.""Think, Sethe. I'm a grown man with nothing new left to see or do and I'm telling you it ain't easy.
　　Maybe you all ought to move. Who owns this house?"Over Denver's shoulder Sethe shot Paul D a look of snow. "What you care?""They won't let you leave?""No.""Sethe.""No moving. No leaving. It's all right the way it is.""You going to tell me it's all right with this child half out of her mind?"Something in the house braced, and in the listening quiet that followed Sethe spoke.
　　"I got a tree on my back and a haint in my house, and nothing in between but the daughter I amholding in my arms. No more running — from nothing. I will never run from another thing on thisearth. I took one journey and I paid for the ticket, but let me tell you something, Paul D Garner: itcost too much! Do you hear me? It cost too much. Now sit down and eat with us or leave us be."Paul D fished in his vest for a little pouch of tobacco — concentrating on its contents and the knotof its string while Sethe led Denver into the keeping room that opened off the large room he wassitting in. He had no smoking papers, so he fiddled with the pouch and listened through the opendoor to Sethe quieting her daughter. When she came back she avoided his look and went straight toa small table next to the stove. Her back was to him and he could see all the hair he wanted withoutthe distraction of her face.
　　"What tree on your back?""Huh." Sethe put a bowl on the table and reached under it for flour.
　　"What tree on your back? Is something growing on your back?
　　I don't see nothing growing on your back.""It's there all the same.""Who told you that?""Whitegirl. That's what she called it. I've never seen it and never will. But that's what she said itlooked like. A chokecherry tree. Trunk, branches, and even leaves. Tiny little chokecherry leaves.
　　But that was eighteen years ago. Could have cherries too now for all I know."Sethe took a little spit from the tip of her tongue with her forefinger. Quickly, lightly she touchedthe stove. Then she trailed her fingers through the flour, parting, separating small hills and ridgesof it, looking for mites. Finding none, she poured soda and salt into the crease of her folded handand tossed both into the flour. Then she reached into a can and scooped half a handful of lard.
　　Deftly she squeezed the flour through it, then with her left hand sprinkling water, she formed thedough.
    就是这个女人，当年有本事去修理一只疼得撒野的狗，现在正架起腿晃悠着，将视线从她自己女儿的身体上移开，好像视野里根本容不下她的身量似的。而且她和他谁都没有穿鞋。又发烫，又害羞，现在丹芙是孤独的。所有那些离去的———先是哥哥们，然后是奶奶———都是惨重的损失，因为再没有小孩愿意围着她做游戏，或者弯着腿倒挂在她家门廊的栏杆上悠来荡去了。那些都没有关系，只要她妈妈别再像现在这样把脸扭开，搞得丹芙渴望，由衷地渴望一个来自那个婴儿鬼魂的怨恨的表示。
　　“她是个好看的姑娘，”保罗•D说，“好看。脸蛋像她爹一样甜。
　　”
　　“你认识我爸爸？
　　”
　　“认识。相当认识。
　　”
　　“是吗，太太？
　　”丹芙尽量避免油然而生的好感。
　　“他当然认识你的爸爸。我不是跟你说了吗，他是‘甜蜜之家’的人。
　　”
　　丹芙在最低一磴楼梯上坐下。再没有别的地方好去了。他们成了一对，说着什么“你的爸爸”和“甜蜜之家”，用的全是那种显然属于他们而不属于她的方式。就是说，她自己父亲的失踪不关她的事。失踪首先是属于贝比奶奶的———一个儿子，被深切地哀悼着，因为是他把她从那里赎出来的。其次，他是妈妈失踪的丈夫。现在他又是这个榛色陌生人的失踪的朋友。只有那些认识他的人（“相当认识”）有权利说起他的失踪。就好像只有那些住在“甜蜜之家”的人才能记得他，悄声谈起他，一边说一边互相用眼角交换目光。她又一次盼望那个小鬼魂———它那现在令她兴奋的愤怒，曾经让她疲惫不堪。让她疲惫不堪。
　　她说道：
　　“我们这儿有个鬼。
　　”这句话立即起了作用。他们不再是一对了。她妈妈不再悠着脚作女孩状了。对“甜蜜之家”的记忆从她为之作女孩状的男人眼中一滴一滴漏走。他猛抬头，瞥了一眼她身后明亮的白楼梯。
　　“我听说了，”他说，“可那是悲伤，你妈妈说的。不是邪恶。
　　”
　　“不，先生，”丹芙道，“不是邪恶，可也不是悲伤。
　　”
　　“那是什么呢？
　　”
　　“冤屈。孤独和冤屈。
　　”
　　“是这样吗？
　　”保罗•D转头问塞丝。
　　“我拿不准是不是孤独，”丹芙的母亲说道，“愤怒倒有可能，可是它这样时时刻刻跟我们在一块儿，我看不出它怎么会孤独。
　　”
　　“你肯定有什么它想要的东西。
　　”
　　塞丝耸耸肩膀。
　　“它只不过是个娃娃。
　　”
　　“是我姐姐，”丹芙说，“她死在这房子里。
　　”
　　保罗•D抓了抓下巴上的胡子。
　　“让我想起了‘甜蜜之家’后面的那个无头新娘。还记得吗，塞丝？老在那片树林里游荡。
　　”
　　“怎么忘得了呢？怪烦人的……”
　　“为什么每个从‘甜蜜之家’逃走的人都不能不谈它？要是真这么甜蜜的话，看来你们应该留在那儿。”
　　“丫头，你这是跟谁说话呢？
　　”
　　保罗•D哈哈大笑。
　　“的确，的确。她说得对，塞丝。那儿并不甜蜜，当然也不是个家。”他摇了摇头。
　　“可那是我们待过的地方，”塞丝说，“大家都在一起。不管愿不愿意，总会想起来。
　　”她微微哆嗦了一下。胳膊表面皱起了一块，她连忙抚平。
　　“丹芙，”她说道，“生炉子。不能来了朋友倒不招待他。
　　”
　　“甭为我费事了。
　　”保罗•D说。
　　“烤面包不费什么事。再有就是我从工作的餐馆带回来的东西。从一大早忙活到晌午，我起码能把晚饭带回家。你不讨厌吃梭鱼吧？
　　”
　　“要是他不讨厌我，我也不讨厌他。
　　”
　　又来了，丹芙心想。她背对着他们，拐了一下柴火，差点碰灭了火。
　　“你干吗不在这儿过夜，加纳先生？那样你和太太就能整夜谈‘甜蜜之家’了。”
　　塞丝三步并作两步赶到火炉边，可还没抓住丹芙的衣领，那姑娘就向前挣去，哭了起来。
　　“你怎么了？我从没见过你这么不懂事。
　　”
　　“甭管她了。
　　”保罗•D说，“我是个生人。
　　”
　　“说的就是这个。她没理由对生人不礼貌。噢，宝贝，怎么回事？到底怎么啦？
　　”
　　可是丹芙这会儿正在颤抖，由于抽泣说不出话来。九年来从未落过的泪水，打湿了她过于女人味的胸脯。
　　“我再不能了，我再不能了。
　　”
　　“不能干吗？你不能干吗？
　　”
　　“我不能住在这儿了。我也不知道去哪儿、干什么，可我不能在这儿住了。没有人跟我们说话。没有人来。男孩子不喜欢我。女孩子也不喜欢我。
　　”
　　“亲爱的，亲爱的。
　　”
　　“她说没人跟你们说话是什么意思？
　　”保罗•D问道。
　　“是这座房子。人家不———”
　　“不是!不是这房子!是我们!是你!”
　　“丹芙!”
　　“得了，塞丝。一个小姑娘，住在闹鬼的房子里，不易。不易。
　　”
　　“比有些事还容易呢。
　　”
　　“想想看，塞丝。我是个大老爷们，什么事没见过没做过，可我跟你说这不易。也许你们都该搬走。这房子是谁的？
　　”
　　塞丝目光越过丹芙的肩头，冷冷地看了保罗•D一眼。
　　“你操哪门子心？
　　”
　　“他们不让你走？
　　”
　　“不是。
　　”
　　“塞丝。
　　”
　　“不搬。不走。这样挺好。
　　”
　　“你是想说这孩子半疯不傻的没关系，是吗？
　　”
　　屋子里的什么东西绷紧了，在随后的等待的寂静中，塞丝说话了。
　　“我后背上有棵树，家里有个鬼，除了怀里抱着的女儿我什么都没有了。不再逃了———从哪儿都不逃了。我再也不从这个世界上的任何地方逃走了。我逃跑过一回，我买了票，可我告诉你，保罗•D.加纳：它太昂贵了!你听见了吗？它太昂贵了。现在请你坐下来和我们吃饭，要不就走开。
　　”
　　保罗•D从马甲里掏出一个小烟口袋———专心致志地研究起里面的烟丝和袋口的绳结来；同时，塞丝领着丹芙进了从他坐着的大屋开出的起居室。他没有卷烟纸，就一边拨弄烟口袋玩，一边听敞开的门那边塞丝安抚她的女儿。回来的时候，她回避着他的注视，径直走到炉边的小案子旁。她背对着他，于是他不用注意她脸上的心烦意乱，就能尽意欣赏她的全部头发。
　　“你后背上的什么树？
　　”
　　“哦。”塞丝把一只碗放在案子上，到案子下面抓面粉。
　　“你后背上的什么树？有什么长在你的后背上吗？我没看见什么长在你背上。
　　”
　　“还不是一样。
　　”
　　“谁告诉你的？
　　”
　　“那个白人姑娘。她就是这么说的。我从没见过，也永远不会见到了。可她说就是那个样子。
　　一棵苦樱桃树。树干，树枝，还有树叶呢。小小的苦樱桃树叶。可那是十八年前的事了。我估计现在连樱桃都结下了。
　　”
　　塞丝用食指从舌尖蘸了点唾沫，很快地轻轻碰了一下炉子。然后她用十指在面粉里划道儿，把面粉扒拉开，分成一小堆一小堆的，找小虫子。她什么都没找到，就往蜷起的手掌沟里撒苏打粉和盐，再都倒进面粉。她又找到一个罐头盒，舀出半手心猪油。她熟练地把面粉和着猪油从手中挤出，然后再用左手一边往里洒水，就这样她揉成了面团。
Chapter 4
    "I had milk," she said. "I was pregnant with Denver but I had milk for my baby girl. I hadn'tstopped nursing her when I sent her on ahead with Howard and Buglar."Now she rolled the dough out with a wooden pin. "Anybody could smell me long before he sawme. And when he saw me he'd see the drops of it on the front of my dress. Nothing I could doabout that. All I knew was I had to get my milk to my baby girl. Nobody was going to nurse herlike me. Nobody was going to get it to her fast enough, or take it away when she had enough anddidn't know it. Nobody knew that she couldn't pass her air if you held her up on your shoulder,only if she was lying on my knees. Nobody knew that but me and nobody had her milk but me. Itold that to the women in the wagon. Told them to put sugar water in cloth to suck from so when Igot there in a few days she wouldn't have forgot me. The milk would be there and I would be therewith it.""Men don't know nothing much," said Paul D, tucking his pouch back into his vest pocket, "butthey do know a suckling can't be away from its mother for long.""Then they know what it's like to send your children off when your breasts are full.""We was talking 'bout a tree, Sethe.""After I left you, those boys came in there and took my milk.
　　That's what they came in there for. Held me down and took it. I told Mrs. Garner on em. She hadthat lump and couldn't speak but her eyes rolled out tears. Them boys found out I told on em.
　　Schoolteacher made one open up my back, and when it closed it made a tree. It grows there still.""They used cowhide on you?""And they took my milk.""They beat you and you was pregnant?""And they took my milk!"The fat white circles of dough lined the pan in rows. Once more Sethe touched a wet forefinger tothe stove. She opened the oven door and slid the pan of biscuits in. As she raised up from the heatshe felt Paul D behind her and his hands under her breasts. She straightened up and knew, butcould not feel, that his cheek was pressing into the branches of her chokecherry tree.
　　Not even trying, he had become the kind of man who could walk into a house and make thewomen cry. Because with him, in his presence, they could. There was something blessed in hismanner. Women saw him and wanted to weep — to tell him that their chest hurt and their kneesdid too. Strong women and wise saw him and told him things they only told each other: that waypast the Change of Life, desire in them had suddenly become enormous, greedy, more savage thanwhen they were fifteen, and that it embarrassed them and made them sad; that secretly they longedto die — to be quit of it — that sleep was more precious to them than any waking day. Young girls sidled up to him to confess or describe how well-dressed the visitations were that had followedthem straight from their dreams. Therefore, although he did not understand why this was so, hewas not surprised when Denver dripped tears into the stovefire. Nor, fifteen minutes later, aftertelling him about her stolen milk, her mother wept as well. Behind her, bending down, his body anarc of kindness, he held her breasts in the palms of his hands. He rubbed his cheek on her back andlearned that way her sorrow, the roots of it; its wide trunk and intricate branches. Raising hisfingers to the hooks of her dress, he knew without seeing them or hearing any sigh that the tearswere coming fast. And when the top of her dress was around her hips and he saw the sculpture herback had become, like the decorative work of an ironsmith too passionate for display, he couldthink but not say, "Aw, Lord, girl." And he would tolerate no peace until he had touched everyridge and leaf of it with his mouth, none of which Sethe could feel because her back skin had beendead for years. What she knew was that the responsibility for her breasts, at last, was in somebodyelse's hands.
　　Would there be a little space, she wondered, a little time, some way to hold off eventfulness, topush busyness into the corners of the room and just stand there a minute or two, naked fromshoulder blade to waist, relieved of the weight of her breasts, smelling the stolen milk again andthe pleasure of baking bread? Maybe this one time she could stop dead still in the middle of acooking meal — not even leave the stove — and feel the hurt her back ought to. Trust things andremember things because the last of the Sweet Home men was there to catch her if she sank?
　　The stove didn't shudder as it adjusted to its heat. Denver wasn't stirring in the next room. Thepulse of red light hadn't come back and Paul D had not trembled since 1856 and then for eighty-three days in a row. Locked up and chained down, his hands shook so bad he couldn't smoke oreven scratch properly. Now he was trembling again but in the legs this time. It took him a while torealize that his legs were not shaking because of worry, but because the floorboards were and thegrinding, shoving floor was only part of it. The house itself was pitching. Sethe slid to the floorand struggled to get back into her dress. While down on all fours, as though she were holding herhouse down on the ground, Denver burst from the keeping room, terror in her eyes, a vague smileon her lips.
　　"God damn it! Hush up!" Paul D was shouting, falling, reaching for anchor. "Leave the placealone! Get the hell out!" A table rushed toward him and he grabbed its leg. Somehow he managedto stand at an angle and, holding the table by two legs, he bashed it about, wrecking everything,screaming back at the screaming house. "Youwant to fight, come on! God damn it! She got enough without you. She got enough!"The quaking slowed to an occasional lurch, but Paul D did not stop whipping the table around untileverything was rock quiet. Sweating and breathing hard, he leaned against the wall in the space thesideboard left. Sethe was still crouched next to the stove, clutching her salvaged shoes to her chest.
　　The three of them, Sethe, Denver, and Paul D, breathed to the same beat, like one tired person.
　　Another breathing was just as tired.
    “我那时候有奶水，”她说，“我怀着丹芙，可还有奶水给小女儿。直到我把她和霍华德、巴格勒先送走的时候，我还一直奶着她呢。
　　”
　　她用擀面杖把面团擀开。
　　“人们没看见我就闻得着。所以他一见我就看到了我裙子前襟的奶渍。我一点办法都没有。我只知道我得为我的小女儿生奶水。没人会像我那样奶她。没人会像我那样，总是尽快喂上她，或是等她吃饱了、可自己还不知道的时候就马上拿开。谁都不知道她只有躺在我的腿上才能打嗝，你要是把她扛在肩膀上她就不行了。除了我谁也不知道，除了我谁也没有给她的奶水。我跟大车上的女人们说了。跟她们说用布蘸上糖水让她咂，这样几天后我赶到那里时，她就不会忘了我。奶水到的时候，我也就跟着到了。
　　”
　　“男人可不懂那么多，”保罗•D说着，把烟口袋又揣回马甲兜里，“可他们知道，一个吃奶的娃娃不能离开娘太久。
　　”
　　“那他们也知道你乳房涨满时把你的孩子送走是什么滋味。
　　”
　　“我们刚才在谈一棵树，塞丝。
　　”
　　“我离开你以后，那两个家伙去了我那儿，抢走了我的奶水。他们就是为那个来的。把我按倒，吸走了我的奶水。我向加纳太太告了他们。她长着那个包，不能讲话，可她眼里流了泪。那些家伙发现我告了他们。
　　‘学校老师’让一个家伙划开我的后背，伤口愈合时就成了一棵树。它还在那儿长着呢。
　　”
　　“他们用皮鞭抽你了？
　　”
　　“还抢走了我的奶水。
　　”
　　“你怀着孩子他们还打你？
　　”
　　“还抢走了我的奶水!”
　　白胖的面圈在平底锅上排列成行。塞丝又一次用沾湿的食指碰了碰炉子。她打开烤箱门，把一锅面饼插进去。她刚刚起身离开烤箱的热气，就感觉到背后的保罗•D和托在她乳房下的双手。她站直身子，知道———却感觉不到———他正把脸埋进苦樱桃树的枝杈里。
　　几乎在不知不觉之间，他已经成为那种一进屋就能使女人哭泣的男人。有他相陪伴，当着他的面，她们就哭得出来。他的举止中有某种神圣的东西。女人们见了他就想流泪———向他诉说胸口和膝头的创伤。坚强的和智慧的女人见了他，将只有她们彼此间才说的事讲给他听：更年期早过了，她们内心的欲望却忽然间变得旺盛、贪婪起来，比十五岁的时候更狂野，让她们羞愧，也让她们悲哀；她们偷偷地渴望死去———以求得解脱———对她们来说睡去比任何醒着的日子都珍贵。
　　年轻姑娘则羞怯地凑近他坦白心事，或者向他描述在梦中尾随她们的不速之客穿着多么漂亮的衣裳。所以，虽然他不明白究竟是怎么一回事，但当丹芙独对炉火垂泪时，他并不感到惊讶。一刻钟之后，她的妈妈向他说完被掠走的奶水后同样啜泣的时候，他也不感到惊讶。他在她背后俯下身去，身体形成一道爱怜的弧线，手掌托起她的乳房。他用脸颊揉擦着她的后背，用这种方式感受她的悲伤，它的根，它巨大的主干和繁茂的枝杈。他把手指挪到裙子的挂钩上，不用看到眼泪，也不用听到一声叹息，便知道它们已汹涌而至。当裙子的上身褪下来围住她的臀部时，他看到她后背变成的雕塑，简直就像一个铁匠心爱得不愿示人的工艺品。他百感交集，一时说不出话来：
　　“噢，主啊，姑娘。
　　”直到每一道隆起、每一片树叶都被他的嘴唇犁遍，他才平静下来，而这一切塞丝丝毫感觉不到，因为她背上的皮肤已死去多年了。她只知道，她双乳的负担终于落在了另一个人的手中。
　　是否有一小块空间，一小段时光，她纳闷，有可能远离坎坷，把劳碌抛向屋角，只是赤裸上身站上片刻，卸下乳房的重荷，重新闻到被掠走的奶水，感受烤面包的乐趣？也许就是这回，在做饭的时候，她能够僵止不动———甚至不离开炉子———感受她的后背本该感受到的疼痛。难道在她沉沦的时候，有最后一个“甜蜜之家”的男人来拉她一把，她就该信任，就该重新记起吗？
　　炉子在适应自己的高温时没有抖动。隔壁的丹芙没有动静。红光的搏动没有回来。而自打1856年起，一连串抖了整整八十三天以后，保罗•D就一直没再哆嗦过。那时，手铐和脚镣加身，他的手抖得那么厉害，以至于不能抽烟，甚至不能正常地抓痒。此刻，他又一次哆嗦起来，不过这次是腿上。他过了一会儿才搞明白，他的双腿不是因为焦虑在颤抖，而是随着地板在抖动，并且转动和滑移的地板又仅仅是其中的一部分。是这栋房子整个在颠簸。塞丝滑倒在地，挣扎着穿衣服。她四肢匍匐着地，像要把她的房子按在地上。这时，丹芙从起居室里冲出来，满眼恐惧，嘴唇上却挂着一丝隐约的微笑。
　　“该死的!停下来!”保罗•D一面吼着，一面跌跌撞撞地去抓扶手。
　　“别在这儿捣蛋!滚出去!”一张桌子向他扑来，他抓住了桌腿。他勉强站成了一个角度，举起桌子四处乱砸一气，毁坏每一样东西，冲着尖叫的房子尖叫。
　　“想打架吗？来吧!妈的!没有你她已经够受的了。她受够了!”
　　地震减弱为余震，但保罗•D并未停止四处乱舞桌子，直到一切都死一般寂静。他靠在墙上碗柜腾出的地方，大汗淋漓，喘着粗气。塞丝仍旧蜷缩在炉子旁，将抢救出来的两只鞋子抱在胸前。他们三个人，塞丝、丹芙和保罗•D，用同一个节拍呼吸，宛若同一个筋疲力尽的人。另一个的呼吸也同样筋疲力尽。
Chapter 5
    It was gone. Denver wandered through the silence to the stove. She ashed over the fire and pulledthe pan of biscuits from the oven. The jelly cupboard was on its back, its contents lying in a heapin the corner of the bottom shelf. She took out a jar, and, looking around for a plate, found half ofone by the door. These things she carried out to the porch steps, where she sat down.
　　The two of them had gone up there. Stepping lightly, easy-footed, they had climbed the whitestairs, leaving her down below. She pried the wire from the top of the jar and then the lid. Under it was cloth and under that a thin cake of wax. She removed it all and coaxed the jelly onto one halfof the half a plate. She took a biscuit and pulled off its black top. Smoke curled from the soft whiteinsides. She missed her brothers. Buglar and Howard would be twenty two and twenty-three now.
　　Although they had been polite to her during the quiet time and gave her the whole top of the bed,she remembered how it was before: the pleasure they had sitting clustered on the white stairs —she between the knees of Howard or Buglar — while they made up die-witch! stories with provenways of killing her dead. And Baby Suggs telling her things in the keeping room. She smelled likebark in the day and leaves at night, for Denver would not sleep in her old room after her brothersran away.
　　Now her mother was upstairs with the man who had gotten rid of the only other company she had.
　　Denver dipped a bit of bread into the jelly. Slowly, methodically, miserably she ate it.
　　NOT QUITE in hurry, but losing no time, Sethe and Paul D climbed the white stairs. Overwhelmedasmu(a) ch by the downright luck of finding her house and her in it as by the certaintyof giving her his sex, Paul D dropped twenty-five years from his recent memory. A stair stepbefore him was Baby Suggs' replacement, the new girl they dreamed of at night and fucked cowsfor at dawn while waiting for her to choose. Merely kissing the wrought iron on her back hadshook the house, had made it necessary for him to beat it to pieces. Now he would do more.
　　She led him to the top of the stairs, where light came straight from the sky because the second-story windows of that house had been placed in the pitched ceiling and not the walls. There weretwo rooms and she took him into one of them, hoping he wouldn't mind the fact that she was notprepared; that though she could remember desire, she had forgotten how it worked; the clutch andhelplessness that resided in the hands; how blindness was altered so that what leapt to the eye wereplaces to lie down, and all else — door knobs, straps, hooks, the sadness that crouched in corners,and the passing of time — was interference.
　　It was over before they could get their clothes off. Half-dressed and short of breath, they lay sideby side resentful of one another and the skylight above them. His dreaming of her had been toolong and too long ago. Her deprivation had been not having any dreams of her own at all. Nowthey were sorry and too shy to make talk.
　　Sethe lay on her back, her head turned from him. Out of the corner of his eye, Paul D saw the floatof her breasts and disliked it, the spread-away, flat roundness of them that he could definitely livewithout, never mind that downstairs he had held them as though they were the most expensive partof himself. And the wrought-iron maze he had explored in the kitchen like a gold miner pawingthrough pay dirt was in fact a revolting clump of scars. Not a tree, as she said. Maybe shaped likeone, but nothing like any tree he knew because trees were inviting; things you could trust and benear; talk to if you wanted to as he frequently did since way back when he took the midday meal inthe fields of Sweet Home. Always in the same place if he could, and choosing the place had beenhard because Sweet Home had more pretty trees than any farm around. His choice he calledBrother, and sat under it, alone sometimes, sometimes with Halle or the other Pauls, but moreoften with Sixo, who was gentle then and still speaking English. Indigo with a flame-red tongue,Sixo experimented with night-cooked potatoes, trying to pin down exactly when to put smoking hot rocks in a hole, potatoes on top, and cover the whole thing with twigs so that by the time theybroke for the meal, hitched the animals, left the field and got to Brother, the potatoes would be atthe peak of perfection. He might get up in the middle of the night, go all the way out there, start theearth-over by starlight; or he would make the stones less hot and put the next day's potatoes onthem right after the meal. He never got it right, but they ate those undercooked, overcooked, dried-out or raw potatoes anyway, laughing, spitting and giving him advice.
　　Time never worked the way Sixo thought, so of course he never got it right. Once he plotted downto the minute a thirty-mile trip to see a woman. He left on a Saturday when the moon was in theplace he wanted it to be, arrived at her cabin before church on Sunday and had just enough time tosay good morning before he had to start back again so he'd make the field call on time Mondaymorning. He had walked for seventeen hours, sat down for one, turned around and walkedseventeen more. Halle and the Pauls spent the whole day covering Sixo's fatigue from Mr. Garner.
　　They ate no potatoes that day, sweet or white. Sprawled near Brother, his flame-red tongue hiddenfrom them, his indigo face closed, Sixo slept through dinnerlike a corpse. Now there was a man, and that was a tree. Himself lying in the bed and the "tree"lying next to him didn't compare. Paul D looked through the window above his feet and folded hishands behind his head. An elbow grazed Sethe's shoulder. The touch of cloth on her skin startledher. She had forgotten he had not taken off his shirt. Dog, she thought, and then remembered thatshe had not allowed him the time for taking it off. Nor herself time to take off her petticoat, andconsidering she had begun undressing before she saw him on the porch, that her shoes andstockings were already in her hand and she had never put them back on; that he had looked at herwet bare feet and asked to join her; that when she rose to cook he had undressed her further;considering how quickly they had started getting naked, you'd think by now they would be. Butmaybe a man was nothing but a man, which is what Baby Suggs always said. They encouragedyou to put some of your weight in their hands and soon as you felt how light and lovely that was,they studied your scars and tribulations, after which they did what he had done: ran her childrenout and tore up the house.
　　She needed to get up from there, go downstairs and piece it all back together. This house he toldher to leave as though a house was a little thing — a shirtwaist or a sewing basket you could walkoff from or give away any old time. She who had never had one but this one; she who left a dirtfloor to come to this one; she who had to bring a fistful of salsify into Mrs. Garner's kitchen everyday just to be able to work in it, feel like some part of it was hers, because she wanted to love thework she did, to take the ugly out of it, and the only way she could feel at home on Sweet Homewas if she picked some pretty growing thing and took it with her. The day she forgot was the daybutter wouldn't come or the brine in the barrel blistered her arms.
　　At least it seemed so. A few yellow flowers on the table, some myrtle tied around the handle of theflatiron holding the door open for a breeze calmed her, and when Mrs. Garner and she sat down tosort bristle, or make ink, she felt fine. Fine. Not scared of the men beyond. The five who slept inquarters near her, but never came in the night. Just touched their raggedy hats when they saw herand stared. And if she brought food to them in the fields, bacon and bread wrapped in a piece of clean sheeting, they never took it from her hands. They stood back and waited for her to put it onthe ground (at the foot of a tree) and leave. Either they did not want to take anything from her, ordid not want her to see them eat. Twice or three times she lingered. Hidden behind honeysuckleshe watched them. How different they were without her, how they laughed and played and urinatedand sang. All but Sixo, who laughed once — at the very end. Halle, of course, was the nicest. BabySuggs' eighth and last child, who rented himself out all over the county to buy her away fromthere. But he too, as it turned out, was nothing but a man.
　　"A man ain't nothing but a man," said Baby Suggs. "But a son? Well now, that's somebody."It made sense for a lot of reasons because in all of Baby's life, as well as Sethe's own, men andwomen were moved around like checkers. Anybody Baby Suggs knew, let alone loved, who hadn'trun off or been hanged, got rented out, loaned out, bought up, brought back, stored up, mortgaged,won, stolen or seized. So Baby's eight children had six fathers. What she called the nastiness of lifewas the shock she received upon learning that nobody stopped playing checkers just because thepieces included her children. Halle she was able to keep the longest. Twenty years. A lifetime.
　　Given to her, no doubt, to make up for hearing that her two girls, neither of whom had their adultteeth, were sold and gone and she had not been able to wave goodbye. To make up for couplingwith a straw boss for four months in exchange for keeping her third child, a boy, with her — onlyto have him traded for lumber in the spring of the next year and to find herself pregnant by the manwho promised not to and did. That child she could not love and the rest she would not. "God takewhat He would," she said. And He did, and He did, and He did and then gave her Halle who gaveher freedom when it didn't mean a thing. Sethe had the amazing luck of six whole years ofmarriage to that "somebody" son who had fathered every one of her children. A blessing she wasreckless enough to take for granted, lean on, as though Sweet Home really was one. As though ahandful of myrtle stuck in the handle of pressing iron propped against the door in awhitewoman's kitchen could make it hers. As tho(a) ugh mint sprig in the mouth changed the breath aswell as its odor. A bigger fool never lived.
    它走了。丹芙穿过死寂，晃到炉边。她用柴灰盖住炉火，从烤箱里抽出那锅烤饼。盛果酱的碗橱仰躺在地上，里面的东西在底格的一角挤作一团。她拿出一个罐子，然后四处去寻盘子，只在门旁边找到半个。她拿着这些东西，在门廊的台阶上坐下。
　　他们两个上去了。步履轻快、不慌不忙地，他们爬上了白楼梯，把她扔在下面。她撬开罐子的封口和盖子。盖子下边是布，再下边是薄薄的一层蜡。她一一揭掉，慢慢地把果酱倒在半拉盘子里。她拿起一块烤饼，揭掉黑黑的焦皮。又白又软的饼里冒出袅袅热气。
　　她思念哥哥们。巴格勒和霍华德现在该有二十二和二十三了。虽说在她听不见声音的那阵子他们待她很是彬彬有礼，还把整个上铺让给她，她记得的却仍是那以前的光景：他们乐融融地团坐在白楼梯上———她夹在巴格勒或者霍华德的膝盖中间———那时他们编了好多“杀巫婆!”故事，想出种种确凿的方法来杀死巫婆。她还想起贝比•萨格斯在起居室对她讲的事。奶奶白天闻起来像树皮，晚上闻起来像树叶———自打哥哥们出走以后，丹芙就不在自己原来的屋里过夜了。
　　现在她的妈妈正和那个男人一起待在楼上，就是他，赶跑了她唯一的伙伴。丹芙将一小块面包蘸进果酱。慢吞吞地，有条不紊地，凄苦不堪地，她吃掉了它。
　　并不很急，但也不浪费一点时间，塞丝和保罗•D爬着白楼梯。能够如此幸运地找到她的房子和当中的她，而且肯定要同她云雨一番，保罗•D彻底昏了头，把记忆中最近的二十五年丢个精光。前面一磴楼梯上就是那个顶替贝比•萨格斯的姑娘，那个他们夜里梦想、黎明为之去操母牛、同时等待她挑选的新来的姑娘。单是亲吻她后背上的锻铁，已经晃动了整座房子，已经逼着他把它打了个稀巴烂。现在他还要做得更多呢。
　　她把他领到楼梯的上面，那儿的光线从天空直射进来，因为二楼的窗户不是开在墙上，而是装在倾斜的屋顶上。楼上一共有两个房间，她带他进了其中一间，心下希望他不会介意她还没准备好———虽然她还能唤起欲望，却已经忘了欲望是如何作用的：挥之不去，手中的紧迫与无力；意乱情迷之下，跳进眼帘的只有可以躺下的地方，而其余的一切———门把手、皮带、挂钩、蜷在屋角的悲伤，以及时光的流逝———不过是干扰。
　　在他们把衣服脱光之前那事就都完了。胴体半裸，气喘吁吁，他们并排躺着，相互怨恨，也怨恨上面的天光。他对她的魂牵梦萦已是太久太久以前的事了，而她压根就被剥夺了梦想的权利。现在他们很难过，而且实在羞于彼此交谈。
　　塞丝仰卧着，头从他那边扭开。保罗•D从眼角瞥见她的乳房在一起一伏，觉得不舒服。那两个松弛的、又扁又圆的东西他绝对不需要，尽管在楼下他那样捧着它们，仿佛它们是他最珍贵的部分。还有他在厨房里好像淘金者扒拉矿砂那样探查的锻铁迷宫，实际上是一堆令人作呕的伤疤。不像她说的，是棵什么树。也许形状相似，不过可不像他认识的任何一棵树，因为树都是友好的，你能信赖，也能靠近它们，愿意的话还可以跟它们说话，多年前，在“甜蜜之家”的田里吃午饭时，他就经常这样做。可能的话，他就总在同一个地方；挑选地方是很困难的，因为“甜蜜之家”
　　里漂亮的树比周围任何农庄都要多。他管自己挑的那棵叫“兄弟”，坐在它下面，有时是自个儿，有时是和黑尔或其他保罗们，但更多的时候是和那时还很温顺、仍旧说英语的西克索一道。靛青色的西克索长着火红的舌头，他在夜里烤土豆做试验，试着算准恰好什么时刻把滚烫、冒烟的石头放进坑里，搁上土豆，再用小树枝全都盖严实；这样，当他们拴好牲口、离开田地，来到“兄弟”那儿歇晌吃饭的时候，土豆就会烧得恰到好处。有时他三更半夜爬起来，大老远地一路走到那里，借着星光开始挖坑；要么他就不把石头烧得那么热，一吃完饭便将第二天的土豆搁上去。他从来都算不准，但他们一样吃掉那些火候不够的、烤过火的、干干巴巴的和生涩的土豆，大笑着，一边吐出来，一边给他提修改意见。
　　时间从来不按西克索设想的那样走，因此他当然不可能算准。有一次，他掐算好了时间走三十英里路去看一个女人，行程精确到一分一秒。他在一个星期六等月亮升到固定位置就动身了，星期天赶到教堂前面她的小屋，只有道声早安的时间，然后他必须开始再往回走，才能赶上星期一田里的早点名。他走了十七个小时，坐了一个小时，掉转身来再走十七个小时。黑尔和保罗们花了一整天的时间在加纳先生面前为他的瞌睡打马虎眼。那天他们没吃成土豆，也没吃成甘薯。开饭的时候，西克索懒在“兄弟”旁边，藏起火红的舌头，靛青的脸上毫无表情，一直睡得像具死尸。瞧，那才是个男人，那才是棵树呐。躺在床上的他自己，还有身边的那棵“树”，算个啥。
　　保罗•D透过脚上方的天窗望着外边，又叠起双手，枕到脑后。胳膊肘掠过塞丝的肩膀，布料擦着她的皮肤，把她吓了一跳。她都忘了，他还没脱下衬衫呢。狗，她心道，然后才想起是自己没给他脱衬衫的时间，也没给自己脱衬裙的时间。不过，要知道，在门廊上遇见他之前她可就开始宽衣解带了，鞋袜在手里拎着，而且一直就没再穿上；然后他盯着她湿漉漉的光脚看，还请求和她做伴；她起身做饭时，他又进一步地给她脱衣服；考虑到他们见面不久就这么快地开始脱，你会认为，到现在他们总该脱光了吧。但是也许一个男人不过是个男人，贝比•萨格斯就总这样说。他们鼓励你把你的一部分重量放到他们手中，正当你感到那有多么轻松、可爱的时候，他们便来研究你的伤疤和苦难，而在此之前，他们已经像他刚才那样干了：赶走她的孩子，砸烂整座房子。
　　她得从床上起来了，好下楼去把所有东西都拼拢到一起。他让她离开这所房子，就好像一所房子是小事一桩———一件罩衫，或者一个针线笸箩，你什么时候都可以丢开或是送人。可她呢，她除了这个还从未拥有过一所房子；她离开土地面，就是为了住进这样的家；她每天都得往加纳太太的厨房里带一把婆罗门参，才能开始在里面干活，才能感觉到它有一部分是属于自己的，因为她想热爱自己的工作；为把丑恶剔除，唯有这样摘一些美丽的花草随身带着，她才能觉得“甜蜜之家”是个家。如果哪天她忘了，那么不是黄油没送到，就是桶里的卤水把她的胳膊烫出了泡。
　　至少看起来如此。桌上有几朵黄花，把儿上缠着桃金娘的烙铁支开屋门，让轻风抚慰着她，这样，当加纳太太和她坐下来拔猪毛或者制墨水时，她会感觉良好。良好。不害怕远处的男人们。那五个人都睡在她附近的地方，但晚上从不进来。他们遇见她时只是捏一下他们的破帽子，盯着她。
　　如果她到田里给他们送饭，送去用干净的布包着的火腿和面包，他们也从不打她手里接过去。他们站远一点，等着她将包袱放到地上（树底下）然后离开。他们要么是不想从她手里接东西，要么就是不想让她看见自己的吃相。有两三回她磨蹭了一会儿，藏在忍冬树后面偷看他们。没有她他们是多么不同啊，他们怎样地大笑、打闹、撒尿和唱歌呀。所有人都是，只有西克索除外，他平生只大笑过一次———在生命的最后一刻。当然，黑尔是最好的。贝比•萨格斯的第八个，也是最后一个孩子，他在县里四处揽活儿干，就是为了把她从那里赎出来。可是他也一样，说到底，不过是个男人而已。
　　“一个男人不过是个男人，”贝比•萨格斯说道，“可是一个儿子？嗯，那才是个人物。
　　”
　　这话说得通，有很多理由，因为在贝比的一生里，还有在塞丝自己的生活中，男男女女都像棋子一样任人摆布。所有贝比•萨格斯认识的人，更不用提爱过的了，只要没有跑掉或吊死，就得被租用，被出借，被购入，被送还，被储存，被抵押，被赢被偷被掠夺。所以贝比的八个孩子有六个父亲。她惊愕地发现人们并不因为棋子中包括她的孩子而停止下这盘棋，这便是她所说的生活的龌龊。黑尔是她能留得最久的。二十年。一辈子。毫无疑问，是给她的补偿，因为当她听说她的两个还都未换牙的女儿被卖掉、带走的时候，她连再见都没能说上一声。是补偿，因为她跟一个工头同居了四个月，作为交换，她能把第三个孩子，一个儿子，留在身边———谁想到来年春天他被拿去换了木材，而那个不守信用的家伙又弄大了她的肚子。那个孩子她不能爱，而其余的她根本不去爱。
　　“上帝想带谁走就带谁走。
　　”她说。而且他带走了一个一个又一个，最后给了她黑尔，而黑尔给了她那时已一文不值的自由。
　　塞丝三生有幸与那个“人物”儿子度过了整整六年的婚姻生活，还跟他生了她的每一个孩子。她满不在乎地觉得福气是理所当然而又靠得住的，好像“甜蜜之家”果真是个甜蜜之家似的。好像用把上缠着桃金娘的烙铁支住白女人厨房的门，厨房就属于她了。好像嘴里的薄荷枝改变了呼吸的味道，也就改变了嘴本身的气味。世上没有更蠢的傻瓜了。
Chapter 6
      Sethe started to turn over on her stomach but changed her mind. She did not want to call Paul D'sattention back to her, so she settled for crossing her ankles.
　　But Paul D noticed the movement as well as the change in her breathing. He felt obliged to tryagain, slower this time, but the appetite was gone. Actually it was a good feeling — not wantingher. Twenty-five years and blip! The kind of thing Sixo would do — like the time he arranged ameeting with Patsy the Thirty-Mile Woman. It took three months and two thirty-four-mile roundtrips to do it. To persuade her to walk one-third of the way toward him, to a place he knew. Adeserted stone structure that Redmen used way back when they thought the land was theirs. Sixodiscovered it on one of his night creeps, and asked its permission to enter. Inside, having felt whatit felt like, he asked the Redmen's Presence if he could bring his woman there. It said yes and Sixopainstakingly instructed her how to get there, exactly when to start out, how his welcoming orwarning whistles would sound. Since neither could go anywhere on business of their own, andsince the Thirty-Mile Woman was already fourteen and scheduled for somebody's arms, the dangerwas real. When he arrived, she had not. He whistled and got no answer. He went into the Redmen's deserted lodge. She was not there. He returned to the meeting spot. She was not there. He waitedlonger. She still did not come. He grew frightened for her and walked down the road in thedirection she should be coming from. Three or four miles, and he stopped. It was hopeless to go onthat way, so he stood in the wind and asked for help. Listening close for some sign, he heard awhimper. He turned toward it, waited and heard it again. Uncautious now, he hollered her name.
　　She answered in a voice that sounded like life to him — not death. "Not move!" he shouted.
　　"Breathe hard I can find you." He did. She believed she was already at the meeting place and wascrying because she thought he had not kept his promise. Now it was too late for the rendezvous tohappen at the Redmen's house, so they dropped where they were. Later he punctured her calf tosimulate snakebite so she could use it in some way as an excuse for not being on time to shakeworms from tobacco leaves. He gave her detailed directions about following the stream as ashortcut back, and saw her off. When he got to the road it was very light and he had his clothes inhis hands. Suddenly from around a bend a wagon trundled toward him. Its driver, wide-eyed,raised a whip while the woman seated beside him covered her face. But Sixo had already meltedinto the woods before the lash could unfurl itself on his indigo behind.
　　He told the story to Paul F, Halle, Paul A and Paul D in the peculiar way that made them cry-laugh. Sixo went among trees at night. For dancing, he said, to keep his bloodlines open, he said.
　　Privately, alone, he did it. None of the rest of them had seen him at it, but they could imagine it,and the picture they pictured made them eager to laugh at him — in daylight, that is, when it wassafe. But that was before he stopped speaking English because there was no future in it. Because ofthe Thirty-Mile Woman Sixo was the only one not paralyzed by yearning for Sethe. Nothing couldbe as good as the sex with her Paul D had been imagining off and on for twenty-five years. Hisfoolishness made him smile and think fondly of himself as he turned over on his side, facing her.
　　Sethe's eyes were closed, her hair a mess. Looked at this way, minus the polished eyes, her facewas not so attractive. So it must have been her eyes that kept him both guarded and stirred up.
　　Without them her face was manageable — a face he could handle. Maybe if she would keep themclosed like that... But no, there was her mouth. Nice. Halle never knew what he had.
　　Although her eyes were closed, Sethe knew his gaze was on her face, and a paper picture of justhow bad she must look raised itself up before her mind's eye. Still, there was no mockery comingfrom his gaze. Soft. It felt soft in a waiting kind of way. He was not judging her — or rather hewas judging but not comparing her. Not since Halle had a man looked at her that way: not lovingor passionate, but interested, as though he were examining an ear of corn for quality. Halle wasmore like a brother than a husband. His care suggested a family relationship rather than a man'slaying claim. For years they saw each other in full daylight only on Sundays. The rest of the timethey spoke or touched or ate in darkness. Predawn darkness and the afterlight of sunset. So lookingat each other intently was a Sunday morning pleasure and Halle examined her as though storing upwhat he saw in sunlight for the shadow he saw the rest of the week. And he had so little time. Afterhis Sweet Home work and on Sunday afternoons was the debt work he owed for his mother. Whenhe asked her to be his wife, Sethe happily agreed and then was stuck not knowing the next step.
　　There should be a ceremony, shouldn't there? A preacher, some dancing, a party, a something. Sheand Mrs. Garner were the only women there, so she decided to ask her. "Halle and me want to bemarried, Mrs. Garner.""So I heard." She smiled. "He talked to Mr. Garner about it. Are you already expecting?""No, ma'am.""Well, you will be. You know that, don't you?""Yes, ma'am.""Halle's nice, Sethe. He'll be good to you.""But I mean we want to get married.""You just said so. And I said all right.""Is there a wedding?"Mrs. Garner put down her cooking spoon. Laughing a little, she touched Sethe on the head, saying,"You are one sweet child." And then no more.
　　Sethe made a dress on the sly and Halle hung his hitching rope from a nail on the wall of her cabin.
　　And there on top of a mattress on top of the dirt floor of the cabin they coupled for the third time,the first two having been in the tiny cornfield Mr. Garner kept because it was a crop animals coulduse as well as humans. Both Halle and Sethe were under the impression that they were hidden.
　　Scrunched down among the stalks they couldn't see anything, including the corn tops waving overtheir heads and visible to everyone else. Sethe smiled at her and Halle's stupidity. Even the crowsknew and came to look. Uncrossing her ankles, she managed not to laugh aloud.
　　The jump, thought Paul D, from a calf to a girl wasn't all that mighty. Not the leap Halle believedit would be. And taking her in the corn rather than her quarters, a yard away from the cabins of theothers who had lost out, was a gesture of tenderness. Halle wanted privacy for her and got publicdisplay. Who could miss a ripple in a cornfield on a quiet cloudless day? He, Sixo and both of thePauls sat under Brother pouring water from a gourd over their heads, and through eyes streamingwith well water, they watched the confusion of tassels in the field below. It had been hard, hard,hard sitting there erect as dogs, watching corn stalks dance at noon. The water running over theirheads made it worse.
　　Paul D sighed and turned over. Sethe took the opportunity afforded by his movement to shift aswell. Looking at Paul D's back, she remembered that some of the corn stalks broke, folded downover Halle's back, and among the things her fingers clutched were husk and cornsilk hair.
　　How loose the silk. How jailed down the juice.
　　The jealous admiration of the watching men melted with the feast of new corn they allowed themselves that night. Plucked from the broken stalks that Mr. Garner could not doubt was thefault of the raccoon. Paul F wanted his roasted; Paul A wanted his boiled and now Paul D couldn'tremember how finally they'd cooked those ears too young to eat. What he did remember wasparting the hair to get to the tip, the edge of his fingernail just under, so as not to graze a singlekernel.
　　The pulling down of the tight sheath, the ripping sound always convinced her it hurt.
　　As soon as one strip of husk was down, the rest obeyed and the ear yielded up to him its shy rows,exposed at last. How loose the silk. How quick the jailed-up flavor ran free.
　　No matter what all your teeth and wet fingers anticipated, there was no accounting for the way thatsimple joy could shake you. How loose the silk. How fine and loose and free.
　　DENVER'S SECRETS were sweet. Accompanied every time by wild veronica until shediscovered cologne. The first bottle was a gift, the next she stole from her mother and hid amongboxwood until it froze and cracked. That was the year winter came in a hurry at suppertime andstayed eight months. One of the War years when Miss Bodwin, the whitewoman, broughtChristmas cologne for her mother and herself, oranges for the boys and another good wool shawlfor Baby Suggs. Talking of a war full of dead people, she looked happy — flush-faced, andalthough her voice was heavy as a man's, she smelled like a roomful of flowers — excitement thatDenver could have all for herself in the boxwood. Back beyond 1x4 was a narrow field thatstopped itself at a wood. On the yonder side of these woods, a stream. In these woods, between thefield and the stream, hidden by post oaks, five boxwood bushes, planted in a ring, had startedstretching toward each other four feet off the ground to form a round, empty room seven feet high,its walls fifty inches of murmuring leaves. Bent low, Denver could crawl into this room, and oncethere she could stand all the way up in emerald light.
　　It began as a little girl's houseplay, but as her desires changed, so did the play. Quiet, primate andcompletely secret except for the noisome cologne signal that thrilled the rabbits before it confusedthem. First a playroom (where the silence was softer), then a refuge (from her brothers' fright),soon the place became the point. In that bower, closed off from the hurt of the hurt world, Denver'simagination produced its own hunger and its own food, which she badly needed because lonelinesswore her out. Wore her out. Veiled and protected by the live green walls, she felt ripe and clear,and salvation was as easy as a wish.
　　Once when she was in the boxwood, an autumn long before Paul D moved into the house with hermother, she was made suddenly cold by a combination of wind and the perfume on her skin. Shedressed herself, bent down to leave and stood up in snowfall: a thin and whipping snow very likethe picture her mother had painted as she described the circumstances of Denver's birth in a canoestraddled by a whitegirl for whom she was named.
　　Shivering, Denver approached the house, regarding it, as she always did, as a person rather than astructure. A person that wept, sighed, trembled and fell into fits. Her steps and her gaze were the cautious ones of a child approaching a nervous, idle relative (someone dependent but proud). Abreastplate of darkness hid all the windows except one. Its dim glow came from Baby Suggs'
　　room. When Denver looked in, she saw her mother on her knees in prayer, which was not unusual.
　　What was unusual (even for a girl who had lived all her life in a house peopled by the livingactivity of the dead) was that a white dress knelt down next to her mother and had its sleeve aroundher mother's waist. And it was the tender embrace of the dress sleeve that made Denver rememberthe details of her birth — that and the thin, whipping snow she was standing in, like the fruit ofcommon flowers. The dress and her mother together looked like two friendly grown-up women —one (the dress) helping out the other. And the magic of her birth, its miracle in fact, testified to thatfriendliness as did her own name.
    塞丝本想翻个身趴着，临了又改变了主意。她不想再引起保罗•D的注意，所以只把双脚叠了起来。
　　但保罗•D注意到了这个动作，还有她呼吸的变化。他觉得有责任再试一遍，这回慢一点，然而欲望消失了。实际上这是一种很好的感觉———不想要她。二十五年咔嚓一下!西克索才干得出那种事———就像那回，他安排了同“三十英里女子”帕特茜的会面。他花了整整三个月时间和两次三十四英里路来回，去说服她朝他这边走三分之一的路程，到一个他知道的地方。那是一座被遗弃的石头建筑，很久以前红种人认为这块土地属于他们时使用过它。西克索在他的一次夜半溜号中间发现了它，并请求它允许他进入。在里面，他与红种人的精灵灵犀相通，向它请示能否把他的女人带来。它说可以。西克索就费了牛劲指导她怎么到那儿，究竟什么时刻出发，如何分辨他表示迎接和警告的口哨声。由于谁都不许跑出去干自己的事，再加上“三十英里女子”已经十四岁并且许配了人，所以危险可是真格的。他到的时候，她还没到。他吹了口哨，却没有得到回应。他走进红种人遗弃的旧屋。她不在那儿。他回到相会的地点。她不在那儿。他又等了一会儿。她还是没来。他越来越毛骨悚然，就沿着大路朝她该来的方向走下去。走了有三四英里路，他停下脚步。再走下去没有什么希望，于是他站在风中向天求助。他仔细地捕捉着信号，听到了一声呜咽。他转向它，等了一会儿，又听见了。他不再警惕了，大叫她的名字。她回答的声音在他听来仿佛生命———而非死亡。
　　“别动!”他嚷道。
　　“使劲喘气，我能找着你。
　　”他找到了。她以为自己已经到了那个相会的地点，正在为他的失信而哭泣呢。这时候再去红种人的房子里幽会已经来不及了，于是他们就地倒下。事后，他刺伤她的小腿以冒充蛇咬，这样她没有准时去给烟叶打虫子就有了借口。他详细地指导她沿小溪抄近路回去，并目送她消失。上路的时候天已大亮，他把衣服拿在手里。突然，一辆大车从转弯处向他隆隆驶来。赶车的怒目圆睁，举起鞭子；坐在他身旁的女人一下子捂住了脸。可是鞭梢还没抽上西克索靛青的屁股，他早已溶进了树林。
　　他以独特的方式把故事讲给保罗•F、黑尔、保罗•A和保罗•D，让他们笑出了眼泪。夜里西克索漫步林间。是去跳舞，他说，为了让他的血统后继有人，他说。他这么做了，秘密地，就他自个儿。他们其他几个谁都没有见过，但是想象得出来，他们在心中描摹的图景使他们急于去笑话他———在白天，也就是安全的时候。
　　但那是在他因为没有前途而停止说英语之前。因为有“三十英里女子”，西克索是唯一不因渴望塞丝而瘫痪的人。二十五年来，保罗•D始终想象不出有比跟她性交更好的事情。他自己的愚蠢引他发笑，当他转过身去面对她时，他觉得自己可真是冒傻气。塞丝闭着眼睛，头发乱作一团。从这个角度看，缺少了闪亮的眼睛，她的脸并不那么动人。所以肯定是她的眼睛让他一直既不敢造次又欲火中烧。没有它们，她的脸是驯顺的———是一张他能控制的脸。也许，假如她一直那样合上眼睛……可是不，还有她的嘴呢。很美。黑尔从不知道他拥有的是什么。
　　即使闭着眼睛，塞丝也知道他在凝视自己的脸。她的脑海里浮现出一幅图画：她看起来该有多么难看。可他的凝视里依然没有讥讽，很温柔，好像一种期待般的温柔。他没在品评她———或者说品评了，但没有拿她去作比较。除了黑尔以外，还没有哪个男人这样看过她：不是爱慕，也不是情炽如火，而是感兴趣，仿佛在检验一穗玉米的质量。黑尔与其说是个丈夫，不如说更像个兄长。
　　比起一个男人的基本要求，他的关怀更接近家庭的亲情。有好几年，只有星期天他们才能在阳光下看见对方。其余时间里，他们在黑暗中说话、抚摸或者吃饭。黎明前的黑暗和日落后的昏暝。所以彼此凝视成了周日早间的一大乐事。黑尔仔细地端详她，似乎要将阳光中所见的一切都贮存起来，留给他在这个星期其余部分看到的模糊的影子。而他拥有的时间是这么少。干完了“甜蜜之家”的工作，星期天下午还要去还为母亲欠下的债。当他请求塞丝做他的妻子时，她欣然答允，然后就不知道下一步该怎么办了。得有个仪式，不是吗？来个牧师，跳跳舞，一次派对，总得有点什么。她和加纳太太是那儿仅有的女人，所以她决定去问她。
　　“黑尔和我想结婚，加纳太太。
　　”
　　“我听说了。
　　”她微笑道，“他跟加纳先生说了这事儿。你是不是已经怀上了？
　　”
　　“没有，太太。
　　”
　　“嗯，你会的。你知道的，对吗？
　　”
　　“是，太太。
　　”
　　“黑尔不错，塞丝。他会好好待你的。
　　”
　　“可我的意思是我们想结婚。
　　”
　　“你刚刚说了。我说可以。
　　”
　　“能有婚礼吗？
　　”
　　加纳太太放下勺子。她大笑了一会儿，摸着塞丝的头，说：
　　“你这孩子真可爱。
　　”就没再说什么。
　　塞丝偷偷缝了件裙衣；黑尔把套马索挂在她小屋的墙壁上。在小屋泥地面的草荐上，他们第三次结合。前两次是在那一小块玉米地里，加纳先生之所以保留它，是因为这种庄稼牲口和人都能食用。黑尔和塞丝都以为自己很隐蔽。他们伏在玉米秆中间，什么也看不见，包括谁都看得见的、在他们头顶波动的玉米穗。
　　塞丝笑自己和黑尔有多笨。连乌鸦都知道了，还飞过来看。她把叠着的脚放下，忍着不笑出声来。
　　从一只小牛到一个小妞的飞跃，保罗•D心想，并没有那么巨大。不像黑尔相信的那么巨大。不在她屋里，而把她带到玉米地，离开竞争失败者们的小屋一码远，这是温存的表示。黑尔本想给塞丝保密，不料弄成了公共展览。谁愿意在宁静无云的一天错过玉米地里的一场好戏呢？
　　他、西克索和另外两个保罗坐在“兄弟”下面，用瓢往脑袋上浇水，眼睛透过流淌下来的井水，观看下边田里遭殃的玉米穗。大晌午观看玉米秆跳舞，坐在那儿像狗一样勃起，是那么那么那么地难受。从头顶流下的水让情况更糟。
　　保罗•D叹了口气，转过身去。塞丝也趁他挪动的当儿换了个姿势。看着保罗•D的后背，她想起了那些被碰坏的玉米秆，它们折倒在黑尔的背上，而她满手抓的都是玉米包皮和花丝须子。
　　花丝多么松散。汁水多么饱满。
　　这些观众的嫉妒和羡慕在当晚他们招待自己的嫩玉米会餐上化为乌有。玉米都是从折断的玉米秆上摘下来的，加纳先生还想当然地以为是浣熊弄断的呢。保罗•F要烤的；保罗•A要煮的；现在保罗•D已经想不起来他们最后是怎么做的那些还太嫩的玉米。他只记得，要扒开须子找到顶尖，得用指甲抵在下面，才不至于碰破一粒。
　　扒下紧裹的叶鞘，撕扯的声音总让她觉得它很疼。
　　第一层包皮一扒下来，其余的就屈服了，玉米穗向他横陈羞涩的排排苞粒，终于一览无余。花丝多么松散。禁锢的香味多么飞快地四散奔逃。
　　尽管你用上了所有的牙齿，还有湿乎乎的手指头，你还是说不清，那点简单的乐趣如何令你心旌摇荡。
　　花丝多么松散。多么美妙、松散、自由。
　　丹芙的秘密是香甜的。以前每次都伴随着野生的婆婆纳，直到后来她发现了科隆香水。第一瓶是件礼物，第二瓶是从她妈妈那里偷的，被她藏在黄杨树丛里，结果结冻、胀裂了。那年的冬天在晚饭时匆匆来临，一待就是八个月。那是战争期间的一年，鲍德温小姐，那个白女人，给她妈妈和她带来了科隆香水，给两个男孩带来了橙子，还送了贝比•萨格斯一条上好的羊毛披肩，作为圣诞礼物。说起那场尸横遍野的战争，她似乎非常快乐———红光满面的；尽管声音低沉得像个男人，可她闻起来就好像一屋子的鲜花———那种激动，丹芙只有在黄杨丛里才能独自享有。
　　124号后面是一片狭窄的田野，到树林就结束了。树林的另一边是一条小溪。在田野和小溪之间的这片树林里，被橡树遮挡着，五丛黄杨灌木栽成一圈，在离开地面四英尺高的地方交错在一起，形成一个七英尺高的、圆而空的房间，墙壁是五十英寸厚的低语的树叶。
　　得哈下腰去，丹芙才能爬进这间屋子，而一钻进去，她就能完全立起身来，沐浴在祖母绿的光芒中。
　　开头只是一个小女孩的过家家，然而随着她欲望的改变，游戏也变了样。又安静、又幽僻，如果不是刺鼻的香水气味先吸引、继而又熏晕了那些兔子，那里也是完全隐秘的。它先是一间游戏室（那儿的寂静比别处更柔和），然后是个避难所（为了躲开哥哥们的恐惧），再过不久，那个地方本身成了目的地。在那间凉亭里，与受伤的世界的伤害彻底隔绝，丹芙的想象造出了它自己的饥饿和它自己的食物，她迫切地需要它们，因为她被孤独苦苦纠缠。苦苦纠缠。在生机勃勃的绿墙的遮蔽和保护下，她感到成熟、清醒，而拯救就如同愿望一样唾手可得。
　　保罗•D搬进来和妈妈同住了；在此之前很久的一个秋天，有一次，她正待在黄杨丛中间，突然，风和皮肤上的香水一齐使她感到冰冷。她穿上衣服，弯下身出去，再站起来时，已经下雪了：薄薄的雪花漫天飞舞，真像她妈妈说起她在独木舟里降生时描绘的那幅图画，丹芙就是因那个叉腿站在船上的白人姑娘而得名的。
　　丹芙战栗着走近房子，像往常一样把它当做一个人，而不是一座建筑。一个哭泣、叹息、颤抖，时常发作的人。她的步履和凝视都分外谨慎，样子好像一个孩子在接近一个神经过敏、游手好闲的亲戚（寄人篱下却又自尊自大）。黑夜的胸甲遮住了所有窗户，只有一扇剩下。它昏暗的光来自贝比•萨格斯的房间。丹芙望进去，看见她妈妈正在跪着祈祷。这很寻常。然而不寻常的是（甚至对于一个一直在鬼魂活动频繁的房子里居住的女孩来说），有一条白裙子跪在她妈妈身旁，一只袖子拥着妈妈的腰。正是这只裙袖的温柔拥抱，使丹芙想起她出生的细节———想起了拥抱，还有她现在正立身其中的薄薄的、飘舞的雪花，它们就像寻常花朵结下的果实。那条裙子和她妈妈在一起，好像两个友好的成年女子———一个（裙子）扶着另一个。还有她降生的传奇，实际上是个奇迹，和她自己的名字一样，是那次友爱的见证。
Chapter 7
    Easily she stepped into the told story that lay before her eyes on the path she followed away fromthe window. There was only one door to the house and to get to it from the back you had to walkall the way around to the front of 124, past the storeroom, past the cold house, the privy, the shed,on around to the porch. And to get to the part of the story she liked best, she had to start way back:
　　hear the birds in the thick woods, the crunch of leaves underfoot; see her mother making her wayup into the hills where no houses were likely to be. How Sethe was walking on two feet meant forstanding still. How they were so swollen she could not see her arch or feel her ankles. Her leg shaftended in a loaf of flesh scalloped by five toenails. But she could not, would not, stop, for when shedid the little antelope rammed her with horns and pawed the ground of her womb with impatienthooves. While she was walking, it seemed to graze, quietly — so she walked, on two feet meant, inthis sixth month of pregnancy, for standing still. Still, near a kettle; still, at the churn; still, at thetub and ironing board. Milk, sticky and sour on her dress, attracted every small flying thing fromgnats to grasshoppers. By the time she reached the hill skirt she had long ago stopped waving themoff. The clanging in her head, begun as a churchbell heard from a distance, was by then a tight capof pealing bells around her ears. She sank and had to look down to see whether she was in a holeor kneeling. Nothing was alive but her nipples and the little antelope. Finally, she was horizontal— or must have been because blades of wild onion were scratching her temple and her cheek.
　　Concerned as she was for the life of her children's mother, Sethe told Denver, she rememberedthinking: "Well, at least I don't have to take another step." A dying thought if ever there was one,and she waited for the little antelope to protest, and why she thought of an antelope Sethe could notimagine since she had never seen one. She guessed it must have been an invention held on to frombefore Sweet Home, when she was very young. Of that place where she was born (Carolinamaybe? or was it Louisiana?) she remembered only song and dance. Not even her own mother,who was pointed out to her by the eight-year-old child who watched over the young ones —pointed out as the one among many backs turned away from her, stooping in a watery field.
　　Patiently Sethe waited for this particular back to gain the row's end and stand. What she saw was acloth hat as opposed to a straw one, singularity enough in that world of cooing women each ofwhom was called Ma'am.
　　"Seth — thuh.""Ma'am.""Hold on to the baby.""Yes, Ma'am.""Seth — thuh.""Ma'am.""Get some kindlin in here.""Yes, Ma'am."Oh but when they sang. And oh but when they danced and sometimes they danced the antelope.
　　The men as well as the ma'ams, one of whom was certainly her own. They shifted shapes andbecame something other. Some unchained, demanding other whose feet knew her pulse better thanshe did. Just like this one in her stomach. "I believe this baby's ma'am is gonna die in wild onionson the bloody side of the Ohio River." That's what was on her mind and what she told Denver. Herexact words. And it didn't seem such a bad idea, all in all, in view of the step she would not have totake, but the thought of herself stretched out dead while the little antelope lived on — an hour? aday? a day and a night? — in her lifeless body grieved her so she made the groan that made theperson walking on a path not ten yards away halt and stand right still. Sethe had not heard thewalking, but suddenly she heard the standing still and then she smelled the hair. The voice, saying,"Who's in there?" was all she needed to know that she was about to be discovered by a white boy.
　　That he too had mossy teeth, an appetite. That on a ridge of pine near the Ohio River, trying to getto her three children, one of whom was starving for the food she carried; that after her husband haddisappeared; that after her milk had been stolen, her back pulped, her children orphaned, she wasnot to have an easeful death. No. She told Denver that a something came up out of the earth intoher — like a freezing, but moving too, like jaws inside. "Look like I was just cold jaws grinding,"she said. Suddenly she was eager for his eyes, to bite into them; to gnaw his cheek.
　　"I was hungry," she told Denver, "just as hungry as I could be for his eyes. I couldn't wait."So she raised up on her elbow and dragged herself, one pull, two, three, four, toward the youngwhite voice talking about "Who that back in there?"" 'Come see,' I was thinking. 'Be the last thing you behold,' and sure enough here come the feet so Ithought well that's where I'll have to start God do what He would, I'm gonna eat his feet off. I'mlaughing now, but it's true. I wasn't just set to do it. I was hungry to do it. Like a snake. All jawsand hungry.
　　"It wasn't no whiteboy at all. Was a girl. The raggediest-lookingtrash you ever saw saying, 'Look there. A nigger. If that don't beat all.' "And now the part Denver loved the best: Her name was Amy and she needed beef and pot liquorlike nobody in this world. Arms like cane stalks and enough hair for four or five heads. Slow-moving eyes. She didn't look at anything quick. Talked so much it wasn't clear how she couldbreathe at the same time. And those cane-stalk arms, as it turned out, were as strong as iron.
　　"You 'bout the scariest-looking something I ever seen. What you doing back up in here?"Down in the grass, like the snake she believed she was, Sethe opened her mouth, and instead offangs and a split tongue, out shot the truth.
　　"Running," Sethe told her. It was the first word she had spoken all day and it came out thickbecause of her tender tongue. "Them the feet you running on? My Jesus my." She squatted downand stared at Sethe's feet. "You got anything on you, gal, pass for food?""No." Sethe tried to shift to a sitting position but couldn t. "I like to die I'm so hungry." The girlmoved her eyes slowly, examining the greenery around her. "Thought there'd be huckleberries.
　　Look like it. That's why I come up in here. Didn't expect to find no nigger woman. If they was any,birds ate em. You like huckleberries?""I'm having a baby, miss."Amy looked at her. "That mean you don't have no appetite? Well I got to eat me something."Combing her hair with her fingers, she carefully surveyed the landscape once more. Satisfiednothing edible was around, she stood up to go and Sethe's heart stood up too at the thought ofbeing left alone in the grass without a fang in her head.
　　"Where you on your way to, miss?"She turned and looked at Sethe with freshly lit eyes. "Boston. Get me some velvet. It's a store therecalled Wilson. I seen the pictures of it and they have the prettiest velvet. They don't believe I'm aget it, but I am."Sethe nodded and shifted her elbow. "Your ma'am know you on the lookout for velvet?"The girl shook her hair out of her face. "My mama worked for these here people to pay for herpassage. But then she had me and since she died right after, well, they said I had to work for em topay it off. I did, but now I want me some velvet."They did not look directly at each other, not straight into the eyes anyway. Yet they slippedeffortlessly into yard chat about nothing in particular — except one lay on the ground.
　　"Boston," said Sethe. "Is that far?""Ooooh, yeah. A hundred miles. Maybe more.""Must be velvet closer by." "Not like in Boston. Boston got the best. Be so pretty on me. You evertouch it?" "No, miss. I never touched no velvet." Sethe didn't know if it was the voice, or Boston orvelvet, but while the whitegirl talked, the baby slept. Not one butt or kick, so she guessed her luckhad turned. "Ever see any?" she asked Sethe. "I bet you never even seen any." "If I did I didn'tknow it. What's it like, velvet?" Amy dragged her eyes over Sethe's face as though she wouldnever give out so confidential a piece of information as that to a perfect stranger. "What they callyou?" she asked.
    轻而易举地，就从窗口所见的情景开始，她走进了躺在她眼前小路上的那个讲了又讲的故事。
　　124号只有一扇门，如果你在后面想进去，就必须一直绕到房子的正面，走过贮藏室，走过冷藏室、厕所、棚屋，一直绕到门廊。同样地，为了进入故事中她最喜爱的那部分，她也必须从头开始：听密林里的鸟鸣，听脚下草叶树叶的窸窣；看她妈妈匆匆赶路，直走进不像有人家的丘陵地带。塞丝是怎样地用两只本该停下的脚走路啊。它们肿得太厉害了，她甚至看不见足弓，也摸不到脚踝。她的腿杆插在一团呈扇形装饰着五个趾甲的肉里。但是她不能也不愿停下来，因为她一旦停住，小羚羊就用角撞她，用蹄子不耐烦地踢她的子宫壁。她若是老老实实走路，它就好像在吃草，安安静静的———所以她怀着六个月的身孕还在用两只本该停下的脚不停地走。早该停下了，停在水壶旁边；停在搅乳机旁边；停在澡盆和熨衣板旁边。她裙子上的奶水又黏又酸，招来了每一样小飞虫，从蚊子到蚂蚱，什么都有。等她赶到山脚时，她已经好久没有挥开它们了。她脑袋里的铿锵声开始时还好像远处教堂的钟鸣，到这时简直成了一顶箍在耳边、轰隆作响的帽盔。她陷了下去，只好低头看看，才能知道是掉在了坑里，还是自己跪下了。除了她的乳头和肚子里的小羚羊，再没有活的东西了。终于，她平躺下来———想必是平躺着，因为野葱叶子刮到了她的太阳穴和面颊。
　　塞丝后来告诉丹芙，尽管她对她儿女的母亲的性命那样牵挂，她还是有过这个念头：
　　“也好，至少我不用再迈一步了。
　　”即使那个想法出现过，也不过是一闪念，然后她就等着小羚羊来抗议；到底为什么想到羚羊，塞丝自己也搞不明白，因为她可从来没见过一只。她猜想，肯定是在来“甜蜜之家”以前，在她还很小的时候就造出的一个说法。关于她出生的地方（也许是卡罗来纳？抑或是路易斯安那？）她只记得歌和舞。甚至不记得她自己的妈妈；还是一个看小孩的八岁孩子指给她的呢———从水田里弯腰干活的许多条脊背中指出来。塞丝耐心地等着这条特别的脊背到达田垄的尽头，站起身来。她看到的是一顶不同于其他草帽的布帽子，这在那个女人们都低声讲话、都叫做太太的世界里已经够个别的了。
　　“塞———丝哎。
　　”
　　“太太。
　　”
　　“看住宝宝。
　　”
　　“是，太太。
　　”
　　“塞———丝哎。
　　”
　　“太太。
　　”
　　“弄点儿柴火过来。
　　”
　　“是，太太。
　　”
　　噢，可是当他们唱起歌。噢，可是当她们跳起舞。有时他们跳的是羚羊舞。男人们和太太们一齐跳，太太中有一个肯定是她自己的太太。他们变换姿势装成别的什么，别的不戴锁链、有所要求的什么，它们的脚比她自己更了解她的脉搏。就像她肚子里的这一个。
　　“我相信这孩子的太太将会在俄亥俄河血腥的岸上、在野葱中间一命呜呼。
　　”那就是她当时的想法和后来告诉丹芙的话。她的原话。说实在的，若是不用再多走一步了，那倒也算不上太糟糕；可是想到她自己撒手死去，而小羚羊却活在她没有生命的躯体里———一个小时？一天？一天一夜？
　　———她悲痛得呻吟起来，使不到十码外的小道上一个赶路的人停下了脚步，站住不动。塞丝一直没有听到有人走路，却突然间听到了站住的声音，然后闻见了头发的味道。她一听见那个说着“谁在那儿？
　　”的声音，就知道她将要被一个白人小子发现了。就是说，他也有着生了青苔的牙齿，有着好胃口。就是说，当她追寻着她的三个孩子，而其中一个还渴望着她身上的奶水的时候；就是说，在她的丈夫失踪不久；就是说，在她的奶水被抢走、后背被捣了个稀烂、孩子们变成孤儿之后，在俄亥俄河附近的一座松岭上，她将不得好死。不。
　　她告诉丹芙，有个鬼东西从地底下冒了出来，钻进她的身体———似乎要把她冻结，但仍能让她动弹，就如同在里面留了一具颚骨。
　　“好像我整个就是一副冷冷的颚骨，在那里咬牙切齿。
　　”她说道。突然间她渴望他的眼睛，想把它们咬碎；然后再去啃他的脸。
　　“我饿坏了，”她告诉丹芙，“想到他的眼睛，我要多饿有多饿。我等不及了。
　　”
　　于是她用胳膊肘支起身子，拖着自己，一下，两下，三下，四下，挪向那个说着“谁在那儿？
　　”
　　的白人小子的声音。
　　“‘来看看吧，’我心想，‘你的末日到了。
　　’果然，那双脚过来了，所以我都想好了，我就从脚开始替天行道，我要把他的脚吃掉。现在说起来好笑，可那是真的。我可不光是准备好了要这样做。
　　我简直是如饥似渴。跟一条蛇似的。咬牙切齿，如饥似渴。
　　“那根本就不是个白人小子。是个姑娘。是你能见到的最破衣罗娑的穷鬼。她说：
　　‘看哪。一个黑鬼。可了不得了。
　　’”
　　下面就是故事中丹芙最喜爱的部分：
　　她的名字叫爱弥，世界上没有人比她更需要大吃大喝一顿了。胳膊像麻秆儿，头发够四五个脑袋用的。目光迟缓。她看什么都慢吞吞的。话说得太多，真不明白她同时怎么还能喘气。还有那两根麻秆儿胳膊，结果证明，铁打的一般结实。
　　“你是我见过的模样最吓人的东西。你在那儿干什么哪？
　　”
　　躺在草里，像她刚才自封的那条蛇那样，塞丝张开嘴，可射出的不是毒牙和芯子，而是实话。
　　“逃跑。
　　”塞丝告诉她。这是她一整天来说的第一个词儿，因为她舌头发软而含混不清。
　　“那就是你逃跑用的脚吗？哎呀我的老天哪。
　　”她蹲下来，盯着塞丝的脚，“你身上带什么东西了吗，姑娘，有吃的吗？
　　”
　　“没有。
　　”塞丝试着换成坐姿，但没成功。
　　“我都要饿死了，”那姑娘慢慢转着眼睛，察看周围的植物，“还以为会有越桔呢。看着像有似的。所以我才爬上来的。没打算碰上什么黑鬼女人。就算有，也让鸟儿给吃了。你爱吃越桔吗？
　　”
　　“我就要生了，小姐。
　　”
　　爱弥看着她。
　　“这么说你没有胃口喽？我可得吃点东西。
　　”
　　她用手指梳着头发，又一次仔细地察看四周的景物。她发现周围没什么能吃的，就站起来要走；塞丝想到自己一个人被搁在草丛里，嘴里又没长毒牙，心也一下子提了起来。
　　“你这是往哪儿去呀，小姐？
　　”
　　她转过身，用骤然亮起来的眼睛看着塞丝。
　　“波士顿。去找天鹅绒。那里有家商店叫威尔逊。
　　我见过照片，他们那儿有最漂亮的天鹅绒。他们不相信我能找到，可是我能。
　　”
　　塞丝点点头，换了个胳膊肘支撑身体。
　　“你的太太知道你出去找天鹅绒吗？
　　”
　　那姑娘把头发从脸上甩开。
　　“我妈妈早先给这儿的人干活，好挣足过路费。可是后来她生了我，马上就死了，于是，他们说我就得给他们干活还债。我都干了，可现在我想给自己弄点天鹅绒。”
　　她们谁都没有正眼看对方，起码没有直盯着眼睛。但是她们自然而然地闲聊起来，也没有个特定的话题———当然，有一个躺在地上。
　　“波士顿，”塞丝道，“那儿远吗？
　　”
　　“噢———远着呢。一百英里。可能还要多。
　　”
　　“附近应该也有天鹅绒。
　　”
　　“跟波士顿的没法比。波士顿的最好。我要是穿上该有多美呀。你摸过吗？
　　”
　　“没有，小姐。我从来没摸过天鹅绒。
　　”塞丝不知道是因为她的声音，还是因为波士顿和天鹅绒，反正白人姑娘说话的时候，婴儿睡着了，一下没撞，一下没踢，所以她猜想自己时来运转了。
　　“以前见过吗？
　　”她问塞丝，“我敢说你从来没见过。
　　”
　　“就算见过我也不认识。什么样儿，天鹅绒？
　　”
　　爱弥的目光拖过塞丝的脸，好像她绝不会向一个完全陌生的人透露这么机密的信息似的。
　　“他们叫你什么？
　　”她问道。
Chapter 8
    However far she was from Sweet Home, there was no point in giving out her realname to the first person she saw. "Lu," said Sethe. "They call me Lu." "Well, Lu, velvet is like theworld was just born. Clean and new and so smooth. The velvet I seen was brown, but in Bostonthey got all colors. Carmine. That means red but when you talk about velvet you got to say'carmine.' " She raised her eyes to the sky and then, as though she had wasted enough time awayfrom Boston, she moved off saying, "I gotta go." Picking her way through the brush she holleredback to Sethe, "What you gonna do, just lay there and foal?" "I can't get up from here," said Sethe.
　　"What?" She stopped and turned to hear.
　　"I said I can't get up."Amy drew her arm across her nose and came slowly back to where Sethe lay. "It's a house backyonder," she said. "A house?""Mmmmm. I passed it. Ain't no regular house with people in it though. A lean-to, kinda.""How far?""Make a difference, does it? You stay the night here snake get you.""Well he may as well come on. I can't stand up let alone walk and God help me, miss, I can'tcrawl.""Sure you can, Lu. Come on," said Amy and, with a toss of hair enough for five heads, she movedtoward the path.
　　So she crawled and Amy walked alongside her, and when Sethe needed to rest, Amy stopped tooand talked some more about Boston and velvet and good things to eat. The sound of that voice,like a sixteen-year-old boy's, going on and on and on, kept the little antelope quiet and grazing.
　　During the whole hateful crawl to the lean to, it never bucked once.
　　Nothing of Sethe's was intact by the time they reached it except the cloth that covered her hair.
　　Below her bloody knees, there was no feeling at all; her chest was two cushions of pins. It was thevoice full of velvet and Boston and good things to eat that urged her along and made her think thatmaybe she wasn't, after all, just a crawling graveyard for a six-month baby's last hours.
　　The lean-to was full of leaves, which Amy pushed into a pile for Sethe to lie on. Then she gatheredrocks, covered them with more leaves and made Sethe put her feet on them, saying: "I know awoman had her feet cut off they was so swole." And she made sawing gestures with the blade ofher hand across Sethe's ankles. "Zzz Zzz Zzz Zzz.""I used to be a good size. Nice arms and everything. Wouldn't think it, would you? That wasbefore they put me in the root cellar. I was fishing off the Beaver once. Catfish in Beaver Riversweet as chicken. Well I was just fishing there and a nigger floated right by me. I don't likedrowned people, you? Your feet remind me of him. All swole like."Then she did the magic: lifted Sethe's feet and legs and massaged them until she cried salt tears.
　　"It's gonna hurt, now," said Amy. "Anything dead coming back to life hurts."A truth for all times, thought Denver. Maybe the white dress holding its arm around her mother'swaist was in pain. If so, it could mean the baby ghost had plans. When she opened the door, Sethewas just leaving the keeping room.
　　"I saw a white dress holding on to you," Denver said.
　　"White? Maybe it was my bedding dress. Describe it to me." "Had a high neck. Whole mess ofbuttons coming down the back.""Buttons. Well, that lets out my bedding dress. I never had a button on nothing.""Did Grandma Baby?"Sethe shook her head. "She couldn't handle them. Even on hershoes. What else?""A bunch at the back. On the sit-down part.""A bustle? It had a bustle?""I don't know what it's called.""Sort of gathered-like? Below the waist in the back?""Um hm.""A rich lady's dress. Silk?""Cotton, look like.""Lisle probably. White cotton lisle. You say it was holding on tome. How?""Like you. It looked just like you. Kneeling next to you whileyou were praying. Had its arm around your waist.""Well, I'll be.""What were you praying for, Ma'am?""Not for anything. I don't pray anymore. I just talk.""What were you talking about?""You won't understand, baby.""Yes, I will.""I was talking about time. It's so hard for me to believe in it.
　　Some things go. Pass on. Some things just stay. I used to think it wasmy rememory. You know. Some things you forget. Other things you never do. But it's not. Places,places are still there. If a house burns down, it's gone, but the place — the picture of it — stays,and not just in my rememory, but out there, in the world. What I remember is a picture floatingaround out there outside my head. I mean, even if I don't think it, even if I die, the picture of what Idid, or knew, or saw is still out there. Right in the place where it happened." "Can other people seeit?" asked Denver.
　　"Oh, yes. Oh, yes, yes, yes. Someday you be walking down the road and you hear something or seesomething going on. So clear. And you think it's you thinking it up. A thought picture. But no. It'swhen you bump into a rememory that belongs to somebody else.
　　Where I was before I came here, that place is real. It's never going away. Even if the whole farm— every tree and grass blade of it dies. The picture is still there and what's more, if you go there— you who never was there — if you go there and stand in the place where it was, it will happenagain; it will be there for you, waiting for you. So, Denver, you can't never go there. Never.
　　Because even though it's all over — over and done with — it's going to always be there waiting foryou. That's how come I had to get all my children out. No matter what."Denver picked at her fingernails. "If it's still there, waiting, that must mean that nothing ever dies."Sethe looked right in Denver's face. "Nothing ever does," she said.
　　"You never told me all what happened. Just that they whipped you and you run off, pregnant. Withme.""Nothing to tell except schoolteacher. He was a little man. Short.
　　Always wore a collar, even in the fields. A schoolteacher, she said.
　　That made her feel good that her husband's sister's husband had book learning and was willing tocome farm Sweet Home after Mr.
　　Garner passed. The men could have done it, even with Paul F sold.
　　But it was like Halle said. She didn't want to be the only white person on the farm and a womantoo. So she was satisfied when the schoolteacher agreed to come. He brought two boys with him.
　　Sons or nephews. I don't know. They called him Onka and had pretty manners, all of em. Talkedsoft and spit in handkerchiefs. Gentle in a lot of ways. You know, the kind who know Jesus by Hisfirst name, but out of politeness never use it even to His face. A pretty good farmer, Halle said. Notstrong as Mr. Garner but smart enough. He liked the ink I made. It was her recipe, but he preferredhow I mixed it and it was important to him because at night he sat down to write in his book. Itwas a book about us but we didn't know that right away. We just thought it was his manner to askus questions. He commenced to carry round a notebook and write down what we said. I still thinkit was them questions that tore Sixo up. Tore him up for all time."She stopped.
    即便离开“甜蜜之家”再远，也没有必要向见到的第一个人说出真名实姓。
　　“露，”塞丝说，“他们叫我露。
　　”
　　“这么说吧，露，天鹅绒就像初生的世界。干净，新鲜，而且光滑极了。我见过的天鹅绒是棕色的，可在波士顿什么颜色的都有。胭脂。就是红的意思，可你在说天鹅绒的时候得说‘胭脂’。”她抬头望望天，然后，好像已经为与波士顿无关的事情浪费太多的时间了，她抬起脚，道：
　　“我得走了。”
　　她在树丛中择径而行，又回头向塞丝喊道：
　　“你想怎么办，就躺在那儿下崽吗？
　　”
　　“我起不来了。
　　”塞丝说。
　　“什么？
　　”她站住了，转身去听。
　　“我说我起不来了。
　　”
　　爱弥举起胳膊，横在鼻梁上面，慢慢走回塞丝躺着的地方。
　　“那边有间房子。
　　”她说。
　　“房子？
　　”
　　“呣———我路过的。不是一般的住人的房子。算个披屋吧。”
　　“有多远？
　　”
　　“有区别吗？你若是在这儿过夜，蛇会来咬你的。
　　”
　　“它爱来就来吧。我站都站不起来，更别说走路了；上帝可怜我，小姐，我根本爬不动。
　　”
　　“你当然行，露。来吧。
　　”爱弥说道，然后甩了甩够五个脑袋用的头发，朝小道走去。
　　于是塞丝爬着，爱弥在旁边走；如果她想歇会儿，爱弥也停下来，再说一点波士顿、天鹅绒和好吃的东西。她的声音好像一个十六岁的男孩子，说呀说呀说个不停，那只小羚羊就一直安静地吃草。在塞丝痛苦地爬向棚屋的整个过程中，它一下都没动。
　　她们到达的时候，塞丝已经体无完肤，只有包头发的布没被碰坏。她血淋淋的膝盖以下根本没有知觉；她的乳房成了两个插满缝衣针的软垫。是那充满天鹅绒、波士顿和好吃的东西的声音一直激励着她，使她觉得，她到底并不仅仅是那个六个月婴儿弥留之际的爬行的墓地。
　　披屋里满是树叶，爱弥把它们堆成一堆，让塞丝躺上去；然后她找来几块石头，又铺上些树叶给塞丝垫脚，一边说道：
　　“我知道有一个女人，让人把肿得不像样的两只脚给截掉了。
　　”她装成锯东西的样子，用手掌在塞丝的脚踝上比画：
　　“吱吱吱，吱吱吱，吱吱吱，吱吱吱。
　　”
　　“我以前身量挺好的。胳膊什么的，都挺好看。你想不到，是吧？那是他们把我关进地窖之前。那回我在比佛河上钓鱼来着。比佛河里的鲇鱼像鸡肉一样好吃。我正在那儿钓鱼呢，一个黑鬼从我身边漂了过去。我不喜欢淹死的人，你呢？你的脚让我又想起了他。全都肿起来了。
　　”
　　然后她来了个绝活儿：提起塞丝的腿脚按摩，疼得她哭出了咸涩的眼泪。
　　“现在该疼了，”爱弥说，“所有死的东西活过来时都会疼的。
　　”
　　永恒的真理，丹芙想道。也许用袖子绕着妈妈腰身的白裙子是痛苦的。倘若如此，这可能意味着那小鬼魂有计划。她打开门，这时塞丝正要离开起居室。
　　“我看见一条白裙子搂着你。
　　”丹芙说。
　　“白的？也许是我的睡裙。给我形容一下。
　　”
　　“有个高领。一大堆扣子从背上扣下来。
　　”
　　“扣子。那么说，不是我的睡裙。我的衣裳都不带扣子。
　　”
　　“贝比奶奶有吗？
　　”
　　塞丝摇摇头。
　　“她扣不上扣子。连鞋带都系不上。还有什么？
　　”
　　“后面有个鼓包。在屁股上。
　　”
　　“裙撑？有个裙撑？
　　”
　　“我不知道那叫什么。
　　”
　　“有点掐腰吗？就在后腰下边？
　　”
　　“呃，对。
　　”
　　“一个阔太太的裙子。绸子的？
　　”
　　“好像是棉布的。
　　”
　　“可能是莱尔线。白棉莱尔线。你说它搂着我？怎么回事？
　　”
　　“像你。它看上去就像是你。你祷告时就跪在你旁边。它的胳膊绕着你的腰。
　　”
　　“啊，我的天。
　　”
　　“你为什么祷告，太太？
　　”
　　“不为什么。我已经不再祷告了。我只是说话。
　　”
　　“那你说什么呢？
　　”
　　“你不会懂的，宝贝。
　　”
　　“不，我懂。
　　”
　　“我在说时间。对于我来说，时间太难以信任了。有些东西去了，一去不回头。有些东西却偏偏留下来。我曾经觉得那是我重现的记忆。你听着。有些东西你会忘记。有些东西你永远也忘不了。可是不然。地点，地点始终存在。如果一座房子烧毁，它就没了，但是那个地点———它的模样———留下来，不仅留在我重现的记忆里，而且就存在着，在这世界上。我的记忆是幅画，漂浮在我的脑海之外。我的意思是，即使我不去想它，即使我死了，关于我的所做、所知、所见的那幅画还存在。还在它原来发生的地点。
　　”
　　“别人看得见吗？
　　”丹芙问。
　　“噢，是的。噢，是的是的是的。哪天你走在路上，你会听到、看到一些事情。清楚极了。让你觉得是你自己编出来的。一幅想象的画。可是不然。那是你撞进了别人的重现的记忆。我来这儿之前待过的地方，那个地点是真的。它永远不会消失。哪怕整个农庄———它的一草一木———都死光，那幅画依然存在；更要命的是，如果你去了那里———你从来没去过———如果你去了那里，站在它存在过的地方，它还会重来一遍；它会为你在那里出现，等着你。所以，丹芙，你永远不能去那儿。永远不能。因为虽然一切都过去了———过去了，结束了———它还将永远在那里等着你。那就是为什么我必须把我的孩子们全都弄出来。千方百计。
　　”
　　丹芙抠着指甲。
　　“要是它还在那儿等着，那就是说什么都不死。
　　”
　　塞丝直盯着丹芙的脸。
　　“什么都不死。
　　”她说。
　　“你从来没有原原本本给我讲过一遍。只讲过他们拿鞭子抽你，你就逃跑了，怀着身孕。怀着我。”
　　“除了‘学校老师’没什么好讲的。他是个小个子。很矮。总戴着硬领，在田里也不例外。是个学校老师，她说。她丈夫的妹夫念过书，而且在加纳先生去世后愿意来经营‘甜蜜之家’，这让她感觉良好。本来农庄里的男人们能管好它，尽管保罗•F被卖掉了。但是正像黑尔说的，她不愿意做农庄上唯一的白人，又是个女人。所以‘学校老师’同意来的时候她很满意。他带了两个小子来。不是儿子就是侄子。我不清楚。他们叫他叔叔。举止讲究，仨人都是。轻声说话，痰吐在手绢里。在好多方面都很绅士。你知道，是那种知道耶稣小名，可出于礼貌，就是当着他的面也绝不叫出来的人。一个挺不错的农庄主，黑尔说。没有加纳先生那么壮实，可是够聪明的。他喜欢我做的墨水。那是她的制法，但他更喜欢我搅拌的；这对他很重要，因为晚上他要坐下来写他的书。是本关于我们的书，可是我们当时并不知道。我们只想到，他问我们问题是出于习惯。他由带着笔记本到处走、记下我们说的话入手。我一直觉得是那些问题把西克索给毁了。永远地毁了。”
　　她打住了。
Chapter 9
    Denver knew that her mother was through with it — for now anyway. The single slow blink of hereyes; the bottom lip sliding up slowly to cover the top; and then a nostril sigh, like the snuff of acandle flame — signs that Sethe had reached the point beyond which she would not go.
　　"Well, I think the baby got plans," said Denver. "What plans?""I don't know, but the dress holding on to you got to mean something.""Maybe," said Sethe. "Maybe it does have plans."Whatever they were or might have been, Paul D messed them up for good. With a table and a loudmale voice he had rid 124 of its claim to local fame. Denver had taught herself to take pride in thecondemnation Negroes heaped on them; the assumption that the haunting was done by an evilthing looking for more. None of them knew the downright pleasure of enchantment, of not suspecting but knowing the things behind things. Her brothers had known, but it scared them;Grandma Baby knew, but it saddened her. None could appreciate the safety of ghost company.
　　Even Sethe didn't love it.
　　She just took it for granted — like a sudden change in the weather.
　　But it was gone now. Whooshed away in the blast of a hazelnut man's shout, leaving Denver'sworld flat, mostly, with the exception of an emerald closet standing seven feet high in the woods.
　　Her mother had secrets — things she wouldn't tell; things she halfway told. Well, Denver had themtoo. And hers were sweet — sweet as lily-of-the-valley cologne.
　　Sethe had given little thought to the white dress until Paul D came, and then she rememberedDenver's interpretation: plans. The morning after the first night with Paul D, Sethe smiled justthinking about what the word could mean. It was a luxury she had not had in eighteen years andonly that once. Before and since, all her effort was directed not on avoiding pain but on gettingthrough it as quickly as possible. The one set of plans she had made — getting away from SweetHome — went awry so completely she never dared life by making more.
　　Yet the morning she woke up next to Paul D, the word her daughter had used a few years ago didcross her mind and she thought about what Denver had seen kneeling next to her, and thought alsoof the temptation to trust and remember that gripped her as she stood before the cooking stove inhis arms. Would it be all right? Would it be all right to go ahead and feel? Go ahead and count onsomething? She couldn't think clearly, lying next to him listening to his breathing, so carefully,carefully, she had left the bed.
　　Kneeling in the keeping room where she usually went to talk-think it was clear why Baby Suggswas so starved for color. There wasn't any except for two orange squares in a quilt that made theabsence shout. The walls of the room were slate-colored, the floor earth-brown, the woodendresser the color of itself, curtains white, and the dominating feature, the quilt over an iron cot, wasmade up of scraps of blue serge, black, brown and gray wool — the full range of the dark and themuted that thrift and modesty allowed. In that sober field, two patches of orange looked wild —like life in the raw. Sethe looked at her hands, her bottle-green sleeves, and thought how little colorthere was in the house and how strange that she had not missed it the way Baby did. Deliberate,she thought, it must be deliberate, because the last color she remembered was the pink chips in theheadstone of her baby girl. After that she became as color conscious as a hen. Every dawn sheworked at fruit pies, potato dishes and vegetables while the cook did the soup, meat and all therest. And she could not remember remembering a molly apple or a yellow squash. Every dawn shesaw the dawn, but never acknowledged or remarked its color. There was something wrong withthat. It was as though one day she saw red baby blood, another day the pink gravestone chips, andthat was the last of it.
　　124 was so full of strong feeling perhaps she was oblivious to the loss of anything at all. There wasa time when she scanned the fields every morning and every evening for her boys. When she stoodat the open window, unmindful of flies, her head cocked to her left shoulder, her eyes searching to the right for them. Cloud shadow on the road, an old woman, a wandering goat untethered andgnawing bramble — each one looked at first like Howard — no, Buglar. Little by little she stoppedand their thirteen-year-old faces faded completely into their baby ones, which came to her only insleep. When her dreams roamed outside 124, anywhere they wished, she saw them sometimes inbeautiful trees, their little legs barely visible in the leaves.
　　Sometimes they ran along the railroad track laughing, too loud, apparently, to hear her becausethey never did turn around. When she woke the house crowded in on her: there was the door wherethe soda crackers were lined up in a row; the white stairs her baby girl loved to climb; the cornerwhere Baby Suggs mended shoes, a pile of which were still in the cold room; the exact place onthe stove where Denver burned her fingers. And of course the spite of the house itself. There wasno room for any other thing or body until Paul D arrived and broke up the place, making room,shifting it, moving it over to someplace else, then standing in the place he had made.
　　So, kneeling in the keeping room the morning after Paul D came, she was distracted by the twoorange squares that signaled how barren 124 really was.
　　He was responsible for that. Emotions sped to the surface in his company. Things became whatthey were: drabness looked drab; heat was hot. Windows suddenly had view. And wouldn't youknow he'd be a singing man.
    丹芙知道妈妈讲完了———至少目前如此。塞丝的眼睛缓缓地眨了一下，下嘴唇慢慢抿上来盖住上嘴唇；然后是鼻孔里的一声叹息，就像一点烛火的熄灭———标志着她的讲述到此为止。
　　“嗯，我想那个娃娃有计划。
　　”丹芙说。
　　“什么计划？
　　”
　　“我不知道，可是那件搂着你的裙子肯定有说道。
　　”
　　“也许吧，”塞丝道，“也许它真的有计划。
　　”
　　无论她们曾经如何，或者本该如何，保罗•D都不可挽回地搅乱了她们的生活。他用一张桌子和雄性的怒吼，使124号失去了在当地享有恶名的资格。丹芙早已学会了将黑人们压在她们身上的谴责引以为荣；他们把闹鬼者想当然地说成一个不知餍足的恶鬼，她也感到满意。他们谁都不知道闹鬼的真正乐趣，不是怀疑，而是洞悉事物背后有事物的乐趣。她的哥哥们知道，可他们给吓着了；贝比奶奶知道，可她因此悲伤起来。谁都不会品味鬼魂相伴的安全感。甚至塞丝也不喜欢。她只不过是逆来顺受———权当面对天气的突然变化。
　　可是现在它走了。在榛色男人的那阵吼叫的狂风中飞走了。丹芙的世界骤然萧索，只剩下林中一间七英尺高的祖母绿密室。她的妈妈有秘密———她不愿讲的事情，讲了一半的事情。瞧，丹芙也有。而且她的是香甜的———好像铃兰花香水一般香甜。
　　保罗•D到来之前，塞丝很少去想那条白裙子，他来了以后，她又想起了丹芙的解释：
　　计划。与保罗•D初夜之后的第二天早晨，塞丝刚想到这个词可能意味着什么就笑了。那是她整整十八年没再享受过的奢侈，而且这辈子也只有那么一次。在那之前、之后，她的全部努力都用于尽快挨过痛苦，而不是逃避痛苦。她作出的一整套计划———逃离“甜蜜之家”———如此彻底地失败了，所以她再也不会舍命另作图谋了。
　　然而那个早晨，她在保罗•D身边醒来，女儿几年前用过的那个词又闯进了她的脑海；她想起丹芙看见的那个跪在她身边的东西，也想起了被他拥在火炉前的时候牢牢抓住她的那种信任和记忆的诱惑。到底可不可以呢？可不可以去感觉？可不可以去依赖点什么呢？
　　躺在他身边听着他的呼吸，她想不清楚，所以她小心翼翼地、小心翼翼地下了床。
　　跪在她常去说话和思考的起居室里，塞丝豁然开朗，明白了为什么贝比•萨格斯那样迫切地渴求色彩。屋里没有任何颜色，只有被子上的两块橙色补丁，使得颜色的匮乏更为怵目惊心。
　　房间的墙壁是石板色的，地板是土黄色的，木头碗柜就是它本来的颜色，窗帘是白色的，而主要角色，铁床上铺的被子，是由蓝色的哔叽碎块和黑色、棕色、灰色的呢绒碎块拼成的———节俭与朴素所能允许的所有晦暗和柔和的色调。在这素净的背景上，两块橙色的补丁显得野性十足———好像伤口里的勃勃生气。
　　塞丝看看自己的手，又看看两只深绿色的袖子，心想，房子里的颜色少得多么可怜，而她并未像贝比那样惦念它们，又是多么不可思议。故意的，她暗道，肯定是故意的，因为她女儿墓石上的粉红颗粒是她记得的最后一样颜色。从那以后，她就变得像母鸡一样色盲了。每天清晨她负责做水果排、土豆和蔬菜，厨子做汤、肉和所有别的。她却没有任何印象，告诉她自己记住过一只嫩苹果或者一个黄南瓜。每个黎明她都看到曙光，却从未辨认或留心过它的色彩。这不大对头。仿佛有一天她看见了红色的婴儿的血，另一天看见了粉红色的墓石的颗粒，色彩就到此为止了。
　　时时刻刻有强烈的感情占据着124号，也许她对任何一种丧失都无动于衷了。有一个时期，她每天早晚都要眺望田野，找自己的儿子。她站在敞开的窗前，不理会苍蝇，头偏向左肩，眼睛却往右搜寻他们。路上的云影，一个老妇，一只没拴绳子、啃食荆棘的迷途山羊———每一个乍看上去都像霍华德———不，像巴格勒。渐渐地她不再找了，他们十三岁的脸完全模糊成儿时的模样，只在她的睡梦中出现。她的梦在124号外面随心所欲地漫游。她有时在美丽的树上看见他们，他们的小腿儿在叶子中间隐约可见。有时他们嘻嘻哈哈地沿着铁轨奔跑，显然是笑得太响了才听不见她的叫声，所以他们从不回头。等她醒来，房子又扑面而至：苏打饼干碎末曾经在旁边排成一行的那扇门；她的小女儿喜欢爬的白楼梯；过去贝比•萨格斯补鞋的那个角落———现在冷藏室里还有一堆鞋呢；炉子上烫伤了丹芙手指的那个位置。当然，还有房子本身的怨毒。再容不下别的什么东西、别的什么人了，直到保罗•D到来，打乱这个地方，腾出空间，撵走它，把它赶到别处，然后他自己占据了腾出来的空间。
　　因此，保罗•D到来的第二天早晨，她跪在起居室里，被那标志着124号实为颜色匮乏的不毛之地的两方橙色搞得心烦意乱。
　　这都怪他。在他陪伴下，情感纷纷浮出水面。一切都恢复了本来面目：单调看着单调了；热的热起来。窗户里忽然有了风景。还有，你想不到吧，他还是个爱唱歌的男人呢。
Chapter 10
    Little rice, little bean,No meat in between.
　　Hard work ain't easy,Dry bread ain't greasy.
　　He was up now and singing as he mended things he had broken the day before. Some old pieces ofsong he'd learned on the prison farm or in the War afterward. Nothing like what they sang at SweetHome, where yearning fashioned every note.
　　The songs he knew from Georgia were flat-headed nails for pounding and pounding and pounding.
　　Lay my bead on the railroad line,Train come along, pacify my mind.
　　If I had my weight in lime,I'd whip my captain till he went stone blind.
　　five-cent nickel, Ten-cent dime,Busting rocks is busting time.
　　But they didn't fit, these songs. They were too loud, had too much power for the little house choreshe was engaged in — resetting table legs; glazing.
　　He couldn't go back to "Storm upon the Waters" that they sang under the trees of Sweet Home, sohe contented himself with mmmmmmmmm, throwing in a line if one occurred to him, and whatoccurred over and over was "Bare feet and chamomile sap,/ Took off my shoes; took off my hat."It was tempting to change the words (Gimme back my shoes; gimme back my hat), because hedidn't believe he could live with a woman — any woman — for over two out of three months. Thatwas about as long as he could abide one place. After Delaware and before that Alfred, Georgia,where he slept underground and crawled into sunlight for the sole purpose of breaking rock,walking off when he got ready was the only way he could convince himself that he would nolonger have to sleep, pee, eat or swing a sledge hammer in chains. But this was not a normalwoman in a normal house. As soon as he had stepped through the red light he knew that, comparedto 124, the rest of the world was bald. After Alfred he had shut down a generous portion of hishead, operating on the part that helped him walk, eat, sleep, sing. If he could do those things —with a little work and a little sex thrown in — he asked for no more, for more required him todwell on Halle's face and Sixo laughing. To recall trembling in a box built into the ground.
　　Grateful for the daylight spent doing mule work in a quarry because he did not tremble when hehad a hammer in his hands. The box had done what Sweet Home had not, what working like an assand living like a dog had not: drove him crazy so he would not lose his mind.
　　By the time he got to Ohio, then to Cincinnati, then to Halle Suggs' mother's house, he thought hehad seen and felt it all. Even now as he put back the window frame he had smashed, he could notaccount for the pleasure in his surprise at seeing Halle's wife alive, barefoot with uncovered hair— walking around the corner of the house with her shoes and stockings in her hands. The closedportion of his head opened like a greased lock.
　　"I was thinking of looking for work around here. What you think?""Ain't much. River mostly. And hogs.""Well, I never worked on water, but I can pick up anything heavy as me, hogs included.""Whitepeople better here than Kentucky but you may have to scramble some.""It ain't whether I scramble; it's where. You saying it's all right to scramble here?""Better than all right.""Your girl, Denver. Seems to me she's of a different mind." "Why you say that?""She's got a waiting way about her. Something she's expecting and it ain't me.""I don't know what it could be.""Well, whatever it is, she believes I'm interrupting it.""Don't worry about her. She's a charmed child. From the beginning.""Is that right?""Uh huh. Nothing bad can happen to her. Look at it. Everybody I knew dead or gone or dead andgone. Not her. Not my Denver. Even when I was carrying her, when it got clear that I wasn't goingto make it — which meant she wasn't going to make it either — she pulled a whitegirl out of thehill. The last thing you'd expect to help. And when the schoolteacher found us and came busting inhere with the law and a shotgun — ""Schoolteacher found you?""Took a while, but he did. Finally.""And he didn't take you back?""Oh, no. I wasn't going back there. I don't care who found who. Any life but not that one. I went tojail instead. Denver was just a baby so she went right along with me. Rats bit everything in therebut her."Paul D turned away. He wanted to know more about it, but jail talk put him back in Alfred,Georgia.
　　"I need some nails. Anybody around here I can borrow from or should I go to town?""May as well go to town. You'll need other things."One night and they were talking like a couple. They had skipped love and promise and wentdirectly to "You saying it's all right to scramble here?"To Sethe, the future was a matter of keeping the past at bay. The "better life" she believed she andDenver were living was simply not that other one.
　　The fact that Paul D had come out of "that other one" into her bed was better too; and the notion ofa future with him, or for that matter without him, was beginning to stroke her mind. As for Denver, the job Sethe had of keeping her from the past that was still waiting for her was all that mattered.
　　PLEASANTLY TROUBLED, Sethe avoided the keeping room and Denver's sidelong looks. Asshe expected, since life was like that — it didn't do any good. Denver ran a mighty interferenceand on the third day flat-out asked Paul D how long he was going to hang around.
　　The phrase hurt him so much he missed the table. The coffee cup hit the floor and rolled down thesloping boards toward the front door.
　　"Hang around?" Paul D didn't even look at the mess he had made.
　　"Denver! What's got into you?" Sethe looked at her daughter, feeling more embarrassed thanangry.
　　Paul D scratched the hair on his chin. "Maybe I should make tracks.""No!" Sethe was surprised by how loud she said it. "He know what he needs," said Denver.
　　"Well, you don't," Sethe told her, "and you must not know what you need either. I don't want tohear another word out of you.""I just asked if — ""Hush! You make tracks. Go somewhere and sit down."Denver picked up her plate and left the table but not before adding a chicken back and more breadto the heap she was carrying away.
　　Paul D leaned over to wipe the spilled coffee with his blue handkerchief.
　　"I'll get that." Sethe jumped up and went to the stove. Behind itvarious cloths hung, each in some stage of drying. In silence she wiped the floor and retrieved thecup. Then she poured him another cupful, and set it carefully before him. Paul D touched its rimbut didn't say anything — as though even "thank you" was an obligation he could not meet and thecoffee itself a gift he could not take.
　　Sethe resumed her chair and the silence continued. Finally she realized that if it was going to bebroken she would have to do it.
　　"I didn't train her like that."Paul D stroked the rim of the cup.
　　"And I'm as surprised by her manners as you are hurt by em."Paul D looked at Sethe. "Is there history to her question?""History? What you mean?""I mean, did she have to ask that, or want to ask it, of anybody else before me?"
    一点米，一点豆，就是不给肉。
　　干重活，累断腿，面包没油水。
　　现在他起床了，一边修理前一天打坏的东西，一边唱着歌。他在监狱农场和后来战争期间学的那几首老歌。根本不像他们在“甜蜜之家”唱的，在“甜蜜之家”，热望铸成了每一个音符。
　　他从佐治亚学来的歌是平头钉子，教人敲呀敲的只管敲。
　　我的头枕在铁道上，火车来碾平我的思想。
　　我要是变成石灰人，肯定抽瞎我的队长。
　　五分钱钢镚，一毛钱银角，砸石头就是砸时光。
　　但是太不合时宜了，这些歌。对于他正在从事的那点家务活———重安桌子腿、装修玻璃窗———来说，它们太响亮、太有劲了。
　　他已唱不出过去在“甜蜜之家”树下唱的《水上暴风雨》了，所以他满足于“呣，呣，呣”，想起一句就加进去一句，那一遍又一遍出现的总是：
　　“光着脚丫，春黄菊，脱我的鞋，脱我的帽。
　　”
　　改词很吸引人（还我的鞋，还我的帽），因为他不相信自己能和一个女人———任何女人———在一起住太久，三个月里不能超过两个月。离开特拉华之后，他在一个地方大概只能逗留这么长时间。再以前是佐治亚的阿尔弗雷德，在那里，他睡在地下，只在砸石头时才爬到阳光里。
　　只有准备好随时走掉，才能使他相信，他不必再带着锁链睡觉、拉屎、吃饭和抡大锤了。
　　然而这不是一个寻常房子里的寻常女人。他刚一走过红光就知道，比起124号，世界上其他地方都不过是童山秃岭。逃离阿尔弗雷德后，他封闭了相当一部分头脑，只使用帮他走路、吃饭、睡觉和唱歌的那部分。只要能做这几件事———再加进一点工作和一点性交———他就别无所求，否则他就会耽溺于黑尔的面孔和西克索的大笑。就会忆起在地下囚笼里的颤抖。即使在采石场的阳光下当牛做马他也不胜感激，因为一旦手握大锤他就不再哆嗦了。那牢笼起了“甜蜜之家”都没起到的作用，起了驴一般劳动、狗一般生活都没起到的作用：把他逼疯，使他不至于自己疯掉。
　　后来他去了俄亥俄，去了辛辛那提，直到站在黑尔•萨格斯的母亲的房子前，他仍然觉得没有什么事情自己没见过、没感受过。然而，甚至现在，当他重新安装被自己砸坏的窗框时，他也还是说不清见到黑尔的妻子时那种由衷的惊喜———她还活着，没戴头巾，赤着脚、手拿鞋袜从房子的拐角处走来。他头脑的关闭部分像上了油的锁一样打开了。
　　“我想在附近找个差事。你说呢？
　　”
　　“没多少可干的。主要是河。还有猪。
　　”
　　“嗯，我从来没干过水上的活儿，可是所有跟我一样沉的东西我都搬得动，猪也不在话下。
　　”
　　“这儿的白人比肯塔基的强，可你还是得将就点。
　　”
　　“问题不是我将不将就，是在哪儿将就。你是说在这儿还行？
　　”
　　“比还行要好。
　　”
　　“你那闺女，丹芙。我看她的脑袋瓜有点特别。
　　”
　　“你干吗这么说？
　　”
　　“她老像在等什么似的。她在盼着什么，可那不是我。
　　”
　　“我不知道那能是什么。
　　”
　　“唉，不管是什么，她认为我挺碍事的。
　　”
　　“别为她操心了。她是个乖孩子。从小就是。
　　”
　　“是这样吗？
　　”
　　“哎。她就是不会出事。你看哪。我认识的所有人都死了，去了，死去了。她就没事。我的丹芙就没事。就是在我怀着她的时候，我明显地不行了———就是说她也不行了———可她从山里拉来一个白人姑娘。你再也想不到的帮助。后来‘学校老师’找到了我们，带着法律和枪追到这儿来———”
　　“‘学校老师’找着你了？
　　”
　　“费了会儿工夫，但他还是找着了。终于找着了。
　　”
　　“可他没把你带回去？
　　”
　　“噢，没有。我可不回去。我才不管是谁找着了谁。哪种生活都行，就是那种不行。我进了监狱。丹芙还是个娃娃，所以跟我一起进去了。那儿的耗子什么都咬，就是不咬她。
　　”
　　保罗•D扭过身去。他倒想多知道一些，可是说起监狱，他又回到了佐治亚的阿尔弗雷德。
　　“我需要一些钉子。附近谁能借给我，还是我该进城一趟？
　　”
　　“不如进城吧。你可能还需要点别的东西。
　　”
　　一夜过去，他们已经像夫妻一样谈话了。他们跳过了爱情和誓言而直接到了：
　　“你是说在这儿将就还行？
　　”
　　在塞丝看来，未来就是将过去留在绝境。她为自己和丹芙认定的“更好的生活”绝对不能是那另一种。
　　保罗•D从“那另一种”来到她的床上，这也是一种更好的生活；是与他共享未来，还是因此拒绝他，这想法开始撩拨她的心。至于丹芙，塞丝有责任让她远离仍在那里等着她的过去，这是唯一至关重要的。
　　既愉快又为难，塞丝回避着起居室和丹芙的斜眼。正如她所料，既然生活就是这样———这个做法也根本不灵。丹芙进行了顽强的干涉，并在第三天老实不客气地问保罗•D他还要在这儿混多久。
　　这句话伤得他在饭桌上失了手。咖啡杯砸在地上，沿着倾斜的地板滚向前门。
　　“混？”保罗•D对他闯的那摊祸连看都没看。
　　“丹芙!你中了什么邪？
　　”塞丝看着女儿，与其说是生气，不如说是尴尬。
　　保罗•D搔了搔下巴上的胡子。
　　“也许我该开路了。
　　”
　　“不行!”塞丝被自己说话的音量吓了一跳。
　　“他知道他自己需要什么。
　　”丹芙说。
　　“可你不知道，”塞丝对她说，“你肯定也不知道你自己需要什么。我不想再从你嘴里听见一个字。”
　　“我只不过问了问———”
　　“住嘴!你开路去吧。到别处待着去。
　　”
　　丹芙端起盘子离开饭桌，可临走时又往她端走的那一堆上添了一块鸡后背和几片面包。保罗•D弯下腰，用他的蓝手帕去擦洒掉的咖啡。
　　“我来吧。
　　”塞丝跳起身走向炉子。炉子后面搭着好几块抹布，在不同程度地晾干。她默默地擦了地板，拾回杯子，然后又倒了一杯，小心地放到他面前。保罗•D碰了碰杯沿，但什么也没说———好像连声“谢谢”都是难尽的义务，咖啡更是件接受不起的礼物。
　　塞丝坐回她的椅子，寂静持续着。最后她意识到，必须由她来打破僵局。
　　“我可不是那样教她的。
　　”
　　保罗•D敲了一下杯沿。
　　“我对她的做法真感到吃惊，跟你觉得受的伤害差不多。”
　　保罗•D看着塞丝。
　　“她的问题有历史吗？”
　　“历史？你什么意思？”
　　“我是说，她是不是对我以前的每个人都要问，或者想要问那个？”
Chapter 11
    Sethe made two fists and placed them on her hips. "You as bad as she is.""Come on, Sethe.""Oh, I am coming on. I am!""You know what I mean.""I do and I don't like it.""Jesus," he whispered.
　　"Who?" Sethe was getting loud again.
　　"Jesus! I said Jesus! All I did was sit down for supper! and I get cussed out twice. Once for beinghere and once for asking why I was cussed in the first place!""She didn't cuss.""No? Felt like it.""Look here. I apologize for her. I'm real — ""You can't do that. You can't apologize for nobody. She got to do that.""Then I'll see that she does." Sethe sighed. "What I want to know is, is she asking a question that'son your mind too?""Oh no. No, Paul D. Oh no.""Then she's of one mind and you another? If you can call what ever's in her head a mind, that is.""Excuse me, but I can't hear a word against her. I'll chastise her. You leave her alone."Risky, thought Paul D, very risky. For a used-to-be-slave woman to love anything that much wasdangerous, especially if it was her children she had settled on to love. The best thing, he knew, wasto love just a little bit; everything, just a little bit, so when they broke its back, or shoved it in acroaker sack, well, maybe you'd have a little love left over for the next one. "Why?" he asked her.
　　"Why you think you have to take up for her? Apologize for her? She's grown.""I don't care what she is. Grown don't mean nothing to a mother. A child is a child. They getbigger, older, but grown? What's that supposed to mean? In my heart it don't mean a thing.""It means she has to take it if she acts up. You can't protect her every minute. What's going tohappen when you die?""Nothing! I'll protect her while I'm live and I'll protect her when I ain't.""Oh well, I'm through," he said. "I quit.""That's the way it is, Paul D. I can't explain it to you no better than that, but that's the way it is. If Ihave to choose — well, it's not even a choice.""That's the point. The whole point. I'm not asking you to choose. Nobody would. I thought — well,I thought you could — there was some space for me.""She's asking me.""You can't go by that. You got to say it to her. Tell her it's not about choosing somebody over her— it's making space for somebody along with her. You got to say it. And if you say it and mean it,then you also got to know you can't gag me. There's no way I'm going to hurt her or not take careof what she need if I can, but I can't be told to keep my mouth shut if she's acting ugly. You wantme here, don't put no gag on me.""Maybe I should leave things the way they are," she said.
　　"How are they?""We get along.""What about inside?""I don't go inside.""Sethe, if I'm here with you, with Denver, you can go anywhere you want. Jump, if you want to,'cause I'll catch you, girl. I'll catch you "fore you fall. Go as far inside as you need to, I'll hold yourankles. Make sure you get back out. I'm not saying this because I need a place to stay. That's thelast thing I need. I told you, I'm a walking man, but I been heading in this direction for seven years.
　　Walking all around this place. Upstate, downstate, east, west; I been in territory ain't got no name,never staying nowhere long. But when I got here and sat out there on the porch, waiting for you,well, I knew it wasn't the place I was heading toward; it was you. We can make a life, girl. A life.""I don't know. I don't know.""Leave it to me. See how it goes. No promises, if you don't want to make any. Just see how it goes.
　　All right?""All right.""You willing to leave it to me?""Well — some of it.""Some?" he smiled. "Okay. Here's some. There's a carnival in town. Thursday, tomorrow, is forcoloreds and I got two dollars. Me and you and Denver gonna spend every penny of it. What yousay?""No" is what she said. At least what she started out saying (what would her boss say if she took aday off?), but even when she said it she was thinking how much her eyes enjoyed looking in hisface.
    塞丝攥起两只拳头，把它们藏在屁股后面。
　　“你跟她一样差劲。
　　”
　　“得啦，塞丝。
　　”
　　“噢，我要说，我要说!”
　　“你知道我什么意思。
　　”
　　“我知道，而且不高兴。
　　”
　　“耶稣啊。
　　”他嘟囔道。
　　“谁？”塞丝又开始提高音量。
　　“耶稣!我说的是耶稣!我只不过坐下来吃顿晚饭，就给骂了两回。一回是因为在这儿待着，一回是因为问问一开始为什么挨骂!”
　　“她没骂。
　　”
　　“没骂？听着可像。
　　”
　　“听我说。我替她道歉。我真的———”
　　“你做不到。你不能替别人道歉。得让她来说。
　　”
　　“那么我会让她说的。
　　”塞丝叹了口气。
　　“我想知道的是，她问的问题你脑子里也有吗？
　　”
　　“噢，不是。不是，保罗•D。噢，不是。
　　”
　　“这么说她有一套想法，而你有另一套喽？要是你能把她脑子里的什么玩意儿都叫做想法的话。”
　　“原谅我，可是我听不得一丁点儿她的坏话。我会惩罚她的。你甭管她。
　　”
　　危险，保罗•D想，太危险了。一个做过奴隶的女人，这样强烈地去爱什么都危险，尤其当她爱的是自己的孩子。最好的办法，他知道，是只爱一点点；对于一切，都只爱一点点，这样，当他们折断它的脊梁，或者将它胡乱塞进收尸袋的时候，那么，也许你还会有一点爱留给下一个。“为什么？
　　”他问她，“为什么你觉得你得替她承担？替她道歉？她已经成熟了。
　　”
　　“我可不管她怎么样了。成熟对一个母亲来说啥都不算。孩子就是孩子。他们会变大、变老，可是变成熟？那是什么意思？在我心里那什么也不算。
　　”
　　“成熟意味着她必须对她的行为负责。你不能时时刻刻护着她。你死了以后怎么办？
　　”
　　“不怎么办!我活着的时候保护她，我不活的时候还保护她。
　　”
　　“噢得啦，我没词儿了，”他说，“我投降。
　　”
　　“就是那么回事，保罗•D。我没有更好的解释，可就是那么回事。假如我非选择不可———唉，连选择都没有。
　　”
　　“就是这个意思，完全正确。我不是要求你去选择，谁也不会这样要求你。我以为———我是说，我以为你能———给我一席之地。
　　”
　　“她也在问我。
　　”
　　“你逃不过去。你得对她讲。告诉她这不是放弃她选择别人的问题———是同她一道为别人腾点地方。你得讲出来。要是你这样讲也这样打算，那么你也该明白你不能堵住我的嘴。做得到的话，我绝不可能伤害她或者不照顾好她，可是如果她做事丢人现眼，我不能让人跟我说住嘴。你愿意我待在这儿，就别堵住我的嘴。
　　”
　　“也许我应该顺其自然。
　　”她说。
　　“那是什么样？
　　”
　　“我们挺合得来。
　　”
　　“内心呢？
　　”
　　“我不进入内心。
　　”
　　“塞丝，有我在这儿陪着你，陪着丹芙，你想去哪儿就去哪儿。你想跳就跳吧，我会接着你的，姑娘。我会在你摔倒之前就接住你。你在心里想走多远就走多远，我会握住你的脚脖子。保证你能再走出来。我不是为了能有个地方待才这么说的。那是我最不需要的东西。我说了，我是个过路客，可是我已经朝这个方向走了七年了。在这一带转来转去。北边的州，南边的州，东边的，西边的；没有名字的地方我也去过，在哪儿都不久留。可是我到了这儿，坐在门廊上等着你，这时我才知道，我不是奔这个地方来的，是奔你。我们能创造一种生活，姑娘。一种生活。
　　”
　　“我不知道。我不知道。
　　”
　　“交给我吧。看看会怎么样。你要是不愿意就先别答应。先看看会怎么样。好吗？
　　”
　　“好吧。
　　”
　　“你愿意交给我来干吗？
　　”
　　“嗯———一部分。
　　”
　　“一部分？
　　”他笑了，“好极了。先给你一部分。城里有个狂欢节。星期四，明天，是黑人专场。我有两块钱。我、你，还有丹芙，咱们去把它花个一个子儿不剩。你说怎么样？
　　”
　　她的回答是“不”。至少一开始是这么说的（她要是请一天假老板会怎么说？），可是尽管嘴上这么说，她心里却一直在想，她的眼睛是多么爱看他的脸呀。
Chapter 12
    The crickets were screaming on Thursday and the sky, stripped of blue, was white hot ateleven in the morning. Sethe was badly dressed for the heat, but this being her first social outing ineighteen years, she felt obliged to wear her one good dress, heavy as it was, and a hat. Certainly ahat. She didn't want to meet Lady Jones or Ella with her head wrapped like she was going to work.
　　The dress, a good-wool castoff, was a Christmas present to Baby Suggs from Miss Bodwin, thewhitewoman who loved her. Denver and Paul D fared better in the heat since neither felt theoccasion required special clothing. Denver's bonnet knocked against her shoulder blades; Paul Dwore his vest open, no jacket and his shirt sleeves rolled above his elbows. They were not holdinghands, but their shadows were. Sethe looked to her left and all three of them were gliding over thedust holding hands. Maybe he was right. A life. Watching their hand holding shadows, she wasembarrassed at being dressed for church.
　　The others, ahead and behind them, would think she was putting on airs, letting them know thatshe was different because she lived in a house with two stories; tougher, because she could do andsurvive things they believed she should neither do nor survive. She was glad Denver had resistedher urgings to dress up — rebraid her hair at least.
　　But Denver was not doing anything to make this trip a pleasure. She agreed to go — sullenly —but her attitude was "Go 'head. Try and make me happy." The happy one was Paul D. He saidhowdy to everybody within twenty feet. Made fun of the weather and what it was doing to him,yelled back at the crows, and was the first to smell the doomed roses. All the time, no matter whatthey were doing — whether Denver wiped perspiration from her forehead or stooped to retie hershoes; whether Paul D kicked a stone or reached over to meddle a child's face leaning on its mother's shoulder — all the time the three shadows that shot out of their feet to the left held hands.
　　Nobody noticed but Sethe and she stopped looking after she decided that it was a good sign. A life.
　　Could be.
　　Up and down the lumberyard fence old roses were dying. The sawyer who had planted themtwelve years ago to give his workplace a friendly feel — something to take the sin out of slicingtrees for a living — was amazed by their abundance; how rapidly they crawled all over the stakeand-post fence that separated the lumberyard from the open field next to it where homeless menslept, children ran and, once a year, carnival people pitched tents. The closer the roses got to death,the louder their scent, and everybody who attended the carnival associated it with the stench of therotten roses. It made them a little dizzy and very thirsty but did nothing to extinguish the eagernessof the coloredpeople filing down the road. Some walked on the grassy shoulders, others dodged thewagons creaking down the road's dusty center. All, like Paul D, were in high spirits, which thesmell of dying roses (that Paul D called to everybody's attention) could not dampen. As theypressed to get to the rope entrance they were lit like lamps. Breathless with the excitement ofseeing white people loose: doing magic, clowning, without heads or with two heads, twenty feettall or two feet tall, weighing a ton, completely tattooed, eating glass, swallowing fire, spittingribbons, twisted into knots, forming pyramids, playing with snakes and beating each other up.
　　All of this was advertisement, read by those who could and heard by those who could not, and thefact that none of it was true did not extinguish their appetite a bit. The barker called them and theirchildren names ("Pickaninnies free!") but the food on his vest and the hole in his pants rendered itfairly harmless. In any case it was a small price to pay for the fun they might not ever have again.
　　Two pennies and an insult were well spent if it meant seeing the spectacle of whitefolks making aspectacle of themselves. So, although the carnival was a lot less than mediocre (which is why itagreed to a Colored Thursday), it gave the four hundred black people in its audience thrill uponthrill upon thrill.
　　One-Ton Lady spit at them, but her bulk shortened her aim and they got a big kick out of thehelpless meanness in her little eyes. Arabian Nights Dancer cut her performance to three minutesinstead of the usual fifteen she normally did-earning the gratitude of the children, who couldhardly wait for Abu Snake Charmer, who followed her.
　　Denver bought horehound, licorice, peppermint and lemonade at table manned by a littlewhitegirl in ladies' high-topped shoes. Soothed by sugar, surrounded by (a) a crowd of people who didnot find her the main attraction, who, in fact, said, "Hey, Denver," every now and then, pleased herenough to consider the possibility that Paul D wasn't all that bad. In fact there was something abouthim — when the three of them stood together watching Midget dance — that made the stares ofother Negroes kind, gentle, something Denver did not remember seeing in their faces. Several evennodded and smiled at her mother, no one, apparently, able to withstand sharing the pleasure Paul D.was having. He slapped his knees when Giant danced with Midget; when Two-Headed Mantalked to himself. He bought everything Denver asked for and much she did not. He teased Setheinto tents she was reluctant to enter. Stuck pieces of candy she didn't want between her lips. WhenWild African Savage shook his bars and said wa wa, Paul D told everybody he knew him back in Roanoke.
　　Paul D made a few acquaintances; spoke to them about what work he might find. Sethe returnedthe smiles she got. Denver was swaying with delight. And on the way home, although leadingthem now, the shadows of three people still held hands.
　　A FULLY DRESSED woman walked out of the water. She barely gained the dry bank of thestream before she sat down and leaned against a mulberry tree. All day and all night she sat there,her head resting on the trunk in a position abandoned enough to crack the brim in her straw hat.
　　Everything hurt but her lungs most of all. Sopping wet and breathing shallow she spent those hourstrying to negotiate the weight of her eyelids. The day breeze blew her dress dry; the night windwrinkled it. Nobody saw her emerge or came accidentally by. If they had, chances are they wouldhave hesitated before approaching her. Not because she was wet, or dozing or had what soundedlike asthma, but because amid all that she was smiling. It took her the whole of the next morning tolift herself from the ground and make her way through the woods past a giant temple of boxwoodto the field and then the yard of the slate-gray house. Exhausted again, she sat down on the firsthandy place — a stump not far from the steps of 124. By then keeping her eyes open was less of aneffort. She could manage it for a full two minutes or more. Her neck, its circumference no widerthan a parlor-service saucer, kept bending and her chin brushed the bit of lace edging her dress.
　　Women who drink champagne when there is nothing to celebrate can look like that: their strawhats with broken brims are often askew; they nod in public places; their shoes are undone. Buttheir skin is not like that of the woman breathing near the steps of 124. She had new skin, linelessand smooth, including the knuckles of her hands. By late afternoon when the carnival was over,and the Negroes were hitching rides home if they were lucky — walking if they were not — thewoman had fallen asleep again. The rays of the sun struck her full in the face, so that when Sethe,Denver and Paul D rounded the curve in the road all they saw was a black dress, two unlaced shoesbelow it, and Here Boy nowhere in sight.
　　"Look," said Denver. "What is that?"And, for some reason she could not immediately account for, the moment she got close enough tosee the face, Sethe's bladder filled to capacity. She said, "Oh, excuse me," and ran around to theback of 124. Not since she was a baby girl, being cared for by the eight year-old girl who pointedout her mother to her, had she had an emergency that unmanageable. She never made the outhouse.
　　Right in front of its door she had to lift her skirts, and the water she voided was endless. Like ahorse, she thought, but as it went on and on she thought, No, more like flooding the boat whenDenver was born. So much water Amy said, "Hold on, Lu. You going to sink us you keep that up."But there was no stopping water breaking from a breaking womb and there was no stopping now.
　　She hoped Paul D wouldn't take it upon himself to come looking for her and be obliged to see hersquatting in front of her own privy making a mudhole too deep to be witnessed without shame.
　　Just about the time she started wondering if the carnival would accept another freak, it stopped.
　　She tidied herself and ran around to the porch. No one was there. All three were insidePaul D andDenver standing before the stranger, watching her drink cup after cup of water.
　　"She said she was thirsty," said Paul D. He took off his cap. "Mighty thirsty look like."The woman gulped water from a speckled tin cup and held it out for more. Four times Denverfilled it, and four times the woman drank as though she had crossed a desert. When she wasfinished a little water was on her chin, but she did not wipe it away. Instead she gazed at Sethewith sleepy eyes. Poorly fed, thought Sethe, and younger than her clothes suggested — good laceat the throat, and a rich woman's hat. Her skin was flawless except for three vertical scratches onher forehead so fine and thin they seemed at first like hair, baby hair before it bloomed and ropedinto the masses of black yarn under her hat.
　　"You from around here?" Sethe asked her.
    星期四，蟋蟀鼓噪着，剥去了蓝色的天空在上午十一点是白热的。天气这么热，塞丝的穿着特别不舒服，可这是她十八年来头一回外出社交，她觉得有必要穿上她唯一的一条好裙子，尽管它沉得要命；还要戴上一顶帽子。当然要戴帽子。她不想在遇见琼斯女士或艾拉时还包着头，像是去上班。这条纯羊毛收针的裙子是贝比•萨格斯的一件圣诞礼物，那个热爱她的白女人鲍德温小姐送的。丹芙和保罗•D谁也没觉得这种场合需要特别的衣着，所以在大热天里还好受些。
　　丹芙的软帽总是碰着垫肩；保罗•D敞开马甲，没穿外套，把衬衫袖子卷到胳膊肘上。他们并没有彼此拉着手，可是他们的影子却拉着。塞丝朝左看了看，他们三个是手拉着手滑过灰尘的。
　　也许他是对的。一种生活。她看着他们携手的影子，为自己这身去教堂的打扮而难为情。前前后后的人会认为她是在摆架子，是让大家知道自己与众不同，因为她住在一栋两层楼房里；让大家知道自己更不屈不挠，因为她既能做又能经受他们认为她不能做也不能经受的事情。她很高兴丹芙拒绝了打扮一番的要求———哪怕重新编一下辫子。然而丹芙不愿付出任何努力，给这次出行增加一点愉快气氛。她同意去了———闷闷不乐地———但她的态度是“去呗。试试哄我高兴起来”。高兴的是保罗•D。他向二十英尺之内的每一个人打招呼，拿天气以及天气对他的影响开玩笑，向乌鸦们呱呱回嘴大叫，并且头一个去嗅凋萎的玫瑰花。自始至终，不论他们在干什么———无论是丹芙在擦额头上的汗、停下来系鞋带，还是保罗•D在踢石子、伸手去捏一个妈妈肩上的娃娃的脸蛋———从他们脚下向左投射的三个人影都一直拉着手。除了塞丝，没有人注意到，而她一旦认定了那是个好兆头，便停下来看了又看。一种生活。也许吧。
　　贮木场围栏的上上下下有玫瑰在衰败。十二年前种下它们的那个锯木工———也许是为了让他的工作场所显得友好，为了消除以锯树为生的罪恶感———对它们的繁荣感到震惊；它们如此迅速地爬满了栅栏，把贮木场同旁边开阔的田野隔开；田野上，无家可归的人在那里过夜，孩子们在那里跑来跑去，一年一度，杂耍艺人在那里搭起帐篷。玫瑰愈临近死亡，气味便愈发浓烈，所有参加狂欢节的人都把节日同腐败玫瑰的臭气联系起来。这气味让他们有点头晕，而且异常干渴，却丝毫没有熄灭大路上络绎不绝的黑人们的热情。有的走在路肩的青草上，其余的则躲闪着路中央那些扬起灰尘、吱吱扭扭的大车。所有人都像保罗•D一样情绪高涨，连濒死玫瑰的气味（保罗•D使之引人注目）都不能抑制。他们挤进栏索入口的时候，像灯一样被点着了，都激动得屏住了呼吸，因为就要无拘无束地观看白人了：变魔术的、当小丑的、无头的或是双头的、二十英尺高或是二十英寸高的、一吨重的、全部文身的、吃玻璃的、吞火的、吐出打结的绸带的、筑金字塔的、耍蛇的，还有练把式的。
　　这一切都写在广告上，识字的念出来，不识字的就在一旁听着；尽管事实上都是些胡说八道，他们的兴致依然丝毫不减。招徕生意的骂着他们和他们的孩子（“小黑鬼免费!”），然而他马甲上的食物和裤子上的窟窿使得那些叫骂显得无伤大雅。无论如何，为了他们也许再不会得到的乐趣，这个代价太小了。如果是为了观看白人们大出自己的洋相，两分钱加上一次侮辱花得值。所以，虽然这次狂欢节连平庸都够不上（那就是为什么一个“黑星期四”得到认可），它还是给了四百名黑人观众一个一个又一个的刺激。
　　“一吨女士”向他们吐唾沫，可她的大块头降低了实际效果，于是她小眼睛里无能的卑劣让他们过足了瘾。
　　“天方夜谭舞女”把通常十五分钟的表演减到三分钟———这让孩子们不胜感激，因为他们等不及她下面的那个“阿布蛇魔术师”了。
　　在脚蹬女式高靿鞋的白人小姑娘掌管的柜台上，丹芙要了夏至草汁、甘草汁、薄荷汁和柠檬汁。糖水进肚，神清气爽，身旁又围了一群人———那些人并不青睐她，实际上不时地称呼她“喂，丹芙”———丹芙很高兴开始觉得保罗•D或许不算太坏。说实话，他是有点特别之处———他们仨站住一起看侏儒舞的时候———使得其他黑人的目光和蔼、温柔起来，丹芙从不记得在他们脸上见到过那种表情。有几个人甚至冲她妈妈点头、微笑，显然，没有人能够抗拒同保罗•D分享他的快乐。当巨人和侏儒跳舞，还有双头人自言自语的时候，他乐得直拍大腿。他给丹芙买了她要的每一样东西，还有好多她没要的。他好说歹说把塞丝哄进她不愿进的帐篷。把她不想吃的糖果塞满她的嘴。当“非洲野人”舞着棒子哇哇乱叫时，保罗•D告诉每一个人他早在罗厄诺克时就认识这家伙了。
　　保罗•D结识了几个人，跟他们谈了他想找什么样的工作。塞丝对她得到的微笑也回之一笑。丹芙沉醉在喜悦中。在回家的路上，尽管投到了他们前面，三个人的影子依然手牵着手。
　　一个穿戴齐整的女人从水中走出来。她好不容易才够到干燥的溪岸，上了岸就立即靠着一棵桑树坐下来。整整一天一夜，她就坐在那里，将头自暴自弃地歇在树干上，草帽檐都压断了。身上哪儿都疼，肺疼得最厉害。她浑身精湿，呼吸急促，一直在同自己发沉的眼皮较量。白天的轻风吹干她的衣裙；晚风又把衣裙吹皱。没有人看见她出现，也没有人碰巧从这里经过。即便有人路过，多半也会踌躇不前。不是因为她身上湿淋淋的，也不是因为她打着瞌睡或者发出哮喘似的声音，而是因为她同时一直在微笑。第二天，她花了整整一个上午从地上爬起来，穿过树林，经过一座高大的黄杨木神殿进入田野，向石板色房子的宅院走来。她再一次筋疲力尽，就近坐下———坐在离124号的台阶不远的一个树桩上。这时她睁开双眼已经不那么费劲了，能坚持整整两分钟还要多。她那周长不足一个茶碟的脖子一直弯着，下巴摩擦着她裙衣上镶的花边。
　　只有那些在非庆祝场合也喝香槟酒的女人才那副模样：断了檐的草帽总是歪戴着；在公共场所跟人随便点头；鞋带也不系好。但是她们的皮肤可不如这个在124号的台阶附近喘息的女人。她的皮肤是新的，没有皱纹，而且光滑，连手上的指节都一样。
　　狂欢节结束时已临近黄昏，黑人们要是走运就搭车回家———不然就得步行。这时那个女人又睡着了。阳光直射在她整个脸颊上，所以塞丝、丹芙和保罗•D在归途中拐过弯来，只看见一条黑裙子和下边两只鞋带散开的鞋，而“来，小鬼”却无影无踪了。
　　“瞧，“丹芙道，”那是什么？
　　”
　　这时，由于某种一时说不清的缘由，塞丝刚刚走近得能看到那张脸，膀胱就涨满了。她说了句，“噢，请原谅”，便小跑着绕到124号的后面。自打她还是个小女孩、由那个指出她母亲的八岁女孩照看的时候起，她还从来没出过这么难以控制的紧急事故。她没有能够赶到厕所，只好在厕所门前就撩起裙子，没完没了地尿了起来。跟匹马似的，她心想，可是尿着尿着她又想，不对，更像生丹芙时在那只小船上的羊水泛滥。那么多水，急得爱弥说道：
　　“憋住，露。你要是没完没了，我们会沉船的。
　　”可是从一个开了口的子宫里涌出的羊水不可能止住，现在的尿也不可能止住。她希望保罗•D不会那么体贴地来找她，以免让他看见她蹲在自己家的厕所门前，滋出一个深得让人不好意思看的泥坑。她正纳闷狂欢节能否添上一个新怪物呢，尿停了。她整好衣服跑回门廊。
　　人不见了。三个人都进了屋———保罗•D和丹芙站在那个陌生人面前，看着她一杯接一杯地喝水。
　　“她说她渴了，”保罗•D说。他摘下帽子。
　　“看来是真渴了。
　　”
　　那个女人端着一只带斑纹的锡杯大口吞水，吞完了就递过来再要。丹芙一共给她满了四回，这个女人也一饮而尽了四回，仿佛刚刚穿过了沙漠。她喝完之后下巴上沾了点水，但她没有抹去，而是用惺忪的眼睛盯着塞丝。喂养得很糟，塞丝想，而且比衣着显得更年轻———脖子上的花边挺不错，还戴了顶贵妇人的帽子。她的皮肤上没什么瑕疵，只在脑门上有三竖道精致而纤细的划痕，乍看上去就像头发，婴儿的头发，还没有长浓，没有搓成她帽子底下大团的黑毛线。
　　“你是从这儿附近来的吗？”塞丝问她。
Chapter 13
    She shook her head no and reached down to take off her shoes.
　　She pulled her dress up to the knees and rolled down her stockings.
　　When the hosiery was tucked into the shoes, Sethe saw that her feet were like her hands, soft andnew. She must have hitched a wagon ride, thought Sethe. Probably one of those West Virginiagirls looking for something to beat a life of tobacco and sorghum. Sethe bent to pick up the shoes.
　　"What might your name be?" asked Paul D.
　　"Beloved," she said, and her voice was so low and rough each one looked at the other two. Theyheard the voice first — later the name.
　　"Beloved. You use a last name, Beloved?" Paul D asked her.
　　"Last?" She seemed puzzled. Then "No," and she spelled it for them, slowly as though the letterswere being formed as she spoke them.
　　Sethe dropped the shoes; Denver sat down and Paul D smiled. He recognized the carefulenunciation of letters by those, like himself, who could not read but had memorized the letters oftheir name. He about to ask who her people were but thought better of it. A young coloredwomandriftin(was) g was drifting from ruin. He had been in Rochester four years ago and seenfive women arriving with fourteen female children. All their men — brothers, uncles, fathers,husbands, sons — had been picked off one by one by one. They had a single piece of paperdirecting them to a preacher on DeVore Street. The War had been over four or five years then, butnobody white or black seemed to know it. Odd clusters and strays of Negroes wandered the backroads and cowpaths from Schenectady to Jackson. Dazed but insistent, they searched each otherout for word of a cousin, an aunt, a friend who once said, "Call on me. Anytime you get nearChicago, just call on me." Some of them were running from family that could not support them,some to family; some were running from dead crops, dead kin, life threats, and took-over land.
　　Boys younger than Buglar and Howard; configurations and blends of families of women andchildren, while elsewhere, solitary, hunted and hunting for, were men, men, men. Forbidden public transportation, chased by debt and filthy "talking sheets," they followed secondary routes, scannedthe horizon for signs and counted heavily on each other. Silent, except for social courtesies, whenthey met one another they neither described nor asked about the sorrow that drove them from oneplace to another. The whites didn't bear speaking on. Everybody knew.
　　So he did not press the young woman with the broken hat about where from or how come. If shewanted them to know and was strong enough to get through the telling, she would. What occupiedthem at the moment was what it might be that she needed. Underneath the major question, eachharbored another. Paul D wondered at the newness of her shoes. Sethe was deeply touched by hersweet name; the remembrance of glittering headstone made her feel especially kindly toward her.
　　Denver, however, was shaking. She looked at this sleepy beauty and wanted more.
　　Sethe hung her hat on a peg and turned graciously toward the girl. "That's a pretty name, Beloved.
　　Take off your hat, why don't you, and I'll make us something. We just got back from the carnivalover near Cincinnati. Everything in there is something to see." Bolt upright in the chair, in themiddle of Sethe's welcome, Beloved had fallen asleep again.
　　"Miss. Miss." Paul D shook her gently. "You want to lay down a spell?"She opened her eyes to slits and stood up on her soft new feet which, barely capable of their job,slowly bore her to the keeping room. Once there, she collapsed on Baby Suggs' bed. Denverremoved her hat and put the quilt with two squares of color over her feet. She was breathing like asteam engine.
　　"Sounds like croup," said Paul D, closing the door.
　　"Is she feverish? Denver, could you tell?""No. She's cold.""Then she is. Fever goes from hot to cold.""Could have the cholera," said Paul D.
　　"Reckon ?""All that water. Sure sign.""Poor thing. And nothing in this house to give her for it. She'll just have to ride it out. That's ahateful sickness if ever there was one.""She's not sick!" said Denver, and the passion in her voice made them smile.
　　Four days she slept, waking and sitting up only for water. Denver tended her, watched her sound sleep, listened to her labored breathing and, out of love and a breakneck possessiveness thatcharged her, hid like a personal blemish Beloved's incontinence. She rinsed the sheets secretly,after Sethe went to the restaurant and Paul D went scrounging for barges to help unload. Sheboiled the underwear and soaked it in bluing, praying the fever would pass without damage. Sointent was her nursing, she forgot to eat or visit the emerald closet. "Beloved?" Denver wouldwhisper. "Beloved?" and when the black eyes opened a slice all she could say was "I'm here. I'mstill here."Sometimes, when Beloved lay dreamy-eyed for a very long time, saying nothing, licking her lipsand heaving deep sighs, Denver panicked. "What is it?" she would ask.
　　"Heavy," murmured Beloved. "This place is heavy.""Would you like to sit up?""No," said the raspy voice.
　　It took three days for Beloved to notice the orange patches in the darkness of the quilt. Denver waspleased because it kept her patient awake longer. She seemed totally taken with those faded scrapsof orange, even made the effort to lean on her elbow and stroke them. An effort that quicklyexhausted her, so Denver rearranged the quilt so its cheeriest part was in the sick girl's sight line.
　　Patience, something Denver had never known, overtook her. As long as her mother did notinterfere, she was a model of compassion, turning waspish, though, when Sethe tried to help.
　　"Did she take a spoonful of anything today?" Sethe inquired. "She shouldn't eat with cholera.""You sure that's it? Was just a hunch of Paul D's.""I don't know, but she shouldn't eat anyway just yet.""I think cholera people puke all the time.""That's even more reason, ain't it?""Well she shouldn't starve to death either, Denver.""Leave us alone, Ma'am. I'm taking care of her.""She say anything?""I'd let you know if she did."Sethe looked at her daughter and thought, Yes, she has been lonesome. Very lonesome.
　　"Wonder where Here Boy got off to?" Sethe thought a change of subject was needed.
　　"He won't be back," said Denver.
　　"How you know?""I just know." Denver took a square of sweet bread off the plate. Back in the keeping room,Denver was about to sit down when Beloved's eyes flew wide open. Denver felt her heart race. Itwasn't that she was looking at that face for the first time with no trace of sleep in it, or that the eyeswere big and black. Nor was it that the whites of them were much too white — blue-white. It wasthat deep down in those big black eyes there was no expression at all. "Can I get you something?"
    她摇头否认，又伸手去脱鞋。她把裙子提到膝盖，然后搓下长统袜。当她把袜子塞进鞋窠，塞丝看到她的脚像她的手一样，又软又嫩。她肯定搭了辆大车，塞丝想。大概是那种西弗吉尼亚的姑娘，来寻找比烟草和高粱的生活更胜一筹的东西。塞丝弯腰拾起鞋子。
　　“你叫什么名字？
　　”保罗•D问。
　　“宠儿。
　　”她答道，嗓门又低又粗，他们仨不禁互相看了看。他们先听见的是喉音———然后才是名字。
　　“宠儿。你有个姓吗，宠儿？
　　”保罗•D问她。
　　“姓？”她好像糊涂了。然后她说“没有”，又为他们拼写了名字，慢得好像字母是从她嘴里发明的。
　　塞丝失手掉了鞋子；丹芙坐下来；而保罗•D微笑起来。他听出了拼字母时那种小心翼翼的发音，所有像他一样目不识丁、只会背自己名字字母的人都那样念。他本想打听一下她的家人是谁，但还是忍住了。一个流浪的黑人姑娘是从毁灭中漂泊而来的。他四年前去过罗彻斯特，在那儿看见五个女人，带着十四个女孩从别处来。她们所有的男人———兄弟、叔伯、父亲、丈夫、儿子———都一个一个又一个地被枪杀了。她们拿着一张纸片到德沃尔街的一个牧师那里去。那时战争已经结束四五年了，可是白人黑人似乎都不晓得。临时搭伙的和失散的黑人们在从斯克内克塔迪到杰克逊的乡间道路和羊肠小径上游荡。他们茫然而坚定，相互打听着一个表兄、一个姑母、一个说过“来找我吧。什么时候你到芝加哥附近，就来找我吧”的朋友的消息。在他们中间，有些是从食不果腹的家里出逃的；有些是逃回家去；也有些是在逃离不育的庄稼、亡亲、生命危险和被接管的土地。有比霍华德和巴格勒还小的男孩；有妇孺之家组合和混合在一起结成的大家庭；而与此同时孤独地沦落他乡、被捕捉和追赶的，是男人，男人，男人。禁止使用公共交通，被债务和肮脏的“罪犯档案”追逐着，他们只好走小路，在地平线上搜寻标记，并且严重地彼此依赖。除了一般性的礼节，他们见面时是沉默的，既不诉说也不过问四处驱赶他们的悲伤。白人是根本不能提起的。谁都清楚。
　　所以他没有逼问那个弄破了帽子的年轻姑娘，她是从哪里、怎么来的。如果她想让他们知道，而且也能坚强地讲完，她会讲的。他们此刻想的是，她可能需要什么。在这个关键问题之外，每个人都藏着另一个问题。保罗•D发现她的鞋是崭新的，觉得蹊跷。塞丝被她那甜美的名字深深打动了；关于闪闪发光的墓石的记忆，使她备感亲切。丹芙，却在颤抖。她望着这个瞌睡美人，想得更多。
　　塞丝把帽子挂在木钉上，慈爱地转向那个姑娘。
　　“是个可爱的名字，宠儿。干吗不摘下你的帽子？让我来给大家做点吃的。我们刚从辛辛那提附近的狂欢节上回来。那儿什么都值得一瞧。
　　”
　　塞丝正在表示欢迎，宠儿笔直地嵌在椅子里，又一次进入了梦乡。
　　“小姐!小姐!”保罗•D轻轻摇了摇她。
　　“你想躺一会儿吗？
　　”
　　她把眼睛睁开一条缝，站起身来，勉强迈动柔嫩的、不胜重负的双脚，缓缓地走进起居室。一进屋，她就栽倒在贝比•萨格斯的床上。丹芙摘下她的帽子，把带着两方色块的被子盖上她的脚。她像个蒸汽机似的喘起气来。
　　“听着像哮吼。
　　”保罗•D说着关上门。
　　“她发烧吗？丹芙，你摸摸她烧吗？
　　”
　　“不烧。她冰凉。
　　”
　　“那么她在烧。发烧都是从热到冷。
　　”
　　“可能是霍乱。
　　”保罗•D说。
　　“是猜的？
　　”
　　“那么多水。明显的症状。
　　”
　　“可怜见的。这房子里没有什么能治她的病。她只能自己挺过去。那种病才可怕呢。
　　”
　　“她没病!”丹芙说道。她声音里的激动把他们逗笑了。
　　她一睡就是四天，只为了喝水才苏醒和坐起来。丹芙照料着她，看她酣睡，听她吃力地呼吸，而且，出于爱和一种膨胀的、要命的占有欲，像隐瞒个人缺陷一样掩饰宠儿的失禁。在塞丝去餐馆、保罗•D四处找驳船去帮忙卸货的时候，她偷偷地洗了床单。她把内衣煮了泡在上蓝剂里，祈求高烧退去，不留下任何损害。她照料得这样专心致志，竟忘了吃饭，忘了去那间祖母绿密室。
　　“宠儿？
　　”丹芙会小声地叫。
　　“宠儿？
　　”可是当那对黑眼睛张开一条缝时，她能说的也只是：
　　“我在这儿。我还在这儿。
　　”
　　有时候，如果宠儿睡眼蒙眬地躺上很长时间，一言不发，舔舔嘴唇，再深深地叹着气，丹芙就慌了。
　　“怎么啦？
　　”她会问。
　　“沉重，”宠儿嘟囔道，“这地方真沉重。
　　”
　　“你想坐起来吗？
　　”
　　“不，”那粗声粗气的声音说。
　　宠儿花了三天时间才注意到暗色被子上的橙色补丁。丹芙非常满意，因为这使她的病人醒的时间更长。她似乎完全被那褪了色的橙红色碎片吸引住了，甚至费劲地靠胳膊肘支撑着身体，去抚摩它们。这很快使她疲惫不堪，于是丹芙重新安排好被子，让它最有活力的那部分留在病姑娘的视线里。
　　耐心，这丹芙闻所未闻的东西，占据了她。只要她的妈妈不来干涉，她就是个同情体贴的楷模，可是一旦塞丝企图帮点忙，她就立即变得暴躁起来。
　　“她今天吃了什么东西吗？
　　”塞丝询问道。
　　“她得了霍乱，不该吃东西。
　　”
　　“你能肯定吗？只不过是保罗•D瞎猜的。
　　”
　　“我不知道，可不管怎么说，她现在就是不该吃东西。
　　”
　　“我以为得霍乱的人什么时候都在呕吐。
　　”
　　“那不吃就更有理由了，对吧？
　　”
　　“可她也不该活活饿死呀，丹芙。
　　”
　　“甭管我们，太太。我在照看她。
　　”
　　“她说过什么吗？
　　”
　　“她说了我会告诉你的。
　　”
　　塞丝看着女儿，心想：是的，她一直孤独。非常孤独。
　　“奇怪，‘来，小鬼’到哪儿去了？
　　”塞丝认为有必要换个话题。
　　“它不会回来了。
　　”丹芙说。
　　“你怎么知道的？
　　”
　　“我就知道。
　　”丹芙从盘子里拿起一块甜面包。
　　丹芙回到起居室，刚要坐下，宠儿的眼睛一下子睁圆了。丹芙感到心跳加快。倒不是因为她头一回看见这张脸睡意全无，也不是因为那双眼睛又大又黑，也不是因为眼白过分地白———白得发蓝。是因为在那双又大又黑的眼睛深处根本没有表情。
　　“我能给你拿点什么吗？”
Chapter 14
    Beloved looked at the sweet bread in Denver's hands and Denver held it out to her. She smiledthen and Denver's heart stopped bouncing and sat down — -relieved and easeful like a travelerwho had made it home.
　　From that moment and through everything that followed, sugar could always be counted on toplease her. It was as though sweet things were what she was born for. Honey as well as the wax itcame in, sugar sandwiches, the sludgy molasses gone hard and brutal in the can, lemonade, taffyand any type of dessert Sethe brought home from the restaurant. She gnawed a cane stick to flaxand kept the strings in her mouth long after the syrup had been sucked away. Denver laughed,Sethe smiled and Paul D said it made him sick to his stomach.
　　Sethe believed it was a recovering body's need — -after an illness — for quick strength. But it wasa need that went on and on into glowing health because Beloved didn't go anywhere. There didn'tseem anyplace for her to go. She didn't mention one, or have much of an idea of what she wasdoing in that part of the country or where she had been. They believed the fever had caused hermemory to fail just as it kept her slow-moving. A young woman, about nineteen or twenty, andslender, she moved like a heavier one or an older one, holding on to furniture, resting her head inthe palm of her hand as though it was too heavy for a neck alone.
　　"You just gonna feed her? From now on?" Paul D, feeling ungenerous, and surprised by it, heardthe irritability in his voice. "Denver likes her. She's no real trouble. I thought we'd wait till herbreath was better. She still sounds a little lumbar to me." "Something funny 'bout that gal," Paul Dsaid, mostly to himself. "Funny how?""Acts sick, sounds sick, but she don't look sick. Good skin, bright eyes and strong as a bull.""She's not strong. She can hardly walk without holding on to something.""That's what I mean. Can't walk, but I seen her pick up the rocker with one hand.""You didn't.""Don't tell me. Ask Denver. She was right there with her." "Denver! Come in here a minute."Denver stopped rinsing the porch and stuck her head in the window.
　　"Paul D says you and him saw Beloved pick up the rocking chair single-handed. That so?"Long, heavy lashes made Denver's eyes seem busier than they were; deceptive, even when sheheld a steady gaze as she did now on Paul D. "No," she said. "I didn't see no such thing." Paul Dfrowned but said nothing. If there had been an open latch between them, it would have closed.
　　RAINWATER held on to pine needles for dear life and Beloved could not take her eyes off Sethe.
　　Stooping to shake the damper, or snapping sticks for kindlin, Sethe was licked, tasted, eaten byBeloved's eyes. Like a familiar, she hovered, never leaving the room Sethe was in unless requiredand told to. She rose early in the dark to be there, waiting, in the kitchen when Sethe came down tomake fast bread before she left for work. In lamplight, and over the flames of the cooking stove,their two shadows clashed and crossed on the ceiling like black swords. She was in the window attwo when Sethe returned, or the doorway; then the porch, its steps, the path, the road, till finally,surrendering to the habit, Beloved began inching down Bluestone Road further and further eachday to meet Sethe and walk her back to 124. It was as though every afternoon she doubted anewthe older woman's return.
　　Sethe was flattered by Beloved's open, quiet devotion. The same adoration from her daughter (hadit been forthcoming) would have annoyed her; made her chill at the thought of having raised aridiculously dependent child. But the company of this sweet, if peculiar, guest pleased her the waya zealot pleases his teacher.
　　Time came when lamps had to be lit early because night arrived sooner and sooner. Sethe wasleaving for work in the dark; Paul D was walking home in it. On one such evening dark and cool,Sethe cut a rutabaga into four pieces and left them stewing. She gave Denver a half peck of peas tosort and soak overnight. Then she sat herself down to rest. The heat of the stove made her drowsyand she was sliding into sleep when she felt Beloved touch her. A touch no heavier than a featherbut loaded, nevertheless, with desire. Sethe stirred and looked around. First at Beloved's soft newhand on her shoulder, then into her eyes. The longing she saw there was bottomless. Some pleabarely in control. Sethe patted Beloved's fingers and glanced at Denver, whose eyes were fixed onher pea-sorting task. "Where your diamonds?" Beloved searched Sethe's face.
　　"Diamonds? What would I be doing with diamonds?""On your ears.""Wish I did. I had some crystal once. A present from a lady I worked for.""Tell me," said Beloved, smiling a wide happy smile. "Tell me your diamonds."It became a way to feed her. Just as Denver discovered and relied on the delightful effect sweetthings had on Beloved, Sethe learned the profound satisfaction Beloved got from storytelling. Itamazed Sethe (as much as it pleased Beloved) because every mention of her past life hurt.
　　Everything in it was painful or lost. She and Baby Suggs had agreed without saying so that it wasunspeakable; to Denver's inquiries Sethe gave short replies or rambling incomplete reveries. Evenwith Paul D, who had shared some of it and to whom she could talk with at least a measure ofcalm, the hurt was always there-like a tender place in the corner of her mouth that the bit left. But,as she began telling about the earrings, she found herself wanting to, liking it. Perhaps it wasBeloved's distance from the events itself, or her thirst for hearing it — in any case it was anunexpected pleasure.
　　Above the patter of the pea sorting and the sharp odor of cooking rutabaga, Sethe explained thecrystal that once hung from her ears. "That lady I worked for in Kentucky gave them to me when Igot married. What they called married hack there and back then. I guess she saw how bad I feltwhen I found out there wasn't going to be no ceremony, no preacher. Nothing. I thought thereshould be something — something to say it was right and true. I didn't want it to be just memoving over a bit of pallet full of corn husks. Or just me bringing my night bucket into his cabin. Ithought there should be some ceremony. Dancing maybe. A little sweet william in my hair." Sethesmiled. "I never saw a wedding, but I saw Mrs. Garner's wedding gown in the press, and heard hergo on about what it was like. Two pounds of currants in the cake, she said, and four whole sheep.
　　The people were still eating the next day. That's what I wanted. A meal maybe, where me andHalle and all the Sweet Home men sat down and ate something special. Invite some of the othercolored people from over by Covington or High Trees — those places Sixo used to sneak off to.
　　But it wasn't going to be nothing. They said it was all right for us to be husband and wife and thatwas it. All of it.
　　"Well, I made up my mind to have at the least a dress that wasn't the sacking I worked in. So I tookto stealing fabric, and wound up with a dress you wouldn't believe. The top was from two pillowcases in her mending basket. The front of the skirt was a dresser scarf a candle fell on and burnt ahole in, and one of her old sashes we used to test the flatiron on. Now the back was a problem forthe longest time. Seem like I couldn't find a thing that wouldn't be missed right away. Because Ihad to take it apart afterwards and put all the pieces back where they were. Now Halle was patient,waiting for me to finish it. He knew I wouldn't go ahead without having it. Finally I took themosquito netting from a nail out the barn. We used it to strain jelly through. I washed it and soakedit best I could and tacked it on for the back of the skirt. And there I was, in the worst-looking gownyou could imagine. Only my wool shawl kept me from looking like a haint peddling. I wasn't butfourteen years old, so I reckon that's why I was so proud of myself.
　　"Anyhow, Mrs. Garner must have seen me in it. I thought I was stealing smart, and she kneweverything I did. Even our honeymoon: going down to the cornfield with Halle. That's where wewent first. A Saturday afternoon it was. He begged sick so he wouldn't have to go work in townthat day. Usually he worked Saturdays and Sundays to pay off Baby Suggs' freedom. But hebegged sick and I put on my dress and we walked into the corn holding hands. I can still smell the ears roasting yonder where the Pauls and Sixo was. Next day Mrs. Garner crooked her finger at meand took me upstairs to her bedroom. She opened up a wooden box and took out a pair of crystalearrings. She said, 'I want you to have these, Sethe.' I said, 'Yes, ma'am.' 'Are your ears pierced?'
　　she said. I said, 'No, ma'am.' 'Well do it,' she said, 'so you can wear them. I want you to have themand I want you and Halle to be happy.' I thanked her but I never did put them on till I got awayfrom there. One day after I walked into this here house Baby Suggs unknotted my underskirt andtook em out. I sat right here by the stove with Denver in my arms and let her punch holes in myears for to wear them.""I never saw you in no earrings," said Denver. "Where are they now?""Gone," said Sethe. "Long gone," and she wouldn't say another word. Until the next time when allthree of them ran through the wind back into the house with rainsoaked sheets and petticoats.
　　Panting, laughing, they draped the laundry over the chairs and table. Beloved filled herself withwater from the bucket and watched while Sethe rubbed Denver's hair with a piece of toweling.
　　"Maybe we should unbraid it?" asked Sethe.
　　"Oh uh. Tomorrow." Denver crouched forward at the thought of a fine-tooth comb pulling her hair.
　　"Today is always here," said Sethe. "Tomorrow, never.""It hurts," Denver said.
　　"Comb it every day, it won't.""Ouch.""Your woman she never fix up your hair?" Beloved asked.
　　Sethe and Denver looked up at her. After four weeks they still had not got used to the gravellyvoice and the song that seemed to lie in it. Just outside music it lay, with a cadence not like theirs.
    宠儿看看丹芙手里的甜面包，丹芙递了过去。她随即笑了，丹芙的心也不再狂跳，落了下来———宽慰和轻松得如同游子回了家。
　　从那一刻起，一直到后来，糖总是能用来满足她。好像她天生就是为了甜食活着似的。蜂蜜和蜂蜡都时兴起来，还有白糖三明治、罐子里已经干硬的糖浆、柠檬汁、胶糖，以及任何一种塞丝从餐馆带回家来的甜点。她把甘蔗嚼成亚麻状，糖汁吮净后好长一段时间还把渣子含在嘴里。丹芙哈哈大笑，塞丝抿嘴微笑，而保罗•D说这让他难受得直反胃。
　　塞丝相信这是痊愈时———大病之后———为了迅速地恢复体力而必需的。然而这个需求一直坚持了下去，尽管后来宠儿健康得红光满面，她仍然赖着不走。似乎没有她去的地方。她没提起过一个地方，也不大明白她在这里干什么，或者她曾经在哪里待过。他们认为那次高烧造成了她的记忆丧失，同样也造成了她的行动迟缓。一个年纪轻轻的女人，也就十九、二十岁，长得又苗条，可她行动起来却像个更重、更老的人：扶着家具，用手掌托着脑袋休息，好像它对于脖子来说太沉了。
　　“你就这么养活着她？从今往后？
　　”保罗•D听出自己声音里的不快，对自己的不够大度非常吃惊。
　　“丹芙喜欢她。她并不真添麻烦。我觉得我们应该等她的呼吸更好些再说。我听着她还有点毛病。”
　　“那姑娘有点怪。
　　”保罗•D说道，更像是自言自语。
　　“怎么个怪法？
　　”
　　“动起来像有病，听起来像有病，可看上去却没病。皮肤好，眼睛亮，壮得像头牛。
　　”
　　“她可不壮。她不扶东西几乎走不动。
　　”
　　“说的就是呢。走是走不动，可我明明看见她用一只手拎起摇椅。
　　”
　　“你净胡扯。
　　”
　　“别跟我说呀。问丹芙去。她当时就在她身边。
　　”
　　“丹芙!进来一下。
　　”
　　丹芙停住冲洗门廊的工作，把头探进窗户。
　　“保罗•D说你和他看见宠儿单手拎起摇椅。有那回事吗？
　　”
　　又长又密的睫毛使丹芙的眼睛看起来比实际上更忙碌；而且不可靠，甚至当她像现在这样平静地盯着保罗•D的时候也是。
　　“没有，”她说，“我压根儿没看见。
　　”
　　保罗•D皱了皱眉头，没说什么。就算他们之间曾经有过一扇敞开的门，它也已经关上了。
　　雨水死死抓住松针，而宠儿的眼睛一时一刻也不离开塞丝。无论是哈腰推动风门，还是劈劈啪啪地生炉子，塞丝始终被宠儿的眼睛舔着、尝着、咀嚼着。她像一位常客似的泡在塞丝去的每间屋子，不要求、不命令的话从不离开。她一大早就摸黑起来，到厨房里等着塞丝在上班之前下楼来做快餐面包。灯光下，炉火旁，她们两人的身影像黑剑一般在棚顶上相互撞击和交错。塞丝两点钟回家时，她总在窗口或者门口等着；然后是门廊、台阶、小路、大路，直到最后，习惯愈演愈烈，宠儿开始每天在蓝石路上一英寸一英寸地越走越远，去迎塞丝，再同她一道走回124号。仿佛每天下午她都要对那位年长的女人的归来重新置疑一番。
　　宠儿坦率、无声的忠诚让塞丝受宠若惊。同样的崇拜如果来自她的女儿（说来就来），是会让她厌烦的；一想到自己养出一个可笑的、依赖性强的孩子，她就不寒而栗。可是有这样一个甜蜜、也许还有点特别的客人相伴，她十分满意，这情形就仿佛一个狂热的徒弟很讨他老师的欢心。
　　渐渐地，灯点得早了，因为夜幕降临得越来越早。塞丝摸黑去上班；保罗•D天黑才回家。在这样一个又黑又凉的傍晚，塞丝把一块卷心菜切成四份炖上。她让丹芙剥半配克豌豆，泡上一夜。然后她坐下来休息。炉子的热气使她犯困，她刚昏昏欲睡，就感觉到宠儿在碰她。比羽毛还轻的触摸，却满载着欲望。塞丝动了动，四下打量。先看看肩上宠儿那只娇嫩的手，再看看她的眼睛。她从那里看到的渴望是无底的深渊。某种勉强抑制住的恳求。塞丝拍拍宠儿的手指，瞟了一眼丹芙，她正专心地剥着豌豆。
　　“你的钻石呢？
　　”宠儿打量着塞丝的脸。
　　“钻石？我要钻石干什么？
　　”
　　“戴耳朵上。
　　”
　　“但愿我有。我有过一副水晶的。我服侍过的一个太太送的礼物。
　　”
　　“给我讲讲，”宠儿高兴得咧开嘴笑了，“给我讲讲你的钻石。
　　”
　　这成为又一种喂养她的东西。正当丹芙发现了甜食对宠儿的可喜效果并大加利用时，塞丝认识到，宠儿从故事中能得到深深的满足。塞丝感到震惊（正如宠儿感到满足一样），因为一提起她的过去就会唤起痛苦。过去的一切都是痛苦，或者遗忘。她和贝比•萨格斯心照不宣地认为它苦不堪言；丹芙打听的时候，塞丝总是简短地答复她，要么就瞎编一通。就是同保罗•D———一个部分地分担过的人，一个她至少能较为平静地与之交谈的人———在一起时，伤痛也依然存在———好似马嚼子拿走时留在嘴角的痛处。
　　但是，当她开始讲述耳环的时候，她发现自己想讲，爱讲。也许是因为宠儿同事件本身的距离，也许是因为她急于聆听的焦渴———无论如何，这是个始料未及的乐趣。
　　在剥豌豆的嘎巴声和炖卷心菜扑鼻的香气里，塞丝讲起曾经挂在她耳朵上的那副水晶耳环。
　　“我在肯塔基伺候的太太在我结婚时给我的。那个时候、那个地方所谓的结婚。我猜想她看出来了，我发现不会有结婚仪式和牧师时有多难受。什么都没有。我想总该有点什么———说明它是对的，是真的。我不愿意只是从一个装满玉米皮的草荐爬上另一个。也不愿意只是把我的尿桶带进他的小屋。我想应该有个仪式。可能跳跳舞。头发里插一点石竹花。
　　”塞丝笑了，“我从来没见过一次婚礼，可我在衣橱里看见过加纳太太的结婚礼服，也听她讲过婚礼是什么样的。蛋糕里放了两磅葡萄干，她说，还做了四只全羊。直到第二天大家还在吃。那就是我想要的。也许吃顿饭，我和黑尔，还有所有‘甜蜜之家’的男人们，坐下来吃点特别的东西。请卡温顿庄园或者高树庄园的另外一些黑人过来———那是些西克索偷偷去过的地方。可是什么也不会有。他们说我们可以做夫妻，就完事了。仅此而已。
　　“这样，我决定起码要有条裙子，不是我干活时穿的麻袋片。于是我去偷了布料，弄出一条说出来你都不信的裙子。上身是用她针线笸箩里的两个枕套做的。裙子的前摆是块台布，一根蜡烛曾经倒在上面，烧了个窟窿；再加上她的一条试烙铁用的旧腰带。后背最费时间了。看来我找不到一样不会马上失去的东西了，因为事后我还得把它拆开，把各个部分都放回原处。黑尔可真耐心，一直等着我把它做完。他知道我没有它就不会走下一步。最后，我从外面仓库里的钉子上拽来了那个蚊帐。我们用它过滤果酱。我尽了最大努力又洗又泡，然后用粗针脚把它缝在裙子的背面。那就是我，穿着你能想象出的最难看的长裙。幸亏我的羊毛披肩使我不至于看着像个沿街叫卖的小鬼。我那时只有十四岁，我猜想，所以我才那么自豪吧。
　　“不管怎么说，加纳太太肯定见过我穿它。我自以为偷得挺高明，其实她什么都知道。甚至我们的蜜月：跟黑尔一起去玉米地。那是我们第一次去的地方。是个星期六下午。他请了病假，所以那天不用去城里干活儿。通常他星期六和星期天都去打工，为贝比•萨格斯赎自由。但是他请了病假，我穿上了裙子，我们手拉着手走进玉米中间。我现在还能闻见保罗们和西克索在远处烤的玉米棒子的香味呢。第二天加纳太太朝我钩手指头，把我带到楼上她的卧室。她打开一只木盒子，拿出一对水晶耳环。她说：
　　‘我想给你这个，塞丝。
　　’我说：
　　‘是，太太。
　　’‘你的耳朵穿孔了吗？
　　’
　　她说。我说：
　　‘没有，太太。
　　’‘那么穿吧，’她说，‘你就能戴它们了。我想把它们给你，祝你和黑尔幸福。
　　’我谢了她，可在离开那儿之前我从没戴过它们。我来了这房子以后，有一天贝比•萨格斯解开我的衬裙，把它们拿了出来。我就坐在这儿，在炉子旁边，抱着丹芙，让她在我耳朵上穿了孔，好戴上它们。
　　”
　　“我从来没见你戴过耳环，”丹芙说，“它们现在在哪儿呢？
　　”
　　“没了，”塞丝说。
　　“早没了。
　　”然后她不再说一个字。再开口要等到下一回，当她们三个抱着淋透的床单和衬裙、顶着大风跑回家时。她们喘着，笑着，把浆洗的衣物搭在桌椅上。宠儿用桶里的水把自己灌了个饱，看塞丝用一块浴巾擦干丹芙的头发。
　　“我们是不是该把辫子解开？
　　”塞丝问道。
　　“呃呃。明天吧。
　　”丹芙想到一把篦子揪着她的头发，就蜷起身子。
　　“今天的事今天完，”塞丝说，“明天，那可不行。
　　”
　　“疼。”丹芙说。
　　“天天梳就不疼了。
　　”
　　“哎哟。
　　”
　　“你的女人她从来不给你梳头吗？
　　”宠儿问。
　　塞丝和丹芙抬头看着她。四个星期过去了，她们仍然没有习惯那低沉的嗓音，以及似乎是躺在里面的歌声。它就躺在音乐之外，调子与她们的不同。
Chapter 15
    "Your woman she never fix up your hair?" was clearly a question for sethe, since that's who shewas looking at.
　　"My woman? You mean my mother? If she did, I don't remember.
　　I didn't see her but a few times out in the fields and once when she was working indigo. By thetime I woke up in the morning, she was in line. If the moon was bright they worked by its light.
　　Sunday she slept like a stick. She must of nursed me two or three weeks — that's the way theothers did. Then she went back in rice and I sucked from another woman whose job it was. So toanswer you, no. I reckon not. She never fixed my hair nor nothing. She didn't even sleep in thesame cabin most nights I remember. Too far from the line-up, I guess. One thing she did do. She picked me up and carried me behind the smokehouse. Back there she opened up her dress front andlifted her breast and pointed under it. Right on her rib was a circle and a cross burnt right in theskin. She said, 'This is your ma'am. This,' and she pointed. 'I am the only one got this mark now.
　　The rest dead. If something happens to me and you can't tell me by my face, you can know me bythis mark.' Scared me so. All I could think of was how important this was and how I needed tohave something important to say back, but I couldn't think of anything so I just said what I thought.
　　'Yes, Ma'am,' I said. 'But how will you know me? How will you know me? Mark me, too,' I said.
　　'Mark the mark on me too.'" Sethe chuckled.
　　"Did she?" asked Denver.
　　"She slapped my face.""What for?""I didn't understand it then. Not till I had a mark of my own.""What happened to her?""Hung. By the time they cut her down nobody could tell whether she had a circle and a cross ornot, least of all me and I did look."Sethe gathered hair from the comb and leaning back tossed it into the fire. It exploded into starsand the smell infuriated them. "Oh, my Jesus," she said and stood up so suddenly the comb she hadparked in Denver's hair fell to the floor.
　　"Ma'am? What's the matter with you, Ma'am?"Sethe walked over to a chair, lifted a sheet and stretched it as wide as her arms would go. Then shefolded, refolded and double folded it. She took another. Neither was completely dry but the foldingfelt too fine to stop. She had to do something with her hands because she was rememberingsomething she had forgotten she knew. Something privately shameful that had seeped into a slit inher mind right behind the slap on her face and the circled cross.
　　"Why they hang your ma'am?" Denver asked. This was the first time she had heard anything abouther mother's mother. Baby Suggs was the only grandmother she knew.
　　"I never found out. It was a lot of them," she said, but what was getting clear and clearer as shefolded and refolded damp laundry was the woman called Nan who took her hand and yanked heraway from the pile before she could make out the mark. Nan was the one she knew best, who wasaround all day, who nursed babies, cooked, had one good arm and half of another. And who useddifferent words. Words Sethe understood then but could neither recall nor repeat now. Shebelieved that must be why she remembered so little before Sweet Home except singing anddancing and how crowded it was. What Nan told her she had forgotten, along with the language she told it in. The same language her ma'am spoke, and which would never come back. But themessage — that was and had been there all along. Holding the damp white sheets against her chest,she was picking meaning out of a code she no longer understood. Nighttime. Nan holding her withher good arm, waving the stump of the other in the air. "Telling you. I am telling you, small girlSethe," and she did that. She told Sethe that her mother and Nan were together from the sea. Bothwere taken up many times by the crew. "She threw them all away but you. The one from the crewshe threw away on the island. The others from more whites she also threw away. Without names,she threw them. You she gave the name of the black man. She put her arms around him. The othersshe did not put her arms around. Never. Never. Telling you. I am telling you, small girl Sethe." Assmall girl Sethe, she was unimpressed. As grown-up woman Sethe she was angry, but not certainat what. A mighty wish for Baby Suggs broke over her like surf. In the quiet following its splash,Sethe looked at the two girls sitting by the stove: her sickly, shallow-minded boarder, her irritable,lonely daughter. They seemed little and far away.
　　"Paul D be here in a minute," she said.
　　Denver sighed with relief. For a minute there, while her mother stood folding the wash lost inthought, she clamped her teeth and prayed it would stop. Denver hated the stories her mother toldthat did not concern herself, which is why Amy was all she ever asked about. The rest was agleaming, powerful world made more so by Denver's absence from it. Not being in it, she hated itand wanted Beloved to hate it too, although there was no chance of that at all. Beloved took everyopportunity to ask some funny question and get Sethe going. Denver noticed how greedy she wasto hear Sethe talk. Now she noticed something more. The questions Beloved asked: "Where yourdiamonds?" "Your woman she never fix up your hair?" And most perplexing: Tell me yourearrings.
　　How did she know?
　　WAS shining and Paul D didn't like it. Women did what strawberry plants did before they shot outtheir thin vines: the quality of the green changed. Then the vine threads came, then the buds. Bythe time the white petals died and the mint-colored berry poked out, the leaf shine was gilded fightand waxy. That's how Beloved looked — gilded and shining. Paul D took to having Sethe onwaking, so that later, when he went down the white stairs where she made bread under Beloved'sgaze, his head was clear.
　　In the evening when he came home and the three of them were all there fixing the supper table, hershine was so pronounced he wondered why Denver and Sethe didn't see it. Or maybe they did.
　　Certainly women could tell, as men could, when one of their number was aroused. Paul D lookedcarefully at Beloved to see if she was aware of it but she paid him no attention at all — frequentlynot even answering a direct question put to her. She would look at him and not open her mouth.
　　Five weeks she had been with them, and they didn't know any more about her than they did whenthey found her asleep on the stump.
　　They were seated at the table Paul D had broken the day he arrived at 124. Its mended legs stronger than before. The cabbage was all gone and the shiny ankle bones of smoked pork werepushed in a heap on their plates. Sethe was dishing up bread pudding, murmuring her hopes for it,apologizing in advance the way veteran cooks always do, when something in Beloved's face, somepetlike adoration that took hold of her as she looked at Sethe, made Paul D speak.
　　"Ain't you got no brothers or sisters?"Beloved diddled her spoon but did not look at him. "I don't have nobody.""What was you looking for when you came here?" he asked her.
　　"This place. I was looking for this place I could be in.""Somebody tell you about this house?""She told me. When I was at the bridge, she told me.""Must be somebody from the old days," Sethe said. The days when 124 was a way station wheremessages came and then their senders. Where bits of news soaked like dried beans in spring water— until they were soft enough to digest. "How'd you come? Who brought you?"Now she looked steadily at him, but did not answer.
　　He could feel both Sethe and Denver pulling in, holding their stomach muscles, sending out stickyspiderwebs to touch one another.
　　He decided to force it anyway.
　　"I asked you who brought you here?""I walked here," she said. "A long, long, long, long way. Nobody bring me. Nobody help me.""You had new shoes. If you walked so long why don't your shoes show it?""Paul D, stop picking on her.""I want to know," he said, holding the knife handle in his fist like a pole.
　　"I take the shoes! I take the dress! The shoe strings don't fix!" she shouted and gave him a look somalevolent Denver touched her arm.
　　"I'll teach you," said Denver, "how to tie your shoes," and got a smile from Beloved as a reward.
　　Paul D had the feeling a large, silver fish had slipped from his hands the minute he grabbed hold of its tail. That it was streaming back off into dark water now, gone but for the glistening marking itsroute. But if her shining was not for him, who then? He had never known a woman who lit up fornobody in particular, who just did it as a general announcement. Always, in his experience, thelight appeared when there was focus. Like the Thirty-Mile Woman, dulled to smoke while hewaited with her in the ditch, and starlight when Sixo got there. He never knew himself to mistakeit. It was there the instant he looked at Sethe's wet legs, otherwise he never would have been boldenough to enclose her in his arms that day and whisper into her back.
　　This girl Beloved, homeless and without people, beat all, though he couldn't say exactly why,considering the coloredpeople he had run into during the last twenty years. During, before andafter the War he had seen Negroes so stunned, or hungry, or tired or bereft it was a wonder theyrecalled or said anything. Who, like him, had hidden in caves and fought owls for food; who, likehim, stole from pigs; who, like him, slept in trees in the day and walked by night; who, like him,had buried themselves in slop and jumped in wells to avoid regulators, raiders, paterollers,veterans, hill men, posses and merrymakers. Once he met a Negro about fourteen years old wholived by himself in the woods and said he couldn't remember living anywhere else. He saw awitless coloredwoman jailed and hanged for stealing ducks she believed were her own babies.
    “你的女人她从来不给你梳头吗？
　　”这个问题显然是提给塞丝的，因为她正看着她。
　　“我的女人？你是说我的妈妈？就算她梳过，我也不记得了。我只在田里见过她几回，有一回她在种木蓝。早晨我醒来的时候，她已经入队了。要是有月亮，她们就在月光下干活。星期天她睡得像根木头。她肯定只喂了我两三个星期———人人都这么做。然后她又回去种稻子了，我就从另一个负责看孩子的女人那里吃奶。所以我回答你，没有。我估计没有。她从来没为我梳过头，也没干过别的。我记得她甚至总不跟我在同一间屋子里过夜。怕离队伍太远了，我猜是。有一件事她倒肯定干过。她来接我，把我带到熏肉房后面。就在那儿，她解开衣襟，提起乳房，指着乳房下面。
　　就在她肋骨上，有一个圆圈和一个十字，烙进皮肤里。
　　‘这是你的太太。这个，’她指着说，‘现在我是唯一有这个记号的。其他人都死了。如果我出了什么事，你又认不出我的脸，你会凭这个记号认得我。’把我吓得够戗。我能想到的只是这有多么重要，还有我多么需要答上两句重要的话，可我什么都想不出来，所以我就说了我脑子里蹦出来的。
　　‘是，太太，’我说。
　　‘可是你怎么认出我来呢？
　　你怎么认出我来呢？也给我烙上吧，’我说。
　　‘把那个记号也烙在我身上。
　　’”塞丝格格地笑了起来。
　　“她烙了吗？
　　”丹芙问。
　　“她打了我一个耳光。
　　”
　　“那为什么？
　　”
　　“当时我也不明白。直到后来我有了自己的记号。
　　”
　　“她怎么样了？
　　”
　　“吊死了。等到他们把她放下来的时候，谁也看不清楚她身上是不是有圆圈和十字，我尤其不能，可我的确看了。
　　”塞丝从梳子上抓出头发，往后扔进炉火。头发炸成火星，那气味激怒了她们。“噢，我的耶稣。
　　”她说着一下子站起来，插在丹芙头发里的梳子掉在地上。
　　“太太？你怎么啦，太太？
　　”
　　塞丝走到一把椅子旁，拾起一张床单，尽她胳膊的长度抻开来。然后对叠，再叠，再对叠。她拿起另一张。都还没完全晾干，可是对叠的感觉非常舒服，她不想停下来。她手里必须干点什么，因为她又记起了某些她以为已经忘记的事情。事关耻辱的隐私，就在脸上挨的耳光和圆圈、十字之后，早已渗入她头脑的裂缝。
　　“他们干吗吊死你的太太？
　　”丹芙问。这是她头一回听到有关她妈妈的妈妈的事。贝比•萨格斯是她知道的唯一的祖母。
　　“我一直没搞明白。一共有好多人。
　　”她说道，但当她把潮湿的衣物叠了又叠时，越来越清晰的，是那个拉着她的手、在她认出那个记号之前把她从尸首堆里拽出来的名叫楠的女人。楠是她最熟悉的人，整天都在附近，给婴儿喂奶，做饭，一只胳膊是好的，另一只只剩了半截。楠说的是另一种不同的话，塞丝当时懂得，而现在却想不起来、不能重复的话。她相信，肯定是因为这个，她对“甜蜜之家”以前的记忆才这么少，只剩了唱歌、跳舞和拥挤的人群。楠对她讲的话，连同讲话时使用的语音，她都已忘记了。那也是她的太太使用的语言，一去不返了。但是其中的含义———却始终存在。她把潮湿的白床单抱在胸前，从她不再懂得的密码中分辨着那些含义。夜间，楠用完好的那条胳膊抓住她，在空中挥动着另一截残肢。
　　“告诉你，我来告诉你，小姑娘塞丝。
　　”然后她这么做了。楠告诉塞丝，她妈妈和楠是一起从海上来的。两个人都有好多次被水手带走。
　　“她把他们全扔了，只留下你。有个跟水手生的她丢在了岛上。其他许多跟白人生的她也都扔了。没起名字就给扔了。只有你，她给起了那个黑人的名字。她用胳膊抱了他。别的人她都没用胳膊去抱。从来没有。从来没有。告诉你，我在告诉你，小姑娘塞丝。
　　”
　　作为小姑娘塞丝，她并没有什么感觉。作为成年女子塞丝，她感到愤怒，却说不清楚为了什么。贝比•萨格斯的强烈愿望仿佛海浪冲击着她。浪过之后的寂静中，塞丝看着坐在炉边的两个姑娘：她的有病的、思想肤浅的寄宿者，她的烦躁、孤独的女儿。她们看起来又小又远。
　　“保罗•D一会儿就回来了。
　　”她说。
　　丹芙长长地舒了一口气。刚才，她妈妈站在那里出神地叠床单的时候，她咬紧牙关，祈盼着故事早点结束。丹芙讨厌她妈妈老讲那些与她无关的故事，因此她只问起爱弥。除此以外的世界是辉煌而强大的，没有了丹芙倒更是如此。她因自己不在其中而讨厌它，也想让宠儿讨厌它，尽管没有丝毫的可能。宠儿寻找一切可乘之机来问可笑的问题，让塞丝开讲。丹芙注意到了她是多么贪婪地想听塞丝说话。现在她又注意到了新的情况。是宠儿的问题：
　　“你的钻石在哪儿？
　　”“你的女人她从来不给你梳头吗？
　　”而最令人困惑的是：给我讲讲你的耳环。
　　她是怎么知道的？
　　宠儿光彩照人，可保罗•D并不喜欢。女人开始成长时，活像抽芽前的草莓类植物：先是绿色的质地渐渐地发生变化，然后藤萝的细丝长出，再往后是花骨朵。等到白色的花瓣凋零，薄荷色的莓子钻出，叶片的光辉就有了镀金的致密和蜡制的润泽。那就是宠儿的模样———周身镶金，光彩照人。保罗•D开始在醒来后与塞丝做爱，这样，过一会儿，当他走下白楼梯，看见她在宠儿的凝视下做面包时，他的头脑会是清晰的。
　　晚上，他回到家里，她们仨都在那儿摆饭桌时，她的光芒如此逼人，他奇怪塞丝和丹芙怎么看不见。或许她们看见了。如果女人们中间有一个春情萌动，她们当然能看得出来，就像男人一样。
　　保罗•D仔细地观察宠儿，看她是否有所察觉，可她对他一点也不留意———连直截了当的提问都常常不作回答。她能做到看着他连嘴都不张。她和他们相处已经有五个星期，可他们对她的了解一点也不比他们发现她在树桩上睡着的那天更多。
　　他们在保罗•D到达124号当日曾经摔坏的桌子旁就坐。重新接好的桌腿比以前更结实。卷心菜都吃光了，熏猪肉油亮亮的踝骨在他们的盘子里堆成一堆。塞丝正在上面包布丁，嘟囔着她的祝愿，以老练的厨子惯用的方式事先向大家致歉。这时，宠儿脸上现出的某种东西———她眼盯塞丝时攫住她的某种宠物式的迷恋———使得保罗•D开口了。
　　“你就没啥兄弟姐妹吗？
　　”
　　宠儿摆弄着勺子，却没看他。
　　“我谁都没有。
　　”
　　“你来这儿到底是找什么呢？
　　”他问她。
　　“这个地方。我是在找这个我能待的地方。
　　”
　　“有谁给你讲过这房子吗？
　　”
　　“她讲给我的。我在桥上的时候，她讲给我的。
　　”
　　“肯定是早先的人。
　　”塞丝道。早先的那些日子里，124号是口信和捎信人的驿站。在124号，点滴的消息就像泡在泉水里的干豆子———直泡到柔软得可以消化。
　　“你怎么来的？谁带你来的？
　　”
　　现在她镇定地看着他，但没有回答。
　　他能感觉到塞丝和丹芙两人都后退了，收缩腹肌，放出黏糊糊的蛛网来相互触摸。他决定无论如何也要逼逼她。
　　“我问你是谁带你来这儿的？
　　”
　　“我走来的，”她说，“好长、好长、好长、好长的一条路。没人带我。没人帮我。
　　”
　　“你穿着新鞋。你要是走了这么长的路，怎么从鞋子上看不出来？
　　”
　　“保罗•D，别再挑她毛病了。
　　”
　　“我想知道。
　　”他说道，把刀把儿像根旗杆似的攥在手中。
　　“我拿了鞋子!我拿了裙子!这鞋带系不上!”她叫嚷着，那样恶毒地瞪了他一眼，丹芙不禁轻轻去摸她的胳膊。
　　“我来教你，”丹芙说，“怎么系鞋带。
　　”她得到了宠儿投来的一笑，作为奖赏。
　　保罗•D觉得，他刚抓住一条银亮亮的大鱼的尾巴，就让它从手边滑脱了。此刻它又游进黑暗的水中，隐没了，然而闪闪的鱼鳞标出了它的航线。可是她的光芒如果不是为他，又是为谁而发的呢？他见过的女人，没有一个不是为了某个特定的人容光焕发，而只是泛泛地展示一番。凭他的经验而论，总是先有了焦点，周围才现出光芒。就说“三十英里女子”吧，同他一起等在沟里的时候，简直迟钝得冒烟儿，可西克索一到，她就成了星光。他还从未发现自己搞错过。他头一眼看见塞丝的湿腿时就是这种情形，否则他那天绝不会鲁莽得去把她拥在怀中，对着她的脊背柔声软语。
　　这个无家无亲的姑娘宠儿，可真是出类拔萃，尽管把二十年来遇见过的黑人琢磨个遍，他都不能准确地说出为什么。战前、战后以及战争期间，他见过许多黑奴，晕眩、饥饿、疲倦或者被掠夺到了如此地步，让他们重新唤起记忆或说出任何事情都是个奇迹。像他一样，他们躺在山洞里，与猫头鹰争食；像他一样，他们偷猪食吃；像他一样，他们白天睡在树上，夜里赶路；像他一样，他们把身子埋进泥浆，跳到井里，躲开管理员、袭击者、刽子手、退役兵、山民、武装队和寻欢作乐的人们。有一次，他遇到一个大约十四岁的黑孩子独自在林子里生活，他说他不记得在别处住过。
　　他见过一个糊里糊涂的黑女人被抓起来、绞死，因为她偷了几只鸭子，误以为那是她自己的婴儿。
Chapter 16
    Move. Walk. Run. Hide. Steal and move on. Only once had it been possible for him to stay in onespot — with a woman, or a family — for longer than a few months. That once was almost twoyears with a weaver lady in Delaware, the meanest place for Negroes he had ever seen outsidePulaski County, Kentucky, and of course the prison camp in Georgia.
　　From all those Negroes, Beloved was different. Her shining, her new shoes. It bothered him.
　　Maybe it was just the fact that he didn't bother her. Or it could be timing. She had appeared andbeen taken in on the very day Sethe and he had patched up their quarrel, gone out in public and hada right good time — like a family. Denver had come around, so to speak; Sethe was laughing; hehad a promise of steady work, 124 was cleared up from spirits. It had begun to look like a life. Anddamn! a water-drinking woman fell sick, got took in, healed, and hadn't moved a peg since.
　　He wanted her out, but Sethe had let her in and he couldn't put her out of a house that wasn't his. Itwas one thing to beat up a ghost, quite another to throw a helpless coloredgirl out in territoryinfected by the Klan. Desperately thirsty for black blood, without which it could not live, thedragon swam the Ohio at will.
　　Sitting at table, chewing on his after-supper broom straw, Paul D decided to place her. Consultwith the Negroes in town and find her her own place.
　　No sooner did he have the thought than Beloved strangled on one of the raisins she had picked outof the bread pudding. She fell backward and off the chair and thrashed around holding her throat.
　　Sethe knocked her on the back while Denver pried her hands away from her neck. Beloved, on herhands and knees, vomited up her food and struggled for breath.
　　When she was quiet and Denver had wiped up the mess, she said, "Go to sleep now.""Come in my room," said Denver. "I can watch out for you up there."No moment could have been better. Denver had worried herself sick trying to think of a way to getBeloved to share her room. It was hard sleeping above her, wondering if she was going to be sickagain, fall asleep and not wake, or (God, please don't) get up and wander out of the yard just theway she wandered in. They could have their talks easier there: at night when Sethe and Paul Dwere asleep; or in the daytime before either came home. Sweet, crazy conversations full of halfsentences, daydreams and misunderstandings more thrilling than understanding could ever be.
　　When the girls left, Sethe began to clear the table. She stacked the plates near a basin of water.
　　"What is it about her vex you so?"Paul D frowned, but said nothing.
　　"We had one good fight about Denver. Do we need one about her too?" asked Sethe.
　　"I just don't understand what the hold is. It's clear why she holds on to you, but just can't see whyyou holding on to her."Sethe turned away from the plates toward him. "what you care who's holding on to who? Feedingher is no trouble. I pick up a little extra from the restaurant is all. And she's nice girl company forDenver. You know that and I know you know it, so what is it got your teeth on edge?""I can't place it. It's a feeling in me.""Well, feel this, why don't you? Feel how it feels to have a bed to sleep in and somebody there notworrying you to death about what you got to do each day to deserve it. Feel how that feels. And ifthat don't get it, feel how it feels to be a coloredwoman roaming the roads with anything God madeliable to jump on you. Feel that." "I know every bit of that, Sethe. I wasn't born yesterday and Inever mistreated a woman in my life.""That makes one in the world," Sethe answered.
　　"Not two?""No. Not two.""What Halle ever do to you? Halle stood by you. He never left you.""What'd he leave then if not me?""I don't know, but it wasn't you. That's a fact.""Then he did worse; he left his children.""You don't know that.""He wasn't there. He wasn't where he said he would be.""He was there.""Then why didn't he show himself? Why did I have to pack my babies off and stay behind to lookfor him?""He couldn't get out the loft.""Loft? What loft?""The one over your head. In the barn."Slowly, slowly, taking all the time allowed, Sethe moved toward the table.
　　"He saw?""He saw.""He told you?""You told me.""What?""The day I came in here. You said they stole your milk. I never knew what it was that messed himup. That was it, I guess. All I knew was that something broke him. Not a one of them years ofSaturdays, Sundays and nighttime extra never touched him. But whatever he saw go on in that barnthat day broke him like a twig." "He saw?" Sethe was gripping her elbows as though to keep themfrom flying away.
　　"He saw. Must have.""He saw them boys do that to me and let them keep on breathing air? He saw? He saw? He saw?""Hey! Hey! Listen up. Let me tell you something. A man ain't a goddamn ax. Chopping, hacking,busting every goddamn minute of the day. Things get to him. Things he can't chop down becausethey're inside."Sethe was pacing up and down, up and down in the lamplight. "The underground agent said, BySunday. They took my milk and he saw it and didn't come down? Sunday came and he didn't.
　　Monday came and no Halle. I thought he was dead, that's why; then I thought they caught him,that's why. Then I thought, No, he's not dead because if he was I'd know it, and then you comehere after all this time and you didn't say he was dead, because you didn't know either, so Ithought, Well, he just found him another better way to live. Because if he was anywhere near here,he'd come to Baby Suggs, if not to me. But I never knew he saw.""What does that matter now?""If he is alive, and saw that, he won't step foot in my door. Not Halle.""It broke him, Sethe." Paul D looked up at her and sighed. "You may as well know it all. Last timeI saw him he was sitting by the chum. He had butter all over his face."Nothing happened, and she was grateful for that. Usually she could see the picture right away ofwhat she heard. But she could not picture what Paul D said. Nothing came to mind. Carefully,carefully, she passed on to a reasonable question.
　　"What did he say?""Nothing.""Not a word?""Not a word.""Did you speak to him? Didn't you say anything to him? Something!""I couldn't, Sethe. I just.., couldn't.""Why!""I had a bit in my mouth."Sethe opened the front door and sat down on the porch steps. The day had gone blue without itssun, but she could still make out the black silhouettes of trees in the meadow beyond. She shookher head from side to side, resigned to her rebellious brain. Why was there nothing it reused? Nomisery, no regret, no hateful picture too rotten to accept? Like a greedy child it snatched upeverything. Just once, could it say, No thank you? I just ate and can't hold another bite? I am fullGod damn it of two boys with mossy teeth, one sucking on my breast the other holding me down,their book-reading teacher watching and writing it up. I am still full of that, God damn it, I can't goback and add more. Add my husband to it, watching, above me in the loft — hiding close by — theone place he thought no one would look for him, looking down on what I couldn't look at at all.
　　And not stopping them — looking and letting it happen. But my greedy brain says, Oh thanks, I'dlove more — so I add more. And no sooner than I do, there is no stopping. There is also myhusband squatting by the churn smearing the butter as well as its clabber all over his face becausethe milk they took is on his mind. And as far as he is concerned, the world may as well know it.
　　And if he was that broken then, then he is also and certainly dead now. And if Paul D saw him andcould not save or comfort him because the iron bit was in his mouth, then there is still more thatPaul D could tell me and my brain would go right ahead and take it and never say, No thank you. Idon't want to know or have to remember that. I have other things to do: worry, for example, abouttomorrow, about Denver, about Beloved, about age and sickness not to speak of love.
　　But her brain was not interested in the future. Loaded with the past and hungry for more, it left herno room to imagine, let alone plan for, the next day. Exactly like that afternoon in the wild onions— when one more step was the most she could see of the future. Other people went crazy, whycouldn't she? Other people's brains stopped, turned around and went on to something new, which iswhat must have happened to Halle. And how sweet that would have been: the two of them back bythe milk shed, squatting by the churn, smashing cold, lumpy butter into their faces with not a carein the world. Feeling it slippery, sticky — rubbing it in their hair, watching it squeeze through theirfingers. What a relief to stop it right there. Close. Shut. Squeeze the butter. But her three childrenwere chewing sugar teat under a blanket on their way to Ohio and no butter play would changethat.
　　Paul D stepped through the door and touched her shoulder.
　　"I didn't plan on telling you that.""I didn't plan on hearing it.""I can't take it back, but I can leave it alone," Paul D said.
    挪。走。跑。藏。偷。然后不停地前进。只有一次，他有可能待在一个地方———和一个女人，或者说和一个家在一起———超过几个月的时间。那唯一的一次差不多有两年，是同那个特拉华的女织工一起度过的。特拉华是肯塔基州普拉斯基县以外对待黑人最野蛮的地方，当然，佐治亚的监狱营地就甭提了。
　　同所有这些黑人相比，宠儿大不一样。她的光芒，她的新鞋，都令他烦恼。也许只是他没有烦扰她的事实令他烦恼。要么就是巧合。她现身了，而且恰好发生在那天，塞丝和他结束了争吵，一起去公共场合玩得很开心———好像一家人似的。可以这么说，丹芙已经回心转意；塞丝在开心地笑；他得到了许诺，会有一份固定的工作；124号除净了鬼魂。已经开始像一种生活了。可是他妈的!一个能喝水的女人病倒了，给带进屋来，康复了，然后就再没挪过窝儿。
　　他想把她撵走，可是塞丝让她进来了，他又无权把她赶出一所不属于他的房子。打败一个鬼是一码事，可把一个无助的黑人姑娘扔到三K党魔爪下的地方去，则完全是另一码事。那恶龙在俄亥俄随心所欲地游弋，极度渴求黑人的血，否则就无法生存。
　　坐在饭桌旁，嚼着饭后的金雀花草，保罗•D决定安顿安顿她。同城里的黑人们商量一下，给她找个地儿住。
　　他刚刚有了这个念头，宠儿就被自己从面包布丁里挑出来的一颗葡萄干噎住了。她向后倒去，摔出椅子，掐着脖子翻来滚去。塞丝去捶她的背，丹芙将她的手从脖子上掰开。宠儿趴在地上，一边呕吐，一边艰难地捯气。
　　等到她平静下来，丹芙擦去了秽物。宠儿说道：
　　“现在去睡吧。
　　”
　　“到我屋里来，”丹芙说，“我会在上边好好看着你的。
　　”
　　没有比这更好的时机了。丹芙为了设法让宠儿和她合住一室，都快急疯了。睡在她上铺并不容易，得担心着她是否还会犯病、长睡不醒，或者（上帝保佑，千万可别这样）下床漫步出院，像她漫步进来时那样。她们在那里可以更随便地说话：在夜里，当塞丝和保罗•D睡着以后；或是白天，在他们俩都没到家的时候。甜蜜、荒唐的谈话里充满了半截话、白日梦和远比理解更令人激动的误解。
　　姑娘们离开以后，塞丝开始收拾饭桌。她把盘子堆在一盆水旁边。
　　“她什么地方得罪你啦？
　　”
　　保罗•D皱了皱眉头，没说什么。
　　“我们为丹芙好好地打了一架。也得为她来上一回吗？
　　”塞丝问道。
　　“我只是不明白干吗摽在一起。明摆着，她为什么抓着你不放，可是你为什么也抓着她不放，这个我就搞不懂了。
　　”
　　塞丝扔下盘子，盯着他。
　　“谁抓着谁不放关你什么事？养活她并不费事。我从餐馆捡回一点剩的就行了。她跟丹芙又是个伴儿。这个你知道，我也知道你知道，那你还牙痒痒什么？
　　”
　　“我也拿不准。是我心里的一种滋味。
　　”
　　“那好，你干吗不尝尝这个呢？尝尝这个滋味：有了一张床睡，人家却绞尽脑汁琢磨，你每天该干些什么来挣它。尝尝这个滋味。要是这还不够，再尝尝做一个黑女人四处流浪、听天由命的滋味。尝尝这个吧。
　　”
　　“那些滋味我全清楚，塞丝。我又不是昨天才出娘胎的，我这辈子还从来没错待过一个女人呢。
　　”
　　“那这世上也就独你一个。
　　”塞丝回答道。
　　“不是俩？
　　”
　　“不是。不是俩。
　　”
　　“可黑尔又怎么你啦？黑尔总和你在一起。他从不撇下你。
　　”
　　“没撇下我他撇下谁了？
　　”
　　“我不知道，反正不是你。这是事实。
　　”
　　“那么他更坏，他撇下了他的孩子。
　　”
　　“你可不能这么说。
　　”
　　“他没在那儿。他本来说他会在那儿，可他没在。
　　”
　　“他在那儿。
　　”
　　“那他干吗不出来？我为什么还得把我的宝贝们送走，自己留在后头找他？
　　”
　　“他没法从厩楼里出来。
　　”
　　“厩楼？什么厩楼？
　　”
　　“你头顶上的那个。在牲口棚里。
　　”
　　慢慢地，慢慢地，花了尽可能多的时间，塞丝挪向桌子。
　　“他看见了？
　　”
　　“他看见了。
　　”
　　“他告诉你的？
　　”
　　“你告诉我的。
　　”
　　“什么？
　　”
　　“我来这儿那天。你说他们抢了你的奶水。我一直不知道是什么把他搞得一团糟。就是那个，我估计。我只知道有什么事让他崩溃了。那么多年的星期六、星期天和晚上的加班加点都没影响过他。可那天他在牲口棚里见到的什么事情，把他像根树枝一样一折两断。
　　”
　　“他看见了？
　　”塞丝抱紧两肘，好像怕它们飞走似的。
　　“他看见了。肯定的。
　　”
　　“他看见了那些家伙对我干的事，还让他们接着喘气？他看见了？他看见了？他看见了？
　　”
　　“嘿!嘿!听着。你听我说。一个男人不是一把该死的斧头，去他妈的砍掉、劈掉、剁掉日子里的每一分钟。是倒霉事找的他。他砍不倒这些事，因为它们属于内心。
　　”
　　塞丝踱来踱去，在灯光里踱来踱去。
　　“地下联络员说：最迟星期天。他们抢走了我的奶水，可他看见了却没下来？星期天到了，可他没到。星期一到了，可还是没见黑尔。我以为他是死了，才没来；然后我以为是他们抓住了他，才没来。后来我想，不对，他没死，因为他要是死了，我该知道；再后来，你过了这么多年找到这儿来，也没说他死了，因为你也不知道，所以我想，好吧，他不过是给自己找到了更好的生路。因为要是他在附近的什么地方，就算不来找我，他也肯定会来找贝比•萨格斯的。可我根本没料到他看见了。
　　”
　　“事到如今，又有什么关系呢？
　　”
　　“假如他活着，而且看见了，他就永远不会迈进我的门。黑尔不会。
　　”
　　“他崩溃了，塞丝。
　　”保罗•D抬眼看着她，叹了口气，“你全知道也好。我最后一次看见他的时候，他正坐在搅乳机旁。他涂了自己一脸的牛油。
　　”
　　什么事都没有发生，她因此而心怀感激。一般来说，她能马上看到她耳闻的画面。可是她没看到保罗•D讲的事情。脑子里什么都没出现。小心翼翼、小心翼翼地，她跳向一个适当的问题。
　　“他说了什么吗？
　　”
　　“没有。
　　”
　　“一个字没说？
　　”
　　“一个字没说。
　　”
　　“你对他说话了吗？你什么也没对他说？总得有句话！
　　”
　　“我不能，塞丝。我就是……不能。
　　”
　　“为什么？！
　　”
　　“我嘴上戴着个马嚼子。
　　”
　　塞丝打开前门，坐在门廊台阶上。没有太阳的天空变为蓝色，可她依然能辨认出远处草地上黝黑的树影。她来回摇着头，听凭她那不听话的大脑摆布。它为什么来者不拒、照单全收呢？不拒绝苦难，不拒绝悔恨，不拒绝腐烂不堪的可憎的画面？像个贪婪的孩子，它什么都抢。哪怕就一次，它能不能说一声：不要了谢谢？我刚吃完，多一口也塞不下了？我塞满了他妈的两个长着青苔般牙齿的家伙，一个吮着我的乳房，另一个摁着我，他们那知书达礼的老师一边看着一边作记录。到现在我还满脑子都是那事呢，见鬼!我可不能回头再往里添了。再添上我的丈夫，他在我头顶上的厩楼里观看———藏在近旁———藏在一个他自以为没人来找他的地方，朝下俯看着我根本不能看的事情。而且不制止他们———眼睁睁地让它发生。然而我那贪婪的大脑说，噢谢谢，我太想再要些了———于是我又添了些。可我一这么做，就再也停不住了。又添上了这个：我的丈夫蹲在搅乳机旁抹牛油，抹得满脸尽是牛油疙瘩，因为他们抢走的奶水占据了他的脑子。对他来说，干脆让全世界都知道算了。当时他要是真的彻底崩溃，那他现在也肯定死了。要是保罗•D因为咬着铁嚼子，看见他却不能救他或安慰他，那么保罗•D肯定还有更多的事能告诉我，而我的大脑还会立即接受，永远不说：不要了谢谢。我可不想知道，也没必要记住那些。我还有别的事情要做呢：比如操心，操心明天，操心丹芙，操心宠儿，操心衰老和生病，更不用说爱了。
　　可是她的大脑对未来不感兴趣。它满载着过去，而且渴望着更多的过去，但不给她留下一点空间，让她去想象，甚至去计划下一天。浑似那个野葱地里的午后———那时她能看见的最远的未来仅仅是一步之遥。别的人都发疯了，她为什么不能？别人的大脑都停了下来，掉转身去找新的东西，黑尔肯定就是这样。那该有多么甜蜜啊：他们两个，背靠牛奶棚，蹲在搅乳机旁，心不在焉地往脸上猛扔冰凉的、疙疙瘩瘩的牛油。感觉牛油的滑腻和黏稠———揉进头发，看着它从手指缝中挤出。就停在那里，会是怎样的解脱啊。关上。锁住。挤牛油。可她的三个孩子正在去俄亥俄的路上，躺在毯子下面嚼着糖水奶嘴，那是什么牛油游戏都无法改变的。
　　保罗•D迈出门槛，抚摸着她的肩膀。
　　“我没打算告诉你那个。
　　”
　　“我没打算听。
　　”
　　“我没法收回来，但我能把它搁下。
　　”保罗•D说。
Chapter 17
    He wants to tell me, she thought. Hewants me to ask him about what it was like for him — about how offended the tongue is, helddown by iron, how the need to spit is so deep you cry for it. She already knew about it, had seen ittime after time in the place before Sweet Home. Men, boys, little girls, women. The wildness thatshot up into the eye the moment the lips were yanked back. Days after it was taken out, goose fatwas rubbed on the corners of the mouth but nothing to soothe the tongue or take the wildness outof the eye. Sethe looked up into Paul D's eyes to see if there was any trace left in them.
　　"People I saw as a child," she said, "who'd had the bit always looked wild after that. Whatever theyused it on them for, it couldn't have worked, because it put a wildness where before there wasn'tany. When I look at you, I don't see it. There ain't no wildness in your eye nowhere.""There's a way to put it there and there's a way to take it out. I know em both and I haven't figuredout yet which is worse." He sat down beside her. Sethe looked at him. In that unlit daylight hisface, bronzed and reduced to its bones, smoothed her heart down. "You want to tell me about it?"she asked him.
　　"I don't know. I never have talked about it. Not to a soul. Sang it sometimes, but I never told asoul.""Go ahead. I can hear it.""Maybe. Maybe you can hear it. I just ain't sure I can say it. Say it right, I mean, because it wasn'tthe bit — that wasn't it." "What then?" Sethe asked.
　　"The roosters," he said. "Walking past the roosters looking at them look at me."Sethe smiled. "In that pine?""Yeah." Paul D smiled with her. "Must have been five of them perched up there, and at least fiftyhens.""Mister, too?""Not right off. But I hadn't took twenty steps before I seen him. He come down off the fence postthere and sat on the tub." "He loved that tub," said Sethe, thinking, No, there is no stopping now.
　　"Didn't he? Like a throne. Was me took him out the shell, you know. He'd a died if it hadn't beenfor me. The hen had walked on off with all the hatched peeps trailing behind her. There was thisone egg left. Looked like a blank, but then I saw it move so I tapped it open and here come Mister,bad feet and all. I watched that son a bitch grow up and whup everything in the yard.""He always was hateful," Sethe said.
　　"Yeah, he was hateful all right. Bloody too, and evil. Crooked feet flapping. Comb as big as myhand and some kind of red. He sat right there on the tub looking at me. I swear he smiled. My headwas full of what I'd seen of Halle a while back. I wasn't even thinking about the bit. Just Halle andbefore him Sixo, but when I saw Mister I knew it was me too. Not just them, me too. One crazy,one sold, one missing, one burnt and me licking iron with my hands crossed behind me. The last ofthe Sweet Home men.
　　"Mister, he looked so... free. Better than me. Stronger, tougher. Son a bitch couldn't even get outthe shell by hisself but he was still king and I was..." Paul D stopped and squeezed his left handwith his right. He held it that way long enough for it and the world to quiet down and let him goon.
　　"Mister was allowed to be and stay what he was. But I wasn't allowed to be and stay what I was.
　　Even if you cooked him you'd be cooking a rooster named Mister. But wasn't no way I'd ever bePaul D again, living or dead. Schoolteacher changed me. I was something else and that somethingwas less than a chicken sitting in the sun on a tub."Sethe put her hand on his knee and rubbed.
　　Paul D had only begun, what he was telling her was only the beginning when her fingers on hisknee, soft and reassuring, stopped him. Just as well. Just as well. Saying more might push themboth to a place they couldn't get back from. He would keep the rest where it belonged: in thattobacco tin buried in his chest where a red heart used to be. Its lid rusted shut. He would not pry itloose now in front of this sweet sturdy woman, for if she got a whiff of the contents it wouldshame him. And it would hurt her to know that there was no red heart bright as Mister's combbeating in him.
　　Sethe rubbed and rubbed, pressing the work cloth and the stony curves that made up his knee. Shehoped it calmed him as it did her. Like kneading bread in the half-light of the restaurant kitchen.
　　Before the cook arrived when she stood in a space no wider than a bench is long, back behind andto the left of the milk cans. Working dough. Working, working dough. Nothing better than that tostart the day's serious work of beating back the past.
　　UPSTAIRS was dancing. A little two-step, two-step, make-a-new-step, slide, slide and strut ondown.
　　Denver sat on the bed smiling and providing the music.
　　She had never seen Beloved this happy. She had seen her pouty lips open wide with the pleasure ofsugar or some piece of news Denver gave her. She had felt warm satisfaction radiating fromBeloved's skin when she listened to her mother talk about the old days.
　　But gaiety she had never seen. Not ten minutes had passed since Beloved had fallen backward tothe floor, pop-eyed, thrashing and holding her throat. Now, after a few seconds lying in Denver'sbed, she was up and dancing.
　　"Where'd you learn to dance?" Denver asked her.
　　"Nowhere. Look at me do this." Beloved put her fists on her hips and commenced to skip on barefeet. Denver laughed.
　　"Now you. Come on," said Beloved. "You may as well just come on." Her black skirt swayed fromside to side.
　　Denver grew ice-cold as she rose from the bed. She knew she was twice Beloved's size but shefloated up, cold and light as a snowflake.
　　Beloved took Denver's hand and placed another on Denver's shoulder. They danced then. Roundand round the tiny room and it may have been dizziness, or feeling light and icy at once, that madeDenver laugh so hard. A catching laugh that Beloved caught. The two of them, merry as kittens,swung to and fro, to and fro, until exhausted they sat on the floor. Beloved let her head fall back on the edge of the bed while she found her breath and Denver saw the tip of the thing she always sawin its entirety when Beloved undressed to sleep. Looking straight at it she whispered, "Why youcall yourself Beloved?"Beloved closed her eyes. "In the dark my name is Beloved."Denver scooted a little closer. "What's it like over there, where you were before? Can you tell me?""Dark," said Beloved. "I'm small in that place. I'm like this here."She raised her head off the bed, lay down on her side and curled up.
　　Denver covered her lips with her fingers. "Were you cold?"Beloved curled tighter and shook her head. "Hot. Nothing to breathe down there and no room tomove in.""You see anybody?""Heaps. A lot of people is down there. Some is dead.""You see Jesus? Baby Suggs?""I don't know. I don't know the names." She sat up.
　　"Tell me, how did you get here?""I wait; then I got on the bridge. I stay there in the dark, in the daytime, in the dark, in the daytime.
　　It was a long time.""All this time you were on a bridge?""No. After. When I got out.""What did you come back for?"Beloved smiled. "To see her face.""Ma'am's? Sethe?""Yes, Sethe."Denver felt a little hurt, slighted that she was not the main reason for Beloved's return. "Don't youremember we played together by the stream?""I was on the bridge," said Beloved. "You see me on the bridge?" "No, by the stream. The waterback in the woods.""Oh, I was in the water. I saw her diamonds down there. I could touch them.""What stopped you?""She left me behind. By myself," said Beloved. She lifted her eyes to meet Denver's and frowned,perhaps. Perhaps not. The tiny scratches on her forehead may have made it seem so.
　　Denver swallowed. "Don't," she said. "Don't. You won't leave us, will you?""No. Never. This is where I am."Suddenly Denver, who was sitting cross-legged, lurched forward and grabbed Beloved's wrist.
　　"Don't tell her. Don't let Ma'am know who you are. Please, you hear?""Don't tell me what to do. Don't you never never tell me what to do.""But I'm on your side, Beloved.""She is the one. She is the one I need. You can go but she is the one I have to have." Her eyesstretched to the limit, black as the all night sky.
　　"I didn't do anything to you. I never hurt you. I never hurt anybody," said Denver.
　　"Me either. Me either.""What you gonna do?""Stay here. I belong here.""I belong here too.""Then stay, but don't never tell me what to do. Don't never do that.""We were dancing. Just a minute ago we were dancing together. Let's.""I don't want to." Beloved got up and lay down on the bed. Their quietness boomed about on thewalls like birds in panic. Finally Denver's breath steadied against the threat of an unbearable loss.
　　"Tell me," Beloved said. "Tell me how Sethe made you in the boat.""She never told me all of it," said Denver.
　　"Tell me."
    他想对我开讲了，她暗忖道。他想让我去问问他当时的感觉———舌头让铁嚼子坠住是多么难受，吐唾沫的需要又是多么强烈、不能自已。那个滋味她早就知道了，在“甜蜜之家”以前待的地方她就一次又一次地目睹过。男人，男孩，小女孩，女人。嘴唇向后勒紧那一刻注入眼里的疯狂。嚼子卸下之后的许多天里，嘴角一直涂着鹅油，可是没有什么来抚慰舌头，或者将疯狂从眼中除去。
　　塞丝抬头朝保罗•D的眼中望去，看那里是否留下了什么痕迹。
　　“我小时候见过的那些人，”她说，“他们套过嚼子后看上去总是那么疯狂。谁知道他们因为什么给他们上嚼子，反正那一套根本行不通，因为它套上的是一种从前没有过的疯狂。我看你的时候，却看不见那个。你的眼睛里哪儿都没有那样的疯狂。
　　”
　　“有把它放进去的法子，就有拿出来的法子。两个办法我都知道，我还没想好哪种更糟呢。
　　”他在她身旁坐下。塞丝打量着他。在昏暗的日光里，他瘦骨嶙峋的古铜色面孔让她的心趋于平静。
　　“想跟我讲讲吗？
　　”她问他。
　　“我不知道。我从来没讲过。跟谁都没讲过。有时候唱唱，可我从来没跟谁讲过。
　　”
　　“说吧。我听得了。
　　”
　　“也许吧。也许你听得了。我只是不敢肯定我能说出来。我的意思是，能说得准确，因为并不是嚼子的问题———不是那么回事。
　　”
　　“那是什么呢？
　　”塞丝问道。
　　“公鸡，”他说，“路过公鸡时，我看见它们那样看着我。
　　”
　　塞丝笑了。
　　“在那棵松树上？
　　”
　　“对。”保罗•D同她一起笑了，“上边肯定落了有五只公鸡，还有起码五十只母鸡。
　　”
　　“‘先生’也在？
　　”
　　“一开始还没看到。可是我走了不到二十步就瞧见它了。它从栅栏上走下来，坐在木盆上。
　　”
　　“它喜欢那个木盆。
　　”塞丝说着，心中暗想：不好，现在停不下来了。
　　“可不是吗？像个宝座似的。知道么，是我把它从鸡蛋壳里提溜出来的。要不是我，它早憋死了。那一只老母鸡走开时，身后跟了一大群刚孵出的小鸡崽。就剩下这一个鸡蛋了。好像是个空壳，可后来我看见它在动弹，就把它敲开了，出来的就是‘先生’，脚有点瘸，一身的毛病。我眼看着那个狗崽子长大，在院子里横行霸道。
　　”
　　“它总是那么可恨。
　　”塞丝道。
　　“对，它倒是挺可恨的。又好斗又凶恶。曲曲弯弯的脚尽瞎扑腾。冠子有我巴掌那么大，通红通红的。它就坐在木盆上看着我。我敢发誓，它在微笑。本来我满脑子想的都是刚才看见的黑尔。
　　我根本就没想起来那个马嚼子。只有黑尔，还有在他之前的西克索，可是当我看见‘先生’的时候，我知道了，那里面也有我。不光是他们，也有我。一个疯了，一个卖了，一个失踪了，一个烧死了，还有我，舌头舔着铁嚼子，两手反绑在背后。也有我，最后一个‘甜蜜之家’的男人。
　　“‘先生’，它看起来那样……自由。比我强。比我更壮实，更厉害。那个狗崽子，当初自己连壳儿都挣不开，可它仍然是个国王，而我……”保罗•D停住了，用左手扼住右手。他就那样久久地攥着，直到它和世界都平息下来，让他讲下去。
　　“‘先生’还可以是、一直是它自己。可我就不许是我自己。就算你拿它做了菜，你也是在炖一只叫‘先生’的公鸡。可是我再也不能是保罗•D了，活着死了都一样。
　　‘学校老师’把我改变了。
　　我成了另外一样东西，不如一只太阳地里坐在木盆上的小鸡崽。
　　”
　　塞丝把手放在他的膝盖上摩挲着。
　　保罗•D才刚刚开始，他告诉她的只不过是个开头，可她把手指放上他的膝盖，柔软而抚慰，让他就此打住。也好。也好。再多说可能会把他们两个都推上绝境，再也回不来。他将把其余的留在它们原该待的地方：在他胸口埋藏的烟草罐里；那胸口，曾经有一颗鲜红的心跳动。罐子的盖子已经锈死了。现在他不会在这个甜蜜而坚强的女人面前把它撬开，如果让她闻见里面的东西，他会无地自容的。而知道他的胸膛里并没有一颗像“先生”的鸡冠一样鲜红的心在跳荡，也会使她受到伤害。
　　塞丝紧按劳动布和他膝盖嶙峋的曲线，摩挲着，摩挲着。她希望这会像平息自己一样平息他。
　　就像在昏暗的餐馆厨房里揉面团。在厨子到来之前，站在不比一条长凳的长更宽的地方，在牛奶罐的左后侧，揉着面团。揉着，揉着面团。像那样开始一天的击退过去的严肃工作，再好不过了。
　　楼上，宠儿在跳舞。轻轻的两步，两步，再跳一步，滑步，滑步，高视阔步。
　　丹芙坐在床上，笑着提供音乐伴奏。
　　她从来没见过宠儿这样快活。宠儿的嘴平时总是撅着，只是吃起糖来或者丹芙告诉她件什么事时才高兴地咧开。在聆听妈妈讲述过去的日子时，丹芙也曾经感受到宠儿通身发出的心满意足的温暖气息。但从未见过她快活。仅仅十分钟之前，宠儿还四仰八叉地倒在地板上，眼球突出，掐住自己的喉咙扭来扭去。现在，在丹芙床上躺了没几秒钟，她已经起来跳舞了。
　　“你在哪儿学的跳舞？
　　”丹芙问她。
　　“在哪儿都没学过。瞧我这一招儿。
　　”宠儿把拳头放在屁股上，开始光着脚蹦跶。丹芙大笑起来。
　　“该你了。来吧，”宠儿道，“你最好也来吧。
　　”她的黑裙子左右摇摆。
　　丹芙从床上站起来，觉得浑身变得冰冷。她知道自己有宠儿两个大，可她竟然飘了起来，好像一片雪花一样冰凉而轻盈。
　　宠儿一只手拉起丹芙的手，另一只放上丹芙的肩头。于是她们跳起舞来。在小屋里一圈又一圈地转着，不知是因为眩晕，还是因为一下子感到轻盈和冰冷，丹芙纵声大笑起来。这富于感染力的笑声也感染了宠儿。她们两个像小猫一样快活，悠来荡去，悠来荡去，直到疲惫不堪地坐倒在地。
　　宠儿把头靠在床沿上，上气不接下气；这时丹芙看见了那个东西的一端。宠儿解衣就寝的时候她总能看见它的全部。她直盯着它，悄声问：
　　“你干吗管自己叫宠儿？”
　　宠儿合上眼睛。
　　“在黑暗中我的名字就叫宠儿。”
　　丹芙凑近一些。
　　“那边什么样儿，你过去待的地方？能告诉我吗？”
　　“漆黑，”宠儿说，“在那里我很小。就像这个样子。”她把头从床沿上抬起来，侧身躺下，蜷成一团。
　　丹芙用手指遮住嘴唇。
　　“你在那儿冷吗？”
　　宠儿蜷得更紧，摇摇头。
　　“滚热。下边那儿没法呼吸，也没地方待。”
　　“你看见什么人了吗？”
　　“成堆成堆的。那儿有好多人，有些是死人。”
　　“你看见耶稣了吗？还有贝比•萨格斯？”
　　“我不知道，我没听说过这些名字。”她坐了起来。
　　“告诉我，你是怎么来这儿的？”
　　“我等啊等，然后就上了桥。我在那里待了一晚上，一白天，一晚上，一白天。好长时间。”
　　“这么长时间你一直在桥上？”
　　“不是。那是后来。我出来以后的事。”
　　“你回来干啥？”
　　宠儿莞尔一笑。
　　“看她的脸。”
　　“太太的？塞丝？”
　　“对，塞丝。”
　　丹芙觉得有点受伤害、受轻视，因为她不是宠儿回来的主要原因。
　　“你不记得我们一起在小溪边玩了？”
　　“我在桥上，”宠儿说，“你看见我在桥上了？”
　　“不，在小溪边上。后边树林里的小溪。”
　　“哦，我在水里。我就是在下面看见了她的钻石。我都能摸着它们。”
　　“那你怎么没摸？”
　　“她把我丢在后面了。就剩下我一个人。”宠儿说道。她抬眼去看丹芙的眼睛，也许皱了皱眉头。也许没皱。可能是她前额上细细的抓痕让情形看来如此。
　　丹芙咽了口唾沫。
　　“别，”她说，“别。你不会离开我们，是吗？”
　　“不会。永远不会。这就是我待的地方。”
　　突然，架着腿坐着的丹芙一下子探过身去，抓住宠儿的手腕。
　　“别跟她说。别让太太知道你是谁。求求你，听见了吗？”
　　“别跟我说该怎么做。永远永远也别跟我说该怎么做。”
　　“可我站在你一边呀，宠儿。”
　　“她才是呢。她才是我需要的。你可以走开，可我绝对不能没有她。”她的眼睛拼命大睁着，仿佛整个夜空一样漆黑。
　　“我没怎么着你呀。我从没伤害过你。我从没伤害过任何人。”丹芙说。
　　“我也没有。我也没有。”
　　“你要干什么呢？”
　　“留在这儿。我属于这儿。”
　　“我也属于这儿。”
　　“那就待着吧，可是永远别跟我说该怎么做。永远别这样。”
　　“我们刚才在跳舞。就一分钟以前，我们还在一起跳舞呢。咱们再跳一会儿吧。”
　　“我不想跳了。”宠儿起身到床上躺下。她们的沉默像慌乱的小鸟在墙上乱撞。终于，在这个无法承受的丧失带来的威胁面前，丹芙稳住了呼吸。
　　“给我讲讲，”宠儿说道，“给我讲讲塞丝在船上怎么生的你。”
　　“她从来没有从头到尾给我讲过。”丹芙说。
　　“给我讲吧。”
Chapter 18
    Denver climbed up on the bed and folded her arms under her apron. She had not been in the treeroom once since Beloved sat on their stump after the carnival, and had not remembered that shehadn't gone there until this very desperate moment. Nothing was out there that this sister-girl didnot provide in abundance: a racing heart, dreaminess, society, danger, beauty. She swallowedtwice to prepare for the telling, to construct out of the strings she had heard all her life a net to holdBeloved.
　　"She had good hands, she said. The whitegirl, she said, had thin little arms but good hands. Shesaw that right away, she said. Hair enough for five heads and good hands, she said. I guess thehands made her think she could do it: get us both across the river. But the mouth was what kept herfrom being scared. She said there ain't nothing to go by with whitepeople. You don't know howthey'll jump. Say one thing, do another. But if you looked at the mouth sometimes you could tellby that. She said this girl talked a storm, but there wasn't no meanness around her mouth. She tookMa'am to that lean-to and rubbed her feet for her, so that was one thing. And Ma'am believed shewasn't going to turn her over. You could get money if you turned a runaway over, and she wasn'tsure this girl Amy didn't need money more than anything, especially since all she talked about wasgetting hold of some velvet.""What's velvet?""It's a cloth, kind of deep and soft.""Go ahead.""Anyway, she rubbed Ma'am's feet back to life, and she cried, she said, from how it hurt. But itmade her think she could make it on over to where Grandma Baby Suggs was and...""Who is that?""I just said it. My grandmother.""Is that Sethe's mother?""No. My father's mother.""Go ahead.""That's where the others was. My brothers and.., the baby girl. She sent them on before to wait forher at Grandma Baby's. So she had to put up with everything to get there. And this here girl Amyhelped."Denver stopped and sighed. This was the part of the story she loved. She was coming to it now,and she loved it because it was all about herself; but she hated it too because it made her feel like abill was owing somewhere and she, Denver, had to pay it. But who she owed or what to pay it witheluded her. Now, watching Beloved's alert and hungry face, how she took in every word, askingquestions about the color of things and their size, her downright craving to know, Denver began tosee what she was saying and not just to hear it: there is this nineteen-year-old slave girl — a yearolder than her self — walking through the dark woods to get to her children who are far away. Sheis tired, scared maybe, and maybe even lost. Most of all she is by herself and inside her is anotherbaby she has to think about too. Behind her dogs, perhaps; guns probably; and certainly mossyteeth. She is not so afraid at night because she is the color of it, but in the day every sound is a shotor a tracker's quiet step. Denver was seeing it now and feeling it — through Beloved. Feeling howit must have felt to her mother. Seeing how it must have looked. And the more fine points shemade, the more detail she provided, the more Beloved liked it. So she anticipated the questions bygiving blood to the scraps her mother and grandmother had told herwand a heartbeat. Themonologue became, iri fact, a duet as they lay down together, Denver nursing Beloved's interestlike a lover whose pleasure was to overfeed the loved. The dark quilt with two orange patches wasthere with them because Beloved wanted it near her when she slept. It was smelling like grass andfeeling like hands — the unrested hands of busy women: dry, warm, prickly. Denver spoke,Beloved listened, and the two did the best they could to create what really happened, how it reallywas, something only Sethe knew because she alone had the mind for it and the time afterward toshape it: the quality of Amy's voice, her breath like burning wood. The quick-change weather up inthose hills — -cool at night, hot in the day, sudden fog. How recklessly she behaved with thiswhitegirlNa recklessness born of desperation and encouraged by Amy's fugitive eyes and hertenderhearted mouth.
    丹芙爬上床，把胳膊叠放在围裙下面。自从狂欢节过后宠儿坐在他们的树桩上那一天起，她一次也没去过那间树屋，而且直到这个绝望的时刻才想起来，她已冷落它这么久了。那儿没有什么这个姐姐姑娘不能大量地提供：狂跳的心，梦幻，交往，危险，美。她咽了两口唾沫，准备讲故事，准备用她有生以来听到的所有线索织成一张网，去抓住宠儿。
　　“她说，她有双好手。她说，那个白人姑娘胳膊精细，却有双好手。她说，她一下子就发现了。她说，头发足够五个脑袋用的，还有双好手。我猜想，是那双好手让她觉得她能成功：把我们俩都弄过河。是那张嘴，让她一直不觉得害怕。她说，你根本搞不清白人是怎么回事。你不知道他们会拉什么屎。说一套，做一套。可有的时候，你能从嘴角上看出来。她说，这个姑娘说起话来像下暴雨，可是她嘴周围没有残忍。她把太太带到那间披屋，还帮她揉脚，就是一个例子。太太相信她不会把自己交出去。交出一个逃跑的黑奴你会得到一笔赏金的。她敢肯定这个姑娘最需要的就是钱，尤其是，她说来说去全是去弄天鹅绒之类的。
　　”
　　“天鹅绒是什么？
　　”
　　“是一种布料，又密又软。
　　”
　　“说下去。
　　”
　　“不管怎么说，她把太太的脚给揉活了；她说她哭了，太疼了。可是那让她觉得她能挨到贝比•萨格斯奶奶那儿，而且……”
　　“那是谁？
　　”
　　“我刚才说了。我奶奶。
　　”
　　“是塞丝的妈妈么？
　　”
　　“不是。我爸爸的妈妈。
　　”
　　“说下去。
　　”
　　“其他人都在那儿。有我的两个哥哥，还有……那个小女婴。她先把他们送了出去，让他们在贝比•萨格斯那儿等她。所以她为了赶到那里什么苦都得吃。这个爱弥姑娘帮了大忙。
　　”
　　丹芙停下来，叹了口气。这是故事里她最爱的部分。马上就要说到这段了。她之所以爱这段，是因为它讲的全是她自己；可她又恨这段，因为这让她觉得好像有一笔债欠下了，而还债的是她，丹芙。然而她究竟欠的是谁的债，又拿什么来偿还，她不懂。此刻，注视着宠儿警觉而饥渴的脸，看她怎样捕捉每一个词、打听东西的颜色和大小，注意到她明白无误的了解真相的渴望，丹芙不仅听见，也开始看见自己正在讲述的一切：这个十九岁的黑奴姑娘———比自己大一岁———正穿过幽暗的树林去找远方的孩子们。她累了，可能有点害怕，甚至还可能迷了路。问题的关键是，她孤身一人，而且腹中还怀着个让她牵肠挂肚的婴儿。她身后也许有狗，也许有枪；当然，肯定有生了青苔的牙齿。在夜里她倒不那么害怕，因为夜色就是她的肤色，可是到了白天，每一个动静都可能是一声枪响，或者一个追捕者悄悄接近的脚步声。
　　此刻丹芙看到了，也感受到了———借助宠儿。感受到她妈妈当时的真实感受。看到当时的真实景象。而且好点子出得越多，提供的细节越多，宠儿就越爱听。于是她通过向妈妈、奶奶给她讲的故事注入血液———和心跳，预先设想出问题和答案。当她们两个一起躺下的时候，独角戏实际上变成了二重唱，由丹芙来满足宠儿的嗜好，表现得好像一个情人，他的乐趣就是过分娇惯他的心上人。带着两块橘黄色补丁的深色被子也和她们在一起，因为宠儿睡觉的时候执意要它在身边。它闻着像草，摸起来像手———忙碌的女人从不消停的手：干燥，温暖，多刺。丹芙说着，宠儿听着，两个人尽最大的努力去重现事情的真相，而到底是怎么回事，只有塞丝知道，因为只有她一个人有心思去琢磨，事后又有空将它勾勒出来：爱弥的音质，她那燃烧的木头似的呼吸。丘陵地带那多变的天气———凉爽的夜晚，酷热的白天，骤降的雾。她和这个白人姑娘一道，是那样毫无顾忌———因绝望而生，又受到爱弥那亡命徒一般的目光和善良的嘴纵容的毫无顾忌。
Chapter 19
    "You ain't got no business walking round these hills, miss." "Looka here who's talking. I got morebusiness here 'n you got. They catch you they cut your head off. Ain't nobody after me but I knowsomebody after you." Amy pressed her fingers into the soles of the slavewoman's feet. "Whosebaby that?" Sethe did not answer.
　　"You don't even know. Come here, Jesus," Amy sighed and shook her head. "Hurt?""A touch.""Good for you. More it hurt more better it is. Can't nothing heal without pain, you know. What youwiggling for?"Sethe raised up on her elbows. Lying on her back so long had raised a ruckus between her shoulderblades. The fire in her feet and the fire on her back made her sweat.
　　"My back hurt me," she said.
　　"Your back? Gal, you a mess. Turn over here and let me see." In an effort so great it made her sickto her stomach, Sethe turned onto her right side. Amy unfastened the back of her dress and said, "Come here, Jesus," when she saw. Sethe guessed it must be bad because after that call to JesusAmy didn't speak for a while. In the silence of an Amy struck dumb for a change, Sethe felt thefingers of those good hands lightly touch her back. She could hear her breathing but still thewhitegirl said nothing. Sethe could not move. She couldn't lie on her stomach or her back, and tokeep on her side meant pressure on her screaming feet. Amy spoke at last in her dreamwalker'svoice.
　　"It's a tree, Lu. A chokecherry tree. See, here's the trunk — it's red and split wide open, full of sap,and this here's the parting for the branches. You got a mighty lot of branches. Leaves, too, looklike, and dern if these ain't blossoms. Tiny little cherry blossoms, just as white. Your back got awhole tree on it. In bloom. What God have in mind, I wonder. I had me some whippings, but Idon't remember nothing like this. Mr. Buddy had a right evil hand too. Whip you for looking athim straight. Sure would. I looked right at him one time and he hauled off and threw the poker atme. Guess he knew what I was a-thinking.'"Sethe groaned and Amy cut her reverie short — long enough to shift Sethe's feet so the weight,resting on leaf-covered stones, was above the ankles.
　　"That better? Lord what a way to die. You gonna die in here, you know. Ain't no way out of it.
　　Thank your Maker I come along so's you wouldn't have to die outside in them weeds. Snake comealong he bite you. Bear eat you up. Maybe you should of stayed where you was, Lu. I can see byyour back why you didn't ha ha. Whoever planted that tree beat Mr. Buddy by a mile. Glad I ain'tyou. Well, spiderwebs is 'bout all I can do for you. What's in here ain't enough. I'll look outside.
　　Could use moss, but sometimes bugs and things is in it. Maybe I ought to break them blossomsopen. Get that pus to running, you think? Wonder what God had in mind. You must of didsomething. Don't run off nowhere now."Sethe could hear her humming away in the bushes as she hunted spiderwebs. A humming sheconcentrated on because as soon as Amy ducked out the baby began to stretch. Good question, shewas thinking. What did He have in mind? Amy had left the back of Sethe's dress open and now atail of wind hit it, taking the pain down a step. A relief that let her feel the lesser pain of her soretongue. Amy returned with two palmfuls of web, which she cleaned of prey and then draped onSethe's back, saying it was like stringing a tree for Christmas.
　　"We got a old nigger girl come by our place. She don't know nothing. Sews stuff for Mrs. Buddy— real fine lace but can't barely stick two words together. She don't know nothing, just like you.
　　You don't know a thing. End up dead, that's what. Not me. I'm a get to Boston and get myself somevelvet. Carmine. You don't even know about that, do you? Now you never will. Bet you nevereven sleep with the sun in your face. I did it a couple of times. Most times I'm feeding stock beforelight and don't get to sleep till way after dark comes. But I was in the back of the wagon once andfell asleep. Sleeping with the sun in your face is the best old feeling. Two times I did it. Once whenI was little. Didn't nobody bother me then. Next time, in back of the wagon, it happened again anddoggone if the chickens didn't get loose. Mr. Buddy whipped my tail. Kentucky ain't no good placeto be in. Boston's the place to be in. That's where my mother was before she was give to Mr. Buddy. Joe Nathan said Mr. Buddy is my daddy but I don't believe that, you?"Sethe told her she didn't believe Mr. Buddy was her daddy.
　　"You know your daddy, do you?""No," said Sethe.
　　"Neither me. All I know is it ain't him." She stood up then, having finished her repair work, andweaving about the lean-to, her slow-moving eyes pale in the sun that lit her hair, she sang: "'Whenthe busy day is done And my weary little one Rocketh gently to and fro; When the night windssoftly blow, And the crickets in the glen Chirp and chirp and chirp again; Where "pon the hauntedgreen Fairies dance around their queen, Then from yonder misty skies Cometh Lady Button Eyes."Suddenly she stopped weaving and rocking and sat down, her skinny arms wrapped around herknees, her good good hands cupping her elbows. Her slow-moving eyes stopped and peered intothe dirt at her feet. "That's my mama's song. She taught me it.""Through the muck and mist and glaam To our quiet cozy home, Where to singing sweet and lowRocks a cradle to and fro. Where the clock's dull monotone Telleth of the day that's done, Wherethe moonbeams hover o'er Playthings sleeping on the floor, Where my weary wee one lies ComethLady Button Eyes. "Layeth she her hands upon My dear weary little one, And those white handsoverspread Like a veil the curly head,Seem to fondle and caress Every little silken tress. Then she smooths the eyelids down Over thosetwo eyes of brown In such soothing tender wise Cometh Lady Button Eyes."
    “你这样在山坡上走来走去，是找不着事儿干的，小姐。　　”
　　“嚯，这是谁呀，这么大口气。我在这儿可比你有事儿干。他们抓住你就会割下你的脑袋。没人追我，可我知道有人在追你。”爱弥把手指按进那女奴的脚心，“孩子是谁的？　　”
　　塞丝没有回答。
　　“你自己都不知道。来看看哪，耶稣。”爱弥叹了口气，摇摇头，“疼吗？”
　　“有点儿。”
　　“好极了。越疼越好。知道么，不疼就好不了。你扭什么？”
　　塞丝用胳膊肘支起身子。躺了这么久，两片肩胛骨都打起架来了。脚里的火和背上的火弄得她大汗淋漓。
　　“我后背疼。”她说。
　　“后背？姑娘，你真是一团糟。翻过来让我瞧瞧。”
　　塞丝费了好大劲，胃里一阵翻腾，才向右翻过身去。爱弥把她裙子的背面解开，刚一看见后背便失声道：
　　“来看哪，耶稣。”塞丝猜想伤势一定糟透了，因为爱弥喊完“耶稣”以后好半天都没吱声。在爱弥怔怔地发呆的沉默中，塞丝感觉到那双好手的指头在轻轻地触摸她的后背。她听得见那个白人姑娘的呼吸，可那姑娘还是没有开口。塞丝不能动弹。她既不能趴着也不能仰着，如果侧卧，就会压到她那双要命的脚。爱弥终于用梦游一般的声音说话了。
　　“是棵树，露。一棵苦樱桃树。看哪，这是树干———通红通红的，朝外翻开，尽是汁儿。从这儿分杈。你有好多好多的树枝。好像还有树叶，还有这些，要不是花才怪呢。小小的樱桃花，真白。你背上有一整棵树。正开花呢。我纳闷上帝是怎么想的。我也挨过鞭子，可从来没有过这种样子。巴迪先生的手也特别黑。你瞪他一眼就会挨鞭子。肯定会。我有一回瞪了他，他就大叫大嚷，还朝我扔火钳子。我猜大概他知道我在想什么。”
　　塞丝呻吟起来。爱弥暂时中断了想入非非，把塞丝的两只脚挪到铺满树叶的石头上，不让脚踝太吃劲。
　　“这样好一点吗？主啊，这么个死法。知道吗，你会死在这儿的。逃不掉了。感谢上帝吧，我打这儿路过了，所以你不用死在杂草丛里了。蛇路过会咬你。熊会吃了你。也许你该留在原来的地方，露。我从你的后背看出来你为什么不留在那儿，哈哈。甭管那棵树是谁种的，他都比巴迪先生狠上一百倍。幸亏我不是你。看来，我只能去给你弄点蜘蛛网来。这屋里的还不够。我得上外面找找去。用青苔也行，只怕里头会有虫子什么的。也许我该掰开那些花，把脓挤出去，你觉得呢？真纳闷上帝当时是怎么想的。你肯定干了什么。现在哪儿也别逃了。
　　”
　　塞丝听得见她在树丛里哼着歌儿找蜘蛛网。她用心聆听着哼唱声，因为爱弥一出去那婴儿就开始踢腾。问得好，她心想。上帝当时是怎么想的？爱弥让塞丝背上的裙衣敞着，一阵轻风拂过，痛楚减轻了一层。这点解脱让她感觉到了相对轻微一些的舌头上的疼痛。爱弥抓着两大把蜘蛛网回来了。她弄掉粘上的小虫子，把蜘蛛网敷在塞丝的背上，说这就像装饰圣诞树一样。
　　“我们那儿有一个黑鬼老太太，她啥都不懂。给巴迪太太做针线———织得一手好花边，可是几乎不能连着说出两个词儿来。她啥都不懂，跟你似的。你一点儿事也不省。死了就拉倒了，就是那样。我可不是。我要去波士顿给自己弄点天鹅绒。胭脂色的。你连听都没听说过，对吧？你以后也不可能见到了。我敢打赌你甚至再也不会在阳光底下睡觉了。我就睡过两回。平时我是在掌灯之前喂牲口，天黑以后好长时间才睡觉。可有一次我在大车上躺下就睡着了。在太阳底下睡觉是天底下最美的事了。我睡了两回。第一回我还小呐。根本没人打扰我。第二回，躺在大车上，我又睡着了，真倒霉，小鸡崽要不丢才怪呢。巴迪先生抽了我的屁股。肯塔基不是个人待的地方。波士顿才是人待的地方呢。我妈妈被送给巴迪先生之前就住在那儿。乔•南森说巴迪先生是我爹，可我不信，你呢？
　　”
　　塞丝告诉她，她不相信巴迪先生是她爹。
　　“你认得你爹，对吧？
　　”
　　“不认得。
　　”塞丝答道。
　　“我也不认得。我只知道不是他。
　　”干完了修补工作后，她站起身来，开始在这间披屋里转来转去。在阳光里，她的头发闪亮，迟缓的眼睛变得迷离；她唱道：
　　忙碌的一天过去了，我的疲倦的小宝宝，摇篮里面摇啊摇；晚风轻轻吹，幽谷里的小蟋蟀，一刻不停吵又吵。
　　青青草地成仙境，仙女绕着仙后把舞跳。
　　天边茫茫迷雾里，扣子眼睛太太就来到。
　　忽然，她停止晃悠，坐下来，细胳膊搂住膝盖，那么好的好手抱着双肘。她慢吞吞的目光定在脚丫里的泥巴上。
　　“那是我妈妈的歌儿。她教给我的。
　　”
　　走过粪堆、迷雾和暮色，我们家安静又美好，甜甜蜜蜜轻声唱，把那摇篮摇啊摇。
　　钟声嘀嘀嗒，宣布一天过去了，月光洒满地，满地玩具都睡着。
　　睡吧疲倦的小宝宝，扣子眼睛太太就来到。
　　把她双手安顿好，我的疲倦的小宝宝，小手张开白胖胖，好像发网头上罩。
　　宝宝惹人爱，一头缎带小鬈毛。
　　轻轻合上黑眼睛，两颗明珠要关牢。
　　动作轻柔赛羽毛，扣子眼睛太太就来到。
Chapter 20
    Amy sat quietly after her song, then repeated the last line before she stood, left the lean-to andwalked off a little ways to lean against a young ash. When she came back the sun was in the valleybelow and they were way above it in blue Kentucky light. "'You ain't dead yet, Lu? Lu?""Not yet.""Make you a bet. You make it through the night, you make it all the way." Amy rearranged theleaves for comfort and knelt down to massage the swollen feet again. "Give these one more realgood rub," she said, and when Sethe sucked air through her teeth, she said, "Shut up. You got tokeep your mouth shut."Careful of her tongue, Sethe bit down on her lips and let the good hands go to work to the tune of"So bees, sing soft and bees, sing low." Afterward, Amy moved to the other side of the lean-towhere, seated, she lowered her head toward her shoulder and braided her hair, saying, "Don't upand die on me in the night, you hear? I don't want to see your ugly black face hankering over me.
　　If you do die, just go on off somewhere where I can't see you, hear?""I hear," said Sethe. I'll do what I can, miss."Sethe never expected to see another thing in this world, so when she felt toes prodding her hip ittook a while to come out of a sleep she thought was death. She sat up, stiff and shivery, while Amylooked in on her juicy back.
　　"Looks like the devil," said Amy. "But you made it through.
　　Come down here, Jesus, Lu made it through. That's because of me. I'm good at sick things. Canyou walk, you think?""I have to let my water some kind of way.""Let's see you walk on em."It was not good, but it was possible, so Sethe limped, holding on first to Amy, then to a sapling.
　　"Was me did it. I'm good at sick things ain't I?""Yeah," said Sethe, "you good.""We got to get off this here hill. Come on. I'll take you down to the river. That ought to suit you.
　　Me, I'm going to the Pike. Take me straight to Boston. What's that all over your dress?""Milk.""You one mess."Sethe looked down at her stomach and touched it. The baby was dead. She had not died in thenight, but the baby had. If that was the case, then there was no stopping now. She would get thatmilk to her baby girl if she had to swim.
　　"Ain't you hungry?" Amy asked her.
　　"I ain't nothing but in a hurry, miss.""Whoa. Slow down. Want some shoes?""Say what?""I figured how," said Amy and so she had. She tore two pieces from Sethe's shawl, filled them withleaves and tied them over her feet, chattering all the while.
　　"How old are you, Lu? I been bleeding for four years but I ain't having nobody's baby. Won't catch me sweating milk cause...""I know," said Sethe. "You going to Boston."At noon they saw it; then they were near enough to hear it. By late afternoon they could drink fromit if they wanted to. Four stars were visible by the time they found, not a riverboat to stow Setheaway on, or a ferryman willing to take on a fugitive passenger — nothing like that — but a wholeboat to steal. It had one oar, lots of holes and two bird nests.
　　"There you go, Lu. Jesus looking at you."Sethe was looking at one mile of dark water, which would have to be split with one oar in a uselessboat against a current dedicated to the Mississippi hundreds of miles away. It looked like home toher, and the baby (not dead in the least) must have thought so too. As soon as Sethe got close to theriver her own water broke loose to join it. The break, followed by the redundant announcement oflabor, arched her back.
　　"What you doing that for?" asked Amy. "Ain't you got a brain in your head? Stop that right now. Isaid stop it, Lu. You the dumbest thing on this here earth. Lu! Lu!"Sethe couldn't think of anywhere to go but in. She waited for the sweet beat that followed the blastof pain. On her knees again, she crawled into the boat. It waddled under her and she had justenough time to brace her leaf-bag feet on the bench when another rip took her breath away.
　　Panting under four summer stars, she threw her legs over the sides, because here come the head, asAmy informed her as though she did not know it — as though the rip was a breakup of walnut logsin the brace, or of lightning's jagged tear through a leather sky.
　　It was stuck. Face up and drowning in its mother's blood. Amy stopped begging Jesus and began tocurse His daddy.
　　"Push!" screamed Amy.
　　"Pull," whispered Sethe.
　　And the strong hands went to work a fourth time, none too soon, for river water, seeping throughany hole it chose, was spreading over Sethe's hips. She reached one arm back and grabbed the ropewhile Amy fairly clawed at the head. When a foot rose from the river bed and kicked the bottom ofthe boat and Sethe's behind, she knew it was done and permitted herself a short faint. Coming to,she heard no cries, just Amy's encouraging coos. Nothing happened for so long they both believedthey had lost it. Sethe arched suddenly and the afterbirth shot out. Then the baby whimpered andSethe looked. Twenty inches of cord hung from its belly and it trembled in the cooling evening air.
　　Amy wrapped her skirt around it and the wet sticky women clambered ashore to see what, indeed,God had in mind.
　　Spores of bluefern growing in the hollows along the riverbank float toward the water in silver-bluelines hard to see unless you are in or near them, lying right at the river's edge when the sunshotsare low and drained. Often they are mistook for insects — but they are seeds in which the wholegeneration sleeps confident of a future. And for a moment it is easy to believe each one has one —will become all of what is contained in the spore: will live out its days as planned. This moment ofcertainty lasts no longer than that; longer, perhaps, than the spore itself.
　　On a riverbank in the cool of a summer evening two women struggled under a shower of silveryblue. They never expected to see each other again in this world and at the moment couldn't careless. But there summer night surrounded by bluefern they did something togetherappropriatelyandwe(on) ll.(a) A pateroller passing would have sniggered to see two throw-away people,two lawless outlaws — a slave and a barefoot whitewoman with unpinned hair — wrapping a tenminute-old baby in the rags they wore. But no pateroller came and no preacher. The water suckedand swallowed itself beneath them. There was nothing to disturb them at their work. So they did itappropriately and well.
　　Twilight came on and Amy said she had to go; that she wouldn't be caught dead in daylight on abusy river with a runaway. After rinsing her hands and face in the river, she stood and lookeddown at the baby wrapped and tied to Sethe's chest.
　　"She's never gonna know who I am. You gonna tell her? Who brought her into this here world?"She lifted her chin, looked off into the place where the sun used to be. "You better tell her. Youhear? Say Miss Amy Denver. Of Boston."Sethe felt herself falling into a sleep she knew would be deep. On the lip of it, just before goingunder, she thought, "That's pretty. Denver. Real pretty."IT WAS TIME to lay it all down. Before Paul D came and sat on her porch steps, words whisperedin the keeping room had kept her going. Helped her endure the chastising ghost; refurbished thebaby faces of Howard and Buglar and kept them whole in the world because in her dreams she sawonly their parts in trees; and kept her husband shadowy but there — somewhere. Now Halle's facebetween the butter press and the churn swelled larger and larger, crowding her eyes and makingher head hurt. She wished for Baby Suggs' fingers molding her nape, reshaping it, saying, "Lay emdown, Sethe. Sword and shield. Down. Down. Both of em down. Down by the riverside. Swordand shield. Don't study war no more. Lay all that mess down. Sword and shield." And under thepressing fingers and the quiet instructive voice, she would. Her heavy knives of defense againstmisery, regret, gall and hurt, she placed one by one on a bank where dear water rushed on below.
　　Nine years without the fingers or the voice of Baby Suggs was too much. And words whispered inthe keeping room were too little. The butter-smeared face of a man God made none sweeter thandemanded more: an arch built or a robe sewn. Some fixing ceremony. Sethe decided to go to theClearing, back where Baby Suggs had danced in sunlight.
　　Before 124 and everybody in it had closed down, veiled over and shut away; before it had become the plaything of spirits and the home of the chafed, 124 had been a cheerful, buzzing house whereBaby Suggs, holy, loved, cautioned, fed, chastised and soothed. Where not one but two potssimmered on the stove; where the lamp burned all night long. Strangers rested there while childrentried on their shoes. Messages were left there, for whoever needed them was sure to stop in oneday soon. Talk was low and to the point — for Baby Suggs, holy, didn't approve of extra.
　　"Everything depends on knowing how much," she said, and "Good is knowing when to stop."It was in front of that 124 that Sethe climbed off a wagon, her newborn tied to her chest, and feltfor the first time the wide arms of her mother-in-law, who had made it to Cincinnati. Who decidedthat, because slave life had "busted her legs, back, head, eyes, hands, kidneys, womb and tongue,"she had nothing left to make a living with but her heart — which she put to work at once.
　　Accepting no title of honor before her name, but allowing a small caress after it, she became anunchurched preacher, one who visited pulpits and opened her great heart to those who could use it.
　　In winter and fall she carried it to AME's and Baptists, Holinesses and Sanctifieds, the Church ofthe Redeemer and the Redeemed. Uncalled, unrobed, un anointed, she let her great heart beat intheir presence. When warm weather came, Baby Suggs, holy, followed by every black man,woman and child who could make it through, took her great heart to the Clearing — a wide-openplace cut deep in the woods nobody knew for what at the end of a path known only to deer andwhoever cleared the land in the first place. In the heat of every Saturday afternoon, she sat in theclearing while the people waited among the trees. After situating herself on a huge flat-sided rock,Baby Suggs bowed her head and prayed silently. The company watched her from the trees. Theyknew she was ready when she put her stick down. Then she shouted, "Let the children come!" andthey ran from the trees toward her.
    爱弥唱完歌，安静地坐着，又重复了最后一句才站起来，然后离开披屋，走出几步，靠在一棵小白杨上。她回来的时候，太阳已落入下面的山谷，而她们两个高高在上，沐浴着肯塔基的蓝色光芒。
　　“你还没死吧，露？露？
　　”
　　“还没呢。
　　”
　　“跟你打个赌。你要是挺过这一夜，你就能挺过去了。
　　”爱弥重新把树叶放得舒服些，又跪下来按摩塞丝的脚，“再好好揉揉它们。
　　”塞丝倒吸了一口凉气。爱弥说道：
　　“闭嘴。你给我闭上你的嘴。”
　　塞丝小心着舌头，咬住嘴唇，让那双好手跟着“小蜜蜂，轻轻唱，小蜜蜂，低声唱”的调子继续工作。工作结束后，爱弥到披屋的另一边坐下，一边歪着头编辫子，一边说：
　　“可别给我死在夜里，听见没有？我可不想看见你这张又丑又黑的脸勾我的魂儿。你如果真的要死了，就到我看不见的地方去死，听见了没有？
　　”
　　“听见了，”塞丝道，“我会尽力而为的，小姐。
　　”
　　塞丝没指望能再睁眼看到这个世界，所以当她感觉到有脚指头踢着她的屁股时，她费了好一会儿工夫才从她以为是死亡的沉睡中醒过来。她坐起来，身体僵硬，打着哆嗦；爱弥正在查看她黏糊糊的后背。
　　“看起来糟透了，”爱弥说，“不过你挺过来了。来瞧瞧吧，耶稣，露挺过来了。那是因为我。
　　我多会治病啊。你觉得能走吗？
　　”
　　“怎么着我也得去放点水。
　　”
　　“咱们来瞧瞧你的脚走路吧。
　　”
　　并不太好，却已经可能了，于是塞丝一瘸一拐地走起来，先是扶着爱弥，然后是拄着一棵小树。
　　“是我干的。我治病挺在行，是不是？
　　”
　　“是的，”塞丝说，“你真棒。
　　”
　　“我们得下山了。走吧。我把你带到山下的河边。那就跟你对路了。我嘛，我得到派克去。那里直通波士顿。你这满身都是些什么呀？
　　”
　　“奶水。
　　”
　　“你真是一塌糊涂。
　　”
　　塞丝低头看着自己的肚子，摸了摸。孩子死了。她没死在夜里，可孩子死了。如果真是那样，现在就更不能停下来了。就是游过去，她也得把奶水带给她的小女儿。
　　“你不饿吗？
　　”爱弥问她。
　　“我只想赶路，小姐。
　　”
　　“哇。慢点。想穿鞋吗？
　　”
　　“你说什么？
　　”
　　“我想想办法。
　　”爱弥说着，然后就想出了个主意。她从塞丝的披肩上撕下两片，包上树叶，绑在她的脚上，同时一直说个不停。
　　“你多大了，露？我都流了四年血了，可还没怀上谁的孩子。你根本看不见我淌奶水，因为……”
　　“我知道，”塞丝说，“你要去波士顿。
　　”
　　正午时分她们看见了那条河；然后她们走得更近，听见了奔流的水声。到傍晚她们就能喝上它的水了，如果愿意的话。四颗星星在空中闪现；这时候她们发现没有一条船能把塞丝运走，也没有一个摆渡的愿意搭载一个逃犯———没有比那更要命的了———可是有一整条船可以偷。这条船有一支桨、许多窟窿，以及两个鸟巢。
　　“你可以走了，露。耶稣瞧着你呢。
　　”
　　塞丝正望着一段幽暗的河水，那朝着数百英里外的密西西比河奔涌而去的河水，注定要被一条逆流而上的废弃小船的船桨划开了。小船在她看来像个家，那婴儿（根本没死）也一定这么想。一走近这条河，塞丝自己的羊水就涌出来与河水汇聚。先是挣裂，然后是多余的生产的信号，让她弓起了腰。
　　“你在那儿干什么呢？
　　”爱弥问道，“你还有脑子没有？赶紧停下来。我说快停下来，露。你是这世界上最蠢的东西。露!露!”
　　塞丝想不出什么地方好去，只想上船。她等待着阵痛后甜蜜的悸动。再次用膝盖爬行，她爬上了小船。船在她身下晃动，她刚把裹着树叶口袋的脚放到长凳上，就被另一阵撕裂的疼痛逼得喘不过气来。在夏日的四颗星星下面，她气喘吁吁地大叉开双腿，因为脑袋钻了出来；爱弥赶紧向她报告，好像她自己不知道似的———好像撕裂就是折断核桃树干，就是闪电将皮革的天空一撕两半。
　　婴儿卡住了。它脸朝上，让妈妈的血淹没了。爱弥停止祈求耶稣，开始诅咒耶稣他爹。
　　“使劲!”爱弥尖叫道。
　　“拽呀。
　　”塞丝低声说。
　　那双有力的手第四次发挥威力了，但不是立竿见影，因为河水从所有窟窿里钻进来，漫过了塞丝的屁股。塞丝的一只手伸到背后，一把抓住船缆，同时爱弥轻轻地钳住了脑袋。当河床里露出一只小脚，踢着船底和塞丝的屁股时，塞丝知道完事了，就允许自己昏迷了一会儿。醒过来后，她没听见哭声，只听见爱弥在“咕咕”地逗弄那孩子。这么长时间没有动静，她们两个都觉得，她们已失去了她。塞丝突然弓起身子，胎盘胎膜一齐流出体外。然后婴儿哭了起来。塞丝望着她。挂在她肚子上的脐带有二十英寸长；那小家伙在凉爽的夜风中颤抖着。爱弥用裙子包住她。湿漉漉、黏糊糊的两个女人艰难地爬上岸，去看看上帝到底是怎么想的。
　　蓝羊齿的孢子在河岸的凹地里生长，它们漂向河水的银蓝色行列是很难见到的，除非你就在凹地里，或是离得很近，当夕阳西下、光线渐疏时恰好躺在河岸的边缘。它们往往被误认作小飞虫———然而它们是正在沉睡的整整一代对未来充满信心的种子。而片刻之间人们又很容易相信，每粒种子都拥有一个未来———都会成为孢子中所孕育的一切：像预期的那样安享天年。这确信的一刻不过持续了片刻；也许，倒比孢子本身更为长久。
　　在一个夏夜微凉的河岸上，两个女人在银蓝色的光芒下挣扎着。她们根本没想过在这个世界上还有重逢的机会，而且在那个时刻也毫不在意。可是，在一个夏夜，在蓝羊齿中间，她们一道把一件事情做得很恰当、很好。如果有个过路的纠察看到这样两个被遗弃的人，两个无法无天的亡命徒———一个奴隶和一个散发跣足的白女人———用她们穿的破衣裳包着一个刚刚出生十分钟的婴儿，他肯定会哧哧窃笑。可是既没有纠察，也没有牧师。河水在她们身下吮吸、吞噬着自己。她们工作的时候没有任何干扰。于是她们把事情做得很恰当、很好。
　　曙光来临，爱弥说她得走了；她不能大白天在人来人往的河边跟一个逃犯一起让人一把抓住。
　　她在河里洗净了手和脸，然后站起身来，低头看着系在塞丝胸前襁褓中的婴儿。
　　“她永远也不会知道我是谁。你会对她讲吗？是谁把她带到这个世界上来的？
　　”她扬起下巴，把目光转向太阳曾经驻足的地方，“你最好告诉她。你听见了吗？就说是爱弥•丹芙小姐。波士顿人。
　　”
　　塞丝感觉到自己正在睡去，而且知道这一次会睡得很沉。在梦的边缘，在坠落之前，她想：这名字好听。丹芙。真好听。
　　是全部放下的时候了。在保罗•D到来并坐在她门廊的台阶上之前，一直是起居室里的喃喃低语给了她活下去的勇气。帮她忍受那个向她大施惩罚的鬼；为她重新擦亮霍华德和巴格勒儿时的脸庞，保持它们在这个世界上的完整，因为在梦里她只见到它们在树木中间支离破碎的样子；并且确保她的丈夫虽然形象模糊却仍旧存在———在某个地方。现在，黑尔的脸在榨牛油机和搅乳机之间越胀越大，越胀越大，挤满了她的眼睛，让她头痛欲裂。她渴望贝比•萨格斯还能用手指来捏着她的后颈，一边重塑它，一边说：
　　“放下吧，塞丝。剑和盾。放下吧。放下吧。两样都放下吧。放在河边吧。剑和盾。别再研究战争了。把这一切污七八糟的东西都放下吧。剑和盾。
　　”
　　在那紧压的手指和平静的教诲下，她会的。所有抵御苦难、悔恨、苦恼和伤痛的沉重的刀子，她将它们一把一把地放在岸上，清澈的河水在下面奔涌。
　　整整九年没有贝比•萨格斯的手指和声音，这太过分了。而且，仅仅在起居室里低语也太不够了。一张脸上涂满了牛油，上帝创造的那个男人可丝毫不比她的非分之求更甜蜜：一道筑起的拱门，或者一件缝好的礼袍。某种固有的仪式。塞丝决定到“林间空地”去，那里，贝比•萨格斯曾在阳光中舞蹈。
　　在124号和它里面的每个人一起关闭、掩藏和隔绝之前，在它成为鬼魂的玩物和愤怒的家园之前，它曾是一所生机勃勃、热闹非凡的房子，圣贝比•萨格斯在那里爱、告诫、供养、惩罚和安慰他人。那里，不是一只、而是两只锅在炉火上咝咝作响；那里，灯火彻夜通明。陌生人在那里歇脚的时候，孩子们试着他们的鞋子。口信留在那里，因为等待口信的人不久就会到那里过访。
　　谈话声很低而且点到即止———因为圣贝比•萨格斯不赞成废话。
　　“什么都靠分寸，”她说，“好就好在适可而止。
　　”
　　就是在那个124号跟前，胸前绑着新生儿的塞丝爬下一辆大车，第一次感受她的婆婆敞开的怀抱。贝比是先期抵达辛辛那提的，她认定，由于奴隶生活“摧毁了她的双腿、后背、脑袋、眼睛、双手、肾脏、子宫和舌头”，她什么都不剩了，只能靠心灵谋生———于是她立即付诸实践。她拒绝接受加在名字前的任何荣誉称号，只允许人们在名字后缀上一点东西以示爱戴，就这样她成为一位不入教的牧师，走上讲坛，把她伟大的心灵向那些需要的人们敞开。在冬天和秋天，她把心带给AME教徒和浸礼教徒，带给圣洁教会教友和神圣者会教友，带给救世主和赎罪者教会。不用人请，不穿圣袍，没有涂膏，她让自己伟大的心灵在人们面前搏动。天气转暖时，身后尾随着所有劫后余生的黑人男子、妇女和孩子，圣贝比•萨格斯把她伟大的心灵带到“林间空地”———那是密林深处、小路尽头的一块宽敞的空地，只有野鹿和早先的开垦者才会知道它的由来。每一个星期六下午，在酷暑中，她坐在空地上，而人们等在树林里。
　　贝比•萨格斯在一块平展整齐的巨石上坐好，低下头默默祈祷。大家在树林里望着她。
　　当她将手中的拐棍放下，他们知道，她已经准备就绪。然后她喊道：
　　“让孩子们过来!”他们就从树林里跑向她。
Chapter 21
    "Let your mothers hear you laugh," she told them, and the woods rang. The adults looked on andcould not help smiling.
　　Then "Let the grown men come," she shouted. They stepped out one by one from among theringing trees.
　　"Let your wives and your children see you dance," she told them, and groundlife shuddered undertheir feet.
　　Finally she called the women to her. "Cry," she told them. "For the living and the dead. Just cry."And without covering their eyes the women let loose.
　　It started that way: laughing children, dancing men, crying women and then it got mixed up.
　　Women stopped crying and danced; men sat down and cried; children danced, women laughed,children cried until, exhausted and riven, all and each lay about the Clearing damp and gasping forbreath. In the silence that followed, Baby Suggs, holy, offered up to them her great big heart.
　　She did not tell them to clean up their lives or to go and sin no more. She did not tell them theywere the blessed of the earth, its inheriting meek or its glorybound pure.
　　She told them that the only grace they could have was the grace they could imagine. That if theycould not see it, they would not have it.
　　"Here," she said, "in this here place, we flesh; flesh that weeps, laughs; flesh that dances on barefeet in grass. Love it. Love it hard. Yonder they do not love your flesh. They despise it. They don'tlove your eyes; they'd just as soon pick em out. No more do they love the skin on your back.
　　Yonder they flay it. And O my people they do not love your hands. Those they only use, tie, bind,chop off and leave empty. Love your hands! Love them. Raise them up and kiss them. Touchothers with them, pat them together, stroke them on your face 'cause they don't love that either.
　　You got to love it, you! And no, they ain't in love with your mouth. Yonder, out there, they willsee it broken and break it again. What you say out of it they will not heed. What you scream fromit they do not hear. What you put into it to nourish your body they will snatch away and give youleavins instead. No, they don't love your mouth. You got to love it. This is flesh I'm talking abouthere. Flesh that needs to be loved. Feet that need to rest and to dance; backs that need support;shoulders that need arms, strong arms I'm telling you. And O my people, out yonder, hear me, theydo not love your neck unnoosed and straight. So love your neck; put a hand on it, grace it, stroke itand hold it up. And all your inside parts that they'd just as soon slop for hogs, you got to love them.
　　The dark, dark liver — love it, love it, and the beat and beating heart, love that too. More than eyesor feet.
　　More than lungs that have yet to draw free air. More than your life holding womb and your life-giving private parts, hear me now, love your heart. For this is the prize." Saying no more, she stoodup then and danced with her twisted hip the rest of what her heart had to say while the othersopened their mouths and gave her the music. Long notes held until the four-part harmony wasperfect enough for their deeply loved flesh.
　　Sethe wanted to be there now. At the least to listen to the spaces that the long-ago singing had leftbehind. At the most to get a clue from her husband's dead mother as to what she should do with hersword and shield now, dear Jesus, now nine years after Baby Suggs, holy, proved herself a liar,dismissed her great heart and lay in the keeping-room bed roused once in a while by a craving forcolor and not for another thing.
　　"Those white things have taken all I had or dreamed," she said, "and broke my heartstrings too.
　　There is no bad luck in the world but whitefolks." 124 shut down and put up with the venom of itsghost. No more lamp all night long, or neighbors dropping by. No low conversations after supper.
　　No watched barefoot children playing in the shoes of strangers. Baby Suggs, holy, believed shehad lied. There was no grace-imaginary or real — and no sunlit dance in a Clearing could changethat. Her faith, her love, her imagination and her great big old heart began to collapse twenty-eightdays after her daughter-in-law arrived.
　　Yet it was to the Clearing that Sethe determined to go — to pay tribute to Halle. Before the lightchanged, while it was still the green blessed place she remembered: misty with plant steam and thedecay of berries.
　　She put on a shawl and told Denver and Beloved to do likewise. All three set out late one Sundaymorning, Sethe leading, the girls trotting behind, not a soul in sight.
　　When they reached the woods it took her no time to find the path through it because big-cityrevivals were held there regularly now, complete with food-laden tables, banjos and a tent. The oldpath was a track now, but still arched over with trees dropping buckeyes onto the grass below.
　　There was nothing to be done other than what she had done, butSethe blamed herself for Baby Suggs' collapse. However many times Baby denied it, Sethe knewthe grief at 124 started when she jumped down off the wagon, her newborn tied to her chest in theunderwear of a whitegirl looking for Boston.
　　Followed by the two girls, down a bright green corridor of oak and horse chestnut, Sethe began tosweat a sweat just like the other one when she woke, mud-caked, on the banks of the Ohio.
　　Amy was gone. Sethe was alone and weak, but alive, and so was her baby. She walked a waysdownriver and then stood gazing at the glimmering water. By and by a flatbed slid into view, butshe could not see if the figures on it were whitepeople or not. She began to sweat from a fever shethanked God for since it would certainly keep her baby warm. When the flatbed was beyond hersight she stumbled on and found herself near three coloredpeople fishing — two boys and an olderman. She stopped and waited to be spoken to. One of the boys pointed and the man looked over hisshoulder at her — a quick look since all he needed to know about her he could see in no time. Noone said anything for a while. Then the man said, "Headin' 'cross?""Yes, sir," said Sethe.
　　"Anybody know you coming?""Yes, sir."He looked at her again and nodded toward a rock that stuck out of the ground above him like abottom lip. Sethe walked to it and sat down. The stone had eaten the sun's rays but was nowherenear as hot as she was. Too tired to move, she stayed there, the sun in her eyes making her dizzy.
　　Sweat poured over her and bathed the baby completely. She must have slept sitting up, becausewhen next she opened her eyes the man was standing in front of her with a smoking-hot piece offried eel in his hands. It was an effort to reach for, more to smell, impossible to eat. She beggedhim for water and he gave her some of the Ohio in a jar. Sethe drank it all and begged more. Theclanging was back in her head but she refused to believe that she had come all that way, enduredall she had, to die on the wrong side of the river.
　　The man watched her streaming face and called one of the boys over.
　　"Take off that coat," he told him.
　　"Sir?""You heard me."The boy slipped out of his jacket, whining, "What you gonna do? What I'm gonna wear?"The man untied the baby from her chest and wrapped it in the boy's coat, knotting the sleeves infront.
　　"What I'm gonna wear?"The old man sighed and, after a pause, said, "You want it back, then go head and take it off thatbaby. Put the baby naked in the grass and put your coat back on. And if you can do it, then go on'way somewhere and don't come back."The boy dropped his eyes, then turned to join the other. With eel in her hand, the baby at her feet,Sethe dozed, dry-mouthed and sweaty. Evening came and the man touched her shoulder.
　　Contrary to what she expected they poled upriver, far away from the rowboat Amy had found. Justwhen she thought he was taking her back to Kentucky, he turned the flatbed and crossed the Ohiolike a shot. There he helped her up the steep bank, while the boy without a jacket carried the babywho wore it. The man led her to a brush-covered hutch with a beaten floor.
　　"Wait here. Somebody be here directly. Don't move. They'll find you." "Thank you," she said. "Iwish I knew your name so I could remember you right.""Name's Stamp," he said. "Stamp Paid. Watch out for that there baby, you hear?""I hear. I hear," she said, but she didn't. Hours later a woman was right up on her before she hearda thing. A short woman, young, with a croaker sack, greeted her.
　　"'Saw the sign a while ago," she said. "But I couldn't get here no quicker.""What sign?" asked Sethe.
　　"Stamp leaves the old sty open when there's a crossing. Knots a white rag on the post if it's a childtoo."She knelt and emptied the sack. "My name's Ella," she said, taking a wool blanket, cotton cloth,two baked sweet potatoes and a pair of men's shoes from the sack. "My husband, John, is outyonder a ways. Where you heading?"Sethe told her about Baby Suggs where she had sent her three children.
　　Ella wrapped a cloth strip tight around the baby's navel as she listened for the holes — the thingsthe fugitives did not say; the questions they did not ask. Listened too for the unnamed,unmentioned people left behind. She shook gravel from the men's shoes and tried to force Sethe'sfeet into them. They would not go. Sadly, they split them down the heel, sorry indeed to ruin sovaluable an item. Sethe put on the boy's jacket, not daring to ask whether there was any word ofthe children.
　　"They made it," said Ella. "Stamp ferried some of that party. Left them on Bluestone. It ain't toofar."Sethe couldn't think of anything to do, so grateful was she, so she peeled a potato, ate it, spit it upand ate more in quiet celebration. "They be glad to see you," said Ella. "When was this one born?""Yesterday," said Sethe, wiping sweat from under her chin. "I hope she makes it."Ella looked at the tiny, dirty face poking out of the wool blanket and shook her head. "Hard tosay," she said. "If anybody was to ask me I'd say, 'Don't love nothing.' " Then, as if to take the edgeoff her pronouncement, she smiled at Sethe. "You had that baby by yourself?""No. Whitegirl helped."
    “让你们的母亲听你们大笑。
　　”她对他们说道，于是树林鸣响。大人们看着，忍俊不禁。
　　然后，“让男人们过来。
　　”她喊道。他们从嘹亮的树林里鱼贯而出。
　　“让你们的妻子和孩子看你们跳舞。
　　”她对他们说，于是大地在他们脚下震颤。
　　最后她把女人们唤来。
　　“哭，”她向她们吩咐道。
　　“为了活着的和死去的，哭吧。
　　”于是女人们还没捂上眼睛就尽情号哭起来。
　　刚开始时是这样：大笑的孩子，跳舞的男人，哭泣的女人，然后就混作一团。女人们停止哭泣，跳起舞来；男人们坐下来哭泣；孩子们跳舞，女人们大笑，孩子们哭泣，直到后来，每个人都筋疲力尽，撕心裂肺，沮丧地躺在空地上捯气。在随之而来的寂静中，圣贝比•萨格斯把她那颗伟大的大心奉献给大家。
　　她没有要求他们去洗刷他们的生命，也没有要求他们不得再有罪过。她没有告诉他们，他们是地球上的有福之人，与生俱来地温顺，或者永世流芳地纯洁。
　　她告诉他们，他们唯一能得到的恩赐是他们想象得出的恩赐。如果他们看不见，他们就得不到。
　　“在这里，”她说，“在这个地方，是我们的肉体；哭泣、欢笑的肉体；在草地上赤脚跳舞的肉体。热爱它。强烈地热爱它。在那边，他们不爱你的肉体，他们蔑视它。他们不爱你的眼睛，他们会一下子把它们挖出来。他们也不爱你背上的皮肤，在那边他们会将它剥去。噢我的子民，他们不爱你的双手。他们只将它们奴役、捆绑、砍断，让它们一无所获。爱你的手吧!热爱它们。举起它们，亲吻它们。用它们去抚摸别人，让它们相互拍打，让它们拍打你的脸，因为他们不爱你的脸。
　　你得去爱它，你！不，他们也不爱你的嘴。那边，远在那边，他们看见它流血还要在伤口上再戳一刀。他们不关心你嘴里说出些什么。他们听不见你嘴里尖叫的声音。他们会夺去你吃进嘴里滋养身体的东西而代之以渣滓。不，他们不爱你的嘴。你得去爱它。我在这里谈的是肉体。需要人爱的肉体。需要休息和跳舞的脚；需要支撑的后背；需要臂膊的肩膀，我说的是结实的臂膊。噢我的子民，远在那边，听我说，他们不爱你不带绞索的挺直的脖子，所以爱你的脖子吧；把一只手放上去，给它增色，拍打它，把它扶正。还有你所有的内脏，他们会一股脑扔给猪吃，你得去爱它们。
　　深色的、深色的肝———爱它，爱它，还有怦怦跳动的心，也爱它。比眼睛比脚更热爱。比呼吸自由空气的肺更热爱。比你保存生命的子宫和你创造生命的私处更热爱。现在听我说，爱你的心。因为这才是价值所在。
　　”然后，她不再多说一句，站起身，用扭动的臀部舞出她的心想说的其他部位，大家张开嘴为她伴奏。悠长的曲调持续着，直到四部和声完美得足以同他们深爱的肉体相匹配。
　　现在塞丝想去那里。至少去聆听那久远的歌声留在身后的余韵。多则呢，她想从她丈夫死去的母亲那里得到一个线索，问问她现在该拿她的剑和盾怎么办。亲爱的耶稣啊，自从圣贝比•萨格斯露出骗子本色，丢弃了她那颗伟大的心脏，躺在起居室的床上，仅仅出于对颜色的渴望才不时醒来一回，到现在已经整整九年了。
　　“那些白鬼夺走了我拥有和梦想的一切，”她说，“还扯断了我的心弦。这个世界上除了白人没有别的不幸。
　　”124号关上了门，去忍受那鬼魂的胡作非为。再没有灯火通明，没有邻居来访。没有晚饭后低声的谈话。没有人在那儿看光脚丫的孩子们穿着陌生人的鞋子玩耍。圣贝比•萨格斯认定，是她自己撒了谎。恩赐根本不存在———不论想象的还是真实的———而“林间空地”上阳光中的舞蹈丝毫不能改变这个事实。她的忠诚、她的爱、她的想像力和她那颗伟大的大心，在她的儿媳妇到来之后的第二十八天开始崩溃。
　　然而塞丝还是决定到“林间空地”上去———去祭奠黑尔。在真相曝光之前，那里一直是她记忆中的绿色圣地：植物的蒸汽和莓子的腐败气味弥漫其上。
　　她披上披肩，又让丹芙和宠儿也一样披上。三个人在一个星期六的早晨出门了，塞丝领头，姑娘们紧随其后，视野中不见一个人影。
　　到达那片树林后，她没费一点时间就找到了穿行的小路，因为如今那里定期举行大城市信仰复兴活动，丰盛的餐桌、班卓琴、帐篷，一应俱全。过去的羊肠小道如今已经被踏成了一条路，不过仍然有繁茂的树在上面搭出拱顶，把橡子掉在下面的草叶上。
　　塞丝已经尽力而为了，可她还是不能不为贝比•萨格斯的崩溃而怪罪自己。尽管贝比一次次地否认，塞丝仍旧清楚地知道，124号的悲哀就是从那一刻开始的：她跳下大车，新生儿裹在一个寻找波士顿的白人姑娘的内衣里，系在她胸前。
　　领着两个姑娘，穿过了一道橡树和七叶树织成的明亮的绿色长廊，塞丝开始冒汗，那情形酷似另一次：她在俄亥俄河岸上汗津津地醒来，泥浆已经在她身上结了痂。
　　爱弥走了。塞丝孤单而虚弱，却还活着，她的婴儿也活着。她沿河向下游走了一段，然后站在那里，凝望着波光粼粼的河水。一只平底船不时划进视线，但她看不清站在上边的是不是白人。由于发烧，她开始出汗，也因此感谢上帝，因为这样当然能让她的婴儿暖和。她看不见平底船了，就跌跌撞撞地向前走去，发现自己走近了三个打鱼的黑人———两个男孩和一个男人。她停下来，等着他们跟她说活。一个男孩朝这边指了指，男人越过他的肩膀看了她一眼———不过是迅速的一瞥，因为他只需一眼就知道她究竟是怎么回事。
　　有一会儿工夫谁都没说话。然后男人道：
　　“想过河吗？
　　”
　　“是，先生。
　　”塞丝说。
　　“有人知道你来吗？
　　”
　　“有，先生。
　　”
　　他又看了她一眼，用下巴指了指他上面一块像下嘴唇一样凸起的石头。塞丝走过去坐下。石头吸足了阳光，可是再怎么烫也比不上她。她疲惫不堪，就待在那里，照进眼睛的阳光让她头晕目眩。汗水在她身上哗哗流淌，彻底浸湿了婴儿。她肯定是坐着坐着就睡着了，因为她再睁开眼的时候，那个男人站在她面前，手里已经拿了一块热腾腾的炸鳝鱼。她费了好大力气才伸手接住，又费了更大力气才闻出味道，至于吃，那是不可能的。她向他讨水喝，他给了她一罐子俄亥俄河水。塞丝一饮而尽，再讨。铿锵声就在她的脑后，但她拒绝相信，自己走了那么远的路，受了那么多的罪，只是为了死在错误的那一岸。
　　男人看着她汗涔涔的脸，把一个男孩叫过来。
　　“把外套脱下来。
　　”他对他说。
　　“先生？
　　”
　　“你听见了。
　　”
　　那个男孩脱下外衣，抱怨着：
　　“你想干什么呀？我穿什么呀？
　　”
　　男人把婴儿从她胸前解下来，包在男孩的外套里，用袖子在前面打了个结。
　　“我穿什么呀？
　　”
　　男人叹了口气，顿了一下，说：
　　“你想要回来的话，就去把它从娃娃身上扒下来。把那个娃娃光着身子搁在草里，再穿上你的衣裳。要是你干得出来，那就走开，别再回来。
　　”
　　男孩垂下眼睛，然后转身到另一个那里去了。塞丝手里拿着鳝鱼，脚边躺着婴儿，口干舌燥、大汗淋漓地睡着了。夜幕降临时，那个男人碰了碰她的肩膀。
　　与她预期的相反，他们将船朝上游撑去，把爱弥找到的那只小船抛在身后。她正以为他在把她带回肯塔基去，他划转平底船，它像一颗子弹似的渡过了俄亥俄河。他帮她登上陡峭的河岸，没外衣的男孩抱着那穿着它的婴儿。男人领着她来到一间灌木掩映、地面踏得很平的小棚屋。
　　“在这儿等着。马上就会有人来。别动。他们能找着你。
　　”
　　“谢谢你。
　　”她说，“但愿我能知道你的名字，好记得准你。
　　”
　　“叫斯坦普。
　　”他说，“斯坦普•沛德。看好那个娃娃，听见了吗？
　　”
　　“听见了，听见了。
　　”她回答道，可其实她没有。几个钟头后一个女人来到她面前时，她一点也没听见。是个矮个子年轻女人，拎着条收尸袋，正向她打招呼。
　　“看见信号好一会儿了，”她说，“可我不能走得再快了。
　　”
　　“什么信号？
　　”塞丝问。
　　“一有个过河的，斯坦普就把这破猪圈敞开。要是还有个小孩儿，就在柱子上再系一块白布条。
　　”
　　她跪下来倒空麻袋。
　　“我叫艾拉。
　　”她一边说，一边从麻袋里拿出一条羊毛毯、一些棉布、两个烤白薯，还有一双男鞋，“我丈夫约翰，他出门在外。你想去哪儿？
　　”
　　塞丝告诉她，她已托人将三个孩子往贝比•萨格斯那里送去了。
　　艾拉一边用一条布紧紧缠住婴儿的肚脐，一边去听谈话里的漏洞———逃犯们不说的那些事，不问的那些问题。留意那些落往后面、不知道名字、没被提起的人们。她控出那双男鞋里的沙子，试图把塞丝的脚塞进去。它们塞不进去。很不幸，它们把鞋后跟撑裂了，毁了这么贵重的东西实在可惜。塞丝穿上那个男孩的外衣，没敢打听是否有她孩子们的下落。
　　“他们成功了，”艾拉道，“斯坦普把那伙人运过了河。把他们留在蓝石路上了。不算太远。
　　”
　　塞丝感激得不知该如何是好，于是剥了一个白薯，吃下去，吐出来，在静静的欢喜之中又吃了一些。
　　“他们见到你一定很高兴。
　　”艾拉说，“这一个是什么时候生的？
　　”
　　“昨天。
　　”塞丝擦着下巴底下的汗，说道，“但愿她能活下来。
　　”
　　艾拉看看从羊毛毯里钻出来的小脏脸，摇了摇头。
　　“难说。
　　”她说道。
　　“谁要是问我，我就说：
　　‘啥也别爱。
　　’”然后，似乎是为了收敛话里的锋芒，她冲塞丝笑笑。
　　“你自己生的那个孩子？
　　”
　　“不是。白人姑娘帮了忙。
　　”
　　“那么我们趁早开路吧。
　　”
Chapter 22
    "Then we better make tracks."Baby Suggs kissed her on the mouth and refused to let her see the children. They were asleep shesaid and Sethe was too uglylooking to wake them in the night. She took the newborn and handed itto a young woman in a bonnet, telling her not to clean the eyes till she got the mother's urine.
　　"Has it cried out yet?" asked Baby.
　　"A little.""Time enough. Let's get the mother well."She led Sethe to the keeping room and, by the light of a spirit lamp, bathed her in sections, startingwith her face. Then, while waiting for another pan of heated water, she sat next to her and stitchedgray cotton. Sethe dozed and woke to the washing of her hands and arms. After each bathing, Babycovered her with a quilt and put another pan on in the kitchen. Tearing sheets, stitching the graycotton, she supervised the woman in the bonnet who tended the baby and cried into her cooking.
　　When Sethe's legs were done, Baby looked at her feet and wiped them lightly. She cleanedbetween Sethe's legs with two separate pans of hot water and then tied her stomach and vaginawith sheets. Finally she attacked the unrecognizable feet.
　　"You feel this?""Feel what?" asked Sethe.
　　"Nothing. Heave up." She helped Sethe to a rocker and lowered her feet into a bucket of salt waterand juniper. The rest of the night Sethe sat soaking. The crust from her nipples Baby softened withlard and then washed away. By dawn the silent baby woke and took her mother's milk.
　　"Pray God it ain't turned bad," said Baby. "And when you through, call me." As she turned to go,Baby Suggs caught a glimpse of something dark on the bed sheet. She frowned and looked at herdaughter-in-law bending toward the baby. Roses of blood blossomed in the blanket coveringSethe's shoulders. Baby Suggs hid her mouth with her hand. When the nursing was over and thenewborn was asleep — its eyes half open, its tongue dream-sucking — wordlessly the olderwoman greased the flowering back and pinned a double thickness of cloth to the inside of thenewly stitched dress.
　　It was not real yet. Not yet. But when her sleepy boys and crawl ing-already? girl were brought in,it didn't matter whether it was real or not. Sethe lay in bed under, around, over, among butespecially with them all. The little girl dribbled clear spit into her face, and Sethe's laugh of delightwas so loud the crawling-already? baby blinked. Buglar and Howard played with her ugly feet,after daring each other to be the first to touch them. She kept kissing them. She kissed the backs oftheir necks, the tops of their heads and the centers of their palms, and it was the boys who decidedenough was enough whenshe liked their shirts to kiss their tight round bellies. She stopped when and because they said,"Pappie come?"She didn't cry. She said "soon" and smiled so they would think the brightness in her eyes was lovealone. It was some time before she let Baby Suggs shoo the boys away so Sethe could put on thegray cotton dress her mother-in-law had started stitching together the night before. Finally she layback and cradled the crawling already ? girl in her arms. She enclosed her left nipple with twofingers of her right hand and the child opened her mouth. They hit home together.
　　Baby Suggs came in and laughed at them, telling Sethe how strong the baby girl was, how smart,already crawling. Then she stooped to gather up the ball of rags that had been Sethe's clothes.
　　"Nothing worth saving in here," she said.
　　Sethe liked her eyes. "Wait," she called. "Look and see if there's something still knotted up in thepetticoat."Baby Suggs inched the spoiled fabric through her fingers and came upon what felt like pebbles.
　　She held them out toward Sethe. "Going away present?""Wedding present.""Be nice if there was a groom to go with it." She gazed into her hand. "What you think happenedto him?""I don't know," said Sethe. "He wasn't where he said to meet him at. I had to get out. Had to."Sethe watched the drowsy eyes of the sucking girl for a moment then looked at Baby Suggs' face.
　　"He'll make it. If I made it, Halle sure can.""Well, put these on. Maybe they'll light his way." Convinced her son was dead, she handed thestones to Sethe.
　　"I need holes in my ears.""I'll do it," said Baby Suggs. "Soon's you up to it."Sethe jingled the earrings for the pleasure of the crawling-already? girl, who reached for them overand over again.
　　In the Clearing, Sethe found Baby's old preaching rock and remembered the smell of leavessimmering in the sun, thunderous feet and the shouts that ripped pods off the limbs of thechestnuts. With Baby Suggs' heart in charge, the people let go.
　　Sethe had had twenty-eight days — the travel of one whole moon — of unslaved life. From thepure clear stream of spit that the little girl dribbled into her face to her oily blood was twenty-eightdays. Days of healing, ease and real-talk. Days of company: knowing the names of forty, fiftyother Negroes, their views, habits; where they had been and what done; of feeling their fun andsorrow along with her own, which made it better. One taught her the alphabet; another a stitch. Alltaught her how it felt to wake up at dawn and decide what to do with the day. That's how she gotthrough the waiting for Halle. Bit by bit, at 124 and in the Clearing, along with the others, she hadclaimed herself. Freeing yourself was one thing; claiming ownership of that freed self was another.
　　Now she sat on Baby Suggs' rock, Denver and Beloved watching her from the trees. There willnever be a day, she thought, when Halle will knock on the door. Not knowing it was hard; knowingit was harder.
　　Just the fingers, she thought. Just let me feel your fingers again on the back of my neck and I willlay it all down, make a way out of this no way. Sethe bowed her head and sure enough — theywere there. Lighter now, no more than the strokes of bird feather, but unmistakably caressingfingers. She had to relax a bit to let them do their work, so light was the touch, childlike almost,more finger kiss than kneading. Still she was grateful for the effort; Baby Suggs' long distance lovewas equal to any skin-close love she had known. The desire, let alone the gesture, to meet herneeds was good enough to lift her spirits to the place where she could take the next step: ask forsome clarifying word; some advice about how to keep on with a brain greedy for news nobodycould live with in a world happy to provide it.
　　She knew Paul D was adding something to her life — something she wanted to count on but wasscared to. Now he had added more: new pictures and old rememories that broke her heart. Into the empty space of not knowing about Halle — -a space sometimes colored with righteous resentmentat what could have been his cowardice, or stupidity or bad luck — that empty place of no definitenews was filled now with a brand-new sorrow and who could tell how many more on the way.
　　Years ago — when 124 was alive — she had women friends, men friends from all around to sharegrief with. Then there was no one, for they would not visit her while the baby ghost filled thehouse, and she returned their disapproval with the potent pride of the mistreated. But now therewas someone to share it, and he had beat the spirit away the very day he entered her house and nosign of it since. A blessing, but in its place he brought another kind of haunting: Halle's facesmeared with butter and the dabber too; his own mouth jammed full of iron, and Lord knows whatelse he could tell her if he wanted to.
　　The fingers touching the back of her neck were stronger now — the strokes bolder as though BabySuggs were gathering strength. Putting the thumbs at the nape, while the fingers pressed the sides.
　　Harder, harder, the fingers moved slowly around toward her windpipe, making little circles on theway. Sethe was actually more surprised than frightened to find that she was being strangled. Or soit seemed. In any case, Baby Suggs' fingers had a grip on her that would not let her breathe.
　　Tumbling forward from her seat on the rock, she clawed at the hands that were not there. Her feetwere thrashing by the time Denver got to her and then Beloved.
　　"Ma'am! Ma'am!" Denver shouted. "Ma'ammy!" and turned her mother over on her back.
　　The fingers left off and Sethe had to swallow huge draughts of air before she recognized herdaughter's face next to her own and Beloved's hovering above.
　　"You all right?""Somebody choked me," said Sethe.
　　"Who?"Sethe rubbed her neck and struggled to a sitting position. "Grandma Baby, I reckon. I just askedher to rub my neck, like she used to and she was doing fine and then just got crazy with it, Iguess.""She wouldn't do that to you, Ma'am. Grandma Baby? Uh uh.""Help me up from here.""Look." Beloved was pointing at Sethe's neck.
　　"What is it? What you see?" asked Sethe.
　　"Bruises," said Denver.
　　"On my neck?""Here," said Beloved. "Here and here, too." She reached out her hand and touched the splotches,gathering color darker than Sethe's dark throat, and her fingers were mighty cool.
　　"That don't help nothing," Denver said, but Beloved was leaning in, her two hands stroking thedamp skin that felt like chamois and looked like taffeta.
　　Sethe moaned. The girl's fingers were so cool and knowing. Sethe's knotted, private, walk-onwaterlife gave in a bit, softened, and it seemed that the glimpse of happiness she caught in theshadows swinging hands on the road to the carnival was a likelihood — if she could just managethe news Paul D brought and the news he kept to himself. Just manage it. Not break, fall or cryeach time a hateful picture drifted in front of her face. Not develop some permanent craziness likeBaby Suggs' friend, a young woman in a bonnet whose food was full of tears. Like Aunt Phyllis,who slept with her eyes wide open. Like Jackson Till, who slept under the bed. All she wanted wasto go on. As she had. Alone with her daughter in a haunted house she managed every damn thing.
　　Why now, with Paul D instead of the ghost, was she breaking up? getting scared? needing Baby?
　　The worst was over, wasn't it? She had already got through, hadn't she? With the ghost in 124 shecould bear, do, solve anything. Now a hint of what had happened to Halie and she cut out like arabbit looking for its mother.
　　Beloved's fingers were heavenly. Under them and breathing evenly again, the anguish rolled down.
　　The peace Sethe had come there to find crept into her.
　　We must look a sight, she thought, and closed her eyes to see it: the three women in the middle ofthe Clearing, at the base of the rock where Baby Suggs, holy, had loved. One seated, yielding upher throat to the kind hands of one of the two kneeling before her. Denver watched the faces of theother two. Beloved watched the work her thumbs were doing and must have loved what she sawbecause she leaned over and kissed the tenderness under Sethe's chin.
     贝比•萨格斯亲吻了她的嘴，不让她马上去见孩子们。她说他们正睡着呢，再说塞丝的样子太难看了，不能在夜里叫醒他们。她接过新生儿，把她递给一个戴软帽的年轻女人，告诉她先别洗两只眼睛，等得到妈妈的尿再说。
　　“她哭出声了吗？
　　”贝比问。
　　“哭了一小会儿。
　　”
　　“足够了。我们先来把当妈妈的收拾干净吧。
　　”
　　她把塞丝领进起居室，在酒精灯下一部分一部分地清洗她，先从脸开始洗起。然后，她坐在塞丝身旁，一边等着下一锅水烧热，一边缝着一条灰棉布裙子。塞丝睡着了，直到洗胳膊和手的时候才醒过来。每洗过一处，贝比就用被子盖上她，到厨房里再烧上一锅水。她一面撕开床单，一面缝缀着灰棉布，同时还监督那个边哭边做饭的戴软帽女人照料婴儿。塞丝的腿洗净之后，贝比看着她的脚，轻轻地擦干腿。她总共用了两锅热水来擦洗塞丝的两腿之间，然后用床单裹住她的肚子和阴部。最后她才来对付那双难以辨认的脚。
　　“你觉出来了吗？
　　”
　　“觉出什么？
　　”塞丝问。
　　“没事儿。起来吧。
　　”她把塞丝扶到摇椅上，把她的脚放进一桶杜松盐水里。她就这样坐着泡了一夜。贝比用猪油弄软她乳头上的硬壳，然后再冲洗掉。黎明时分，安静的婴儿醒过来，喝到了妈妈的乳汁。
　　“上帝保佑，没出什么问题。
　　”贝比道，“你奶完孩子就叫我。
　　”贝比•萨格斯正要转身走开，突然瞥见床单上有块黑渍。她皱起眉头，看着正弯下身子给婴儿喂奶的儿媳妇。鲜血的玫瑰盛开在盖着塞丝肩膀的毯子上。贝比•萨格斯用手捂住嘴。新生儿吃完奶，睡着了———眼睛半睁，在梦里吧嗒着舌头———老太太一声不吭地往开遍鲜花的后背上涂油，又往新缝的裙子里垫了双层的布。
　　这还不是真的。还不是。可是当她的两个睡眼惺忪的儿子和那个“都会爬了？
　　”的女儿被带进来时，是不是真的都无关紧要了。塞丝躺在床上，他们上上下下、左左右右地绕着她，尤其难得的是一个不缺。小女儿透明的口水滴在塞丝脸上，她开心地大笑着，笑得太响了，搞得那“都会爬了？
　　”
　　的小宝贝直眨巴眼睛。巴格勒和霍华德先是互激对方第一个去摸她的难看的脚丫，接着就一起玩起它们来。她不停地亲吻他们。她亲吻他们的脖梗子、脑袋顶和手掌心，当她又掀起他们的衬衫去亲吻那圆鼓鼓的小肚皮时，儿子们认为可以到此为止了。她停了下来，因为他们问道：
　　“爸爸来啦？
　　”
　　她没有哭。她说“快了”，而且笑着，这样他们就会以为她眼里的泪光仅仅是爱。过了好一会儿，塞丝让贝比•萨格斯把男孩们轰走，于是，她才能穿上婆婆在头天晚上缝起来的那条灰棉布裙子。最后，她躺下来，怀里摇着“都会爬了？
　　”的女儿。她用右手的两个指头捏起左乳头，孩子张开了嘴。她和奶水一块儿到家了。
　　贝比•萨格斯一进来就笑她们，她对塞丝说，她的宝贝女儿多壮实，多机灵，都会爬了。然后她弯腰收拾起曾经是塞丝的衣服的那团烂布。
　　“没什么值得留的东西。
　　”她说。
　　塞丝抬起眼睛。
　　“等等，”她叫道，“翻一翻，看内衣里还系没系着什么东西。
　　”
　　贝比•萨格斯用手指将煮过的衣裳一点点摸了一遍，碰到石子样的东西。她把它们递给塞丝。
　　“告别礼物？
　　”
　　“结婚礼物。
　　”
　　“要是有个新郎一道来就更好了。
　　”她盯着塞丝手里的东西，“你觉得他怎么样了？
　　”
　　“我不知道。
　　”塞丝答道，“说好了在那儿碰头的，可他不在。我只好逃出来。非逃不可。
　　”塞丝看了一会儿那吃奶孩子的睡眼，然后盯着贝比•萨格斯的脸。
　　“他会成功的。要是我能，黑尔当然也能。
　　”
　　“好吧，戴上耳环吧。也许它们能照亮他的道路。
　　”她把宝石递给塞丝，同时确信她的儿子已经死了。
　　“我得在耳朵上穿洞。
　　”
　　“我来吧，”贝比•萨格斯说，“一会儿就好。
　　”
　　塞丝把耳环晃得叮叮作响，逗弄那个“都会爬了？
　　”的女儿，让她一次次地去够它们。
　　在“林间空地”上，塞丝找到了从前贝比训众的那块石头，记起了阳光中蒸腾的树叶的气味、雷鸣般的脚步声，以及把荚果扯下七叶树枝的呐喊。在贝比•萨格斯的心灵的率领下，人们尽情发泄。
　　塞丝度过了二十八天———整整一轮月缺月圆———的非奴隶生活。从小女孩滴在她脸上的纯净透明的口水，到她的油腻的血，一共是二十八天，是痊愈、轻松和真心交谈的日子，是交朋会友的日子：她知道了四五十个其他黑人的名字，了解他们的看法、习惯，他们待过的地方、干过的事；体验他们的甘苦，聊以抚慰自己的创痛。一个人教了她字母表；另一个教她做针线。大家一起教她体会黎明时醒来并决定这一天干些什么的滋味。这样，她熬过了等待黑尔的时光。一点一点地，在124号和“林间空地”上，同大家在一起，她赢得了自我。解放自我是一回事；赢得那个解放了的自我的所有权却是另一回事。
　　此刻，她坐在贝比•萨格斯的石头上，丹芙和宠儿从树林里望着她。再不会有那一天了，她想，黑尔永远不会来敲门了。不知道的时候很苦；知道了更苦。
　　只要手指，她心中暗道。只要让我再次感觉到你的手指按住我的脖子后面，我就会全部放下，从这绝境中辟出一条路来。塞丝低下头，可以肯定———它们来了。如今更轻了，比鸟羽的抚摸更轻，但绝对是爱抚的手指。她得放松一点，让它们抚摸，轻而又轻地抚摸，几乎是孩子的动作，不是在揉，而是在用手指亲吻。不过她仍然感激她的努力；贝比•萨格斯遥远的爱可以同她所知的一切切肤之爱相媲美。不用说手上的动作，单是那试图满足她要求的愿望，就足以把她的灵魂升到一个地方，使她能够接着走下一步：请求一些澄清真相的话语；请求一些建议，告诉她怎样才能跟上一个贪恋消息的大脑。这个世界最乐于提供这种令人忍无可忍的消息了。
　　她知道保罗•D在给她的生活增加某种东西———某种她想信任又怕信任的东西。现在他又增加了更多的东西：令她心碎的新的画面和旧的记忆。将它们加进对黑尔一无所知的空白———这空白有时会染上一种理所当然的怨恨，也许是针对他的懦弱、愚蠢，也许是针对他的倒霉———这没有确切消息来充实的空白，现在充满了一种崭新的悲伤，谁又说得出还会有多少悲伤即将来临呢。多年以前———那时124号仍旧生气勃勃———曾经有来自四面八方的女友、男友，来帮她分担悲伤。然后就一个也没有了，因为他们不愿意到一个小鬼魂肆虐的房子里来看她，而她也以受虐者强烈的骄傲回敬大家的不满。可是现在又有个人来分担了，而且他刚走进大门那天，鬼魂就被他赶跑了，至今仍无影无踪。这本是一种赐福，然而他取代了它的位置，又带来了另一种纠缠：黑尔涂满牛油和酸酪的脸，他自己勒着铁嚼子的嘴；天知道，愿意的话，他还会告诉她些什么。
　　抚摸着她后脖子的手指这时有力些了———手法更大胆了，好像贝比•萨格斯正在积聚力气。大拇指放在后颈上，其余的手指按着两边。重了一些，又重了一些，手指慢慢移向她的气管，一路划着小圆圈。塞丝与其说是恐惧，不如说是惊讶地发现自己正在被扼杀。至少表面上如此。不管怎么说，贝比•萨格斯的手指扼得她喘不过气来。她从坐着的石头上向前摔去，抓扯着不存在的手。她正双脚乱踢，丹芙来到身边；接着宠儿也来了。
　　“太太!太太!”丹芙叫着。
　　“妈妈!”她把妈妈翻过来，让她仰卧着。
　　手指松开了，塞丝大口大口地吞着空气，然后辨认出自己身旁女儿的脸和上面游移不定的宠儿的脸。
　　“你没事吧？
　　”
　　“有人要掐死我。
　　”塞丝说。
　　“谁？”
　　塞丝揉着脖子，挣扎着坐起来。
　　“贝比奶奶，我估计。我不过求她揉揉脖子，像她从前那样，起初她揉得好好的，可后来就揉疯了，我猜是。
　　”
　　“她不可能对你那样，太太。贝比奶奶？不可能。
　　”
　　“帮我起来。
　　”
　　“看哪。
　　”宠儿指着塞丝的脖子。
　　“是什么？你看见什么了？
　　”塞丝问。
　　“伤。”丹芙道。
　　“在我脖子上？
　　”
　　“这儿，”宠儿道，“这儿，还有这儿。
　　”她伸手摸着那些斑点，发现它们的颜色比塞丝黑黑的脖子还黑；她的手指冰凉冰凉的。
　　“那没用。
　　”丹芙说道，可是宠儿仍然探出身子，用两只手去抚摸塞丝湿乎乎的皮肤。她的皮肤摸起来像羚羊皮，看着像塔夫绸。
　　塞丝呻吟着。这姑娘的手指如此清凉，如此体贴。塞丝盘根错节、秘不示人、如履薄冰的一生稍稍退让了一些，柔和了一些；看样子，她在去狂欢节的路上从携手的影子中找到的一线幸福是可能的———只要她能对付保罗•D带给她的和保留给自己的那些消息。只要她能对付。而不是每见到一幅可恨的画面漂到她面前，就垮掉、倒下，或者哭泣。不是像贝比•萨格斯的朋友，那个以泪泡饭的戴软帽的年轻姑娘那样，表现出一种持久的疯狂。像菲莉丝大妈那样，瞪圆了眼睛睡觉。像杰克逊•梯尔那样，在床底下睡觉。她只想活下去，像她过去那样。独自和女儿待在闹鬼的房子里，所有该死的事情都由她来顶着。为什么这时候，保罗•D替代了那个鬼魂以后，她却垮了？害怕了？需要贝比了？最糟糕的已经过去了，不是吗？她已经挺过来了，不是吗？小鬼魂统治124号的时候她还能忍受，能做事，能解决一切问题。如今，有了一点关于黑尔如何如何的线索，她反倒像一只寻找妈妈的兔子一样六神无主了。
　　宠儿的手指太美妙了。在它们的抚慰下，塞丝再次均匀地呼吸，痛苦平息了。塞丝来这里寻找的安宁悄悄潜入了她的内心。
　　我们肯定是个奇观，她想道，于是又闭上眼睛去看：三个女人，在“林间空地”中央，在圣贝比•萨格斯热爱的石头脚下。一个坐着，其余两个跪在她面前，她把脖子伸向其中一个人亲切的双手。
　　丹芙盯着另外两个人的脸。宠儿则看着自己拇指的动作，而且肯定爱着她眼前的这个人，因为她探出身去吻了塞丝下巴下面的柔软部分。
Chapter 23
    They stayed that way for awhile because neither Denver nor Sethe knew how not to: how to stop and not love the look or feelof the lips that kept on kissing. Then Sethe, grabbing Beloved's hair and blinking rapidly, separatedherself. She later believed that it was because the girl's breath was exactly like new milk that shesaid to her, stern and frowning, "You too old for that."She looked at Denver, and seeing panic about to become something more, stood up quickly,breaking the tableau apart.
　　"Come on up! Up!" Sethe waved the girls to their feet. As they left the Clearing they looked prettymuch the same as they had when they had come: Sethe in the lead, the girls a ways back. All silentas before, but with a difference. Sethe was bothered, not because of the kiss, but because, justbefore it, when she was feeling so fine letting Beloved massage away the pain, the fingers she wasloving and the ones that had soothed her before they strangled her had reminded her of somethingthat now slipped her mind. But one thing for sure, Baby Suggs had not choked her as first shethought. Denver was right, and walking in the dappled tree-light, clearer-headed now — away from the enchantment of the Clearing — Sethe remembered the tou ch of those fingers that sheknew better than her own. They had bathed her in sections, wrapped her womb, combed her hair,oiled her nipples, stitched her clothes, cleaned her feet, greased her back and dropped just aboutanything they were doing to massage Sethe's nape when, especially in the early days, her spiritsfell down under the weight of the things she remembered and those she did not: schoolteacherwriting in ink she herself had made while his nephews played on her; the face of the woman in afelt hat as she rose to stretch in the field. If she lay among all the hands in the world, she wouldknow Baby Suggs' just as she did the good hands of the whitegirl looking for velvet. But foreighteen years she had lived in a house full of touches from the other side. And the thumbs thatpressed her nape were the same. Maybe that was where it had gone to. After Paul D beat it out of124, maybe it collected itself in the Clearing. Reasonable, she thought.
　　Why she had taken Denver and Beloved with her didn't puzzle her now — at the time it seemedimpulse, with a vague wish for protection. And the girls had saved her, Beloved so agitated shebehaved like a two-year-old.
　　Like a faint smell of burning that disappears when the fire is cut off or the window opened for abreeze, the suspicion that the girl's touch was also exactly like the baby's ghost dissipated. It wasonly a tiny disturbance anyway — not strong enough to divert her from the ambition welling in hernow: she wanted Paul D. No matter what he told and knew, she wanted him in her life. More thancommemorating Halle, that is what she had come to the Clearing to figure out, and now it wasfigured. Trust and rememory, yes, the way she believed it could be when he cradled her before thecooking stove. The weight and angle of him; the true-to-life beard hair on him; arched back,educated hands. His waiting eyes and awful human power. The mind of him that knew her own.
　　Her story was bearable because it was his as well — to tell, to refine and tell again. The thingsneither knew about the other — the things neither had word-shapes for — well, it would come intime: where they led him off to sucking iron; the perfect death of her crawling-already? baby.
　　She wanted to get back — fast. Set these idle girls to some work that would fill their wanderingheads. Rushing through the green corridor, cooler now because the sun had moved, it occurred toher that the two were alike as sisters. Their obedience and absolute reliability shot through withsurprise. Sethe understood Denver. Solitude had made her secretive — self-manipulated. Years ofhaunting had dulled her in ways you wouldn't believe and sharpened her in ways you wouldn'tbelieve either. The consequence was a timid but hard-headed daughter Sethe would die to protect.
　　The other, Beloved, she knew less, nothing, about — -except that there was nothing she wouldn'tdo for Sethe and that Denver and she liked each other's company. Now she thought she knew why.
　　They spent up or held on to their feelings in harmonious ways. What one had to give the other waspleased to take. They hung back in the trees that ringed the Clearing, then rushed into it withscreams and kisses when Sethe choked — anyhow that's how she explained it to herself for shenoticed neither competition between the two nor domination by one. On her mind was the suppershe wanted to fix for Paul D — something difficult to do, something she would do just so — tolaunch her newer, stronger life with a tender man. Those litty bitty potatoes browned on all sides,heavy on the pepper; snap beans seasoned with rind; yellow squash sprinkled with vinegar andsugar. Maybe corn cut from the cob and fried with green onions and butter. Raised bread, even.
　　Her mind, searching the kitchen before she got to it, was so full of her offering she did not seeright away, in the space under the white stairs, the wooden tub and Paul D sitting in it. She smiledat him and he smiled back.
　　"Summer must be over," she said.
　　"Come on in here.""Uh uh. Girls right behind me.""I don't hear nobody.""I have to cook, Paul D.""Me too." He stood up and made her stay there while he held her in his arms. Her dress soaked upthe water from his body. His jaw was near her ear. Her chin touched his shoulder.
　　"What you gonna cook?""I thought some snap beans.""Oh, yeah.""Fry up a little corn?""Yeah."There was no question but that she could do it. Just like the day she arrived at 124 — sure enough,she had milk enough for all.
    她们就那样持续了片刻，因为丹芙和塞丝都不知如何是好：如何去制止她，而不是去体味那两片嘴唇的形状，享受它们不停亲吻的感觉。然后，塞丝抓住宠儿的头发，迅速地眨着眼睛，让自己脱了身。她事后相信，肯定是由于那姑娘的气息与鲜奶一模一样，她才皱起眉头，生硬地说：
　　“别这样，你也老大不小的了。
　　”
　　她看了看丹芙，发现恐慌即将演变成别的祸事，便马上站起身，打破了这个戏剧性的场面。
　　“快起来!起来!”塞丝把姑娘们轰起来。她们离开“林间空地”时和来的时候差不多一样：塞丝领头，姑娘们远远跟在后面。大家都像来时一样沉默，却有所不同了。塞丝很困惑，不是因为亲吻，而是因为在亲吻之前，当她舒舒服服地让宠儿用按摩驱散疼痛时，那惹人喜爱的手指，还有那先是抚慰她、然后又扼住她脖子的手指，曾让她记起了什么，可一下子又想不起来了。不过有一点是毋庸置疑的，贝比•萨格斯并没有掐她，不像她开始以为的那样。丹芙说得对。远离了“林间空地”的妖术，走在斑斑驳驳的树影中，现在塞丝头脑清晰了———她记起了那些手指，她熟悉它们胜过熟悉自己的手指。它们曾经一部分一部分地擦洗她的身体，包裹她的阴部，梳理她的头发，往她的乳头上涂油，给她缝衣服，帮她洗净双脚，往她后背上抹油，还放下手里所有的活计来按摩她的后颈，尤其是在开头的日子里，那些时候，塞丝的精神在她记得和不记得的事情的重压下濒于崩溃：“学校老师”的侄子们玩弄她，而“学校老师”在一旁用她亲手制作的墨水记录下来；一个在田里直起身来的戴毡帽的女人，她的脸庞于塞丝脑际翩然浮现。即便在世界上所有的手中间，她也能认出贝比•萨格斯的那双，就如同认出寻找天鹅绒的白人姑娘的那双好手一样。然而，十八年来，她生活的房子一直充满了来自另一个世界的触摸，而那按住她后颈的拇指又与这触摸一模一样。也许它就是到那里去了。在保罗•D把它打出124号以后，它也许就是在“林间空地”上重振旗鼓的。合情合理，她想。
　　当初为什么带上丹芙和宠儿，这事现在不再迷惑她了———看来是一时冲动，以及寻求保护的模糊愿望使然。姑娘们救了她，宠儿更是激动得像个两岁孩子。
　　就仿佛火焰熄灭或者敞开窗子放进清风时消散的一股微弱的燃烧气味，有关这个姑娘的抚摸同样与那小鬼魂酷似的疑虑也烟消云散了。那本来也不过是一次小小的不安———还没有强大到让她抛开现在从心中涌出的勃勃雄心：她要保罗•D。不管他说了什么、知道了什么，她的生活中不能没有他。她来到“林间空地”，不仅仅是为了纪念黑尔，也为了找个答案；现在她找到了。
　　对，是信任和重新记忆，是他在炉子前面拥住她的时候她所相信的那种可能性。他的重量，他的棱角；他那真实的胡子；弓起的后背，训练有素的手。他那期待的眼睛和威风凛凛的人性力量。他那与她心心相印的灵魂。她的故事是可以忍受的，因为它同样也属于他———可以诉说，推敲，再诉说。彼此不知道的那些事情———谁都无法诉诸语言的事情———没关系，总有一天会水落石出的：他们打发他衔着铁嚼子去了什么地方；她那“都会爬了？
　　”的宝贝儿的死亡多么完美。
　　她想回去了———越快越好。给无所事事的姑娘们安排点活儿干，充实一下她们胡思乱想的头脑。她匆匆穿过由于太阳偏移而凉下来的绿色长廊时，忽然觉得两个姑娘仿佛姊妹一般相像。她们那令人惊奇的顺从和绝对可靠，在她脑海倏然闪过。塞丝理解丹芙。孤独使得她干什么都遮遮掩掩的———我行我素。成年累月的闹鬼以难以置信的方式使她变得迟钝，也以难以置信的方式使她变得敏锐。结果就出了这么一个塞丝誓死保护的、胆小而又固执的女儿。另一个，宠儿，她了解得少一些，或者说根本不了解———只知道她为了塞丝什么都肯干，还有，丹芙和她喜欢彼此做伴。现在她想，她知道个中原委了。她们以和谐的方式挥霍和攫取着她们自己的感情。一个愿意给予，另一个则乐于获取。她们先是守在环绕着“林间空地”的树林中间，然后在塞丝被扼住时带着尖叫和亲吻冲进来———反正她就是这样向自己解释的，因为她既没发现两个姑娘之间有竞争，也没发现一个在主宰另一个。她一心想的只是她要给保罗•D准备的晚饭———很难办，也非办不可———她要去和一个温柔的男人一道开创她的更新、更强大的生活。做些四面烤焦的小土豆崽儿，多撒上点胡椒粉；桂皮炖豆角；糖醋凉拌黄瓜。要么把刚掰下来的玉米跟葱一起用黄油炸。甚至，再做个暄软的面包。
　　还没走进厨房，她就开始盘算里面的东西，满脑子都是自己设计的食谱，没有马上看见白楼梯下摆着的一只木澡盆和里面坐着的保罗•D。她冲他笑笑，他也回以一笑。
　　“夏天早过去了。
　　”她说。
　　“进来吧。
　　”
　　“去去去。姑娘们就在我后边。
　　”
　　“我什么也没听见哪。
　　”
　　“我得做饭了，保罗•D。”
　　“我也做。
　　”他站起来，把她搂在怀里，不放她走。他身上的水将她的裙子都沾湿了。他的下颚贴着她的耳朵。她的下巴挨着他的肩膀。
　　“你要做什么饭？
　　”
　　“我想弄点豆角。
　　”
　　“嗯，不错。
　　”
　　“炸点玉米？
　　”
　　“很好。
　　”
　　不成问题，她当然能做到。就像她刚到124号那天———毫无疑问，她的奶水足够所有的孩子吃。
Chapter 24
    Beloved came through the door and they ought to have heard hertread, but they didn't.
　　Breathing and murmuring, breathing and murmuring. Beloved heard them as soon as the doorbanged shut behind her. She jumped at the slam and swiveled her head toward the whisperscoming from behind the white stairs. She took a step and felt like crying. She had been so close,then closer. And it was so much better than the anger that ruled when Sethe did or thoughtanything that excluded herself. She could bear the hours — -nine or ten of them each day but one— -when Sethe was gone. Bear even the nights when she was close but out of sight, behind wallsand doors lying next to him. But now — even the daylight time that Beloved had counted on,disciplined herself to be content with, was being reduced, divided by Sethe's willingness to payattention to other things. Him mostly. Him who said something to her that made her run out intothe woods and talk to herself on a rock. Him who kept her hidden at night behind doors. And himwho had hold of her now whispering behind the stairs after Beloved had rescued her neck and wasready now to put her hand in that woman's own.
　　Beloved turned around and left. Denver had not arrived, or else she was waiting somewhereoutside. Beloved went to look, pausing to watch a cardinal hop from limb to branch. She followedthe blood spot shifting in the leaves until she lost it and even then she walked on, backward, stillhungry for another glimpse.
　　She turned finally and ran through the woods to the stream. Standing close to its edge she watchedher reflection there. When Denver's face joined hers, they stared at each other in the water.
　　"You did it, I saw you," said Denver.
　　"What?""I saw your face. You made her choke.""I didn't do it.""You told me you loved her.""I fixed it, didn't I? Didn't I fix her neck?""After. After you choked her neck.""I kissed her neck. I didn't choke it. The circle of iron choked it.""I saw you." Denver grabbed Beloved's arm.
　　"Look out, girl," said Beloved and, snatching her arm away, ran ahead as fast as she could alongthe stream that sang on the other side of the woods.
　　Left alone, Denver wondered if, indeed, she had been wrong. She and Beloved were standing inthe trees whispering, while Sethe sat on the rock. Denver knew that the Clearing used to be whereBaby Suggs preached, but that was when she was a baby. She had never been there herself toremember it. 124 and the field behind it were all the world she knew or wanted.
　　Once upon a time she had known more and wanted to. Had walked the path leading to a real otherhouse. Had stood outside the window listening. Four times she did it on her own — crept awayfrom 124 early in the afternoon when her mother and grandmother had their guard down, justbefore supper, after chores; the blank hour before gears changed to evening occupations. Denverhad walked off looking for the house other children visited but not her. When she found it she wastoo timid to go to the front door so she peeped in the window. Lady Jones sat in a straight-backedchair; several children sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her. Lady Jones had a book. Thechildren had slates. Lady Jones was saying something too soft for Denver to hear. The childrenwere saying it after her. Four times Denver went to look. The fifth time Lady Jones caught her and said, "Come in the front door, Miss Denver. This is not a side show." So she had almost a wholeyear of the company of her peers and along with them learned to spell and count. She was seven,and those two hours in the afternoon were precious to her. Especially so because she had done it onher own and was pleased and surprised by the pleasure and surprise it created in her mother andher brothers. For a nickel a month, Lady Jones did what whitepeople thought unnecessary if notillegal: crowded her little parlor with the colored children who had time for and interest in booklearning. The nickel, tied to a handkerchief knot, tied to her belt, that she carried to Lady Jones,thrilled her. The effort to handle chalk expertly and avoid the scream it would make; the capital w,the little i, the beauty of the letters in her name, the deeply mournful sentences from the BibleLady Jones used as a textbook. Denver practiced every morning; starred every afternoon. She wasso happy she didn't even know she was being avoided by her classmates — that they made excusesand altered their pace not to walk with her. It was Nelson Lord — the boy as smart as she was —who put a stop to it; who asked her the question about her mother that put chalk, the little i and allthe rest that those afternoons held, out of reach forever. She should have laughed when he said it,or pushed him down, but there was no meanness in his face or his voice. Just curiosity. But thething that leapt up in her when he asked it was a thing that had been lying there all along. Shenever went back. The second day she didn't go, Sethe asked her why not. Denver didn't answer.
　　She was too scared to ask her brothers or anyone else Nelson Lord's question because certain oddand terrifying feelings about her mother were collecting around the thing that leapt up inside her.
　　Later on, after Baby Suggs died, she did not wonder why Howard and Buglar had run away. Shedid not agree with Sethe that they left because of the ghost. If so, what took them so long? Theyhad lived with it as long as she had. But if Nelson Lord was right — no wonder they were sulky,staying away from home as much as they could.
　　Meanwhile the monstrous and unmanageable dreams about Sethe found release in theconcentration Denver began to fix on the baby ghost. Before Nelson Lord, she had been barelyinterested in its antics. The patience of her mother and grandmother in its presence made herindifferent to it. Then it began to irritate her, wear her out with its mischief. That was when shewalked off to follow the children to Lady Jones' house-school. Now it held for her all the anger,love and fear she didn't know what to do with. Even when she did muster the courage to askNelson Lord's question, she could not hear Sethe's answer, nor Baby Suggs' words, nor anything atall thereafter. For two years she walked in a silence too solid for penetration but which gave hereyes a power even she found hard to believe. The black nostrils of a sparrow sitting on a branchsixty feet above her head, for instance. For two years she heard nothing at all and then she heardclose thunder crawling up the stairs. Baby Suggs thought it was Here Boy padding into places henever went. Sethe thought it was the India-rubber ball the boys played with bounding down thestairs.
　　"Is that damn dog lost his mind?" shouted Baby Suggs.
　　"He's on the porch," said Sethe. "See for yourself.""Well, what's that I'm hearing then?"Sethe slammed the stove lid. "Buglar! Buglar! I told you all not to use that ball in here." Shelooked at the white stairs and saw Denver at the top.
　　"She was trying to get upstairs.""What?" The cloth she used to handle the stove lid was balled in Sethe's hand.
　　"The baby," said Denver. "Didn't you hear her crawling?"What to jump on first was the problem: that Denver heard anything at all or that the crawling-already? baby girl was still at it but more so, The return of Denver's hearing, cut off by an answershe could not hear to hear, cut on by the sound of her dead sister trying to climb the stairs, signaledanother shift in the fortunes of the people of 124. From then on the presence was full of spite.
　　Instead of sighs and accidents there was pointed and deliberate abuse. Buglar and Howard grewfurious at the company of the women in the house, and spent in sullen reproach any time they hadaway from their odd work in town carrying water and feed at the stables. Until the spite became sopersonal it drove each off. Baby Suggs grew tired, went to bed and stayed there until her big oldheart quit. Except for an occasional request for color she said practically nothing — until theafternoon of the last day of her life when she got out of bed, skipped slowly to the door of thekeeping room and announced to Sethe and Denver the lesson she had learned from her sixty yearsa slave and ten years free: that there was no bad luck in the world but white people. "They don'tknow when to stop," she said, and returned to her bed, pulled up the quilt and left them to hold thatthought forever. Shortly afterward Sethe and Denver tried to call up and reason with the babyghost, but got nowhere. It took a man, Paul D, to shout it off, beat it off and take its place forhimself. And carnival or no carnival, Denver preferred the venomous baby to him any day. Duringthe first days after Paul D moved in, Denver stayed in her emerald closet as long as she could,lonely as a mountain and almost as big, thinking everybody had somebody but her; thinking even aghost's company was denied her. So when she saw the black dress with two unlaced shoes beneathit she trembled with secret thanks. Whatever her power and however she used it, Beloved was hers.
　　Denver was alarmed by the harm she thought Beloved planned for Sethe, but felt helpless to thwartit, so unrestricted was her need to love another. The display she witnessed at the Clearing shamedher because the choice between Sethe and Beloved was without conflict. Walking toward thestream, beyond her green bush house, she let herself wonder what if Beloved really decided tochoke her mother. Would she let it happen? Murder, Nelson Lord had said. "Didn't your motherget locked away for murder? Wasn't you in there with her when she went?"It was the second question that made it impossible for so long to ask Sethe about the first. Thething that leapt up had been coiled in just such a place: a darkness, a stone, and some other thingthat moved by itself. She went deaf rather than hear the answer, and like the little four o'clocks thatsearched openly for sunlight, then closed themselves tightly when it left, Denver kept watch for thebaby and withdrew from everything else. Until Paul D came. But the damage he did came undonewith the miraculous resurrection of Beloved.
    宠儿进了门。他们本该听见她的脚步声，却没有听见。
　　呼吸急促，窃窃私语，呼吸急促，窃窃私语。门刚在身后撞上，宠儿就听见了他们的声音。砰的一响让她跳起来，然后她把脑袋扭过去，听明白楼梯后面的低语声。她迈了一步，差点哭出来。
　　她本来已经离塞丝这样近了，刚才又更近了一步。塞丝做或想与她无关的事情时席卷她的那种愤怒，同这个可有天壤之别。她能够忍受塞丝出门的那些个钟头———每天九十个小时，一星期中只有一天例外。甚至能忍受她在墙壁和门板后面躺在他身边的那些夜晚，她离得很近，却不在视野里。可是现在———甚至宠儿所指望的、强迫自己知足的白天时间也被压缩了，也被塞丝关注其他事物的愿望给弄得支离破碎。主要怪他。是他说得她跑到树林里，坐在石头上自言自语。是他夜里把她藏在门后头。现在又是他霸占着她，在楼梯后面嘀嘀咕咕，就在宠儿刚刚救治了她的脖子、准备好把手放进那女人自己的手里之后不久。
　　宠儿转身离去。丹芙还没到，要么就是还等在外面什么地方。宠儿出去找她，半路上停下来，看一只红雀从树梢飞向树枝。她的眼睛跟着这个血点在树叶间穿行，直到找不见它，她才倒退着走开，仍然渴望再看上一眼。
　　她终于回转身，穿过树林跑向小溪。站在岸边，她望着自己的倒影。当丹芙的脸也映在她的旁边，她们在水中面面相觑。
　　“是你干的，我看见了。
　　”丹芙道。
　　“什么？
　　”
　　“我看见你的脸了。是你让她噎住的。
　　”
　　“不是我干的。
　　”
　　“你跟我说过你爱她。
　　”
　　“是我治好的，不是吗？不是我把她的脖子治好的吗？
　　”
　　“那是后来。在你掐了她脖子之后。
　　”
　　“我吻了她的脖子。我没掐。是铁圈掐的。
　　”
　　“我看见你了。
　　”丹芙抓住宠儿的胳膊。
　　“当心，姑娘。
　　”宠儿说着，抽出胳膊，沿着在树林一侧歌唱的小溪竭尽全力地奔跑。
　　丹芙独自一人留在那里，心中纳罕，自己是否的确误会了。她和宠儿当时站在树林中交头接耳，而塞丝坐在石头上。丹芙知道“林间空地”曾是贝比•萨格斯布道的地方，不过那时候她还是个婴儿。她从不记得自己后来到过那里。
　　124号和它后面的田野是她了解和需要的全部世界。
　　从前有过一段时间，她了解得更多，也更愿意了解。她曾经沿着小径走向另一座真实的房子。
　　曾经在窗下偷听。她独自干过四回———偷偷离开124号，在午后，当她妈妈和奶奶放松了警惕，家务活已经干完，而晚饭又没开始；充分利用与晚上的职责换档的一小时空闲。丹芙曾经溜号去找那座其他孩子能去、而她却不能去的房子。她找到的时候，胆小得不敢到前门去，只好扒着窗户往里偷看。琼斯女士端坐在直背椅上；几个孩子盘腿坐在她面前的地板上。琼斯女士拿着一本书。孩子们拿着石板。琼斯女士在说着什么，可是声音太小了，丹芙什么也听不见。孩子们跟着她说。丹芙去看了四次。第五次，琼斯女士抓住了她，说：
　　“从前门进来，丹芙小姐。这可不是儿戏。
　　”
　　于是她有几乎整整一年时间可以和同学们相伴，和他们一起学习拼写和算术。她那时七岁，那些下午的两个钟头一直为她所珍视。尤其可贵的是，她做下这件事全靠自己，还因为让妈妈和哥哥们喜出望外而喜出望外。每月收费五分钱，琼斯女士做了白人们认为即便合法也毫无必要的事情：
　　让她的小客厅里挤满那些有时间也有兴趣读书的黑孩子。带给琼斯女士的五分钱系在手绢里，拴在腰带上，这让丹芙热血沸腾。她学着尽量老练地使用粉笔，以免发出尖声；欣赏大写的W、小写的i、自己名字里字母的美，还有琼斯女士用作课本的《圣经》里深切哀怆的句子。丹芙每天早上温习功课，每天下午去一显身手。她是这样快乐，都不知道自己在被同学们回避着———他们找借口、改变步调，不跟她走到一起。是内尔森•洛德———那个跟她一样聪明的男孩———终止了这一切；他问起了关于她妈妈的问题，使得粉笔、小写i和那些下午包含的其余内容变得永远不可企及。他问问题的时候，她本该一笑置之，或者把他推个跟头，可是他的脸上和声音里都没有恶意，只有好奇。然而他提问时在她心里跳将起来的东西，事实上蛰伏已久了。
　　她再也没有回去。第二天她没去上学，塞丝问她为什么。丹芙没有回答。她害怕得不敢找她的哥哥或是别的什么人去问内尔森•洛德的问题，因为关于她妈妈的某种古怪而可怕的感觉，正在那从她心里跳将起来的东西周围聚集。后来，贝比•萨格斯去世后，她已不再奇怪，霍华德和巴格勒为什么要出走。她不同意塞丝的解释，说什么是因为鬼才离开的。如果真是这样，他们为什么耽搁这么久呢？他们同它一起生活的时间跟她一样长。但是，如果内尔森•洛德说得对———那就怪不得他们要那么闷闷不乐，尽可能远地离开家了。
　　与此同时，丹芙开始专心致志地对付那个小鬼魂，于是，有关塞丝的不可开交的噩梦获得了解脱。在内尔森•洛德提问以前，她很少对它的胡闹感兴趣。既然她妈妈和奶奶对鬼魂的出没表现得相当耐心，她便对它漠不关心了。后来，它开始惹恼她，用恶作剧搞得她疲惫不堪。那正是她走出门、跟着孩子们去琼斯女士的家庭学校上学的时候。于是，她所有的愤怒、爱和恐惧都系于小鬼魂一身，她对此完全不知如何是好。甚至当她真的鼓起勇气去问内尔森•洛德问过的问题时，她也听不见塞丝的回答，听不见贝比•萨格斯的回答，听不见此后的任何一句话。整整两年时间，她一直在一种坚实得无法穿透的寂静之中度过，但她的眼睛却因而得到了一种她自己都不敢置信的力量。比如，她看得见一只蹲在头顶上六十英尺高树枝上的麻雀的两个黑鼻孔。她有整整两年什么都听不见；然后，就突然听见了近处爬楼梯的轰响。贝比•萨格斯以为是“来，小鬼”走进了它从来不去的地方。塞丝以为是儿子玩的印第安橡皮球滚下了楼梯。
　　“是那该死的狗发昏了吗？
　　”贝比•萨格斯嚷道。
　　“它在门廊呢，”塞丝道，“不信你自己去看。
　　”
　　“那我听到的是什么呀？
　　”
　　塞丝砰地盖上炉盖。
　　“巴格勒！巴格勒！我跟你们俩都说过，不许在这儿玩球。
　　”她看了看白楼梯，见丹芙站在顶层。
　　“她在学着爬楼梯。
　　”
　　“什么？
　　”开炉盖用的垫布在塞丝手里攥成一团。
　　“那个小孩，”丹芙说，“你没听见她在爬吗？
　　”
　　首先跳出的是这样一个问题：到底是丹芙真的听见了什么动静，还是那个“都会爬了？
　　”的小女儿仍旧在这里肆虐，变本加厉？
　　丹芙的听觉被一声她不忍听到的回答切断，又被她死去的姐姐试图爬楼梯的响动接上，它的恢复标志着124号里面的人们命运的又一次转折。从那时起，鬼魂的出没就充满了恶意。不再是叹息和意外事故了，而是变成了直截了当和蓄意为之的摧残。巴格勒和霍华德对于跟女人们一起住在房子里感到怒不可遏，如果不去城里干送水和喂牲口的临时工作，他们便时时刻刻都闷闷不乐地怪罪她们。直到最后，这恶意变成了过分的个人攻击，把他们两个统统赶走。贝比•萨格斯累了，在床上长卧不起，直到她那伟大而苍老的心停止跳动。除了不定期的对色彩的要求，她实际上一语不发———直到她生命中最后一天的那个下午，她下了床，慢悠悠地颠到起居室门口，向塞丝和丹芙宣告她从六十年奴隶生涯和十年自由人的日子中学到的一课：这世界上除了白人没有别的不幸。“他们不懂得适可而止。
　　”她说道，然后就离开她们，回到床上，拉上被子，让她们永远地记住那个思想。
　　此后不久，塞丝和丹芙试图召唤那个小鬼魂，跟它论理，可是毫无结果。结果来了一个男人，保罗•D，将它吼走、打跑，再自己取代它的位置。无论有没有狂欢节那回事，丹芙都更愿意接受那个满腔怒火的婴儿，而不是他。保罗•D搬来后最初的那些日子，丹芙尽可能久地待在她的那间祖母绿密室里，像山一样孤独，也几乎一样庞大；她常想，谁都有个伴儿，单单她没有，连让一个鬼跟她做伴都不行。所以，当她看见那条黑裙子和下面的两只没系好鞋带的鞋子时，她浑身发抖，暗自谢天谢地。无论宠儿有怎样的威力，无论她怎样发威，宠儿总是她的。想到宠儿对塞丝的计划的危害性，丹芙警惕起来，但又觉得无力阻挠；她太渴望去爱别人了。在“林间空地”
　　目睹的一幕令她羞辱，因为在塞丝和宠儿之间作选择并不存在矛盾。
　　她离开她的绿色灌木小屋，朝着小溪走去，不禁心想，如果宠儿真的决定掐死她的妈妈，那该怎么办。她会任其发生吗？谋杀，内尔森•洛德说过的。
　　“你妈妈不是因为谋杀给关起来了吗？她进去的时候你没跟着吗？
　　”
　　是那第二个问题，使得她过了那么长时间才去找塞丝问第一个问题。那跳将起来的东西，曾经在这样一个地方被卷了起来：一片漆黑，有块石头，还有某种能自己动弹的东西。她还没听到回答，耳朵就聋了；同那些盛开着追随阳光、当阳光离去时又紧紧关闭自己的小茉莉花一样，丹芙一直守候着那个婴儿，对旁的一切事物都不管不顾。直到保罗•D到来。不过，他造成的破坏因为宠儿奇迹般的复活而自动失效了。
Chapter 25
    Just ahead, at the edge of the stream, Denver couldsee her silhouette, standing barefoot in the water, liking her black skirts up above her calves, thebeautiful head lowered in rapt attention. Blinking fresh tears Denver approached her — eager for a word, a sign of forgiveness.
　　Denver took off her shoes and stepped into the water with her. It took a moment for her to drag hereyes from the spectacle of Beloved's head to see what she was staring at.
　　A turtle inched along the edge, turned and climbed to dry ground. Not far behind it was anotherone, headed in the same direction. Four placed plates under a hovering motionless bowl. Behindher in the grass the other one moving quickly, quickly to mount her. The impregnable strength ofhim — earthing his feet near her shoulders. The embracing necks — hers stretching up toward hisbending down, the pat pat pat of their touching heads. No height was beyond her yearning neck,stretched like a finger toward his, risking everything outside the bowl just to touch his face. Thegravity of their shields, clashing, countered and mocked the floating heads touching. Beloveddropped the folds of her skirt. It spread around her. The hem darkened in the water.
　　OUT OF SIGHT of Mister's sight, away, praise His name, from the smiling boss of roosters, PaulD began to tremble. Not all at once and not so anyone could tell. When he turned his head, aimingfor a last look at Brother, turned it as much as the rope that connected his neck to the axle of abuckboard allowed, and, later on, when they fastened the iron around his ankles and clamped thewrists as well, there was no outward sign of trembling at all. Nor eighteen days after that when hesaw the ditches; the one thousand feet of earth — five feet deep, five feet wide, into which woodenboxes had been fitted. A door of bars that you could lift on hinges like a cage opened into threewalls and a roof of scrap lumber and red dirt. Two feet of it over his head; three feet of open trenchin front of him with anything that crawled or scurried welcome to share that grave calling itselfquarters. And there were forty-five more. He was sent there after trying to kill Brandywine, theman schoolteacher sold him to. Brandywine was leading him, in a coffle with ten others, throughKentucky into Virginia. He didn't know exactly what prompted him to try — other than Halle,Sixo, Paul A, Paul F and Mister. But the trembling was fixed by the time he knew it was there.
　　Still no one else knew it, because it began inside. A flutter of a kind, in the chest, then the shoulderblades. It felt like rippling — gentle at first and then wild. As though the further south they led himthe more his blood, frozen like an ice pond for twenty years, began thawing, breaking into piecesthat, once melted, had no choice but to swirl and eddy. Sometimes it was in his leg. Then again itmoved to the base of his spine. By the time they unhitched him from the wagon and he sawnothing but dogs and two shacks in a world of sizzling grass, the roiling blood was shaking him toand fro. But no one could tell. The wrists he held out for the bracelets that evening were steady aswere the legs he stood on when chains were attached to the leg irons. But when they shoved himinto the box and dropped the cage door down, his hands quit taking instruction. On their own, theytraveled. Nothing could stop them or get their attention. They would not hold his penis to urinateor a spoon to scoop lumps of lima beans into his mouth. The miracle of their obedience came withthe hammer at dawn.
　　All forty-six men woke to rifle shot. All forty-six. Three whitemen walked along the trenchunlocking the doors one by one. No one stepped through. When the last lock was opened, the threereturned and lifted the bars, one by one. And one by one the blackmen emerged — promptly and without the poke of a rifle butt if they had been there more than a day; promptly with the butt if,like Paul D, they had just arrived. When all forty-six were standing in a line in the trench, anotherrifle shot signaled the climb out and up to the ground above, where one thousand feet of the besthand-forged chain in Georgia stretched. Each man bent and waited. The first man picked up theend and threaded it through the loop on his leg iron. He stood up then, and, shuffling a little,brought the chain tip to the next prisoner, who did likewise. As the chain was passed on and eachman stood in the other's place, the line of men turned around, facing the boxes they had come outof. Not one spoke to the other. At least not with words. The eyes had to tell what there was to tell:
　　"Help me this mornin; 's bad"; "I'm a make it"; "New man"; "Steady now steady."Chain-up completed, they knelt down. The dew, more likely than not, was mist by then. Heavysometimes and if the dogs were quiet and just breathing you could hear doves. Kneeling in the mistthey waited for the whim of a guard, or two, or three. Or maybe all of them wanted it. Wanted itfrom one prisoner in particular or none — or all.
　　"Breakfast? Want some breakfast, nigger?""Yes, sir.""Hungry, nigger?""Yes, sir.""Here you go."Occasionally a kneeling man chose gunshot in his head as the price, maybe, of taking a bit offoreskin with him to Jesus. Paul D did not know that then. He was looking at his palsied hands,smelling the guard, listening to his soft grunts so like the doves', as he stood before the mankneeling in mist on his right. Convinced he was next, Paul D retched — vomiting up nothing at all.
　　An observing guard smashed his shoulder with the rifle and the engaged one decided to skip thenew man for the time being lest his pants and shoes got soiled by nigger puke.
　　"Hiiii"It was the first sound, other than "Yes, sir" a blackman was allowed to speak each morning, andthe lead chain gave it everything he had. "Hiiii!" It was never clear to Paul D how he knew whento shout that mercy. They called him Hi Man and Paul D thought at first the guards told him whento give the signal that let the prisoners rise up off their knees and dance two-step to the music ofhand forged iron. Later he doubted it. He believed to this day that the "Hiiii!" at dawn and the"Hoooo!" when evening came were the responsibility Hi Man assumed because he alone knewwhat was enough, what was too much, when things were over, when the time had come.
　　They chain-danced over the fields, through the woods to a trail that ended in the astonishing beautyof feldspar, and there Paul D's hands disobeyed the furious rippling of his blood and paid attention.
　　With a sledge hammer in his hands and Hi Man's lead, the men got through. They sang it out andbeat it up, garbling the words so they could not be understood; tricking the words so their syllablesyielded up other meanings. They sang the women they knew; the children they had been; theanimals they had tamed themselves or seen others tame. They sang of bosses and masters andmisses; of mules and dogs and the shamelessness of life. They sang lovingly of graveyards andsisters long gone. Of pork in the woods; meal in the pan; fish on the line; cane, rain and rockingchairs.
　　And they beat. The women for having known them and no more,no more; the children for having been them but never again. They killed a boss so often and socompletely they had to bring him back to life to pulp him one more time. Tasting hot mealcakeamong pine trees, they beat it away. Singing love songs to Mr. Death, they smashed his head.
　　More than the rest, they killed the flirt whom folks called Life for leading them on. Making themthink the next sunrise would be worth it; that another stroke of time would do it at last. Only whenshe was dead would they be safe. The successful ones — the ones who had been there enoughyears to have maimed, mutilated, maybe even buried her — kept watch over the others who werestill in her cock-teasing hug, caring and looking forward, remembering and looking back. Theywere the ones whose eyes said, "Help me, 's bad"; or "Look out," meaning this might be the day Ibay or eat my own mess or run, and it was this last that had to be guarded against, for if onepitched and ran — all, all forty-six, would be yanked by the chain that bound them and no tellingwho or how many would be killed. A man could risk his own life, but not his brother's. So the eyessaid, "Steady now," and "Hang by me."Eighty-six days and done. Life was dead. Paul D beat her butt all day every day till there was not awhimper in her. Eighty-six days and his hands were still, waiting serenely each rat-rustling nightfor "Hiiii!" at dawn and the eager clench on the hammer's shaft. Life rolled over dead. Or so hethought.
　　It rained.
　　Snakes came down from short-leaf pine and hemlock.
　　It rained.
　　Cypress, yellow poplar, ash and palmetto drooped under five days of rain without wind. By theeighth day the doves were nowhere in sight, by the ninth even the salamanders were gone. Dogslaid their ears down and stared over their paws. The men could not work. Chain-up was slow,breakfast abandoned, the two-step became a slow drag over soupy grass and unreliable earth.
　　It was decided to lock everybody down in the boxes till it either stopped or lightened up so awhiteman could walk, damnit, without flooding his gun and the dogs could quit shivering. Thechain was threaded through forty-six loops of the best hand-forged iron in Georgia.
　　It rained.
    就在前面，在小溪边，丹芙能看见她的剪影：她赤脚立在水中，黑裙子提到腿肚上，美丽的头全神贯注地低垂着。
　　丹芙眨落新鲜的眼泪，靠近她———渴盼着一句话，一个宽恕的信号。
　　丹芙脱下鞋子，在她身旁将双脚踏入水中。过了一会儿，她才把目光从宠儿奇妙的头上移开，去看她正在盯着什么看。
　　一只乌龟沿着河岸徐行，拐了个弯，爬向干燥的地面。身后不远处是另一只，头朝着同一个方向。四只盘子各就各位，安置在一只踟蹰不前的碗钵下面。从雌龟身后的草丛里，那只雄龟飞快地爬出来，飞快地骑在她的背上。他勇不可挡———就在她的肩膀旁，他把脚埋进土里。脖子纠缠起来———她的往上伸，他的朝下弯，他们相亲的头拍打，拍打，拍打。她焦渴的脖颈抬得比什么都高，宛如一根手指，伸向他的脖颈，冒着伸出碗钵外面的一切危险，只是为了触到他的脸。沉甸甸的甲壳彼此撞击，抗议并嘲笑着他们那游离出来相亲的龟头。
　　宠儿撂下裙褶。裙子在她周围展开。裙摆浸在河水中，颜色暗了下来。
　　在“先生”的视线达不到的地方，谢天谢地，远离了公鸡们那微笑着的首领，保罗•D开始颤抖。不是突然开始的，也不是可以轻易觉察出来的。当他的脖子被绳子拴在马车轴上，而他在绳子允许的范围内尽可能地扭过头、希望最后看一眼“兄弟”的时候，还有后来，当他们把镣铐铐上他的脚踝和手腕的时候，都根本没有颤抖的明显迹象。就是十八天以后，当他看见壕沟的时候，也仍然没有任何迹象。那是一道一千英尺长的泥土沟———有五英尺深、五英尺宽，正好放进那些木头匣子。匣子有道栅栏门，可以用绞索提起，好像打开一个笼子，打开后就能看见三面墙和一个用废木材和红土做成的屋顶。他头顶上有两英尺空间，面前有三英尺敞开的壕沟，供所有爬行的和疾走的东西来与他分享这个叫做住处的坟坑。这样的坟坑另外还有四十五个。他被送到那里是因为他企图杀死“学校老师”把他卖给的那个男人，“白兰地酒”。本来，“白兰地酒”正领着他和其他十个奴隶组成的一队人，穿过肯塔基前往弗吉尼亚。他搞不清楚究竟是什么促使他去以身试法———除了因为黑尔、西克索、保罗•A、保罗•F和“先生”。可是等他意识到的时候，颤抖已经固定不去了。
　　然而始终没有别的人知道，因为它发自内部。是一种颤动，先是在胸口，再传递到肩胛。感觉起来像涟漪一样———开始时柔和，然后就转为猛烈。似乎他们越将他领往南方，他的像冰封的池塘一样冻结了二十年的血液就越开始融化，裂成碎块，而一旦融化了，就只能打着旋儿飞转，此外别无选择。有时候颤抖是在他的腿里。然后再次传到他的脊椎底部。等他们将他从大车上解下来，他看到眼前这个野草咝咝作响的世界，除了狗群和两间小木屋以外一无所有，这时，愤怒的血液已经激得他前后摇晃。可是没有人能看出来。那天晚上，他伸出手来戴手铐，手腕很稳健；他们往他脚镣上拴铁链时，他那支撑身体的双腿也同样稳健。可是当他们把他塞进匣子、放下笼门的时候，他的手再也不听话了。它们自己活动起来。什么都无法止住它们，或者吸引它们的注意力。它们拒绝握着他的阴茎撒尿，或者拿着勺子舀一勺利马豆送进嘴里。直到黎明来临，该去抡大锤时，它们才奇迹般地驯服了。
　　一声枪响，四十六个男人一齐醒来。所有四十六个。三个白人沿沟走过，一把接一把地打开门锁。没人迈出一步。等到最后一把锁打开，三个人返回来提起栅栏，一扇接一扇。然后黑人们鱼贯而出———那些起码在里面待上过一天的，动作很利索，不会被枪托捣中；若是新来乍到，比如保罗•D，则不免挨上一枪托，才会麻利些。当四十六人全部在沟里站成一列时，另一声枪响命令他们爬出来，爬到头顶的地面上，于是一千英尺长的、佐治亚最好的手工锁链抻开来。每个人都弯腰等着。头一个拾起锁链的一头，穿进脚镣上的铁环。然后他站起身来，拖了几步，把链子递给下一个犯人，那个人就照他的样子做。等到链子一直传到头，每个人都站到了别人的位置上，这一列男人就掉转头，面向他们刚刚爬出的匣子。没有一个人对另一个说话。至少不用语言。要想说什么得用眼睛：
　　“今儿早上帮我一把，糟透了”；“我活着”；“新来的”；“别急，现在别急”。
　　锁链全部上好，他们跪下来。露水这时候多半已经变成了雾气，有时还很重。如果狗很安静，只是呼吸，你还能听见鸽子的声响。他们跪在雾里，等待着一个、两个或者三个看守异想天开的折磨。也许他们三个都喜欢心血来潮。或者针对某个特定的犯人，或者不针对任何人———或者针对所有人。
　　“早餐？想吃早餐吗，黑鬼？
　　”
　　“是，先生。
　　”
　　“饿了，黑鬼？
　　”
　　“是，先生。
　　”
　　“去你妈的吧。
　　”
　　偶尔，一个跪着的男人也许会选择脑袋上挨枪子儿，作为带着一点包皮去见耶稣的代价。保罗•D当时还不知道那个。当看守站在他右边雾中跪着的那个男人面前时，他正在端详自己不住痉挛的手，一边闻着看守的气味，一边听着看守酷似鸽子的沉闷的咕哝声。保罗•D断定下一个是自己了，便干呕起来———实际上什么也没吐出来。一个眼尖的看守举起枪死命去捣他的肩膀，那个动手的看守决定暂时跳过这个新来的，以免裤子和鞋被黑鬼呕出的东西弄脏。
　　“嗨———!”
　　这是除了“是，先生”之外，其中一个黑人每天早晨允许发出的第一声呼喊，因为在锁链上领头，他才有了这一切权力。
　　“嗨———!”保罗•D始终搞不明白，他怎么知道什么时候喊出那一声悲悯。他们叫他“嗨师傅”。保罗•D起先以为是看守告诉他什么时候发出信号，让犯人们爬起来跟着手工镣铐的音乐跳两步舞的。后来他才纳闷起来。他至今依然相信，黎明的“嗨———!”和傍晚的“呼———!”是“嗨师傅”主动承担的责任，因为只有他一个人知道多少是足够，多少是过分，何时事情了结，何时时机已到。
　　他们带着锁链一路舞过田野，穿过树林，来到一条小径上；小径尽头是一座美得惊人的长石矿，在那里，保罗•D的双手抵住了血液中愤怒的涟漪，将注意力集中起来。在“嗨师傅”的带领下，男人们手抡长柄大铁锤，苦熬过来。他们唱出心中块垒，再砸碎它；篡改歌词，好不让别人听懂；玩文字游戏，好让音节生出别的意思。他们唱着与他们相识的女人；唱着他们曾经是过的孩子；唱着他们自己驯养或者看见别人驯养的动物。他们唱着工头、主人和小姐；唱着骡子、狗和生活的无耻。他们深情地唱着坟墓和去了很久的姐妹。唱林中的猪肉；唱锅里的饭菜；唱钓丝上的鱼儿；唱甘蔗、雨水和摇椅。
　　他们砸着。砸着他们从前曾经认识、现在却不再拥有的女人；砸着他们从前曾经是过、却永不会再是的孩子。他们如此频繁、如此彻底地砸死一个工头，结果不得不让他活过来，好再一次把他砸成肉酱。他们在松林中间品尝热蛋糕，又将它砸跑。他们一边为死亡先生唱着情歌，一边砸碎他的脑袋。更有甚者，他们砸死了那个人们称之为生命的骚货，就是她引领着他们前进，让他们觉得太阳再次升起是值得的；钟声的再一次鸣响终将了结一切。只有让她死去他们才会安全。成功者们———那些在里面待足了年头，已将她残害、切断手足，甚至埋葬了的人———一直留心着其余那些仍然处在她淫荡怀抱里的人，那些牵挂和瞻望着、牢记和回顾着的人们。就是这些人，依然用眼睛说着“救救我，糟透了”，说着“小心啊”，意思是：很可能就是今天，我得吠叫、疯掉，或者逃跑了，而最后这一点是必须提高警惕、严加防范的，因为如果有一个逃掉了———那么，所有、所有四十六个人，就会被拴住他们的锁链拖走，说不准会有谁、会有多少个要被杀掉。一个人可以拿自己的性命冒险，却不能拿兄弟们的冒险。于是，他们用眼睛说，“现在别急”，说，“有我在呢”。
　　八十六天，干完了。生命死了。保罗•D整天砸她的屁股，直到她咽了气为止。八十六天过去，他的手不抖了，在耗子猖獗的每一个夜晚，他平静地等待着黎明的一声“嗨———!”，热切地渴望去握紧大锤把儿。生命翻过身去死掉了。至少他是这么想的。
　　下雨了。
　　蛇从短针松和铁杉树上爬下来。
　　下雨了。
　　柏树、黄杨、白杨和棕榈经历了五天无风的大雨，垂下头来。到了第八天，再也看不见鸽子了；到第九天，就连蝾螈都没了。狗耷拉着耳朵，盯着自己的爪子出神。男人们没法干活了。锁链松了，早饭废除了，两步舞变成了稀乎乎的草地和不坚实的泥浆地上面拖拖拉拉的步伐。
　　最后的决定是把所有人都锁在地下的匣子里，直到雨停下或者减弱，这样，一个白人单独就可以巡视，同时枪又挨不着雨淋，狗也不必打哆嗦了，他妈的。锁链穿过四十六个佐治亚最好的手工镣铐的铁环。
　　下雨了。
Chapter 26
    In the boxes the men heard the water rise in the trench and looked out for cottonmouths. Theysquatted in muddy water, slept above it, peed in it. Paul D thought he was screaming; his mouthwas open and there was this loud throat-splitting sound — but it may have been somebody else.
　　Then he thought he was crying. Something was running down his cheeks. He lifted his hands towipe away the tears and saw dark brown slime. Above him rivulets of mud slid through the boardsof the roof. When it come down, he thought, gonna crush me like a tick bug. It happened so quickhe had no time to ponder. Somebody yanked the chain — once — hard enough to cross his legsand throw him into the mud. He never figured out how he knew — how anybody did — but he didknow — he did — and he took both hands and yanked the length of chain at his left, so the nextman would know too. The water was above his ankles, flowing over the wooden plank he slept on.
　　And then it wasn't water anymore. The ditch was caving in and mud oozed under and through thebars. They waited — each and every one of the forty-six. Not screaming, although some of themmust have fought like the devil not to. The mud was up to his thighs and he held on to the bars.
　　Then it came — another yank — from the left this time and less forceful than the first because ofthe mud it passed through.
　　It started like the chain-up but the difference was the power of the chain. One by one, from Hi Manback on down the line, they dove. Down through the mud under the bars, blind, groping. Some hadsense enough to wrap their heads in their shirts, cover their faces with rags, put on their shoes.
　　Others just plunged, simply ducked down and pushed out, fighting up, reaching for air. Some lostdirection and their neighbors, feeling the confused pull of the chain, snatched them around. Forone lost, all lost. The chain that held them would save all or none, and Hi Man was the Delivery.
　　They talked through that chain like Sam Morse and, Great God, they all came up. Like theunshriven dead, zombies on the loose, holding the chains in their hands, they trusted the rain andthe dark, yes, but mostly Hi Man and each other.
　　Past the sheds where the dogs lay in deep depression; past the two guard shacks, past the stable ofsleeping horses, past the hens whose bills were bolted into their feathers, they waded. The moondid not help because it wasn't there. The field was a marsh, the track a trough. All Georgia seemedto be sliding, melting away. Moss wiped their faces as they fought the live-oak branches thatblocked their way. Georgia took up all of Alabama and Mississippi then, so there was no state lineto cross and it wouldn't have mattered anyway. If they had known about it, they would haveavoided not only Alfred and the beautiful feldspar, but Savannah too and headed for the SeaIslands on the river that slid down from the Blue Ridge Mountains. But they didn't know.
　　Daylight came and they huddled in a copse of redbud trees. Night came and they scrambled up tohigher ground, praying the rain would go on shielding them and keeping folks at home. They werehoping for a shack, solitary, some distance from its big house, where a slave might be making ropeor heating potatoes at the grate. What they found was a camp of sick Cherokee for whom a rosewas named. Decimated but stubborn, they were among those who chose a fugitive life rather thanOklahoma. The illness that swept them now was reminiscent of the one that had killed half theirnumber two hundred years earlier. In between that calamity and this, they had visited George III in London, published a newspaper, made baskets, led Oglethorpe through forests, helped AndrewJackson fight Creek, cooked maize, drawn up a constitution, petitioned the King of Spain, beenexperimented on by Dartmouth, established asylums, wrote their language, resisted settlers, shotbear and translated scripture. All to no avail. The forced move to the Arkansas River, insisted uponby the same president they fought for against the Creek, destroyed another quarter of their alreadyshattered number.
　　That was it, they thought, and removed themselves from those Cherokee who signed the treaty, inorder to retire into the forest and await the end of the world. The disease they suffered now was amere inconvenience compared to the devastation they remembered. Still, they protected each otheras best they could. The healthy were sent some miles away; the sick stayed behind with the dead— to survive or join them.
　　The prisoners from Alfred, Georgia, sat down in semicircle near the encampment. No one cameand still they sat. Hours passed and the rain turned soft. Finally a woman stuck her head out of herhouse. Night and nothing happened. At dawn two men with barnacles covering theirbeautifulskinappro(came) ached them. No one spoke for a moment, then Hi Man raised his hand. TheCherokee saw the chains and went away. When they returned each carried a handful of small axes.
　　Two children followed with a pot of mush cooling and thinning in the rain.
　　Buffalo men, they called them, and talked slowly to the prisoners scooping mush and tapping awayat their chains. Nobody from a box in Alfred, Georgia, cared about the illness the Cherokee warnedthem about, so they stayed, all forty-six, resting, planning their next move. Paul D had no idea ofwhat to do and knew less than anybody, it seemed. He heard his co-convicts talk knowledgeably ofrivers and states, towns and territories. Heard Cherokee men describe the beginning of the worldand its end. Listened to tales of other Buffalo men they knew — three of whom were in the healthycamp a few miles away. Hi Man wanted to join them; others wanted to join him. Some wanted toleave; some to stay on. Weeks later Paul D was the only Buffalo man left — without a plan. All hecould think of was tracking dogs, although Hi Man said the rain they left in gave that no chance ofsuccess. Alone, the last man with buffalo hair among the ailing Cherokee, Paul D finally woke upand, admitting his ignorance, asked how he might get North. Free North. Magical North.
　　Welcoming, benevolent North. The Cherokee smiled and looked around. The flood rains of amonth ago had turned everything to steam and blossoms.
　　"That way," he said, pointing. "Follow the tree flowers," he said.
　　"Only the tree flowers. As they go, you go. You will be where you want to be when they aregone."So he raced from dogwood to blossoming peach. When they thinned out he headed for the cherryblossoms, then magnolia, chinaberry, pecan, walnut and prickly pear. At last he reached a field ofapple trees whose flowers were just becoming tiny knots of fruit. Spring sauntered north, but hehad to run like hell to keep it as his traveling companion. From February to July he was on thelookout for blossoms. When he lost them, and found himself without so much as a petal to guide him, he paused, climbed a tree on a hillock and scanned the horizon for a flash of pink or white inthe leaf world that surrounded him. He did not touch them or stop to smell. He merely followed intheir wake, a dark ragged figure guided by the blossoming plums.
　　The apple field turned out to be Delaware where the weaver lady lived. She snapped him up assoon as he finished the sausage she fed him and he crawled into her bed crying. She passed him offas her nephew from Syracuse simply by calling him that nephew's name. Eighteen months and hewas looking out again for blossoms only this time he did the looking on a dray.
　　It was some time before he could put Alfred, Georgia, Sixo, schoolteacher, Halle, his brothers,Sethe, Mister, the taste of iron, the sight of butter, the smell of hickory, notebook paper, one byone, into the tobacco tin lodged in his chest. By the time he got to 124 nothing in this world couldpry it open.
　　SHE MOVED HIM.
    匣子里的人们一面听着水在壕沟里涨起来，一面当心着棉嘴蛇。他们蹲在泥水里，泥水里睡觉，泥水里撒尿。保罗•D以为自己在喊叫：他的嘴大张着，又能听见劈裂的喊声———不过那也可能是别人在喊。接着，他又以为自己在哭。有什么顺着他的脸颊流下来。他抬起两手去抹眼泪，看到的却是深棕色的泥浆。在他头顶上，小股的泥流穿透屋顶的木板滑下来。屋顶要是塌了，他想，它会像捻死一个臭虫似的把我压瘪。事情发生得这么快，他都来不及多想。有人在猛拽锁链———一下———猛得简直像要拉倒他的腿，让他摔进泥浆里。他始终没想清楚自己是怎么懂的———别人又是怎么懂的———可他的确懂了———他懂了———于是他用两只手狠命地拽左边的一截锁链，下一个也就知道了。水没过了他的脚踝，漫过了他睡觉的木板。然后就不再是水了。
　　壕沟在塌陷，泥浆从栅栏下面和栅栏中间涌进来。
　　他们等着———所有四十六个都在等着。没有人喊叫，尽管不少人肯定是在拼命忍住。泥浆没到了腿根，他抓住栅栏。这时，又来了———又是一下猛拉———这下是从左边来的，因为要穿过泥浆，比刚才那一下劲头小些。
　　行动开始时，很像穿上锁链，可是区别在于锁链的力量。一个接一个地，从“嗨师傅”往回，沿着这一排，他们扎了下去。潜到栅栏下的泥浆里，瞎着眼睛摸索着。几个有心计的把脑袋裹在衬衫里，用破布蒙住脸，穿上鞋。其余的就这么囫囵扎了下去，只管往下划开去，再奋力上来找空气。
　　有的迷失了方向，同伴感觉到锁链上慌张狼狈的乱扯，就四处去抓他们。因为一旦有一个迷失，大家就会全部迷失。将他们拴在一起的锁链，要么救出所有人，要么一个也救不了，于是，“嗨师傅”
　　成了救星。他们通过链子说话，就像山姆•摩斯一样，老天哪，他们全出来了。他们手执锁链，如同未经忏悔的死者和逍遥法外的僵尸，他们信赖豪雨和黑夜，是的，但最信任的是“嗨师傅”，是他们自己。
　　他们走过狗窝棚，狗无精打采地趴在那里；走过两个看守室，走过马沉睡着的马厩，走过把嘴埋进羽毛的母鸡，他们跋涉着。月亮没帮上忙，因为它不在场。田野是一片沼泽，道路是一条水沟。整个佐治亚似乎都在下沉、融化。他们企图拨开挡道的橡树枝，倒被蹭了一脸青苔。那时的佐治亚还包括整个亚拉巴马和密西西比，所以没有州界可过，其实它们本来也没什么用处。要是他们知道的话，他们不仅会逃离阿尔弗雷德和美丽的长石矿，还会避开萨凡纳，而直奔位于滑下蓝岭的河流上的海群岛。然而他们不知道。
　　白天来了，他们在紫荆树丛中挤作一团。夜幕降临，他们爬起身登上高地，祈求雨会继续掩护他们，把人们困在家里。他们希望找到一个孤零零的小棚子，离主人的大房子有一定距离，里面可能有个黑奴在搓绳子或者在炉架上烤土豆。他们找到的是一营生病的切罗基人，一种玫瑰就是因他们而得名的。
　　人口大批死亡之后，切罗基人仍然很顽固，宁愿去过一种逃犯的生涯，也不去俄克拉何马。
　　现在席卷他们的这场疾病让人想起二百年前曾经要了他们半数性命的那一场。在这两场灾祸之间，他们去拜见了伦敦的乔治三世，出版了一份报纸，造出了篮子，把奥格尔索普带出了森林，帮助安德鲁•杰克逊与克里克人作战，烹调玉米，制定宪法，上书西班牙国王，被达特茅斯学院用来做实验，建立避难所，为自己的语言发明文字，抵抗殖民者，猎熊，翻译经文。然而都是徒劳无功。他们协助攻打克里克人的那同一个总统一声令下，他们就被迫迁往阿肯色河，已经残缺不全的队伍因此又损失了四分之一。
　　到此为止吧，他们想，然后，他们从那些签了条约的切罗基人中分离出来，以便退隐森林，等待世界末日。他们现在遭受的疾病同他们所记得的那次灭顶之灾相比，不过是头痛脑热而已。然而，他们仍旧竭尽全力互相保护。健康的被送到几英里开外的地方；生病的和死者一起留在后面———要么活下来，要么加入死者的行列。
　　从佐治亚州阿尔弗雷德来的犯人们在营房附近坐成一个半圆。没有人来，他们就一直坐在那里。几个小时过去，雨小了些。终于，一个女人从房子里探出脑袋。一夜无事。黎明时分，两个美丽皮肤上遮着贝壳的男人朝他们走来。一时没有人开口，然后“嗨师傅”举起了手。两个切罗基人看见锁链就走了。他们回来的时候每人抱着一抱小斧头。随后，两个孩子抬来一罐让雨淋得又凉又稀的玉米糊糊。
　　他们称呼新来的人为野牛人，慢声慢气地同这些盛着粥、砸着锁链的囚犯们说起话来。在佐治亚州阿尔弗雷德的匣子里待过的这些人，对切罗基人让他们提防的那种疾病都毫不在乎，于是他们留了下来，所有四十六个，一边歇息，一边盘算下一步。保罗•D根本不知道该干什么，而且好像比谁知道得都少。他听同犯们很渊博地谈起河流、州省、城镇和疆域。听切罗基人煞有介事地描述世界的起始和终结。听他们讲所知道的关于别的野牛人的故事———其中有三个就待在几英里外的健康营里。
　　“嗨师傅”想去与他们会合，其他人想跟着“嗨师傅”。有一些人想离开，一些人想留下。几星期过后，保罗•D成了唯一剩下的野牛人———一点打算也没有。他满脑子想的只有循着踪迹追来的猎犬，尽管“嗨师傅”说过，有了他们经历的那场大雨，追踪根本没有成功的可能。作为最后一个长野牛毛的男人，孤单的保罗•D终于在生病的切罗基人中间觉醒了，承认自己的无知，打听他怎么才能去北方。自由的北方。神奇的北方。好客、仁慈的北方。那切罗基人微笑四顾。一个月前的那场暴雨使一切都在蒸腾和盛开。
　　“那条路。
　　”他指着说。
　　“跟着树上的花儿走，”他说道，“只管跟着树上的花儿走。它们去哪儿你去哪儿。它们消失的时候，你就到了你要去的地方。
　　”
　　于是，他从山茱萸跑向盛开的桃花。桃花稀疏、消失时，他就奔向樱桃花；然后是木兰花、苦楝花、山核桃花、胡桃花和刺梨花。最后他来到一片苹果树林，花儿刚刚结出小青果。春天信步北上，可是他得拼命地奔跑才能赶上这个旅伴。从二月到七月他一直在找花儿。当他找不见它们，发现再也没有一片花瓣来指引他，他便停下来，爬上土坡上的一棵树，在地平线上极力搜寻环绕的叶海中一点粉红或白色的闪动。他从未抚摸过它们，也没有停下来闻上一闻。他只是簇簇梅花指引下的一个黝黑、褴褛的形象，紧紧追随着它们的芳痕。
　　那片苹果地，原来就是那个女织工居住的特拉华。他刚刚吃完她给的香肠，她就一下子搂住了他，然后，他哭着爬上她的床。她让他假装成她在希拉库斯的外甥，直接用那外甥的名字称呼他。
　　十八个月后，他再次出来找花儿，不过这回他是坐着大车找的。
　　过了好一段时间，他才把佐治亚的阿尔弗雷德、西克索、“学校老师”、黑尔、他的哥哥们、塞丝、“先生”、铁嚼子的滋味、牛油的情景、胡桃的气味、笔记本的纸，一个一个地锁进他胸前的烟草罐里。等他来到124号的时候，这个世界上已没有任何东西能够撬开它了。
　　她赶走了他。
Chapter 27
    Not the way he had beat off the baby's ghost — all bang and shriek with windows smashed andicily iars rolled in a heap. But she moved him nonetheless, and Paul D didn't know how to stop itbecause it looked like he was moving himself. Imperceptibly, downright reasonably, he wasmoving out of 124.
　　The beginning was so simple. One day, after supper, he sat in the rocker by the stove, bone-tired,river-whipped, and fell asleep. He woke to the footsteps of Sethe coming down the white stairs tomake breakfast.
　　"I thought you went out somewhere," she said.
　　Paul D moaned, surprised to find himself exactly where he was the last time he looked.
　　"Don't tell me I slept in this chair the whole night."Sethe laughed. "Me? I won't say a word to you.""Why didn't you rouse me?""I did. Called you two or three times. I gave it up around midnight and then I thought you went outsomewhere."He stood, expecting his back to fight it. But it didn't. Not a creak or a stiff joint anywhere. In facthe felt refreshed. Some things are like that, he thought, good-sleep places. The base of certain treeshere and there; a wharf, a bench, a rowboat once, a haystack usually, not always bed, and here,now, a rocking chair, which was strange because in his experience furniture was the worst placefor a good-sleep sleep.
　　The next evening he did it again and then again. He was accustomed to sex with Sethe just aboutevery day, and to avoid the confusion Beloved's shining caused him he still made it his business totake her back upstairs in the morning, or lie down with her after supper. But he found a way and areason to spend the longest part of the night in the rocker. He told himself it must be his back —something supportive it needed for a weakness left over from sleeping in a box in Georgia.
　　It went on that way and might have stayed that way but one evening, after supper, after Sethe, hecame downstairs, sat in the rocker and didn't want to be there. He stood up and realized he didn'twant to go upstairs either. Irritable and longing for rest, he opened the door to Baby Suggs' roomand dropped off to sleep on the bed the old lady died in. That settled it — so it seemed. It becamehis room and Sethe didn't object — her bed made for two had been occupied by one for eighteenyears before Paul D came to call. And maybe it was better this way, with young girls in the houseand him not being her true-to-life husband. In any case, since there was no reduction in his before-breakfast or after-supper appetites, he never heard her complain.
　　It went on that way and might have stayed that way, except one evening, after supper, after Sethe,he came downstairs and lay on Baby Suggs' bed and didn't want to be there.
　　He believed he was having house-fits, the glassy anger men sometimes feel when a woman's housebegins to bind them, when they want to yell and break something or at least run off. He knew allabout that — felt it lots of times — in the Delaware weaver's house, for instance. But always heassociated the house-fit with the woman in it. This nervousness had nothing to do with the woman,whom he loved a little bit more every day: her hands among vegetables, her mouth when shelicked a thread end before guiding it through a needle or bit it in two when the seam was done, theblood in her eye when she defended her girls (and Beloved was hers now) or any coloredwomanfrom a slur. Also in this house-fit there was no anger, no suffocation, no yearning to be elsewhere.
　　He just could not, would not, sleep upstairs or in the rocker or, now, in Baby Suggs' bed. So hewent to the storeroom.
　　It went on that way and might have stayed that way except one evening, after supper, after Sethe,he lay on a pallet in the storeroom and didn't want to be there. Then it was the cold house and itwas out there, separated from the main part of 124, curled on top of two croaker sacks full of sweetpotatoes, staring at the sides of a lard can, that he realized the moving was involuntary. He wasn'tbeing nervous; he was being prevented.
　　So he waited. Visited Sethe in the morning; slept in the cold room at night and waited.
　　She came, and he wanted to knock her down.
    不是他打跑婴儿鬼魂的那种方式———又摔又叫，砸碎了窗户，果酱罐滚作一堆。可她仍然赶走了他，而保罗•D不知道怎样制止她，因为看起来像是他自己搬走的。不知不觉地，完全合情合理地，他在搬出124号。
　　事情的开头简单极了。一天，晚饭以后，他坐在炉边的摇椅上，腰酸腿疼，出汗出得好像刚从水里捞出来，就那样睡着了。塞丝走下白楼梯来做早饭的声音吵醒了他。
　　“我以为你到外头什么地方去了。
　　”她说。
　　保罗•D哼了哼，吃惊地发现自己还待在原来待的地方。
　　“别跟我说我在这张椅子上睡了一整夜。
　　”
　　塞丝笑了起来。
　　“我吗？我什么也不会跟你说的。
　　”
　　“你怎么没把我叫起来？
　　”
　　“我叫了。叫了你两三遍呐。到了半夜我才决定拉倒，我以为你上外头什么地方去了。
　　”
　　他站起来，以为后背会很难受。可是没有。哪里都没有咯吱作响，也没感到关节麻木。实际上他倒觉得振奋。有些东西就是那样，他想，真是个睡觉的好地方。随便什么地方的树脚下；一个码头，一条长椅，有一次是只小船，通常是一垛干草堆，不总是床；可现在这回，居然是一把摇椅，很是莫名其妙，因为凭他的经验，要睡个好觉，家具可是最糟糕的地方了。
　　第二天晚上他又这样睡了，接着又睡了一夜。他已经习惯了几乎每天和塞丝性交，为了避免自己被宠儿的光芒迷惑，他仍然自觉地每天早晨回到楼上与塞丝云雨一番，或者晚饭以后和她一起躺倒。然而为了在摇椅上过夜，他找到了一个办法，一个理由。他告诉自己，肯定是因为他的后背———在佐治亚的匣子里落下的后遗症，使它需要什么东西支撑。
　　这种状况继续着，而且本可以一直保持下去，可是一天晚上，晚饭后，他跟塞丝性交后走下楼梯、坐到摇椅上，却不想在那儿待着了。他站起来，发觉自己也并不想上楼去。他心烦意乱又渴望休息，便打开门进了贝比•萨格斯的房间，到老太太死去的那张床上倒头便睡。事情就这么结了———看来如此。它成了他的房间，塞丝并不介意———她的双人床在保罗•D来到之前的十八年里都是她一个人睡。也许这样更好，家里有年轻姑娘，而他又不是自己的结发丈夫。不管怎么说，因为他并没有就此减少早饭以前和晚饭以后的欲望，所以他一直没听见她有过怨言。
　　这种状况继续着，而且本可以一直保持下去，可是一天晚上，晚饭后，他与塞丝性交过后走下楼梯，躺到贝比•萨格斯的床上，却不想在那儿待着了。他以为自己患了那种房屋恐惧症，当一个女人的房子开始束缚男人，当他们想吼叫、砸点东西或者至少跑掉的时候，他们有时会感觉到那种呆滞无神的愤怒。他了解得一清二楚———感受过许多回———比如在特拉华女织工的房子里。然而，他总是把房屋恐惧症和房子里的女人联系起来。这次的紧张可跟这个女人毫无关系，他一天比一天更爱她：她那双收拾蔬菜的手，她那在穿针之前舔一下线头或者缝补完以后把线咬成两段的嘴，她那保护她的姑娘们（宠儿现在也是她的了）或者任何黑人妇女不受侮辱时充血的眼睛。
　　还有，这次的房屋恐惧症里没有愤怒，没有窒息，没有远走他乡的渴望。他只是不能、不愿睡在楼上、摇椅上，还有现在，贝比•萨格斯的床上。于是他去了贮藏室。
　　这种状况继续着，而且本可以一直保持下去，可是一天晚上，晚饭后，他享用了塞丝后走下楼梯，躺到贮藏室的地铺上，却不想在那儿待着了。然后就是冷藏室，它在外面，与124号的主体分开。蜷曲在两个装满甘薯的麻袋上，盯着一个猪油罐头的轮廓，他发觉他搬出来是身不由己的。不是他神经过敏；是有人在驱逐他。
　　于是他等着。早晨去找塞丝；夜里睡在冷藏室里，等着。
　　她来了，而他想把她打翻在地。
Chapter 28
    In Ohio seasons are theatrical. Each one enters like a prima donna, convinced its performance isthe reason the world has people in it. When Paul D had been forced out of 124 into a shed behindit, summer had been hooted offstage and autumn with its bottles of blood and gold had everybody'sattention. Even at night, when there should have been a restful intermission, there was nonebecause the voices of a dying landscape were insistent and loud. Paul D packed newspaper under himself and over, to give his thin blanket some help. But the chilly night was not on his mind.
　　When he heard the door open behind him he refused to turn and look. "What you want in here?
　　What you want?" He should have been able to hear her breathing.
　　"I want you to touch me on the inside part and call me my name." Paul D never worried about hislittle tobacco tin anymore. It was rusted shut. So, while she hoisted her skirts and turned her headover her shoulder the way the turtles had, he just looked at the lard can, silvery in moonlight, andspoke quietly.
　　"When good people take you in and treat you good, you ought to try to be good back. You don't...
　　Sethe loves you. Much as her own daughter. You know that."Beloved dropped her skirts as he spoke and looked at him with empty eyes. She took a step hecould not hear and stood close behind him.
　　"She don't love me like I love her. I don't love nobody but her.""Then what you come in here for?""I want you to touch me on the inside part.""Go on back in that house and get to bed.""You have to touch me. On the inside part. And you have to call me my name."As long as his eyes were locked on the silver of the lard can he was safe. If he trembled like Lot'wife and felt some womanish need to see the nature of the sin behind him; feel a sympathy,(s) perhaps, for the cursing cursed, or want to hold it in his arms out of respect for the connectionbetween them, he too would be lost.
　　"Call me my name.""No.""Please call it. I'll go if you call it.""Beloved." He said it, but she did not go. She moved closer with a footfall he didn't hear and hedidn't hear the whisper that the flakes of rust made either as they fell away from the seams of histobacco tin. So when the lid gave he didn't know it. What he knew was that when he reached theinside part he was saying, "Red heart. Red heart," over and over again. Softly and then so loud itwoke Denver, then Paul D himself. "Red heart. Red heart. Red heart."TO GO BACK to the original hunger was impossible. Luckily for Denver, looking was foodenough to last. But to be looked at in turn was beyond appetite; it was breaking through her own skin to a place where hunger hadn't been discovered. It didn't have to happen often, becauseBeloved seldom looked right at her, or when she did, Denver could tell that her own face was justthe place those eyes stopped while the mind behind it walked on. But sometimes — at momentsDenver could neither anticipate nor create — Beloved rested cheek on knuckles and looked atDenver with attention.
　　It was lovely. Not to be stared at, not seen, but being pulled into view by the interested, uncriticaleyes of the other. Having her hair examined as a part of her self, not as material or a style. Havingher lips, nose, chin caressed as they might be if she were a moss rose a gardener paused to admire.
　　Denver's skin dissolved under that gaze and became soft and bright like the lisle dress that had itsarm around her mother's waist. She floated near but outside her own body, feeling vague andintense at the same time. Needing nothing. Being what there was.
　　At such times it seemed to be Beloved who needed somethingm wanted something. Deep down inher wide black eyes, back behind the expressionlessness, was a palm held out for a penny whichDenver would gladly give her, if only she knew how or knew enough about her, a knowledge notto be had by the answers to the questions Sethe occasionally put to her: '"You disremembereverything? I never knew my mother neither, but I saw her a couple of times. Did you never seeyours? What kind of whites was they? You don't remember none?"Beloved, scratching the back of her hand, would say she remembered a woman who was hers, andshe remembered being snatched away from her. Other than that, the clearest memory she had, theone she repeated, was the bridge — standing on the bridge looking down. And she knew onewhiteman.
　　Sethe found that remarkable and more evidence to support her conclusions, which she confided toDenver.
　　"Where'd you get the dress, them shoes?"Beloved said she took them.
　　"Who from?"Silence and a faster scratching of her hand. She didn't know; she saw them and just took them.
　　"Uh huh," said Sethe, and told Denver that she believed Beloved had been locked up by somewhiteman for his own purposes, and never let out the door. That she must have escaped to a bridgeor someplace and rinsed the rest out of her mind. Something like that had happened to Ella exceptit was two men — -a father and son — - and Ella remembered every bit of it. For more than a year,they kept her locked in a room for themselves.
　　"You couldn't think up," Ella had said, "what them two done to me."Sethe thought it explained Beloved's behavior around Paul D, whom she hated so.
　　Denver neither believed nor commented on Sethe's speculations, and she lowered her eyes andnever said a word about the cold house. She was certain that Beloved was the white dress that hadknelt with her mother in the keeping room, the true-to-life presence of the baby that had kept hercompany most of her life. And to be looked at by her, however briefly, kept her grateful for therest of the time when she was merely the looker. Besides, she had her own set of questions whichhad nothing to do with the past. The present alone interested Denver, but she was careful to appearuninquisitive about the things she was dying to ask Beloved, for if she pressed too hard, she mightlose the penny that the held-out palm wanted, and lose, therefore, the place beyond appetite. It wasbetter to feast, to have permission to be the looker, because the old hunger — the before-Belovedhunger that drove her into boxwood and cologne for just a taste of a life, to feel it bumpy and notflat — was out of the question. Looking kept it at bay.
　　So she did not ask Beloved how she knew about the earrings, the night walks to the cold house orthe tip of the thing she saw when Beloved lay down or came undone in her sleep. The look, whenit came, came when Denver had been careful, had explained things, or participated in things, ortold stories to keep her occupied when Sethe was at the restaurant. No given chore was enough toput out the licking fire that seemed always to burn in her. Not when they wrung out sheets so tightthe rinse water ran back up their arms. Not when they shoveled snow from the path to theouthouse. Or broke three inches of ice from the rain barrel; scoured and boiled last summer'scanning jars, packed mud in the cracks of the hen house and warmed the chicks with their skirts.
　　All the while Denver was obliged to talk about what they were doing — the how and why of it.
　　About people Denver knew once or had seen, giving them more life than life had: the sweet-smelling whitewoman who brought her oranges and cologne and good wool skirts; Lady Joneswho taught them songs to spell and count by; a beautiful boy as smart as she was with a birthmarklike a nickel on his cheek. A white preacher who prayed for their souls while Sethe peeled potatoesand Grandma Baby sucked air. And she told her about Howard and Buglar: the parts of the bedthat belonged to each (the top reserved for herself); that before she transferred to Baby Suggs' bedshe never knew them to sleep without holding hands. She described them to Beloved slowly, tokeep her attention, dwelling on their habits, the games they taught her and not the fright that drovethem increasingly out of the house — -anywhere — and finally far away.
　　This day they are outside. It's cold and the snow is hard as packed dirt. Denver has finished singingthe counting song Lady Jones taught her students. Beloved is holding her arms steady whileDenver unclasps frozen underwear and towels from the line. One by one she lays them inBeloved's arms until the pile, like a huge deck of cards, reaches her chin. The rest, aprons andbrown stockings, Denver carries herself. Made giddy by the cold, they return to the house. Theclothes will thaw slowly to a dampness perfect for the pressing iron, which will make them smelllike hot rain. Dancing around the room with Sethe's apron, Beloved wants to know if there areflowers in the dark. Denver adds sticks to the stovefire and assures her there are. Twirling, her faceframed by the neckband, her waist in the apron strings' embrace, she says she is thirsty.
　　Denver suggests warming up some cider, while her mind races to something she might do or say to interest and entertain the dancer. Denver is a strategist now and has to keep Beloved by her sidefrom the minute Sethe leaves for work until the hour of her return when Beloved begins to hover atthe window, then work her way out the door, down the steps and near the road. Plotting haschanged Denver markedly. Where she was once indolent, resentful of every task, now she is spry,executing, even extending the assignments Sethe leaves for them. All to be able to say "We got to"and "Ma'am said for us to." Otherwise Beloved gets private and dreamy, or quiet and sullen, andDenver's chances of being looked at by her go down to nothing. She has no control over theevenings. When her mother is anywhere around, Beloved has eyes only for Sethe. At night, in bed,anything might happen. She might want to be told a story in the dark when Denver can't see her.
　　Or she might get up and go into the cold house where Paul D has begun to sleep. Or she might cry,silently. She might even sleep like a brick, her breath sugary from fingerfuls of molasses or sand-cookie crumbs. Denver will turn toward her then, and if Beloved faces her, she will inhale deeplythe sweet air from her mouth. If not, she will have to lean up and over her, every once in a while,to catch a sniff. For anything is better than the original hunger — the time when, after a year of thewonderful little i, sentences rolling out like pie dough and the company of other children, therewas no sound coming through. Anything is better than the silence when she answered to handsgesturing and was indifferent to the movement of lips. When she saw every little thing and colorsleaped smoldering into view. She will forgo the most violent of sunsets, stars as fat as dinner platesand all the blood of autumn and settle for the palest yellow if it comes from her Beloved. The ciderjug is heavy, but it always is, even when empty. Denver can carry it easily, yet she asks Beloved tohelp her. It is in the cold house next to the molasses and six pounds of cheddar hard as bone. Apallet is in the middle of the floor covered with newspaper and a blanket at the foot. It has beenslept on for almost a month, even though snow has come and, with it, serious winter.
　　It is noon, quite light outside; inside it is not. A few cuts of sun break through the roof and wallsbut once there they are too weak to shift for themselves. Darkness is stronger and swallows themlike minnows.
　　The door bangs shut. Denver can't tell where Beloved is standing. "Where are you?" she whispersin a laughing sort of way.
　　"Here," says Beloved.
　　"Where?""Come find me," says Beloved.
   在俄亥俄，季节更替富于戏剧性。每一个季节出场时都像个女主角，自以为它的表演是人们在这世界上生息的缘由。当保罗•D被迫从124号搬到后面的棚子里去的时候，夏已经被嘘下台，秋带着它那血与金的瓶子引起了大家的瞩目。甚至在夜晚，本该有个安闲的间歇，却仍没有，因为风景隐去的声音依旧动人而嘹亮。保罗•D把报纸垫在身下、盖在身上，给他的薄毯子帮点忙。可是他一心想着的并不是寒冷的夜晚。当他听见背后的开门声时，他拒绝转身去看。
　　“你到这儿来要什么？你要什么？
　　”他本来应该能听见她的喘息。
　　“我要你进到我身体里抚摸我，还要你叫我的名字。
　　”
　　保罗•D再也不用操心他的小烟草罐了。它锈死了。因此，当她撩起裙子、像那两只乌龟一样把头扭过肩膀的时候，他只是看着月光下银光闪闪的猪油罐头，平静地说话。
　　“好心人收留你、好好待你的时候，你应该想着报答才是。你不该……塞丝爱你，就像爱她自己的女儿。这你知道。
　　”
　　他说话的时候，宠儿撂下裙子，用空荡的眼睛望着他。她悄没声息地迈了一步，紧挨在他身后站着。
　　“她不像我爱她那样爱我。我除了她谁也不爱。
　　”
　　“那你到这儿来干什么？
　　”
　　“我要你进到我身体里抚摸我。
　　”
　　“回屋睡觉去。
　　”
　　“你必须抚摸我。进到我身体里。你必须叫我的名字。
　　”
　　只要他的眼睛定在猪油罐头的银光上，他就是安全的。可是一旦他像罗得的老婆那样发抖，娘们似的想回头看看身后罪恶的实体；一旦他对该诅咒的作祟者心生同情；一旦顾及到他们之间的交情，想要把它搂进怀里，那么，他同样也会迷失。
　　“叫我的名字。
　　”
　　“不。”
　　“求求你。你叫了我就走。
　　”
　　“宠儿。
　　”他叫了，可她没走。他没听见她又挪近了一步，他也没听见锈屑从烟草罐接缝处散落时发出的沙沙声。所以盖子松动的时候，他没有察觉。他只知道自己进入她的体内时，说着：
　　“红心。红心。
　　”一遍又一遍。先是轻轻地，而后响亮得吵醒了丹芙，也吵醒了保罗•D自己。
　　“红心。红心。红心。
　　”
　　回复最初的饥饿是不可能的。丹芙很幸运，光是看着别人就能顶饭吃。可是反过来被别人回看，却不是她的胃口承受得住的；它会穿透她的皮肤，直达一个饥饿尚未被发现的地方。这种事不必经常发生，因为宠儿很少正眼瞧她，即便瞧上一眼，丹芙看得出，自己的脸也不过是她眼睛略停一停的地方，眼睛后面的头脑仍在继续漫游。可有的时候———这种时刻丹芙既无法预料也无法创造———宠儿用指节拄着腮，关注地端详着丹芙。
　　那真可爱。不是被盯视，也不是仅仅被看见，而是被另一个人兴致勃勃、不加评点的眼睛拉进视野。把她的头发当做她自身的一部分，而不是当做一种材料或者一种样式，加以审视。让她的嘴唇、鼻子、下巴得到爱抚，就仿佛她是一朵让园丁流连不已的毛萼洋蔷薇。丹芙的皮肤在她的注视下溶解，变得像搂住她妈妈腰身的那件莱尔裙一般柔软、光艳。她在自己的躯体之外漂游，感到恍惚，同时也觉得紧张。别无他求。听之任之。
　　这种时候倒是宠儿看起来有所需要———有所要求。在她漆黑的大眼睛深处，在面无表情背后，有一只手掌平摊出来，在讨要着一个铜子儿；丹芙当然乐于施与，只要她知道如何给她，或者对她有足够的了解。但这了解并不得自宠儿对那些问题所作的回答，那些塞丝偶尔向她提出的问题：“你什么都不记得了么？我也一直不认识我的妈妈，可我见过她两回。你从来没见过你的妈妈么？他们是哪种白人？你一点儿都不记得了？
　　”
　　宠儿会挠着手背，说她记得一个属于她的女人，还记得自己从她身边被人抢走。除此以外，她记得最清楚的、不断重复的，是那座桥———站在桥上往下看。另外，她还记得一个白人。
　　塞丝认为这一点值得注意，也发现了更多的证据，支持着她曾经向丹芙透露过的结论。
　　“你是从哪儿弄到那条裙子和那双鞋的？
　　”
　　宠儿说是她拿的。
　　“从谁那儿？
　　”
　　沉默。更快地挠手。她不知道；她看见了，就拿了。
　　“哦。”塞丝应道，然后告诉丹芙，她相信宠儿曾经被某个白人关了起来，以满足他的私欲，从来不让出门。她肯定是逃到了一座桥之类的地方，将其余的一切从记忆中洗去。有点像艾拉的故事，不过那是两个男人———父子俩———而且艾拉记得一清二楚。有一年多，他们为了满足自己，一直把她锁在一间屋子里。
　　“你想象不出来，”艾拉说过，“他们俩对我干了些什么。
　　”
　　塞丝认为这就能说得通宠儿在保罗•D周围的表现了，她是那么讨厌他。
　　丹芙不相信塞丝的推测，也不表态，她垂下眼帘，只字不提冷藏室的事。她敢肯定，宠儿就是起居室里和她妈妈跪在一起的白裙子，是伴她度过大半生的那个婴儿以真身出场了。能够得到她哪怕短暂的注视，即使在其余时间里只当个注视者，也让丹芙感激涕零。再说，她有她自己的一系列与过去无关的问题要问。只有现在，才让丹芙感兴趣，可是她小心谨慎地不表露出想问宠儿那些事情的强烈欲望，因为如果她逼得太紧，她就可能失去那枚伸出的手掌讨要的铜子儿，因而失去那超越食欲的地方。最好去大吃大喝，去保留做一个注视者的权利，因为原来的饥饿———宠儿之前的饥饿，驱使她进入黄杨树丛和香水之中，只为尝尝一种生活的味道，品味它的坎坷与不平———已不在考虑之列了。宠儿的注视已将它置于绝境。
　　所以她没有问宠儿她是怎么知道耳环的，没有问冷藏室的夜行，还有宠儿躺下或解衣睡觉时她看见的那东西的一端。那注视，它来临的时候，往往正是丹芙专心致志的时候，她不是在解释事情，就是在参与做事情，要么就是当塞丝去餐馆时，她正在给宠儿讲故事打发时光。任何分派的家务活都不能扑灭仿佛时时刻刻在她心中燃烧的烈火。她们使劲拧床单、水顺着胳膊直流的时候不能；她们将积雪从小路上铲到厕所里的时候不能；砸碎雨水桶里三英寸厚的冰层时也不能；擦洗和烧煮去年夏天的罐头瓶子、往鸡窝的裂缝上抹泥和用裙子暖和鸡雏的时候还是不能；丹芙被迫一刻不停地说着她们正在做的事情———怎么做，为什么做。说着她从前认识和见过的人，讲得栩栩如生，比真人还真：送给她橙子、香水和上好的羊毛裙的香喷喷的白女人；教他们唱字母歌、数字歌的琼斯女士；跟她一样聪明、脸蛋上有块五分钢镚似的胎记的漂亮男孩；塞丝削着土豆而贝比奶奶奄奄一息时为她们的灵魂祈祷的白人牧师。她还给她讲了霍华德和巴格勒：床上属于他们的地盘（他们把上铺留给她）；还有，在她搬到贝比•萨格斯的床上之前，她从没见过他们不手拉着手睡觉。她慢条斯理地向宠儿描述他们，吊她的胃口，翻来覆去地讲他们的习惯、他们教她的游戏，却没有讲那将他们逼出家门的恐惧———随便去哪儿———和最终的远走高飞。
　　这一天，她们待在外面。天很冷，积雪就像夯实的土地一样硬。丹芙已经唱完了琼斯女士教给她的学生们的数字歌。丹芙从绳子上解下冻僵的内衣和毛巾，宠儿伸手接着。她把它们一件一件放到宠儿怀里，直到它们像一沓巨型扑克牌一样挨到了她的下巴。剩下的围裙和棕色袜子，丹芙自己拿着。她们冻得头晕眼花，赶紧回到屋里。衣物会慢慢地溶化、变潮，正好适于烙铁熨烫，熨衣的味道闻起来就像热雨。宠儿系着塞丝的围裙满屋跳舞，想知道黑暗里是否有花儿。丹芙往炉火里添着劈柴，向她肯定说，有。宠儿的脸上缠着领巾，腰里系着围裙带，她一边转圈一边说她渴了。
　　丹芙建议热点苹果汁，同时急忙寻思能做点什么或说点什么，好让这个舞星感兴趣和快活。丹芙现在是个阴谋家了，想方设法把宠儿留在身边，从塞丝离家上班一直到她该回来的钟点。到了这个钟点，宠儿就开始在窗前徘徊，接着开门出去，走下台阶，走到大路旁。阴谋明显地改变了丹芙。她原来什么活计都懒得做、讨厌干，现在则是又麻利又能干，甚至自觉增加塞丝留给她们的任务。什么都可以说成是“我们非干不可”和“太太说了让我们干”。否则宠儿会变得孤僻、恍惚，或者沉默寡言乃至闷闷不乐，而这样下去丹芙被注视的机会就要减少到零。她控制不了晚上的局面。只要她妈妈在周围的什么地方活动，宠儿的眼睛就只盯着塞丝一个人。到了夜里，在床上，什么都可能发生。在黑暗中，丹芙看不见她时，她可能想听个故事。要么她可能起来到保罗•D已经开始在里面睡觉的冷藏室去。她还可能默默地哭泣。她甚至可能睡得像块砖头，由于用手指吃糖浆和甜饼干渣，她的呼吸变得甜丝丝的。丹芙愿意转向她，如果宠儿脸朝她睡，她就能深深地吸进她嘴里甜甜的气息。否则，她就必须每隔一会儿爬起一次，越过她的身体去嗅上一鼻子。因为什么都比最初的饥饿要好———那个时期，在整整一年美妙的小写i、馅饼面团一样滚出来的句子以及同其他孩子的相伴之后，就再没有声音了。什么都比寂静好；那个时期，她只能回答别人的手势，面对嘴唇的动作却毫无反应。那个时期，她能看到每一样细小的东西和色彩燃烧着跳进视野。而今，她情愿放弃最热烈的落日、盘子一般硕大的星星和秋天的全部血液，而满足于最暗淡的黄色，只要那黄色来自她的宠儿。
　　苹果汁罐子很沉，不过它从来就是那样，甚至空的时候也是。丹芙其实能够轻易地提起它，可她还是请宠儿来帮忙。罐子在冷藏室里，挨着糖浆和六磅像石头一样硬的切达干酪。地板中央有一张草荐床，床脚盖着报纸和一条毯子。它被睡了将近一个月了，尽管严冬早已随冰雪一道降临。
　　正是中午，外面相当亮；屋里却不然。几丝阳光从屋顶和墙壁挤进来，可是进来后就太微弱了，都不能单独成束。强大的黑暗将它们像小鱼一样吞噬。
　　门砰地合上。丹芙拿不准宠儿站在哪里。
　　“你在哪儿？
　　”她似笑非笑地悄声问道。
　　“在这儿呢。
　　”宠儿道。
　　“哪儿？
　　”
　　“来找我吧。
　　”宠儿道。
Chapter 29
    Denver stretches out her right arm and takes a step or two. She trips and falls down onto the pallet.
　　Newspaper crackles under her weight. She laughs again. "Oh, shoot. Beloved?"No one answers. Denver waves her arms and squinches her eyes to separate the shadows of potatosacks, a lard can and a side of smoked pork from the one that might be human.
　　"Stop fooling," she says and looks up toward the light to check and make sure this is still the cold house and not something going on in her sleep. The minnows of light still swim there; they can'tmake it down to where she is.
　　"You the one thirsty. You want cider or don't you?" Denver's voice is mildly accusatory. Mildly.
　　She doesn't want to offend and she doesn't want to betray the panic that is creeping over her likehairs. There is no sight or sound of Beloved. Denver struggles to her feet amid the cracklingnewspaper. Holding her palm out, she moves slowly toward the door. There is no latch or knob —just a loop of wire to catch a nail. She pushes the door open. Cold sunlight displaces the dark. Theroom is just as it was when they entered-except Beloved is not there. There is no point in lookingfurther, for everything in the place can be seen at first sight. Denver looks anyway because the lossis ungovernable. She steps back into the shed, allowing the door to close quickly behind her.
　　Darkness or not, she moves rapidly around, reaching, touching cobwebs, cheese, slanting shelves,the pallet interfering with each step. If she stumbles, she is not aware of it because she does notknow where her body stops, which part of her is an arm, a foot or a knee. She feels like an ice caketorn away from the solid surface of the stream, floating on darkness, thick and crashing against theedges of things around it. Breakable, meltable and cold.
　　It is hard to breathe and even if there were light she wouldn't be able to see anything because she iscrying. Just as she thought it might happen, it has. Easy as walking into a room. A magicalappearance on a stump, the face wiped out by sunlight, and a magical disappearance in a shed,eaten alive by the dark.
　　"Don't," she is saying between tough swallows. "Don't. Don't go back."This is worse than when Paul D came to 124 and she cried helplessly into the stove. This is worse.
　　Then it was for herself. Now she is crying because she has no self. Death is a skipped mealcompared to this. She can feel her thickness thinning, dissolving into nothing. She grabs the hair ather temples to get enough to uproot it and halt the melting for a while. Teeth clamped shut, Denverbrakes her sobs. She doesn't move to open the door because there is no world out there. Shedecides to stay in the cold house and let the dark swallow her like the minnows of light above. Shewon't put up with another leaving, another trick. Waking up to find one brother then another not atthe bottom of the bed, his foot jabbing her spine. Sitting at the table eating turnips and saving theliquor for her grandmother to drink; her mother's hand on the keeping-room door and her voicesaying, "Baby Suggs is gone, Denver." And when she got around to worrying about what would bethe case if Sethe died or Paul D took her away, a dream-come-true comes true just to leave her on apile of newspaper in the dark.
　　No footfall announces her, but there she is, standing where before there was nobody when Denverlooked. And smiling.
　　Denver grabs the hem of Beloved's skirt. "I thought you left me. I thought you went back."Beloved smiles, "I don't want that place. This the place I am." She sits down on the pallet and,laughing, lies back looking at the cracklights above.
　　Surreptitiously, Denver pinches a piece of Beloved's skirt between her fingers and holds on. Agood thing she does because suddenly Beloved sits up.
　　"What is it?" asks Denver.
　　"Look," she points to the sunlit cracks.
　　"What? I don't see nothing." Denver follows the pointing finger.
　　Beloved drops her hand. "I'm like this."Denver watches as Beloved bends over, curls up and rocks. Her eyes go to no place; her moaningis so small Denver can hardly hear it.
　　"You all right? Beloved?"Beloved focuses her eyes. "Over there. Her face."Denver looks where Beloved's eyes go; there is nothing but darkness there.
　　"Whose face? Who is it?""Me. It's me."She is smiling again.
　　THE LAST of the Sweet Home men, so named and called by one who would know, believed it.
　　The other four believed it too, once, but they were long gone. The sold one never returned, the lostone never found. One, he knew, was dead for sure; one he hoped was, because butter and clabberwas no life or reason to live it. He grew up thinking that, of all the Blacks in Kentucky, only thefive of them were men. Allowed, encouraged to correct Garner, even defy him. To invent ways ofdoing things; to see what was needed and attack it without permission. To buy a mother, choose ahorse or a wife, handle guns, even learn reading if they wanted to — but they didn't want to sincenothing important to them could be put down on paper.
　　Was that it? Is that where the manhood lay? In the naming done by a whiteman who was supposedto know? Who gave them the privilege not of working but of deciding how to? No. In theirrelationship with Garner was true metal: they were believed and trusted, but most of all they werelistened to.
　　He thought what they said had merit, and what they felt was serious. Deferring to his slaves'
　　opinions did not deprive him of authority or power. It was schoolteacher who taught themotherwise. A truth that waved like a scarecrow in rye: they were only Sweet Home men at Sweet Home. One step off that ground and they were trespassers among the human race. Watchdogswithout teeth; steer bulls without horns; gelded workhorses whose neigh and whinny could not betranslated into a language responsible humans spoke.
　　His strength had lain in knowing that schoolteacher was wrong. Now he wondered. There wasAlfred, Georgia, there was Delaware, there was Sixo and still he wondered. If schoolteacher wasright it explained how he had come to be a rag doll — picked up and put back down anywhere anytime by a girl young enough to be his daughter. Fucking her when he was convinced he didn't wantto. Whenever she turned her behind up, the calves of his youth (was that it?) cracked his resolve.
　　But it was more than appetite that humiliated him and made him wonder if schoolteacher wasright. It was being moved, placed where she wanted him, and there was nothing he was able to doabout it. For his life he could not walk up the glistening white stairs in the evening; for his life hecould not stay in the kitchen, in the keeping room, in the storeroom at night. And he tried. Held hisbreath the way he had when he ducked into the mud; steeled his heart the way he had when thetrembling began. But it was worse than that, worse than the blood eddy he had controlled with asledge hammer. When he stood up from the supper table at 124 and turned toward the stairs,nausea was first, then repulsion. He, he. He who had eaten raw meat barely dead, who under plumtrees bursting with blossoms had crunched through a dove's breast before its heart stopped beating.
　　Because he was a man and a man could do what he would: be still for six hours in a dry well whilenight dropped; fight raccoon with his hands and win; watch another man, whom he loved betterthan his brothers, roast without a tear just so the roasters would know what a man was like. And itwas he, that man, who had walked from Georgia to Delaware, who could not go or stay put wherehe wanted to in 124 — shame.
　　Paul D could not command his feet, but he thought he could still talk and he made up his mind tobreak out that way. He would tell Sethe about the last three weeks: catch her alone coming fromwork at the beer garden she called a restaurant and tell it all. He waited for her. The winterafternoon looked like dusk as he stood in the alley behind Sawyer's Restaurant. Rehearsing,imagining her face and letting the words flock in his head like kids before lining up to follow theleader.
　　"Well, ah, this is not the, a man can't, see, but aw listen here, it ain't that, it really ain't, Ole Garner,what I mean is, it ain't a weak-ness, the kind of weakness I can fight 'cause 'cause something ishappening to me, that girl is doing it, I know you think I never liked her nohow, but she is doing itto me. Fixing me. Sethe, she's fixed me and I can't break it."What? A grown man fixed by a girl? But what if the girl was not a girl, but something in disguise?
　　A lowdown something that looked like a sweet young girl and fucking her or not was not the point,it was not being able to stay or go where he wished in 124, and the danger was in losing Sethebecause he was not man enough to break out, so he needed her, Sethe, to help him, to know aboutit, and it shamed him to have to ask the woman he wanted to protect to help him do it, God damn itto hell.
　　Paul D blew warm breath into the hollow of his cupped hands. The wind raced down the alley so fast it sleeked the fur of four kitchen dogs waiting for scraps. He looked at the dogs. The dogslooked at him.
　　Finally the back door opened and Sethe stepped through holding a scrap pan in the crook of herarm. When she saw him, she said Oh, and her smile was both pleasure and surprise. Paul Dbelieved he smiled back but his face was so cold he wasn't sure.
　　"Man, you make me feel like a girl, coming by to pick me up after work. Nobody ever did thatbefore. You better watch out, I might start looking forward to it." She tossed the largest bones intothe dirt rapidly so the dogs would know there was enough and not fight each other. Then shedumped the skins of some things, heads of other things and the insides of still more things — whatthe restaurant could not use and she would not — in a smoking pile near the animals' feet.
　　"Got to rinse this out," she said, "and then I'll be right with you."He nodded as she returned to the kitchen.
　　The dogs ate without sound and Paul D thought they at least got what they came for, and if she hadenough for them — The cloth on her head was brown wool and she edged it down over her hairlineagainst the wind.
　　"You get off early or what?""I took off early.""Anything the matter?""In a way of speaking," he said and wiped his lips.
　　"Not cut back?""No, no. They got plenty work. I just — ""Hm?""Sethe, you won't like what I'm 'bout to say."
    丹芙伸出右手，迈了一两步。她脚下一滑，倒在草荐上。报纸在她的重压下哗啦乱响。她大笑起来。
　　“哎呀，呸。宠儿？
　　”
　　没人答应。丹芙挥着胳膊，挤着眼睛，从土豆麻袋、一个猪油罐头和一块熏肉的侧影中辨别着人影。
　　“别闹了。
　　”她说着，仰起头去看阳光，以便搞清楚这仍是在冷藏室，而不是梦中发生的事情。
　　光线的小鱼仍在那里游动；它们游不到她站立的地方。
　　“是你喊渴的。你还想不想喝苹果汁了？
　　”丹芙的声音里有温和的责备。温和的。她不想得罪人，也不愿流露那毛发一般爬遍全身的恐慌。没有宠儿的一丝影子或声音。丹芙从哗啦作响的报纸中挣扎起来。她伸出手掌，慢慢地摸向门口。没有插销，也没有门把手———只有一圈铁丝，拴在一颗钉子上。她推开门。寒冷的阳光取代了黑暗。屋子里同她们进来的时候一模一样———只是宠儿不在了。再找下去没有意义，所有的东西都一目了然。但丹芙还是要找，因为这个损失是无法弥补的。她走回棚屋，让门在身后猛地关上。不管黑不黑，她快速地转着圈，搜索着，摸到了蜘蛛网、奶酪，撞歪了架子，每走一步草荐都绊她。即使绊倒在地，她也没有感觉，因为她不知道自己的身体停在何处，自己的哪一部分是胳膊、脚或者膝盖。她觉得自己好像是一块从小溪坚实的冰面上扯下的冰坨，漂浮在黑暗中，撞击着它周围一切物体的边缘。易碎，易融，而且冰冷。
　　她呼吸困难，而且，就算有光亮也看不见任何东西，因为她哭了。她刚预感到要出事，它就发生了。就像走进一间屋子那样容易。在树桩上神奇地现身，脸庞被阳光抹去；然后，在棚屋里神奇地消失，被黑暗活活吞吃。
　　“别，”她艰难地哽咽着，“别。别回去。
　　”
　　这比保罗•D来到124号那天她对着炉子无助地哭泣更糟。这更糟。那时是为了她自己。现在她哭，是因为她没有了自己。死亡与此相比不过是一顿空过去的餐饭。她能感觉到厚重的自己在变稀、变薄，消融殆尽。她抓住太阳穴上的头发，想把它们连根拔下来，使消融暂停片刻。
　　丹芙咬紧牙关，止住啜泣。她没有过去开门，因为外面没有世界。她决定留在冷藏室里，让黑暗像吞噬头顶上光线的小鱼一样吞噬她。她不能忍受又一次离弃，又一次玩弄。有一阵子，她醒来时发现哥哥们一个接一个地不在床的下铺用脚丫戳着她的后脊梁了。那天，她坐在桌旁吃萝卜，把酒留给奶奶喝；妈妈却把手放在起居室的门上，说：
　　“贝比•萨格斯去了，丹芙。
　　”当她正在为塞丝死去或者被保罗•D带走情形会怎样而担心时，梦想成真了，成真却只是为了将她抛弃在黑暗中的一堆报纸上。
　　没有脚步声通报，可是她来了，站在刚才丹芙没找见人的地方，而且微笑着。
　　丹芙抓住宠儿的裙角。
　　“我以为你离开我了。我以为你回去了。
　　”
　　宠儿微笑着说：
　　“我不要那个地方。这儿才是我待的地方。
　　”她在草荐上坐下，然后大笑着躺倒，看着上方的光束。
　　偷偷摸摸地，丹芙把宠儿的裙角捏在手里，一直不松开。她做得有道理，因为突然间宠儿坐了起来。
　　“怎么了？
　　”丹芙问。
　　“看。”她指着阳光的碎片。
　　“什么？我什么也没看见。
　　”丹芙顺着她的手指望去。
　　宠儿放下手。
　　“我就像这样。
　　”
　　丹芙看见宠儿弯下身去，蜷缩成一团晃动着。她的眼里空洞无物；她的呻吟这样轻，丹芙几乎听不见。
　　“你没事吧？宠儿？
　　”
　　宠儿调整着眼睛的焦点。
　　“在那儿。她的脸。
　　”
　　丹芙跟着宠儿的眼睛走；除了黑暗什么也没有。
　　“谁的脸？是谁？
　　”
　　“我。是我。
　　”
　　她又笑起来。
　　最后一个“甜蜜之家”的男人，被如此命名、而且被相识者如此称呼的那个人，曾经笃信这个名字。其他四个也曾经笃信过，可是他们早已不在了。卖掉的那个再没回来，丢掉的那个再没找到。
　　有一个，他知道，肯定死了；另一个，他希望也死了，因为牛油和酸奶疙瘩不是生活，也不是生活的理由。他从小到大，一直有这个想法，那就是，在肯塔基所有的黑人当中，只有他们五个是男子汉。加纳允许和鼓励他们纠正他，甚至可以反对他。他们能够发明干活的方法；看看需要什么，不用批准就着手去办。可以赎出一个母亲，挑选一匹马或者一个妻子，摆弄枪支；要是他们愿意的话，甚至可以学习读书———可他们并不愿意，因为对于他们来说，任何重要的事情都不能写在纸上。
　　就是那么回事么？那就是男子气概么？让一个据说明白的白人命名一下？让那个不是仅仅派给他们活干，而是给了他们决定怎么干活的特权的人给命个名？不。他们和加纳的关系是最铁的：他相信并信任他们，最要紧的是他听他们说话。
　　他认为他们说的话有价值，他们的感觉也是严肃的。听从他的奴隶的意见并不会剥夺他的威严和权力。
　　“学校老师”教给他们的却恰恰相反。一个像黑麦田里的稻草人一样左右摇摆的真理：他们只在“甜蜜之家”才是“甜蜜之家”的男人。走出那块土地一步，他们就是人种中的渣滓。是没有牙的看门狗；是没有角的公牛；是阉割的辕马，嘶叫声不能翻译成一种重任在肩的人使用的语言。他的力量曾经表现为知道“学校老师”是错的。现在他糊涂了。尽管有过佐治亚的阿尔弗雷德，有过特拉华，有过西克索，可他还是糊涂。如果“学校老师”是对的，那就可以解释他怎么成了一个布娃娃———让一个年轻得可以做他女儿的姑娘随时随地捡起来、丢回去。让他在确信自己根本不情愿的时候操她。无论她什么时候撅起屁股，他年轻时代的小母牛（真是那样么？）就击碎了他的决心。
　　然而不止是欲望侮辱了他，使他怀疑“学校老师”是否正确。那东西被牵动着，送进她要他放的地方，而他对此却无能为力。他这辈子再不能在晚间走上闪闪发光的白楼梯了；他这辈子再不能在夜里待在厨房、起居室、贮藏室里了。他试过。像从前潜进泥浆时那样屏住呼吸；像从前颤抖开始时那样铁了心肠。可是这比那更糟，比他用一把长柄大铁锤控制住了的血的漩涡还糟。每当他从124号的餐桌旁站起来转向楼梯时，他先是觉得恶心，然后就心生反感。他，他。是他吃了尚未死干净的生肉，是他在鲜花盛开的梅树下咬穿一只鸽子的胸脯，鸽子的心还没有停止跳动。因为他是一个男人，而一个男人想干什么就能干什么：当夜幕降临的时候，在一眼枯井里六小时一动不动；赤手空拳打败浣熊；观看另一个与他情逾手足的男人被烧烤，却不掉一滴眼泪，只是为了让烧烤他的人知道一个男人是什么样子。而且，就是他，那个男人，曾经从佐治亚走到了特拉华，而在124号里面，却不能在他想待的地方自主地去留———耻辱啊。
　　保罗•D不能指挥他的双脚，可是他认为自己还能说话，于是他下定决心以这种方式爆发。他要跟塞丝谈谈过去的三个星期：当她从她称做餐馆的那家露天啤酒馆下班、单独回家的时候，揪住她，向她和盘托出。
　　他等着她。冬日的午后看上去已像黄昏，他在索亚餐馆后面的巷子里站着。一边想象着她的面容，一边排练，让词句在他脑袋里聚集起来，好像准备排好队、跟着排头走的孩子们一样。
　　“这个，呃，这事不是，一个男人不能，你瞧，可是噢听着，不是那个，真的不是，老家伙加纳，我的意思是，这不是个弱点，我能战胜的那种弱点，因为、因为我出了点儿事，是那个姑娘干的，我知道你觉得我从来不可能喜欢她，可这是她对我干的。耍我。塞丝，她耍了我，可我甩不掉她。”
　　什么？一个壮年男子汉让一个小姑娘给耍了？可是如果那姑娘不是个姑娘，而是什么东西假装的呢？是一个貌似甜姑娘的下流坯，而操她还是没操她就不是关键，问题是他不能够在124号里面自由去留，而且危险在于失去塞丝，因为他不能像个十足的男子汉一样爆发，所以他需要她，塞丝，来帮助他，来了解这件事情，而他又耻于去乞求他想保护的女人来帮助他，真他妈的。
　　保罗•D向自己扣起的双手中呵着热气。风疾速穿过胡同，梳亮了四只等待残羹剩饭的厨房狗的皮毛。他看着狗。狗看着他。
　　后门终于开了，塞丝用臂弯夹着剩饭锅，迈了出来。她一看见他，马上“哦”了一声，微笑里有喜悦也有惊讶。
　　保罗•D觉得自己回了一笑，可是他的脸冷得厉害，他自己也拿不准。
　　“伙计，你让我觉得像个小姑娘，下班后还过来接我。从前可没有人这么待过我。你最好留神，我要盼起来可没个够啊。
　　”她麻利地把那些最大块的骨头扔在地上，这样狗就会知道骨头够吃，用不着争来抢去了。然后她倒出来一些东西的肉皮、一些东西的头和另一些东西的下水———餐馆不能用、她也不愿要的———在狗的脚边堆了一大摊，冒着热气。
　　“得回去把这个刷净了，”她说道，“马上就来。
　　”
　　他点点头，她又回到厨房。
　　狗默不作声地吃着。保罗•D心想，它们至少得到了想要的东西，要是她有足够的东西给它们———她头上的棕色围巾是羊毛的，她把它压到发际挡风。
　　“你早收工了还是怎么的？
　　”
　　“我提前走了。
　　”
　　“有事儿吗？
　　”
　　“可以这么说。
　　”他说着，抹了一下嘴唇。
　　“不是裁人了吧？
　　”
　　“不，不是。他们有的是活儿。只是我———”
　　“嗯？”
　　“塞丝，我说的话你不会爱听的。
　　”
Chapter 30
    She stopped then and turned her face toward him and the hateful wind. Another woman wouldhave squinted or at least teared if the wind whipped her face as it did Sethe's. Another womanmight have shot him a look of apprehension, pleading, anger even, because what he said suresounded like part one of Goodbye, I'm gone.
　　Sethe looked at him steadily, calmly, already ready to accept, release or excuse an in-need-ortroubleman. Agreeing, saying okay, all right, in advance, because she didn't believe any of them — over the long haul — could measure up. And whatever the reason, it was all right. No fault.
　　Nobody's fault.
　　He knew what she was thinking and even though she was wrong — he was not leaving her,wouldn't ever — the thing he had in mind to tell her was going to be worse. So, when he saw thediminished expectation in her eyes, the melancholy without blame, he could not say it. He couldnot say to this woman who did not squint in the wind, "I am not a man.""Well, say it, Paul D, whether I like it or not."Since he could not say what he planned to, he said something he didn't know was on his mind. "Iwant you pregnant, Sethe. Would you do that for me?"Now she was laughing and so was he.
　　"You came by here to ask me that? You are one crazy-headed man. You right; I don't like it. Don'tyou think I'm too old to start that all over again?" She slipped her fingers in his hand for all theworld like the hand-holding shadows on the side of the road.
　　"Think about it," he said. And suddenly it was a solution: a way to hold on to her, document hismanhood and break out of the girl's spell — all in one. He put the tips of Sethe's fingers on hischeek. Laughing, she pulled them away lest somebody passing the alley see them misbehaving inpublic, in daylight, in the wind.
　　Still, he'd gotten a little more time, bought it, in fact, and hoped the price wouldn't wreck him. Likepaying for an afternoon in the coin of life to come.
　　They left off playing, let go hands and hunched forward as they left the alley and entered the street.
　　The wind was quieter there but the dried-out cold it left behind kept pedestrians fast-moving, stiffinside their coats. No men leaned against door frames or storefront windows. The wheels ofwagons delivering feed or wood screeched as though they hurt. Hitched horses in front of thesaloons shivered and closed their eyes. Four women, walking two abreast, approached, their shoesloud on the wooden walkway. Paul D touched Sethe's elbow to guide her as they stepped from theslats to the dirt to let the women pass.
　　Half an hour later, when they reached the city's edge, Sethe and Paul D resumed catching andsnatching each other's fingers, stealing quick pats on the behind. Joyfully embarrassed to be thatgrownup and that young at the same time.
　　Resolve, he thought. That was all it took, and no motherless gal was going to break it up. No lazy,stray pup of a woman could turn him around, make him doubt himself, wonder, plead or confess.
　　Convinced of it, that he could do it, he threw his arm around Sethe's shoulders and squeezed. Shelet her head touch his chest, and since the moment was valuable to both of them, they stopped andstood that way — not breathing, not even caring if a passerby passed them by. The winter light was low. Sethe closed her eyes. Paul D looked at the black trees lining the roadside, theirdefending arms raised against attack. Softly, suddenly, it began to snow, like a present come downfrom the sky. Sethe opened her eyes to it and said, "Mercy." And it seemed to Paul D that it was —a little mercy — something given to them on purpose to mark what they were feeling so theywould remember it later on when they needed to.
　　Down came the dry flakes, fat enough and heavy enough to crash like nickels on stone. It alwayssurprised him, how quiet it was. Not like rain, but like a secret.
　　"Run!" he said.
　　"You run," said Sethe. "I been on my feet all day.""Where I been? Sitting down?" and he pulled her along.
　　"Stop! Stop!" she said. "I don't have the legs for this." "Then give em to me," he said and beforeshe knew it he had backed into her, hoisted her on his back and was running down the road pastbrown fields turning white.
　　Breathless at last, he stopped and she slid back down on her own two feet, weak from laughter.
　　"You need some babies, somebody to play with in the snow." Sethe secured her headcloth.
　　Paul D smiled and warmed his hands with his breath. "I sure would like to give it a try. Need awilling partner though.""I'll say," she answered. "Very, very willing."It was nearly four o'clock now and 124 was half a mile ahead. Floating toward them, barely visiblein the drifting snow, was a figure, and although it was the same figure that had been meeting Sethefor four months, so complete was the attention she and Paul D were paying to themselves theyboth felt a jolt when they saw her close in.
　　Beloved did not look at Paul D; her scrutiny was for Sethe. She had no coat, no wrap, nothing onher head, but she held in her hand a long shawl. Stretching out her arms she tried to circle it aroundSethe.
　　"Crazy girl," said Sethe. "You the one out here with nothing on." And stepping away and in frontof Paul D, Sethe took the shawl and wrapped it around Beloved's head and shoulders. Saying,"You got to learn more sense than that," she enclosed her in her left arm. Snowflakes stuck now.
　　Paul D felt icy cold in the place Sethe had been before Beloved came. Trailing a yard or so behindthe women, he fought the anger that shot through his stomach all the way home. When he sawDenver silhouetted in the lamplight at the window, he could not help thinking, "And whose allyyou?"It was Sethe who did it. Unsuspecting, surely, she solved everything with one blow.
　　"Now I know you not sleeping out there tonight, are you, Paul D?" She smiled at him, and like afriend in need, the chimney coughed against the rush of cold shooting into it from the sky. Windowsashes shuddered in a blast of winter air.
　　Paul D looked up from the stew meat.
　　"You come upstairs. Where you belong," she said, "... and stay there."The threads of malice creeping toward him from Beloved's side of the table were held harmless inthe warmth of Sethe's smile. Once before (and only once) Paul D had been grateful to a woman.
　　Crawling out of the woods, cross-eyed with hunger and loneliness, he knocked at the first backdoor he came to in the colored section of Wilmington. He told the woman who opened it that he'dappreciate doing her woodpile, if she could spare him something to eat. She looked him up anddown.
　　"A little later on," she said and opened the door wider. She fed him pork sausage, the worst thingin the world for a starving man, but neither he nor his stomach objected. Later, when he saw palecotton sheets and two pillows in her bedroom, he had to wipe his eyes quickly, quickly so shewould not see the thankful tears of a man's first time. Soil, grass, mud, shucking, leaves, hay, cobs,sea shells — -all that he'd slept on. White cotton sheets had never crossed his mind. He fell in witha groan and the woman helped him pretend he was making love to her and not her bed linen. Hevowed that night, full of pork, deep in luxury, that he would never leave her. She would have tokill him to get him out of that bed. Eighteen months later, when he had been purchased byNorthpoint Bank and Railroad Company, he was still thankful for that introduction to sheets.
　　Now he was grateful a second time. He felt as though he had been plucked from the face of a cliffand put down on sure ground. In Sethe's bed he knew he could put up with two crazy girls — -aslong as Sethe made her wishes known. Stretched out to his full length, watching snowflakes streampast the window over his feet, it was easy to dismiss the doubts that took him to the alley behindthe restaurant: his expectations for himself were high, too high. What he might call cowardiceother people called common sense.
　　Tucked into the well of his arm, Sethe recalled Paul D's face in the street when he asked her tohave a baby for him. Although she laughed and took his hand, it had frightened her. She thoughtquickly of how good the sex would be if that is what he wanted, but mostly she was frightened bythe thought of having a baby once more.
　　Needing to be good enough, alert enough, strong enough, that caring — again. Having to stay alivejust that much longer. O Lord, she thought, deliver me. Unless carefree, motherlove was a killer.
　　What did he want her pregnant for? To hold on to her? have a sign that he passed this way? Heprobably had children everywhere anyway.
　　Eighteen years of roaming, he would have to have dropped a few.
　　No. He resented the children she had, that's what. Child, she corrected herself. Child plus Belovedwhom she thought of as her own, and that is what he resented. Sharing her with the girls. Hearingthe three of them laughing at something he wasn't in on. The code they used among themselvesthat he could not break. Maybe even the time spent on their needs and not his. They were a familysomehow and he was not the head of it.
　　Can you stitch this up for me, baby?
　　Um hm. Soon's I finish this petticoat. She just got the one she came here in and everybody needs achange.
　　Any pie left?
　　I think Denver got the last of it.
　　And not complaining, not even minding that he slept all over and around the house now, which sheput a stop to this night out of courtesy.
　　Sethe sighed and placed her hand on his chest. She knew she was building a case against him inorder to build a case against getting pregnant, and it shamed her a little. But she had all thechildren she needed. If her boys came back one day, and Denver and Beloved stayed on — well, itwould be the way it was supposed to be, no? Right after she saw the shadows holding hands at theside of the road hadn't the picture altered? And the minute she saw the dress and shoes sitting inthe front yard, she broke water. Didn't even have to see the face burning in the sunlight. She hadbeen dreaming it for years.
　　Paul D's chest rose and fell, rose and fell under her hand.
　　DENVER FINISHED washing the dishes and sat down at the table.
　　Beloved, who had not moved since Sethe and Paul D left the room, sat sucking her forefinger.
　　Denver watched her face awhile and then said, "She likes him here."Beloved went on probing her mouth with her finger. "Make him go away," she said.
　　"She might be mad at you if he leaves."Beloved, inserting a thumb in her mouth along with the forefinger, pulled out a back tooth. Therewas hardly any blood, but Denver said, "Ooooh, didn't that hurt you?"Beloved looked at the tooth and thought, This is it. Next would be her arm, her hand, a toe. Pieces of her would drop maybe one at a time, maybe all at once. Or on one of those mornings beforeDenver woke and after Sethe left she would fly apart. It is difficult keeping her head on her neck,her legs attached to her hips when she is by herself. Among the things she could not remember waswhen she first knew that she could wake up any day and find herself in pieces. She had twodreams: exploding, and being swallowed. When her tooth came out — an odd fragment, last in therow — she thought it was starting.
　　"Must be a wisdom," said Denver. "Don't it hurt?""Yes.""Then why don't you cry?""What?""If it hurts, why don't you cry?"
    她停下来，把脸转向可恶的风。换一个女人，准会眯起眼睛，至少要流眼泪，如果风像抽打塞丝一样抽打她的脸。换一个女人，准会向他投去一种不安、恳求甚至愤怒的目光，因为他说的话听起来绝对像“再见，我走了”的开头。
　　塞丝镇定、平静地看着他，已经准备好了接受、释放或者原谅一个处在需要或困难中的男人。
　　事先就同意，说，好吧，没关系，因为她根本不相信它们———没完没了的死拉硬拽———会达到目的。无论原因是什么，都没关系。没错。谁都没错。
　　他知道她在想什么，而且尽管她误会了———他不是在离开她，永远不会———但他想告诉她的事情仍然会更糟糕。所以，当他看到期待从她的眼里消失，看到那种毫无责备的忧郁，他说不出口。他不能对这个在风中不眯眼睛的女人说：
　　“我不是个男子汉。
　　”
　　“得啦，说吧，保罗•D，甭管我爱不爱听。
　　”
　　本来打算好要说的他说不出来，就说了脑子里面一些自己都没意识到的想法。
　　“我想让你怀孕，塞丝。你愿意为我干那个吗？
　　”
　　这时，她放声大笑起来，他也笑了。
　　“你到这儿来就为了问我这个？你是个地地道道的疯子。你说对了，我不爱听。你不觉得我从头再来一遍太老了点儿吗？
　　”她把手指插进他的手里，情形跟路边携手的影子简直一模一样。
　　“考虑一下吧。
　　”他说。突然间柳暗花明了：有法子抓住她不放、证明他的男子气概并且摆脱那个姑娘的魔力———一箭三雕。他把塞丝的指尖放在自己脸上。她大笑着抽回手，以免给过路人看见他们行为不端，在公共场合，在光天化日之下，在刺骨寒风中。
　　现在，他仍然拥有一点时间，其实是买的，但愿那价钱不至于毁了他。就仿佛买来一个下午，预支的却是将来的生活费。
　　他们停止了嬉闹，放开手，耸着肩出了巷子，走上大街。那里的风小一些，不过风留下的干冷使得那些缩在外套里发僵的过路人行色匆匆。没有人靠在门框上或者商店橱窗前。送食品或木料的大车的轱辘好像怕冷似的，吱吱嘎嘎的。酒店门前套住的马闭上眼睛打着哆嗦。四个女人两两并肩走了过来，她们的鞋踩在木板人行道上嗒嗒作响。保罗•D拉着塞丝的胳膊肘，带她从木板路走下土路，给女人们让道。
　　半小时之后，他们到了城郊，塞丝和保罗•D又得以相互把手指头抓来拽去，不时趁机摸摸屁股。这么大了还这么孩子气，他们又兴奋又难为情。
　　决定了，他想。就这么定了，哪个没娘的丫头都不能搞破坏。哪个懒惰的丧家狗女人都不能摆布他，让他顾虑重重、不知所措、摇尾乞怜或者忏悔表白。他坚信自己能够成功，就搂住塞丝的肩膀，紧紧箍着。她把脑袋靠上他的胸脯。这个时刻对于他们两个都很珍贵，于是他们停下来，就那样站着———屏住呼吸，甚至不在乎有没有人路过。冬日的光线是黯淡的。塞丝闭上眼睛。保罗•D看着路边成行的黑树，它们自卫的手臂高举着抵御寒冷的袭击。悄悄地，忽然开始下雪了，宛如从天而降的一件礼物。塞丝睁开两眼看着，说道：
　　“恩惠啊。
　　”而在保罗•D看来，那确实是———一点恩惠———专门赐给他们，为他们此刻的感情标上记号，以便日后需要的时候他们能够记起。
　　干燥的雪花落下来，又厚又重，简直可以像五分硬币一样砸在石头上。雪总是让他惊讶，雪是多么恬静啊。不像雨，而像是一个秘密。
　　“快跑!”他说。
　　“你跑吧，”塞丝道，“我立了一整天了。
　　”
　　“我在哪儿呢？坐着吗？
　　”他一路拽着她。
　　“站住!站住!”她说，“我的腿可干不了这个。
　　”
　　“那就交给我吧。
　　”他说道。还没等她回过味来，他已经退到她身下，用后背驮起她，在大路上跑起来，跑过开始变得洁白的褐色田野。
　　他终于上气不接下气地停住了，她滑下来站稳，都笑瘫了。
　　“你的确需要些娃娃，跟你一块儿在雪里玩。
　　”塞丝整理好头巾。
　　保罗•D边笑边呵着气暖和双手。
　　“我当然想试他一家伙。只是还需要个自愿的合作者。”
　　“我会说，”塞丝回答道，“非常、非常愿意。
　　”
　　快四点了，离124号还有半英里路。一个人影向他们飘来，在纷扬的雪花里隐约可见；尽管这同一个形象四个月来一直每天迎接塞丝，可是她和保罗•D正在如此忘情地专注于彼此，看见她在近前出现，都不禁心中一凛。
　　宠儿不理睬保罗•D；她的端详是给塞丝的。她没穿外套，没戴围巾，头上什么都没有，可是手里捧着一条长披肩。她伸出胳膊，想给塞丝围上。
　　“傻丫头，”塞丝说道，“在外面什么都没戴的是你呀。
　　”然后她离开保罗•D，在他面前接过披肩，围在宠儿的头和肩膀上。她说着，“你得学会懂点事”，然后用左臂搂住宠儿。这时候雪花不飞了。保罗•D觉得，宠儿来之前自己身上被塞丝靠过的部位变得冰冷冰冷的。他跟在两个女人身后一码左右，一路克制着满腔怒火。等到看见窗户上丹芙在灯光下的剪影，他忍不住想：
　　“你又是哪拨儿的呢？
　　”
　　是塞丝解决的。出乎意料，她安全妥当地一举解决了所有问题。
　　“这回我可知道你今儿晚上不睡在外边了，对吗，保罗•D？”她朝他笑道；烟囱像个帮腔的患难之交似的冲着从天上射进来的寒流直咳嗽。窗框在一阵严冬的寒风里战栗着。
　　保罗•D从盘子中的炖肉上抬起眼睛。
　　“你上楼来睡吧。到你该待的地方，”她说，“……而且待下去吧。
　　”
　　从桌子一头宠儿那边向他爬过来的缕缕恶意，在塞丝温暖的微笑里变得无关痛痒。
　　曾经有一次（唯一的一次），保罗•D感激过一个女人。那次，他爬出树林，被饥饿和孤独折磨得直对眼儿，就去敲他在威尔明顿的黑人区见到的第一扇后门。他告诉开门的女人，他愿意给她劈柴，只要她肯施舍给他一点东西吃。她上上下下地打量他。
　　“等一小会儿。
　　”她说着，把门开得大一点。她喂了他猪肉香肠，对一个快饿死的人来说那是最糟糕的东西，可是他和他的肚子都没意见。然后，他见到了她卧室里的白棉布床单和两只枕头，忍不住飞快地抹了抹眼睛，以免让她看到一个男人平生头一回感激的眼泪。土地、草地、泥地、谷壳、树叶、干草、蜘蛛网、贝壳———所有这些东西他都睡过。从来没想象过白棉布床单。他呻吟着倒上去，多亏那个女人帮忙，他才有借口是跟她而不是跟她的床单做爱。那天晚上，吃饱了肉，耽于奢侈，他发誓永不离开她。要想把他赶下那张床，她非得杀了他不行。十八个月后，当他被“北极银行和铁路公司”买去时，他依然感激那次与床单的结识。
　　如今他第二次心怀感激。他觉得自己仿佛被人从一面悬崖峭壁上摘下来，放到坚实的地面上。
　　在塞丝的床上，他知道自己对付得了那两个傻丫头———只要塞丝将她的意愿公开。他尽量抻开身体，望着雪花在他脚上方流过窗户，现在，那把他带到餐馆后面巷子里的疑虑，很容易解除了：他对自己的期望很高，太高了。他所说的怯懦，别人叫做人之常情。
　　塞丝钻进保罗•D的臂弯，回想起他在街上求她为他怀个孩子时的那副面孔。虽然她当时大笑着拉起他的手，可还是着实吓了一跳。她很快想到，如果那真是他想要的，性交会有多么愉快，然而她主要是被再次要个孩子的想法吓坏了。需要足够过硬、足够麻利、足够强壮，还得那样操心———重来一遍。必须再多活那么久。噢主啊，她暗道，救救我吧。除非无忧无虑，否则母爱可是要命的。他要她怀孕干什么？为了抓住她？为了给这段路留个记号？反正他没准到处都有孩子呢。流浪了十八年，他肯定跟人下了几个。不对。他反感她已经有的孩子们，是这么回事。是一个孩子，她纠正了自己。一个孩子，再加上她视如己出的宠儿，那就是他反感的。他反感与姑娘们共享她。听她们三个笑着他不理解的东西。破不开她们之间使用的暗号。甚至恐怕还有花在她们而不是他身上的时间。他们怎么说也算个家庭，可他不是一家之主。
　　你能帮我把这个缝上么，宝贝？
　　当然。等我弄完这件衬裙再说。她还穿着来的时候穿的那件，谁都需要变个花样。
　　还剩下一点馅饼么？
　　我记得丹芙吃了最后一张。
　　没有怨言，甚至不介意他现在在房子周围四处乱睡，直到今天晚上，她才大发善心制止了这种夜不归宿的行为。
　　塞丝叹了口气，把手放在他的胸脯上。她知道，为了避免怀孕，自己一直在不让他尽兴，这使她感到有点不好意思。但是她自己的孩子足够了。假如她的儿子们有朝一日回家来，丹芙和宠儿又一直住下去———嗯，这正好是朝思暮想的情景，不是吗？就在她看到路边携手的影子之后，生活面貌有了多大的变化啊!还有那一刻，一看见那裙子和鞋子坐在前院，她就失禁了。甚至不用看那在阳光中燃烧的脸。她已经梦想多年了。
　　保罗•D的胸脯在她的手底下一起一伏，一起一伏。
　　丹芙洗完碗，在桌旁坐下。宠儿自打塞丝和保罗•D离开屋子就没挪过地方，坐在那儿吮着自己的食指。丹芙盯着她的脸看了一会儿，然后说道：
　　“她喜欢他住在这儿。
　　”
　　宠儿继续用手指抠着嘴。
　　“让他滚蛋。
　　”她说。
　　“他走了她会跟你发火的。
　　”
　　宠儿把大拇指也伸进嘴里，拔出一颗后槽牙。几乎没有血，可是丹芙还是叫道：
　　“噢———你不疼吗？
　　”
　　宠儿看着牙，心想：终于来了。下一回该是她的一只胳膊、一只手、一个脚指头了。她身上的零件也许会一点一点地，也许一股脑全掉下去。或者哪一天早晨，在丹芙醒来之前、塞丝上班之后，她会四分五裂。她独自一人的时候，很难让脑袋待在脖子上，腿安在屁股上。在她记不得的事情中有这么一件：她第一次得知她会在哪天醒来，发现自己已成为一堆碎片。她做过两个梦：一次是自己爆炸，一次是被吞噬。当她的牙脱落的时候———一块多余的碎片，一排中最后的那颗———她认为毁灭已经开始了。
　　“肯定是颗智齿，”丹芙道，“不疼么？
　　”
　　“疼。”
　　“那你怎么不哭？
　　”
　　“什么？
　　”
　　“疼的话，你怎么不哭？
　　”
Chapter 31
    And she did. Sitting there holding a small white tooth in the palm of her smooth smooth hand.
　　Cried the way she wanted to when turtles came out of the water, one behind the other, right afterthe blood-red bird disappeared back into the leaves. The way she wanted to when Sethe went tohim standing in the tub under the stairs. With the tip of her tongue she touched the salt water thatslid to the corner of her mouth and hoped Denver's arm around her shoulders would keep themfrom falling apart.
　　The couple upstairs, united, didn't hear a sound, but below them, outside, all around 124 the snowwent on and on and on. Piling itself, burying itself. Higher. Deeper.
　　AT THE BACK of Baby Suggs' mind may have been the thought that if Halle made it, God dowhat He would, it would be a cause for celebration. If only this final son could do for himself whathe had done for her and for the three children John and Ella delivered to her door one summernight. When the children arrived and no Sethe, she was afraid and grateful. Grateful that the part ofthe family that survived was her own grandchildren — the first and only she would know: twoboys and a little girl who was crawling already. But she held her heart still, afraid to formquestions: What about Sethe and Halle; why the delay? Why didn't Sethe get on board too?
　　Nobody could make it alone. Not only because trappers picked them off like buzzards or nettedthem like rabbits, but also because you couldn't run if you didn't know how to go. You could belost forever, if there wasn't nobody to show you the way.
　　So when Sethe arrived — all mashed up and split open, but with another grandchild in her arms —the idea of a whoop moved closer to the front of her brain. But since there was still no sign ofHalle and Sethe herself didn't know what had happened to him, she let the whoop lie-not wishingto hurt his chances by thanking God too soon.
　　It was Stamp Paid who started it. Twenty days after Sethe got to 124 he came by and looked at the baby he had tied up in his nephew's jacket, looked at the mother he had handed a piece of fried eelto and, for some private reason of his own, went off with two buckets to a place near the river'sedge that only he knew about where blackberries grew, tasting so good and happy that to eat themwas like being in church. Just one of the berries and you felt anointed. He walked six miles to theriverbank; did a slide-run-slide down into a ravine made almost inaccessible by brush. He reachedthrough brambles lined with blood-drawing thorns thick as knives that cut through his shirt sleevesand trousers. All the while suffering mosquitoes, bees, hornets, wasps and the meanest lady spidersin the state. Scratched, raked and bitten, he maneuvered through and took hold of each berry withfingertips so gentle not a single one was bruised. Late in the afternoon he got back to 124 and puttwo full buckets down on the porch. When Baby Suggs saw his shredded clothes, bleeding hands,welted face and neck she sat down laughing out loud.
　　Buglar, Howard, the woman in the bonnet and Sethe came to look and then laughed along withBaby Suggs at the sight of the sly, steely old black man: agent, fisherman, boatman, tracker,savior, spy, standing in broad daylight whipped finally by two pails of blackberries. Paying themno mind he took a berry and put it in the three week-old Denver's mouth. The women shrieked.
　　"She's too little for that, Stamp.""Bowels be soup.""Sickify her stomach."But the baby's thrilled eyes and smacking lips made them follow suit, sampling one at a time theberries that tasted like church. Finally Baby Suggs slapped the boys' hands away from the bucketand sent Stamp around to the pump to rinse himself. She had decided to do something with thefruit worthy of the man's labor and his love. That's how it began.
　　She made the pastry dough and thought she ought to tell Ella and John to stop on by because threepies, maybe four, were too much to keep for one's own. Sethe thought they might as well back itup with a couple of chickens. Stamp allowed that perch and catfish were jumping into the boat —didn't even have to drop a line. From Denver's two thrilled eyes it grew to a feast for ninety people.
　　124 shook with their voices far into the night. Ninety people who ate so well, and laughed somuch, it made them angry. They woke up the next morning and remembered the meal-fried perchthat Stamp Paid handled with a hickory twig, holding his left palm out against the spit and pop ofthe boiling grease; the corn pudding made with cream; tired, overfed children asleep in the grass,tiny bones of roasted rabbit still in their hands — and got angry.
　　Baby Suggs' three (maybe four) pies grew to ten (maybe twelve). Sethe's two hens became fiveturkeys. The one block of ice brought all the way from Cincinnati — -over which they pouredmashed watermelon mixed with sugar and mint to make a punch — became a wagonload of icecakes for a washtub full of strawberry shrug, 124, rocking with laughter, goodwill and food forninety, made them angry. Too much, they thought. Where does she get it all, Baby Suggs, holy?
　　Why is she and hers always the center of things? How come she always knows exactly what to do and when? Giving advice; passing messages; healing the sick, hiding fugitives, loving, cooking,cooking, loving, preaching, singing, dancing and loving everybody like it was her job and hersalone.
　　Now to take two buckets of blackberries and make ten, maybe twelve, pies; to have turkey enoughfor the whole town pretty near, new peas in September, fresh cream but no cow, ice and sugar,batter bread, bread pudding, raised bread, shortbread — it made them mad. Loaves and fishes wereHis powers — they did not belong to an ex slave who had probably never carried one hundredpounds to the scale, or picked okra with a baby on her back. Who had never been lashed by a tenyear-old whiteboy as God knows they had. Who had not even escaped slavery — had, in fact, beenbought out of it by a doting son and driven to the Ohio River in a wagon — free papers foldedbetween her breasts (driven by the very man who had been her master, who also paid herresettlement fee — name of Garner), and rented a house with two floors and a well from theBodwins — the white brother and sister who gave Stamp Paid, Ella and John clothes, goods andgear for runaways because they hated slavery worse than they hated slaves.
　　It made them furious. They swallowed baking soda, the morning after, to calm the stomachviolence caused by the bounty, the reckless generosity on display at 124. Whispered to each otherin the yards about fat rats, doom and uncalled-for pride.
　　The scent of their disapproval lay heavy in the air. Baby Suggs woke to it and wondered what itwas as she boiled hominy for her grandchildren. Later, as she stood in the garden, chopping at thetight soil over the roots of the pepper plants, she smelled it again. She lifted her head and lookedaround. Behind her some yards to the left Sethe squatted in the pole beans. Her shoulders weredistorted by the greased flannel under her dress to encourage the healing of her back. Near her in abushel basket was the three-week-old baby. Baby Suggs, holy, looked up. The sky was blue andclear. Not one touch of death in the definite green of the leaves. She could hear birds and, faintly,the stream way down in the meadow. The puppy, Here Boy, was burying the last bones fromyesterday's party. From somewhere at the side of the house came the voices of Buglar, Howard andthe crawling girl. Nothing seemed amiss — yet the smell of disapproval was sharp. Back beyondthe vegetable garden, closer to the stream but in full sun, she had planted corn. Much as they'dpicked for the party, there were still ears ripening, which she could see from where she stood.
　　Baby Suggs leaned back into the peppers and the squash vines with her hoe. Carefully, with theblade at just the right angle, she cut through a stalk of insistent rue. Its flowers she stuck through asplit in her hat; the rest she tossed aside. The quiet clok clok clok of wood splitting reminded herthat Stamp was doing the chore he promised to the night before. She sighed at her work and, amoment later, straightened up to sniff the disapproval once again. Resting on the handle of the hoe,she concentrated. She was accustomed to the knowledge that nobody prayed for her — but thisfree floating repulsion was new. It wasn't whitefolks — that much she could tell — so it must becolored ones. And then she knew. Her friends and neighbors were angry at her because she hadoverstepped, given too much, offended them by excess.
　　Baby closed her eyes. Perhaps they were right. Suddenly, behind the disapproving odor, way wayback behind it, she smelled another thing. Dark and coming. Something she couldn't get at because the other odor hid it.
　　She squeezed her eyes tight to see what it was but all she could make out was high-topped shoesshe didn't like the look of. Thwarted yet wondering, she chopped away with the hoe. What could itbe? This dark and coming thing. What was left to hurt her now? News of Halle's death? No. Shehad been prepared for that better than she had for his life. The last of her children, whom shebarely glanced at when he was born because it wasn't worth the trouble to try to learn features youwould never see change into adulthood anyway. Seven times she had done that: held a little foot;examined the fat fingertips with her own — fingers she never saw become the male or femalehands a mother would recognize anywhere. She didn't know to this day what their permanent teethlooked like; or how they held their heads when they walked. Did Patty lose her lisp? What colordid Famous' skin finally take? Was that a cleft in Johnny's chin or just a dimple that woulddisappear soon's his jawbone changed? Four girls, and the last time she saw them there was no hairunder their arms. Does Ardelia still love the burned bottom of bread? All seven were gone or dead.
　　What would be the point of looking too hard at that youngest one? But for some reason they let herkeep him. He was with her — everywhere.
　　When she hurt her hip in Carolina she was a real bargain (costing less than Halle, who was tenthen) for Mr. Garner, who took them both to Kentucky to a farm he called Sweet Home. Becauseof the hip she jerked like a three-legged dog when she walked. But at Sweet Home there wasn't arice field or tobacco patch in sight, and nobody, but nobody, knocked her down. Not once. LillianGarner called her Jenny for some reason but she never pushed, hit or called her mean names. Evenwhen she slipped in cow dung and broke every egg in her apron, nobody said youblackbitchwhat'sthematterwith-you and nobody knocked her down.
　　Sweet Home was tiny compared to the places she had been. Mr. Garner, Mrs. Garner, herself,Halle, and four boys, over half named Paul, made up the entire population. Mrs. Garner hummedwhen she worked; Mr. Garner acted like the world was a toy he was supposed to have fun with.
　　Neither wanted her in the field — Mr. Garner's boys, including Halle, did all of that — which wasa blessing since she could not have managed it anyway. What she did was stand beside thehumming Lillian Garner while the two of them cooked, preserved, washed, ironed, made candles,clothes, soap and cider;fed chickens, pigs, dogs and geese; milked cows, churned butter, renderedfat, laid fires. . . . Nothing to it. And nobody knocked her down.
　　Her hip hurt every single day — but she never spoke of it. Only Halle, who had watched hermovements closely for the last four years, knew that to get in and out of bed she had to lift herthigh with both hands, which was why he spoke to Mr. Garner about buying her out of there so shecould sit down for a change. Sweet boy. The one person who did something hard for her: gave herhis work, his life and now his children, whose voices she could just make out as she stood in thegarden wondering what was the dark and coming thing behind the scent of disapproval. SweetHome was a marked improvement. No question. And no matter, for the sadness was at her center,the desolated center where the self that was no self made its home. Sad as it was that she did notknow where her children were buried or what they looked like if alive, fact was she knew moreabout them than she knew about herself, having never had the map to discover what she was like.
　　Could she sing? (Was it nice to hear when she did?) Was she pretty? Was she a good friend? Couldshe have been a loving mother? A faithful wife? Have I got a sister and does she favor me? If mymother knew me would she like me?
　　In Lillian Garner's house, exempted from the field work that broke her hip and the exhaustion thatdrugged her mind; in Lillian Garner's house where nobody knocked her down (or up), she listenedto the whitewoman humming at her work; watched her face light up when Mr. Garner came in andthought, It's better here, but I'm not. The Garners, it seemed to her, ran a special kind of slavery,treating them like paid labor, listening to what they said, teaching what they wanted known. Andhe didn't stud his boys. Never brought them to her cabin with directions to "lay down with her,"like they did in Carolina, or rented their sex out on other farms. It surprised and pleased her, butworried her too. Would he pick women for them or what did he think was going to happen whenthose boys ran smack into their nature? Some danger he was courting and he surely knew it. Infact, his order for them not to leave Sweet Home,except in his company, was not so much becauseof the law, but the danger of men-bred slaves on the loose.
    于是她哭了。坐在那里，用非常非常光洁的手掌攥着一颗小白牙，哭了起来。就像那回，她看见血红的小鸟消失在树叶间，然后乌龟一个跟着一个从水里爬出来的时候想做的那样。就像那回，她看见他站在楼梯下的澡盆里，而塞丝走向他的时候想做的那样。她用舌头舔了舔滑到嘴角的咸泪，希望丹芙搂住她双肩的胳膊能避免它们四分五裂。
　　楼上的那一对结合着，什么也没听见，然而在他们下面、外面，124号的四周，雪下了又下，下了又下。堆积着自己，埋葬着自己。越来越高。越来越深。
　　在贝比•萨格斯的思想深处可能一直存着这个想法：要是上帝发恩，黑尔能够虎口逃生，那就可以好好庆祝一番了。只要这个最小的儿子肯为他自己卖命，就像当初为她、随后又为三个孩子卖命那样。三个孩子是约翰和艾拉在一个夏夜送到她的门前的。他们到达的时候，塞丝却没到，这让她既害怕又感激。感激是因为活下来的那几个亲人是她自己的孙儿———最初几个，也是据她所知仅有的几个：两个男孩和一个都会爬了的小女孩。但是她的心还悬着，不敢去想这些问题：塞丝和黑尔怎么了？为何拖延？塞丝为什么不同时跟着上车？没有人能单靠自己成功。不仅因为追捕者会像老鹰一样把他们抓走，像捕兔子一样向他们撒网，还因为你如果不知道怎么走就跑不了。你可能会永远迷失，如果没有人给你带路的话。
　　所以塞丝抵达的时候———浑身都被捣烂、割裂，怀里却抱着另一个孙女———高声欢呼的念头在她脑子里又进了一步。可是，由于仍然不见黑尔的踪影，而塞丝本人又不知道他的下落，她咽住了叫声———不希望因过早地谢了上帝而减少他的机会。
　　是斯坦普•沛德开始的。塞丝到达124号二十天之后，他来看望他曾用外甥的外套包裹起来的婴儿，看望他曾递给过一块炸鳝鱼的母亲，然后为了某些个人缘故，拎着两只桶去了河沿一个只有他自己知道的地方。那儿长着黑莓，味道鲜美可喜，吃起来仿佛置身教堂一样。只需一颗莓子，你就会觉得像是涂了膏。他走了六英里路来到河畔，半滑半跑地下到一道因灌木丛生而难以接近的深沟。他在荆棘丛中摸索着，一排排刀刃般嗜血的利刺划破了他的衬衫袖子和裤子。同时他还一直忍受着蚊子、蜜蜂、大黄蜂、黄蜂和本州最毒的母蜘蛛。他浑身都被划破、擦伤和叮咬，却干得很巧妙，用指尖那样轻地夹住每颗莓子，没有碰损一颗。下午的晚些时候，他回到124号，把两只装得满满的桶放在门廊上。贝比•萨格斯看到他撕成一条一条的衣裳、血淋淋的双手、伤痕累累的脸和脖子，坐下来放声大笑。
　　巴格勒、霍华德、戴软帽的女人和塞丝都赶过来看，然后就同贝比•萨格斯一起笑话这个狡猾而刚强的老黑人：地下使者、渔翁、艄公、纤夫、救星、侦探；挨了两桶黑莓的鞭打后，他终于站在了光天化日之下。他对他们毫不在意，径自拿起一颗莓子，放进三个星期大的丹芙嘴里。
　　女人们尖叫起来。
　　“她还太小哪。斯坦普。
　　”
　　“肠子要化成汤儿了。
　　”
　　“会闹肚子的。
　　”
　　然而小宝宝激动的眼睛和吧嗒的嘴唇使得他们都跟着依样学样，一颗一颗地品尝着教堂味道的莓子。最后，贝比•萨格斯把男孩们的手从桶里打出去，打发斯坦普到压水井那里去冲洗。
　　她已经决定了，要用果子做件对得起这个男人的劳动和爱心的事情。就是那样开始的。
　　她揉好了做糕点的面团，觉得应该招呼艾拉和约翰来做客，因为三个或者四个馅饼对于一家人来说太多了。塞丝认为他们还可以再添上一对鸡。斯坦普说，鲈鱼和鲇鱼正在往船里头蹦呢———连线都不用放。
　　从丹芙的两只激动的眼睛开始，聚餐变成了一个九十人的宴会。
　　124号的喧闹声在深夜回荡。
　　九十个人吃得这么好，笑得这么欢，这反而让他们心生怒气。他们第二天早晨醒来，想起斯坦普•沛德用一根胡桃树枝穿着鲈鱼油炸，伸出左手掌挡住四处飞溅的滚沸的油星；想起用奶油做的玉米布丁；想起吃撑了的孩子们疲倦地睡倒在草窠里，手上还拿着烤兔肉的小骨头———于是生起气来。
　　贝比•萨格斯的三个（也许四个）馅饼变成了十个（也许十二个）。塞丝的两只母鸡变成了五只火鸡。大老远从辛辛那提一路运来的一块方冰———为了掺进他们用捣碎的西瓜拌上糖和薄荷做成的潘趣酒———变成了掺进一澡盆草莓酒的一大车冰块。
　　124号被笑声、诚意和九十人的饕餮摇动着，让他们生气。太过分了，他们想。凭什么都让她占全了，圣贝比•萨格斯？凭什么她和她的一切总是中心？凭什么她总是知道什么时候恰好该干什么？又出主意；又传口信；治病人，藏逃犯，爱，做饭，做饭，爱，布道，唱歌，跳舞，还热爱每一个人，就好像那是她独有的职业。
　　如今，又拿两桶黑莓做了十个或者十二个馅饼，吃掉了足够整个城镇吃的火鸡、九月的新鲜豌豆，不养牛却吃到了新鲜奶油，又是冰又是糖，还有奶油面包、面包布丁、发酵面包、起酥面包———这把他们气疯了。面包和鱼是上帝的权力———它们不属于一个大概从来没有往磅秤上搬过一百磅的重物，恐怕也没背着婴儿摘过秋葵的解放的奴隶。她从来没挨过一个十岁大的白崽子的皮鞭，可上帝知道，他们挨过。甚至没有逃脱过奴隶制———其实是被一个孝顺儿子买出来，再被一辆大车运到俄亥俄河边的———解放证书折放在双乳之间（恰恰是她的主人运送的她，还给了她安家费———名字叫加纳），从鲍德温家租了带二层楼外加一眼水井的一幢房子———是这对白人兄妹为斯坦普•沛德、艾拉和约翰提供了逃犯们用的衣服、物品和工具，因为他们比恨奴隶更恨奴隶制。
　　这使他们怒不可遏。第二天早晨，他们靠吞食小苏打来平息肚子里的翻江倒海，这纯粹是124号那场大方、轻率的慷慨表演造成的。他们在院子里互相嘀咕着肥耗子、报应以及多此一举的骄傲。
　　浓重的非难气味在空中凝滞。贝比•萨格斯在给孙儿们煮玉米粥的时候注意到它，不明白是怎么一回事。过了一会儿，她站在菜园里为胡椒秧捣碎硬土时，又闻到了那气味。她抬起头四面张望。在她身后向左几码远的地方，塞丝正蹲在豆角中间。她的肩膀被垫在裙子下面辅助治疗后背的涂了油膏的法兰绒弄得变了形。她近旁的一只蒲式耳箩筐里是三个星期大的婴儿。圣贝比•萨格斯举头仰望。天空湛蓝而晴朗。树叶明晰的绿色中没有一点死亡的迹象。她能听见鸟叫，还能隐约听见远处小溪流过草地的潺潺声。小狗“来，小鬼”正在啃昨天宴会剩下的最后几块骨头。房子附近什么地方传来巴格勒、霍华德和那都会爬了的女孩的声音。似乎什么都没出毛病———然而非难的味道异常刺鼻。在菜园后面更远的地方，离小溪更近、不过阳光充足的地方，她种下了玉米。尽管他们为宴会摘下了那么多，那儿仍有一穗穗玉米在成熟，她站在那里就可以看得见。贝比•萨格斯又弯腰为胡椒秧和黄瓜藤锄草。锄头的角度刚好合适，她小心地铲断一根顽固的芸香茎。芸香的花被她揪下来插进帽子的裂缝中；剩下的丢在一边。劈木头单调的哐哐哐的声音提醒了她，斯坦普正在干他昨天晚上答应的差事。她冲手里的活计叹了口气，过了一会儿，又直起腰，再一次去嗅那非难气味。她拄着锄头把，专心致志地嗅着。她已经习惯于没有人为她祈祷了———但这肆意飘荡的嫌恶却是新的。那不是白人———这一点她还能肯定———所以只能是黑人了。于是，她全明白了。是她的朋友和邻居在生她的气，因为她走得太远，施与得太多，由于不知节制而惹恼了他们。
　　贝比闭上眼睛。也许他们是对的。突然，就在非难的气味后面，后面很远很远的地方，她嗅到了另一种东西。黑压压地赶来。是一种她拿不准是什么的东西，因为非难的气味盖过了它。
　　她使劲挤着眼睛去看它到底是什么，但她能看清楚的只是一双样式不讨她喜欢的高靿鞋。
　　既沮丧又惶惑，她用锄头继续锄着地。会是什么呢？这个黑压压赶来的东西。现在还剩什么能来伤害她呢？黑尔的死讯？不。她已经为那个作好了准备，比为他活着作的准备还要充分。那是她最后一个孩子，生下时她几乎没瞟上一眼，因为犯不上费心思去认清他的模样，你反正永远也不可能看着他长大成人。她已经干了七回了：抓起一只小脚；用自己的指尖检查那些胖乎乎的指尖———那些手指，她从没见过它们长成母亲在哪儿都能认出的男人或女人的手。她至今不知道他们换过的牙是什么样子；他们走路时头怎么放。帕蒂的大舌头好了么？菲莫斯的皮肤最终是什么颜色的？约翰尼的下巴上到底是一个裂缝呢，还是仅仅一个酒窝而已，等下颚骨一长开就会消失？四个女孩，她最后看到她们的时候她们腋下都还没长毛。阿黛丽亚还爱吃煳面包底儿吗？整整七个，都走了，或是死了。如此看重那个最小的又有什么意义呢？可是，不知为了什么缘故，他们允许她留下了他。他一直跟着她———到每一个地方。
　　她在卡罗来纳时屁股受过伤，这对于加纳先生来说可真是笔划得来的交易（价钱比当时只有十岁的黑尔还低），他把他们俩一起带到肯塔基，到了一个他称做“甜蜜之家”的农庄上。因为屁股，她走起路来像只三条腿的狗似的一瘸一拐。可是在“甜蜜之家”，看不见一块稻田或者烟叶地，而且更没有人把打翻在地。一次也没有。不知为什么，丽莲•加纳叫她珍妮，不过她从来没有推搡过她、打过她或者骂过她。甚至当她被牛粪滑倒，摔碎了围裙里所有的鸡蛋的时候，也没有人说“你个黑母狗，你犯什么病了”，更没有人把她打翻在地。
　　“甜蜜之家”同她以前待过的许多地方比起来实在很小。加纳先生、加纳太太、她本人、黑尔，还有四个一多半都叫保罗的男孩子，构成了全部的人口。加纳太太干活的时候爱哼歌儿；加纳先生呢，则表现得似乎世界就是他的一个好玩的玩具。谁都不让她下田———加纳先生的男孩们，包括黑尔，包了那些活儿———也是件幸运事，因为反正她也干不了。她只管站在哼歌儿的丽莲•加纳身边，两个人一起做饭、腌菜、浆洗、熨烫；做蜡烛、衣裳、肥皂和苹果汁；喂鸡、猪、狗和鹅；挤牛奶、搅牛油、熬猪油、生火……不算回事。而且没有人把她打翻在地。
　　她的屁股每天都疼———可她从来没提起过。唯有黑尔，在最后的四年里一直仔细地观察她的动作，知道了她上下床必须用两手搬起大腿才行；就是为了这个，他才跟加纳先生说起要赎她出去，好让她坐下来有个变化。多体贴的孩子啊。是他，为她做了件艰苦的事情：把他的劳动、他的生活给了她，如今也把他的孩子们给了她，现在，她站在菜园里纳闷非难的气味后面那黑压压赶来的东西是什么的时候，就刚好能够听见他们的声音。
　　“甜蜜之家”是一个显著的进步。毫无疑问。其实也无所谓，因为悲哀就在她的中心，那丧失自我的自我栖居的荒凉的中心。那悲哀，就好比她不知道自己的孩子们埋在哪里，或者即便活着也不知是什么模样。事实上，她比了解自己更了解他们，因为从来没有过一丝线索，帮助她发现自己是个什么样子。
　　她会唱歌吗？（她唱得好听吗？）她漂亮吗？她是个好朋友吗？她本来可以成为一个慈爱的母亲吗？可以成为一个忠贞的妻子吗？我有个姐姐吗，她宠我吗？假如我妈妈认识我她会喜欢我吗？
Chapter 32
    Baby Suggs talked as little as she could get away with because what was there to say that the rootsof her tongue could manage? So the whitewoman, finding her new slave excellent if silent help,hummed to herself while she worked.
　　When Mr. Garner agreed to the arrangements with Halle, and when Halle looked like it meantmore to him that she go free than anything in the world, she let herself be taken 'cross the river. Ofthe two hard thingsstanding on her feet till she dropped or leaving her last and probably only livingchild — she chose the hard thing that made him happy, and never put to him the question she putto herself: What for? What does a sixty-odd-year-old slavewoman who walks like a three-leggeddog need freedom for? And when she stepped foot on free ground she could not believe that Halleknew what she didn't; that Halle, who had never drawn one free breath, knew that there wasnothing like it in this world. It scared her.
　　Something's the matter. What's the matter? What's the matter?
　　she asked herself. She didn't know what she looked like and was not curious. But suddenly she sawher hands and thought with a clarity as simple as it was dazzling, "These hands belong to me.
　　These my hands." Next she felt a knocking in her chest and discovered something else new: herown heartbeat. Had it been there all along? This pounding thing? She felt like a fool and began tolaugh out loud. Mr. Garner looked over his shoulder at her with wide brown eyes and smiledhimself. "What's funny, Jenny?"She couldn't stop laughing. "My heart's beating," she said.
　　And it was true.
　　Mr. Garner laughed. "Nothing to be scared of, Jenny. Just keep your same ways, you'll be all right."She covered her mouth to keep from laughing too loud.
　　"These people I'm taking you to will give you what help you need. Name of Bodwin. A brotherand a sister. Scots. I been knowing them for twenty years or more."Baby Suggs thought it was a good time to ask him something she had long wanted to know.
　　"Mr. Garner," she said, "why you all call me Jenny?"'"Cause that what's on your sales ticket, gal. Ain't that your name? What you call yourself?""Nothings" she said. "I don't call myself nothing."Mr. Garner went red with laughter. "When I took you out of Carolina, Whitlow called you Jennyand Jenny Whitlow is what his bill said. Didn't he call you Jenny?""No, sir. If he did I didn't hear it.""What did you answer to?""Anything, but Suggs is what my husband name.""You got married, Jenny? I didn't know it.""Manner of speaking.""You know where he is, this husband?""No, sir.""Is that Halle's daddy?""No, sir.""why you call him Suggs, then? His bill of sale says Whitlow too, just like yours.""Suggs is my name, sir. From my husband. He didn't call me Jenny.""What he call you?""Baby.""Well," said Mr. Garner, going pink again, "if I was you I'd stick to Jenny Whitlow. Mrs. BabySuggs ain't no name for a freed Negro."Maybe not, she thought, but Baby Suggs was all she had left of the "husband" she claimed. Aserious, melancholy man who taught her how to make shoes. The two of them made a pact:
　　whichever one got a chance to run would take it; together if possible, alone if not, and no lookingback. He got his chance, and since she never heard otherwise she believed he made it. Now howcould he find or hear tell of her if she was calling herself some bill-of-sale name? She couldn't getover the city. More people than Carolina and enough whitefolks to stop the breath. Two-storybuildings everywhere, and walkways made of perfectly cut slats of wood. Roads wide as Garner'swhole house.
　　"This is a city of water," said Mr. Garner. "Everything travels by water and what the rivers can'tcarry the canals take. A queen of a city, Jenny. Everything you ever dreamed of, they make it righthere. Iron stoves, buttons, ships, shirts, hairbrushes, paint, steam engines, books. A sewer systemmake your eyes bug out. Oh, this is a city, all right. If you have to live in a city — this is it."The Bodwins lived right in the center of a street full of houses and trees. Mr. Garner leaped out andtied his horse to a solid iron post.
　　"Here we are."Baby picked up her bundle and with great difficulty, caused by her hip and the hours of sitting in awagon, climbed down. Mr. Garner was up the walk and on the porch before she touched ground,but she got a peep at a Negro girl's face at the open door before she followed a path to the back ofthe house. She waited what seemed a long time before this same girl opened the kitchen door andoffered her a seat by the window.
　　"Can I get you anything to eat, ma'am?" the girl asked. "No, darling. I'd look favorable on somewater though." The girl went to the sink and pumped a cupful of water. She placed it in BabySuggs' hand. "I'm Janey, ma'am."Baby, marveling at the sink, drank every drop of water although it tasted like a serious medicine.
　　"Suggs," she said, blotting her lips with the back of her hand. "Baby Suggs.""Glad to meet you, Mrs. Suggs. You going to be staying here?" "I don't know where I'll be. Mr.
　　Garner — that's him what brought me here — he say he arrange something for me." And then, "I'mfree, you know."Janey smiled. "Yes, ma'am.""Your people live around here?""Yes, ma'am. All us live out on Bluestone.""We scattered," said Baby Suggs, "but maybe not for long."Great God, she thought, where do I start? Get somebody to write old Whitlow. See who took Pattyand Rosa Lee. Somebody name Dunn got Ardelia and went West, she heard. No point in trying forTyree or John. They cut thirty years ago and, if she searched too hard and they were hiding,finding them would do them more harm than good. Nancy and Famous died in a ship off theVirginia coast before it set sail for Savannah. That much she knew. The overseer at Whitlow'splace brought her the news, more from a wish to have his way with her than from the kindness ofhis heart. The captain waited three weeks in port, to get a full cargo before setting off. Of theslaves in the hold who didn't make it, he said, two were Whitlow pickaninnies name of...
    在丽莲•加纳的家里，她从伤了她屁股的农活和麻痹她思想的疲惫中解脱出来；在丽莲•加纳的家里，没有人把她打翻在地（或强奸她）。她听着那白女人边干活边哼歌儿，看着她的脸在加纳先生进来时骤然亮起来，心想：这个地方更好，可我并不更好。在她看来，加纳夫妇施行着一种特殊的奴隶制，对待他们像雇工，听他们说话，把他们想知道的事情教给他们。而且，他不用他的奴隶男孩们配种，从来不把他们带进她的小屋，像卡罗来纳那帮人那样命令他们“和她躺下”，也不把他们的性出租给别的农庄。这让她惊讶和满意，也让她担忧。他会给他们挑女人吗？他认为这些男孩兽性爆发时会发生什么事呢？他在招惹天大的危险，他当然清楚。事实上，除非由他带着、否则不准离开“甜蜜之家”的命令，并不真是因为法律，而是考虑到对也是人生父母养的奴隶放任自流的危险才下达的。
　　贝比•萨格斯尽量少说话，以免惹麻烦，在她的舌头根底下又有什么可说的呢？这样，那个白女人发现她的新奴隶是个沉默的好帮手，就一边干活一边自己哼歌儿。
　　加纳先生同意了黑尔的安排，再说，在这个世界上似乎没有什么东西比让她获得自由对黑尔更有意义了，于是她就自愿被运过了河。在两件棘手的事情中———是一直站着，直到倒下；还是离开她最后的、恐怕也是唯一活着的孩子———她选择了让他高兴的那件难事，从来没问他那个常常令她自己困惑的问题：为什么？一个混到六十岁、走起路来像三条腿的狗似的女奴要自由干什么？
　　当她双脚踏上自由的土地时，她不能相信黑尔比自己知道得更多；不能相信从没呼吸过一口自由空气的黑尔，居然懂得自由在世界上无可比拟。她被吓着了。
　　出了点问题。出了什么问题？出了什么问题？她问自己。她不知道自己是什么模样，也不好奇。可是突然间她看见了自己的双手，同时，头脑中清晰的思绪既简单又炫目：
　　“这双手属于我。
　　这是我的手。
　　”紧接着，她感到胸口一声捶击，发现了另一样新东西：她自己的心跳。它一直存在吗？这个怦然乱撞的东西？她觉得自己像个傻瓜，就放声大笑起来。加纳先生扭过头，睁大棕色的眼睛看着她，也不禁笑了。
　　“有什么好笑的，珍妮？
　　”
　　她仍然笑个不停。
　　“我的心在跳。
　　”她说。
　　而这是真的。
　　加纳先生大笑起来。
　　“没什么可怕的，珍妮。原来怎么着，往后还怎么着，你不会出事的。
　　”
　　她捂着嘴，以免笑得太响。
　　“我带你去见的人会给你一切帮助。姓鲍德温。一兄一妹。苏格兰人。我认识他们有二十多年了。”
　　贝比•萨格斯认为这是个好时机，去问问她好久以来一直想知道的事情。
　　“加纳先生，”她问道，“你们为什么都叫我珍妮？
　　”
　　“因为那写在你的出售标签上，姑娘。那不是你的名字吗？你怎么称呼自己呢？
　　”
　　“没有，”她说，“我自个儿没称呼。
　　”
　　加纳先生笑得满脸通红。
　　“我把你从卡罗来纳带出来的时候，惠特娄叫你珍妮，他的标签上就写着你叫珍妮•惠特娄。他不叫你珍妮吗？
　　”
　　“不叫，先生。就算他叫过，我也没听见。
　　”
　　“那你怎么答应呢？
　　”
　　“随便什么。可萨格斯是我丈夫的姓。
　　”
　　“你结婚了，珍妮？我还不知道呢。
　　”
　　“可以这么说吧。
　　”
　　“你知道他在哪儿吗，这个丈夫？
　　”
　　“不知道，先生。
　　”
　　“是黑尔的爸爸吗？
　　”
　　“不是，先生。
　　”
　　“那你为什么叫他萨格斯？他的标签上也写着惠特娄，跟你一样。
　　”
　　“萨格斯是我的姓，先生。随我丈夫。他不叫我珍妮。
　　”
　　“他叫你什么？
　　”
　　“贝比。”
　　“是吗，”加纳先生说着，又一次笑粉了脸，“我要是你，就一直用珍妮•惠特娄。贝比•萨格斯太太对一个自由的黑奴来说，听着不像个名字。
　　”
　　也许不像，她心想，可“贝比•萨格斯”是她的所谓“丈夫”留下来的一切。是个严肃、忧郁的男人，教会了她做鞋。他们两人达成了协议：谁有机会逃就先逃走；如果可能就一起逃，否则就单独逃，再也不回头。他得到了一个机会，她从此再没了他的音讯，所以她相信他成功了。现在，如果她用某个卖身标签上的名字称呼自己，他怎么能够找到她、听说她呢？
　　她适应不了城市。人比卡罗来纳还多，白人多得让你窒息。二层楼房比比皆是，人行道是用切得整整齐齐的木板做的。路面像加纳先生的整幢房子一样宽。
　　“这是一座水城，”加纳先生说，“所有东西都从水上运来，河水运不了的就用运河。一个城市里的女王啊，珍妮。你梦想过的一切，他们这里都能造出来。铁炉子、扣子、船、衬衫、头发刷子、油漆、蒸汽机、书。裁缝行能让你眼珠子掉出来。噢，没错，这才是座城市呢。你要是必须住在城里———就是这儿啦。
　　”
　　鲍德温兄妹就住在一条挤满房屋和树木的大街的中段。加纳先生跳下大车，把马拴在结实的铁桩上。
　　“我们到了。
　　”
　　贝比拾起包袱，因为屁股的伤和几个小时的舟车劳顿，费了好大力气才爬下车来。加纳先生在她落地之前就到了甬道和门廊，而她瞄见门开处一个黑人姑娘的脸，就从一条小路向房后绕去。她似乎等了很久，那同一个姑娘才打开厨房门，请她在窗前的座位上坐下。
　　“我给你拿点吃的好吗，太太？
　　”姑娘问。
　　“不了，亲爱的。我只是挺想喝点水的。
　　”那个姑娘走到洗碗池边压了一杯水。她把杯子放到贝比•萨格斯的手上。
　　“我叫简妮，太太。
　　”
　　贝比在水池边迟疑了一下，但还是把水喝个精光，尽管它喝起来像一种正儿八经的药。
　　“萨格斯。”她用手背抹着嘴唇，说道，“贝比•萨格斯。
　　”
　　“很高兴见到你，萨格斯太太。你要在这儿留下来吗？
　　”
　　“我不知道我会留在哪儿，加纳先生———是他带我来这儿的———他说他给我安排好了。
　　”然后她又说道：
　　“我自由了，你知道。
　　”
　　简妮笑了。
　　“是的，太太。
　　”
　　“你家里人住在附近吗？
　　”
　　“是的，太太。我们都住在蓝石路。
　　”
　　“我们都失散了。
　　”贝比•萨格斯道，“可也许不会太久的。
　　”
　　万能的上帝啊，她想，我从何处开始呢？找人写信给惠娄。看看谁带走了帕蒂和罗莎丽。她听说，有个叫丹的要了阿黛丽亚到西部去了。犯不上去找泰瑞或者约翰。他们三十年没有音讯了，要是她找得太紧而他们又正在东躲西藏，找到他们就会使他们反受其害。南希和菲莫斯死在了弗吉尼亚海岸一艘将驶往萨凡纳的船上。她知道的就这些。是惠特娄那里的工头给她带来的信儿，倒不是工头怎么心地善良，而是因为他想让她听他的摆布。船长在港口等了整整三个星期，塞满了货船才启航。在货舱里没活下来的奴隶当中，他说，有两个是惠特娄的小黑鬼，名字叫……
Chapter 33
    But she knew their names. She knew, and covered her ears with her fists to keep from hearingthem come from his mouth.
　　Janey heated some milk and poured it in a bowl next to a plate of cornbread. After some coaxing,Baby Suggs came to the table and sat down. She crumbled the bread into the hot milk anddiscovered she was hungrier than she had ever been in her life and that was saying something.
　　"They going to miss this?""No," said Janey. "Eat all you want; it's ours.""Anybody else live here?""Just me. Mr. Woodruff, he does the outside chores. He comes by two, three days a week.""Just you two?""Yes, ma'am. I do the cooking and washing.""Maybe your people know of somebody looking for help.""I be sure to ask, but I know they take women at the slaughterhouse.""Doing what?""I don't know.""Something men don't want to do, I reckon.""My cousin say you get all the meat you want, plus twenty-five cents the hour. She make summer sausage."Baby Suggs lifted her hand to the top of her head. Money? Money? They would pay her moneyevery single day? Money?
　　"Where is this here slaughterhouse?" she asked.
　　Before Janey could answer, the Bodwins came in to the kitchen with a grinning Mr. Garner behind.
　　Undeniably brother and sister, both dressed in gray with faces too young for their snow-white hair.
　　"Did you give her anything to eat, Janey?" asked the brother.
　　"Yes, sir.""Keep your seat, Jenny," said the sister, and that good news got better.
　　When they asked what work she could do, instead of reeling off the hundreds of tasks she hadperformed, she asked about the slaughterhouse. She was too old for that, they said.
　　"She's the best cobbler you ever see," said Mr. Garner.
　　"Cobbler?" Sister Bodwin raised her black thick eyebrows. "Who taught you that?""Was a slave taught me," said Baby Suggs.
　　"New boots, or just repair?""New, old, anything.""Well," said Brother Bodwin, "that'll be something, but you'll need more.""What about taking in wash?" asked Sister Bodwin.
　　"Yes, ma'am.""Two cents a pound.""Yes, ma'am. But where's the in?""What?""You said 'take in wash.' Where is the 'in'? Where I'm going to be.""Oh, just listen to this, Jenny," said Mr. Garner. "These two angels got a house for you. Place theyown out a ways." It had belonged to their grandparents before they moved in town. Recently it. hadbeen rented out to a whole parcel of Negroes, who had left the state. It was too big a house for Jenny alone, they said (two rooms upstairs, two down), but it was the best and the only thing theycould do. In return for laundry, some seamstress work, a little canning and so on (oh shoes, too),they would permit her to stay there. Provided she was clean. The past parcel of colored wasn't.
　　Baby Suggs agreed to the situation, sorry to see the money go but excited about a house withstepsnever mind she couldn't climb them. Mr. Garner told the Bodwins that she was a right finecook as well as a fine cobbler and showed his belly and the sample on his feet. Everybody laughed.
　　"Anything you need, let us know," said the sister. "We don't hold with slavery, even Garner'skind.""Tell em, Jenny. You live any better on any place before mine?" "No, sir," she said. "No place.""How long was you at Sweet Home?""Ten year, I believe.""Ever go hungry?""No, sir.""Cold?""No, sir.""Anybody lay a hand on you?""No, sir.""Did I let Halle buy you or not?""Yes, sir, you did," she said, thinking, But you got my boy and I'm all broke down. You be rentinghim out to pay for me way after I'm gone to Glory.
　　Woodruff, they said, would carry her out there, they said, and all three disappeared through thekitchen door.
　　"I have to fix the supper now," said Janey.
　　"I'll help," said Baby Suggs. "You too short to reach the fire." It was dark when Woodruff clickedthe horse into a trot. He was a young man with a heavy beard and a burned place on his jaw thebeard did not hide.
　　"You born up here?" Baby Suggs asked him.
　　"No, ma'am. Virginia. Been here a couple years.""I see.""You going to a nice house. Big too. A preacher and his family was in there. Eighteen children.""Have mercy. Where they go?""Took off to Illinois. Bishop Allen gave him a congregation up there. Big.""What churches around here? I ain't set foot in one in ten years." "How come?""Wasn't none. I dislike the place I was before this last one, but I did get to church every Sundaysome kind of way. I bet the Lord done forgot who I am by now.""Go see Reverend Pike, ma'am. He'll reacquaint you.""I won't need him for that. I can make my own acquaintance.
　　What I need him for is to reacquaint me with my children. He can read and write, I reckon?""Sure.""Good, 'cause I got a lot of digging up to do." But the news they dug up was so pitiful she quit.
　　After two years of messages written by the preacher's hand, two years of washing, sewing,canning, cobbling, gardening, and sitting in churches, all she found out was that the Whitlow placewas gone and that you couldn't write to "a man named Dunn" if all you knew was that he wentWest. The good news, however, was that Halle got married and had a baby coming. She fixed onthat and her own brand of preaching, having made up her mind about what to do with the heart thatstarted beating the minute she crossed the Ohio River. And it worked out, worked out just fine,until she got proud and let herself be overwhelmed by the sight of her daughter-in-law and Halle'schildren — one of whom was born on the way — and have a celebration of blackberries that putChristmas to shame. Now she stood in the garden smelling disapproval, feeling a dark and comingthing, and seeing high-topped shoes that she didn't like the look of at all. At all.
　　WHEN THE four horsemen came — schoolteacher, one nephew, one slave catcher and a sheriff— the house on Bluestone Road was so quiet they thought they were too late. Three of themdismounted, one stayed in the saddle, his rifle ready, his eyes trained away from the house to theleft and to the right, because likely as not the fugitive would make a dash for it. Althoughsometimes, you could never tell, you'd find them folded up tight somewhere: beneath floorboards,in a pantry — once in a chimney. Even then care was taken, because the quietest ones, the onesyou pulled from a press, a hayloft, or, that once, from a chimney, would go along nicely for two orthree seconds. Caught red-handed, so to speak, they would seem to recognize the futility ofoutsmarting a whiteman and the hopelessness of outrunning a rifle. Smile even, like a child caught dead with his hand in the jelly jar, and when you reached for the rope to tie him, well, even thenyou couldn't tell. The very nigger with his head hanging and a little jelly-jar smile on his facecould all of a sudden roar, like a bull or some such, and commence to do disbelievable things. Grabthe rifle at its mouth; throw himself at the one holding it — anything. So you had to keep back apace, leave the tying to another. Otherwise you ended up killing what you were paid to bring backalive. Unlike a snake or a bear, a dead nigger could not be skinned for profit and was not worth hisown dead weight in coin.
　　Six or seven Negroes were walking up the road toward the house: two boys from the slavecatcher's left and some women from his right. He motioned them still with his rifle and they stoodwhere they were. The nephew came back from peeping inside the house, and after touching his lipsfor silence, pointed his thumb to say that what they were looking for was round back. The slavecatcher dismounted then and joined the others. Schoolteacher and the nephew moved to the left ofthe house; himself and the sheriff to the right. A crazy old nigger was standing in the woodpilewith an ax. You could tell he was crazy right off because he was grunting — making low, catnoises like. About twelve yards beyond that nigger was another one — a woman with a flower inher hat. Crazy too, probably, because she too was standing stock-still — but fanning her hands asthough pushing cobwebs out of her way. Both, however, were staring at the same place — a shed.
　　Nephew walked over to the old nigger boy and took the ax from him. Then all four started towardthe shed. Inside, two boys bled in the sawdust and dirt at the feet of a nigger woman holding ablood-soaked child to her chest with one hand and an infant by the heels in the other. She did notlook at them; she simply swung the baby toward the wall planks, missed and tried to connect asecond time, when out of nowheremin the ticking time the men spent staring at what there was tostare the old nigger boy, still mewing, ran through the door behind them and snatched the babyfrom the arch of its mother's swing. Right off it was clear, to schoolteacher especially, that therewas nothing there to claim. The three (now four — because she'd had the one coming when shecut) pickaninnies they had hoped were alive and well enough to take back to Kentucky, take backand raise properly to do the work Sweet Home desperately needed, were not. Two were lyingopen-eyed in sawdust; a third pumped blood down the dress of the main one — the womanschoolteacher bragged about, the one he said made fine ink, damn good soup, pressed his collarsthe way he liked besides having at least ten breeding years left. But now she'd gone wild, due tothe mishandling of the nephew who'd overbeat her and made her cut and run. Schoolteacher hadchastised that nephew, telling him to think — just think — what would his own horse do if youbeat it beyond the point of education. Or Chipper, or Samson. Suppose you beat the hounds pastthat point thataway. Never again could you trust them in the woods or anywhere else. You'd befeeding them maybe, holding out a piece of rabbit in your hand, and the animal would revert —bite your hand clean off. So he punished that nephew by not letting him come on the hunt. Madehim stay there, feed stock, feed himself, feed Lillian, tend crops. See how he liked it; see whathappened when you overbear creatures God had given you the responsibility of — the trouble itwas, and the loss. The whole lot was lost now. Five. He could claim the baby struggling in thearms of the mewing old man, but who'd tend her? Because the woman — something was wrongwith her. She was looking at him now, and if his other nephew could see that look he would learnthe lesson for sure: you just can't mishandle creatures and expect success.
    但是她知道他们的名字。她知道。她用拳头堵住耳朵，不想听它们从他嘴里说出来。
　　简妮热了些牛奶，倒在一只碗里，又拿来了一盘玉米面包。贝比•萨格斯客气了几句，就来到桌旁坐下。她把面包捻碎，扔在热牛奶里，发现自己这辈子从来没这么饿过。这很说明问题。
　　“他们会在乎吗？
　　”
　　“不会，”简妮说，“想吃多少吃多少。这是我们吃的。
　　”
　　“还有谁住在这儿？
　　”
　　“就我。还有伍德拉夫先生，他干外面的活儿。他一个礼拜来两三天。
　　”
　　“就你们俩？
　　”
　　“是的，太太。我管做饭洗衣裳。
　　”
　　“也许你家里人知道有谁需要个帮手。
　　”
　　“我一定帮你打听，不过我知道屠宰场要个女的。
　　”
　　“干什么？
　　”
　　“我不知道。
　　”
　　“男人们不愿意干的活儿，我估计。
　　”
　　“我表姐说猪肉想要多少就有多少，外加每小时两毛五。她是做夏季香肠的。
　　”
　　贝比•萨格斯把手举到头顶。钱？钱？他们会每天都付给她钱？钱？
　　“这个屠宰场在哪儿？
　　”她问道。
　　简妮还没来得及回答，鲍德温兄妹就走进了厨房，身后跟着咧嘴直笑的加纳先生。毫无疑问，是兄妹俩，两人都穿着灰色衣服，在雪白的头发下面，他们的脸显得太年轻了。
　　“你给她东西吃了吗，简妮？
　　”哥哥问。
　　“给了，先生。
　　”
　　“别起来了，珍妮。
　　”妹妹说道，于是好消息变得更好了。
　　他们问她能干什么活儿，她没有把她完成过的几百样差事数落个遍，只顾打听那个屠宰场。她干那个太老了，他们说。
　　“她是你能见到的最好的鞋匠。
　　”加纳先生道。
　　“鞋匠？
　　”鲍德温妹妹挑起又黑又浓的眉毛，“谁教你的？
　　”
　　“是个奴隶教的我。
　　”贝比•萨格斯答道。
　　“是做新鞋子，还是光修补？
　　”
　　“新的旧的，什么都行。
　　”
　　“好嘛，”鲍德温哥哥说，“那可挺了不起，可你还得干点别的。
　　”
　　“拿回去浆洗怎么样？
　　”鲍德温妹妹问。
　　“行，太太。
　　”
　　“一磅两分钱。
　　”
　　“行，太太。可拿回哪儿去啊？
　　”
　　“什么？
　　”
　　“您说‘拿回去浆洗’。‘回’哪儿去啊？我要去的地方是哪儿？
　　”
　　“噢，听着，珍妮，”加纳先生说，“这两位天使有所房子给你。他们在城外有一处宅子。
　　”
　　那所房子在他们搬进城之前属于他们的祖父母。最近租住它的一大窝黑人刚刚离开了俄亥俄州。对于珍妮一个人来说，房子太大了，他们说（楼上两间，楼下两间），可这是他们能做到的最佳和唯一的选择。作为浆洗衣服、做些针线活儿、做罐头以及诸如此类（哦，还有鞋）的报酬，他们会允许她住在那里。规定她必须保持清洁。以前那一窝黑人可不怎么样。贝比•萨格斯接下了这份工作；失掉那份赚钱差事当然很难受，可一所带楼梯的房子令她激动不已———虽说她爬不了楼梯。加纳先生告诉鲍德温兄妹，她不仅做得一手好鞋，饭也做得不赖，说着，还亮出他的肚皮和脚上的样品。大家都大笑起来。
　　“你需要什么就说一声，”妹妹说，“我们不支持奴隶制，甚至加纳的那种。
　　”
　　“告诉他们，珍妮。在我家之前你住过更好的地方吗？
　　”
　　“没有，先生。
　　”她说，“没住过。
　　”
　　“你在‘甜蜜之家’待了多久？
　　”
　　“十年，我想是。
　　”
　　“挨过饿吗？
　　”
　　“没有，先生。
　　”
　　“受过冻吗？
　　”
　　“没有，先生。
　　”
　　“有人碰过你一个手指头吗？
　　”
　　“没有，先生。
　　”
　　“我让没让黑尔赎你？
　　”
　　“是的，先生。你让了。
　　”她说道，心里却暗想：可是你占着我的儿子，而我一无所有。我归天以后，他还得一直为了还债让你租来租去。
　　他们说，伍德拉夫会把她带出去，然后三个人就从厨房门口消失了。
　　“我得做晚饭了。
　　”简妮道。
　　“我来帮忙，”贝比•萨格斯说，“你太矮了，够不着火。
　　”
　　伍德拉夫把马抽得飞跑起来时天已经黑了。他是个胡子很重的年轻人，下巴上有一块胡子遮不住的烧伤。
　　“你是在这地方土生土长的吗？
　　”贝比•萨格斯问他。
　　“不是，太太。弗吉尼亚。来这儿两年了。
　　”
　　“原来是这样。
　　”
　　“你去的房子棒极了。又大。一个牧师和他一家曾经在那儿住过。十八个孩子呢。
　　”
　　“我的天。他们到哪儿去了？
　　”
　　“到伊利诺伊去了。艾伦主教让他去那儿管一个教区。大着呢。
　　”
　　“这一带有什么教堂吗？我有十年没迈进去过了。
　　”
　　“怎么会呢？
　　”
　　“我们那儿没教堂。我不喜欢我在最后这个地方之前待的那个地方，可我在那儿倒总有办法每个星期天去趟教堂。我敢说上帝现在肯定忘了我是谁了。
　　”
　　“去见见派克牧师，太太。他会重新把你介绍进去的。
　　”
　　“我用不着他介绍。我会自己介绍自己。我需要他做的是把我重新介绍给我的孩子们。我猜，他识文断字吧？
　　”
　　“当然。
　　”
　　“太好了，我要澄清好多事情。
　　”可是他们澄清的消息少得可怜，她不得不放弃了。在牧师替她写了两年的信之后，在两年的浆洗、缝补、做罐头、做鞋、种菜和去教堂之后，她发现的只是：惠特娄的地方已经没了，而且，也没法给“一个叫丹的男人”写信，如果你知道的只是他去了西部。不管怎么说，好消息总还有：黑尔结了婚，就快有个孩子了。从此，她便把精力集中在那件事，以及她自己用来布道的标志上面，决心用她那刚一过俄亥俄河就开始跳动的心来做点什么。而且它行得通，很行得通，直到她开始骄傲，见到她的儿媳妇和黑尔的孩子们———其中一个出生在路上———就忘乎所以，还举办了一个让圣诞节逊色的黑莓庆祝会。现在她站在菜园里，嗅着非难气味，感觉到了一个黑压压赶来的东西，并看见了那双绝对不讨她喜欢的高靿鞋。绝对不喜欢。
　　四个骑马的人———“学校老师”、一个侄子、一个猎奴者和一个警官———到来的时候，蓝石路上的这所房子这么安静，他们以为自己来得太迟了。三个人下了马，一个留在鞍子上，枪上膛，眼睛从左到右扫视着房子，因为说不定有个逃犯会狗急跳墙的。尽管有些时候，你怎么也拿不准，你会发现他们在什么地方蜷缩着：地板下、壁橱里———有一次是在烟囱里。甚至那些时候，也得多加小心，即使最老实的那些，那些你从橱柜、干草堆，或者那回，从烟囱里拉出来的，也只会听两三秒钟的话。这么说吧，被当场捉获后，他们会假装认识到了哄骗白人的无益和逃脱枪口的无望，甚至还像小孩子手腕在果酱罐里被人牢牢抓住时那样笑。可当你拿绳子来捆他的时候，唉，甚至到那时候你也看不出来。就是那个垂头丧气、面带一丝果酱罐讪笑的黑鬼，会像头公牛一样冷不防大吼大叫起来，开始去做令人难以置信的事情。抓住枪管；扑向猎奴者———什么都干得出来。
　　所以你必须退后一步，让另一个人来捆。不然，末了你会杀了他，可你本来是被雇佣去活捉他的。
　　不像一条蛇或一只熊，一个丧了命的黑奴可不能剥了皮换钱，死尸也值不了几个子儿。
　　六七个黑人从大路上向房子走来：猎奴者的右边来了两个男孩，右边来了几个女人。他用枪指住他们，于是他们就地站着。那个侄子向房子里面偷看了一番，回来时手指碰了一下嘴唇示意安静，然后用拇指告诉他们，要找的人在后面。猎奴者于是下了马，跟其他人站到一起。
　　“学校老师”
　　和侄子向房子的左边挪去；他自己和警官去右边。一个疯疯癫癫的老黑鬼拿着把斧子站在木头堆里。你一眼就能看出他是个疯子，因为他在咕哝着———发出低沉的、猫一样的呼噜声。离他大约十二码远处是另一个黑鬼———一个帽子上戴花的女人。可能也是个疯子，因为她也一动不动地站着———只有手扇着，仿佛在把蜘蛛网从眼前拨开。然而，两个人都盯住了同一个地方———一间棚屋。侄子向那个老黑鬼走去，从他手里拿下斧子。然后四个人一起向棚屋走去。
　　里面，两个男孩在一个女黑鬼脚下的锯末和尘土里流血，女黑鬼用一只手将一个血淋淋的孩子搂在胸前，另一只手抓着一个婴儿的脚跟。她根本不看他们，只顾把婴儿摔向墙板，没撞着，又在作第二次尝试。这时，不知从什么地方———就在这群人紧盯着面前的一切的当儿———那个仍在低吼的老黑鬼从他们身后的屋门冲进来，将婴儿从她妈妈抡起的弧线中夺走。
　　事情马上一清二楚了，对“学校老师”来说尤其如此，那里没什么可索回的了。那三个（现在是四个———她逃跑途中又生了一个）小黑鬼，他们本来指望他们是活着的，而且完好得可以带回肯塔基，带回去正规培养，去干“甜蜜之家”亟待他们去干的农活，现在看来不行了。有两个大张着眼睛躺在锯末里；第三个的血正顺着那主要人物的裙子汩汩而下———“学校老师”四处夸耀的那个女人，他说她做得一手好墨水，熬得一手好汤，按他喜欢的方式给他熨衣领，而且至少还剩十年能繁殖。可是现在她疯了，都是因为侄子的虐待，他打得太狠，逼得她逃跑了。
　　“学校老师”训斥了那个侄子，让他想想———好好想想———如果打得超出了教育目的，你自己的马又会干出什么来。契伯和参孙也是一样。设想你那么过分地打了这两条猎狗。你就再也不能在林子里或者别的地方信任它们了。也许你下回喂它们，用手递过去一块兔肉，哪个畜生就会原形毕露———把你的手一口咬掉。所以他没让那个侄子来猎奴，以示惩罚。让他留在家里，喂牲口，喂自己，喂丽莲，照管庄稼。给他点颜色看看；看看你把上帝交给你负责的造物打得太狠了的下场———造成的麻烦，以及损失。现在所有这些人都丢了。五个哪。他可以索要那个在喵喵直叫的老头怀里挣扎的婴儿，可是谁来照料她呢？都怪那个女人———她出了毛病。此刻，她正盯着他；要是他的侄子能看见那种眼神，他肯定得到了教训：你就是不能一边虐待造物，一边还指望成功。
Chapter 34
    The nephew, the one who had nursed her while his brother held her down, didn't know he wasshaking. His uncle had warned him against that kind of confusion, but the warning didn't seem tobe taking. What she go and do that for? On account of a beating? Hell, he'd been beat a milliontimes and he was white. Once it hurt so bad and made him so mad he'd smashed the well bucket.
　　Another time he took it out on Samson — a few tossed rocks was all. But no beating ever madehim... I mean no way he could have... What she go and do that for? And that is what he asked thesheriff, who was standing there, amazed like the rest of them, but not shaking. He was swallowinghard, over and over again. "What she want to go and do that for?"The sheriff turned, then said to the other three, "You all better go on. Look like your business isover. Mine's started now." Schoolteacher beat his hat against his thigh and spit before leaving thewoodshed. Nephew and the catcher backed out with him. They didn't look at the woman in thepepper plants with the flower in her hat. And they didn't look at the seven or so faces that hadedged closer in spite of the catcher's rifle warning. Enough nigger eyes for now. Little nigger-boyeyes open in sawdust; little nigger-girl eyes staring between the wet fingers that held her face soher head wouldn't fall off; little nigger-baby eyes crinkling up to cry in the arms of the old niggerwhose own eyes were nothing but slivers looking down at his feet. But the worst ones were thoseof the nigger woman who looked like she didn't have any. Since the whites in them haddisappeared and since they were as black as her skin, she looked blind.
　　They unhitched from schoolteacher's horse the borrowed mule that was to carry the fugitivewoman back to where she belonged, and tied it to the fence. Then, with the sun straight up overtheir heads, they trotted off, leaving the sheriff behind among the damnedest bunch of coons they'dever seen. All testimony to the results of a little so-called freedom imposed on people who neededevery care and guidance in the world to keep them from the cannibal life they preferred.
　　The sheriff wanted to back out too. To stand in the sunlight outside of that place meant for housingwood, coal, kerosene — fuel for cold Ohio winters, which he thought of now, while resisting theurge to run into the August sunlight. Not because he was afraid. Not at all. He was just cold. Andhe didn't want to touch anything. The baby in the old man's arms was crying, and the woman's eyeswith no whites were gazing straight ahead. They all might have remained that way, frozen tillThursday, except one of the boys on the floor sighed. As if he were sunk in the pleasure of a deepsweet sleep, he sighed the sigh that flung the sheriff into action.
　　"I'll have to take you in. No trouble now. You've done enough to last you. Come on now."She did not move.
　　"You come quiet, hear, and I won't have to tie you up." She stayed still and he had made up hismind to go near her and some kind of way bind her wet red hands when a shadow behind him inthe doorway made him turn. The nigger with the flower in her hat entered.
　　Baby Suggs noticed who breathed and who did not and went straight to the boys lying in the dirt.
　　The old man moved to the woman gazing and said, "Sethe. You take my armload and gimme yours."She turned to him, and glancing at the baby he was holding, made a low sound in her throat asthough she'd made a mistake, left the salt out of the bread or something.
　　"I'm going out here and send for a wagon," the sheriff said and got into the sunlight at last.
　　But neither Stamp Paid nor Baby Suggs could make her put her crawling-already? girl down. Outof the shed, back in the house, she held on. Baby Suggs had got the boys inside and was bathingtheir heads, rubbing their hands, lifting their lids, whispering, "Beg your pardon, I beg yourpardon," the whole time. She bound their wounds and made them breathe camphor before turningher attention to Sethe. She took the crying baby from Stamp Paid and carried it on her shoulder fora full two minutes, then stood in front of its mother. "It's time to nurse your youngest," she said.
　　Sethe reached up for the baby without letting the dead one go. Baby Suggs shook her head. "One ata time," she said and traded the living for the dead, which she carried into the keeping room. Whenshe came back, Sethe was aiming a bloody nipple into the baby's mouth. Baby Suggs slammed herfist on the table and shouted, "Clean up! Clean yourself up!"They fought then. Like rivals over the heart of the loved, they fought. Each struggling for thenursing child. Baby Suggs lost when she slipped in a red puddle and fell. So Denver took hermother's milk right along with the blood of her sister. And that's the way they were when thesheriff returned, having commandeered a neighbor's cart, and ordered Stamp to drive it.
　　Outside a throng, now, of black faces stopped murmuring. Holding the living child, Sethe walkedpast them in their silence and hers. She climbed into the cart, her profile knife-clean against acheery blue sky. A profile that shocked them with its clarity. Was her head a bit too high? Herback a little too straight? Probably. Otherwise the singing would have begun at once, the momentshe appeared in the doorway of the house on Bluestone Road. Some cape of sound would havequickly been wrapped around her, like arms to hold and steady her on the way. As it was, theywaited till the cart turned about, headed west to town. And then no words. Humming. No words atall.
　　Baby Suggs meant to run, skip down the porch steps after the cart, screaming, No. No. Don't lether take that last one too. She meant to. Had started to, but when she got up from the floor andreached the yard the cart was gone and a wagon was rolling up. A red-haired boy and a yellow-haired girl jumped down and ran through the crowd toward her. The boy had a half-eaten sweetpepper in one hand and a pair of shoes in the other.
　　"Mama says Wednesday." He held them together by their tongues. "She says you got to have thesefixed by Wednesday." Baby Suggs looked at him, and then at the woman holding a twitching leadhorse to the road.
　　"She says Wednesday, you hear? Baby? Baby?" She took the shoes from him — high-topped and muddy — saying, "I beg your pardon. Lord, I beg your pardon. I sure do." Out of sight, the cartcreaked on down Bluestone Road. Nobody in it spoke. The wagon rock had put the baby to sleep.
　　The hot sun dried Sethe's dress, stiff, like rigor morris.
　　THAT AIN'T her mouth.
　　Anybody who didn't know her, or maybe somebody who just got a glimpse of her through thepeephole at the restaurant, might think it was hers, but Paul D knew better. Oh well, a littlesomething around the forehead — a quietness — that kind of reminded you of her. But there wasno way you could take that for her mouth and he said so. Told Stamp Paid, who was watching himcarefully.
　　"I don't know, man. Don't look like it to me. I know Sethe's mouth and this ain't it." He smoothedthe clipping with his fingers and peered at it, not at all disturbed. From the solemn air with whichStamp had unfolded the paper, the tenderness in the old man's fingers as he stroked its creases andflattened it out, first on his knees, then on the split top of the piling, Paul D knew that it ought tomess him up. That whatever was written on it should shake him.
　　Pigs were crying in the chute. All day Paul D, Stamp Paid and twenty more had pushed andprodded them from canal to shore to chute to slaughterhouse. Although, as grain farmers movedwest, St. Louis and Chicago now ate up a lot of the business, Cincinnati was still pig port in theminds of Ohioans. Its main job was to receive, slaughter and ship up the river the hogs thatNortherners did not want to live without. For a month or so in the winter any stray man had work,if he could breathe the stench of offal and stand up for twelve hours, skills in which Paul D wasadmirably trained. A little pig shit, rinsed from every place he could touch, remained on his boots,and he was conscious of it as he stood there with a light smile of scorn curling his lips. Usually heleft his boots in the shed and put his walking shoes on along with his day clothes in the cornerbefore he went home. A route that took him smack dab through the middle of a cemetery as old assky, rife with the agitation of dead Miami no longer content to rest in the mounds that coveredthem. Over their heads walked a strange people; through their earth pillows roads were cut; wellsand houses nudged them out of eternal rest. Outraged more by their folly in believing land washoly than by the disturbances of their peace, they growled on the banks of Licking River, sighed inthe trees on Catherine Street and rode the wind above the pig yards. Paul D heard them but hestayed on because all in all it wasn't a bad job, especially in winter when Cincinnati reassumed itsstatus of slaughter and riverboat capital. The craving for pork was growing into a mania in everycity in the country. Pig farmers were cashing in, provided they could raise enough and get themsold farther and farther away. And the Germans who flooded southern Ohio brought and developedswine cooking to its highest form. Pig boats jammed the Ohio River, and their captains' holleringat one another over the grunts of the stock was as common a water sound as that of the ducksflying over their heads. Sheep, cows and fowl too floated up and down that river, and all a Negrohad to do was show up and there was work: poking, killing, cutting, skinning, case packing andsaving offal.
　　A hundred yards from the crying pigs, the two men stood behind a shed on Western Row and it was clear why Stamp had been eyeing Paul D this last week of work; why he paused when theevening shift came on, to let Paul D's movements catch up to his own. He had made up his mind toshow him this piece of paper — newspaper — with a picture drawing of a woman who favoredSethe except that was not her mouth. Nothing like it.
　　Paul D slid the clipping out from under Stamp's palm. The print meant nothing to him so he didn'teven glance at it. He simply looked at the face, shaking his head no. No. At the mouth, you see.
　　And no at whatever it was those black scratches said, and no to whatever it was Stamp Paid wantedhim to know. Because there was no way in hell a black face could appear in a newspaper if thestory was about something anybody wanted to hear. A whip of fear broke through the heartchambers as soon as you saw a Negro's face in a paper, since the face was not there because theperson had a healthy baby, or outran a street mob. Nor was it there because the person had beenkilled, or maimed or caught or burned or jailed or whipped or evicted or stomped or raped orcheated, since that could hardly qualify as news in a newspaper. It would have to be something outof the ordinary — something whitepeople would find interesting, truly different, worth a fewminutes of teeth sucking if not gasps. And it must have been hard to find news about Negroesworth the breath catch of a white citizen of Cincinnati.
　　So who was this woman with a mouth that was not Sethe's, but whose eyes were almost as calm ashers? Whose head was turned on her neck in the manner he loved so well it watered his eye to seeit. And he said so. "This ain't her mouth. I know her mouth and this ain't it." Before Stamp Paidcould speak he said it and even while he spoke Paul D said it again. Oh, he heard all the old manwas saying, but the more he heard, the stranger the lips in the drawing became.
　　Stamp started with the party, the one Baby Suggs gave, but stopped and backed up a bit to tellabout the berries — where they were and what was in the earth that made them grow like that.
    现在这个侄子，他兄弟按住她时吃她的奶的那个，不由自主地战栗着。他叔叔警告过他，要提防那种慌乱，可是看来这个警告没被采纳。她干吗逃走，还这样做？为了一回打？妈的，他挨过一百万次打，他还是个白人呢。有一回打得特别疼，气得他摔坏了水桶。另一回他把气撒到了参孙身上———也不过扔了几颗石子。可是挨打从来没让他……我是说他不可能会……她干吗逃走，还这样做？他就这样问了警官这个问题，警官正站在那里像其他人一样惊诧不已，但没有战栗。他使劲咽着唾沫，一口接一口地。
　　“她干吗想逃走，还这样做？
　　”
　　警官转过身，然后对其他三个人说道：
　　“你们趁早都走吧。看来没你们什么事了。该我了。
　　”
　　“学校老师”用帽子使劲抽打自己的大腿，离开木棚屋之前又啐了一口。侄子和猎奴者跟他一起退了出来。他们没去看胡椒地里那个帽子上戴花的女人。他们也没去看猎奴者的枪没能拦住的七张凑过来的脸。够了，黑鬼的眼睛。黑鬼小男孩的眼睛在锯末里张着；黑鬼小姑娘的眼睛在血淋淋的手指缝里瞪着，那只手扶住她的脑袋，好让它掉不下来；黑鬼小婴儿皱起眼睛在老黑鬼的怀里哭闹，老黑鬼的眼睛只不过是两道裂缝，正盯着自己的脚面。然而最可怕的是那个女黑鬼的，看上去就像她没有眼睛似的。眼白消失了，于是她的眼睛有如她皮肤一般黑，她像个瞎子。
　　他们从“学校老师”的马身上解下那匹借来的、本来要运女逃犯回去的骡子，拴在栅栏上。然后，他们顶着烈日骑马走了，把警官留在身后这伙罪该万死的黑熊中间。他们全部目睹了以一点所谓自由来欺骗这帮人的恶果，这些家伙需要世上一切的监督和指导，才能避免他们自己更喜欢的同类相残的生活。
　　警官也想退出来。走出这间本该贮藏木料、煤炭、石油———寒冷的俄亥俄冬天的燃料———的棚屋，站到屋外的阳光里。他一边这样想，一边抗拒着跑进八月阳光里的冲动。不是因为害怕。
　　根本不是。他只是觉得冷。他也不想碰任何东西。老人怀里的婴儿在哭，那女人没有眼白的一双眼睛直勾勾地瞪着前方。他们都可以就那样一直待下去，冻结到星期四，可是地上一个男孩叹了口气。仿佛沉溺在甜美酣睡的乐趣中，他这一声轻叹叹得警官猛一激灵，立即开始行动。
　　“我必须把你抓进去。别再找麻烦了。你已经干得不少了。现在跟我走吧。
　　”
　　她没有动。
　　“你乖乖地走，听见没有，我就不用把你捆起来了。
　　”
　　她还是不动，于是他决定走近她，想个办法捆上她那双血淋淋的手，这时他身后门口的一个人影让他转过头来。帽子上戴花的黑鬼走了进来。
　　贝比•萨格斯注意到谁还有气、谁没气了，便径直走向躺在尘土里的男孩们。老头走向那个女人，盯着她，说道：
　　“塞丝，抱着我怀里这个，把你的那个给我。
　　”
　　她转过头，瞟了一眼他怀里的婴儿，喉咙里低叫了一声，就像她出了个错，面包里忘了放盐什么的。
　　“我出去叫辆大车。
　　”警官说着，终于走进了阳光。
　　可是无论斯坦普•沛德，还是贝比•萨格斯，都不能让塞丝把她那“都会爬了？
　　”的女孩放下。走出棚屋，走进房子，一直抱着她不放。贝比•萨格斯已经把男孩们带了进来，正在给他们洗头、搓手、扒开眼皮，自始至终嘀咕着：
　　“请原谅，请你们原谅。
　　”她包扎好他们的伤口，让他们吸过樟脑，然后才开始对付塞丝。她从斯坦普•沛德手里接过哭闹的婴儿，在肩膀上扛了足足两分钟，然后站到孩子的母亲面前。
　　“该喂你的小宝贝了。
　　”她说。
　　塞丝接过婴儿，还是没撒开那个死的。
　　贝比•萨格斯摇了摇头。
　　“一次一个。
　　”她说着用活的换了死的，把死的抱进起居室。她回来时，塞丝正要将一个血淋淋的奶头塞进婴儿的嘴里。贝比•萨格斯一拳砸在桌上，大叫道：“洗干净!你先洗干净!”
　　于是她们厮打起来。仿佛在争夺一颗爱心，她们厮打起来。都在抢那个等着吃奶的婴儿。贝比•萨格斯一脚滑倒在血泊之中，输掉了。于是丹芙就着姐姐的血喝了妈妈的奶。她们就那样待着，直到警官征用了一辆邻居的运货马车回来，命令斯坦普来赶车。
　　这时，外面的一大群黑脸孔停止了嘀嘀咕咕。塞丝抱着那个活着的孩子，在他们和她自己的静默中走过他们面前。她爬进车厢，刀锋般光洁的侧影映入欢快的蓝天。那侧影的明晰使他们震惊。
　　她的头是否昂得有点太高了？她的背是否挺得有点太直了？也许。否则，在她从房子门口出现的那一刻，蓝石路上的歌声就会马上响起来了。某种声音的披肩就会迅速地裹上她，像手臂一样一路搀扶她、稳住她。然而在这样的情形下，他们一直等到货车朝西掉头、向城里开去，才唱起来。然后也没有歌词。哼唱着。一句歌词也没有。
　　贝比•萨格斯本来想跑，跳下门廊的台阶去追运货马车，尖叫着：不。不。别让她把那个最小的也带走。她本来要这样做，也已经开始了，可是当她从地上站起来，走进院子，运货马车已经没影了，而一辆大车隆隆而至。一个红发男孩和一个金发女孩跳下车，穿过人群向她跑来。男孩一手拿着吃了一半的甜椒，一手提着一双鞋。
　　“妈妈说星期三。
　　”他提着鞋舌头，“她说你得在星期三之前修好。
　　”
　　贝比•萨格斯看了他一眼，又看了看大路上拽着缰绳的女人。
　　“她说星期三，你听见了吗？贝比？贝比？
　　”
　　她从他手里接过鞋———高靿的，沾着泥———说道：
　　“请原谅。主啊，我求你原谅。我真的求你了。
　　”
　　视线之外，运货马车吱吱呀呀地驶下蓝石路。里面没有人开口。大车已经把婴儿摇晃得睡着了。炎热的太阳晒干了塞丝的裙子，硬挺挺的，仿佛尸僵。
　　那不是她的嘴。
　　素不相识的人，或者也许只从餐馆的门洞里瞥见过她一眼的人，可能会认为那是她的嘴，但是这事保罗•D更明白。噢，的确，前额上还笼罩着那么一点东西———一种安详———能使你想起她来。可是你单凭这个就说那是她的嘴，那可不行，于是他就这样讲了。告诉了正在审视他的斯坦普•沛德。
　　“我不知道，大叔。反正我看着不像。我认识塞丝的嘴，可不是这样。
　　”他用手指抚平那张剪报，凝视着，丝毫不为所动。从斯坦普打开报纸的庄严气氛中，从老人用手指按平折痕，先是在他的膝盖上、然后在树桩劈裂的顶端将它摊平的慎重中，保罗•D知道，它该搅得他不得安宁了。无论那上面写的是什么，都会震动他。
　　猪在滑运道里嚎叫着。保罗•D、斯坦普•沛德和另外二十多人一整天都在把它们催来赶去，从运河到岸上到滑运道再到屠宰场。尽管由于粮农迁往西部，圣路易斯和芝加哥现在吞并了许多企业，但辛辛那提在俄亥俄人的印象里仍旧是猪的港口。它的主要职责是接收、屠宰和向上游运去北方人离不开的肉猪。冬天里有一个月左右的时间，所有流浪汉都有活儿干，只要他们能忍受死牲口的恶臭，一连站上十二个小时。这些事，保罗•D都令人惊叹地训练有素。
　　他冲洗干净身上所有够得着的地方，还剩一点猪屎粘在他的靴子上；他站在那里，意识到这一点，一丝鄙夷的微笑卷起了他的嘴唇。他通常是把靴子留在棚屋里，回家之前在角落里换上便鞋和便衣。一条路正好把他带进一片天空一样古老的墓地中央，路上充斥着死去的迈阿密人骚动的亡灵，他们已不再满足于在坟堆下面安眠了。他们的头顶上走动着一个陌生的人种；他们的土地枕头被公路切开；水井和房屋将他们从永恒的憩息中撼醒。与其说是由于安宁受到搅扰，不如说是他们对土地之神圣的愚蠢信仰令他们恼羞成怒，于是他们在黎津河畔怒吼，在凯瑟琳大街的树上叹息，并乘风驶过宰猪场的上空。保罗•D听见了他们的声音，但仍旧留了下来，因为无论如何那是个不赖的工作，尤其是在辛辛那提作为屠宰与河运之都的地位得到确立的冬天。在这个国家的每一座城市里，对猪肉的渴望正在演化成一种癫狂。倘若猪农们能养足够的猪，再把它们卖得越来越远，他们是会赚大钱的。在南俄亥俄泛滥的德国人带来了猪肉烹调术，并把它发展到登峰造极的地步。运肉猪的船只阻塞了俄亥俄河；在水上，船长们彼此的吆喝声盖过了牲口的哼叫声，这就像鸭群飞过头顶一样寻常。绵羊、奶牛和家禽也在河上往来辗转，而一个黑人只须露个面，就会有活儿干：捅、杀、割肉、剥皮、装箱，以及储存下脚料。
　　距离号叫的猪群一百码远，两个男人站在西线公司的一间棚屋后面。现在清楚了，为什么这一个星期的工作中斯坦普一直盯着保罗•D看；为什么轮到上夜班时他就停下来，好让保罗•D的动作赶上他的。他已经打定主意要向他出示这张纸———报纸———上面有一个女人的肖像，酷似塞丝，只不过那不是她的嘴。一点也不像。
　　保罗•D从斯坦普的手掌下抽出那张剪报。上面的铅字他一个也不认得，所以他根本就没瞥上一眼。他只是看了看那张脸，摇头说不是。不是。嘴那儿，你看。不管那些黑道道写的是什么，也不管斯坦普•沛德想让他知道些什么，反正不是。因为即便在地狱里，一张黑脸也不可能上报纸，哪怕那个故事有人想听。你在报上刚看见一张黑人的脸，恐惧的鞭笞就会掠过你的心房，因为那张脸上报，不可能是由于那个人生了个健康的婴儿，或是逃脱了一群暴徒。也不会因为那个人被杀害、被打残、被抓获、被烧死、被拘禁、被鞭打、被驱赶、被蹂躏、被奸污、被欺骗，那些作为新闻报道根本不够资格。它必须是件离奇的事情———白人会感兴趣的事情，确实非同凡响，值得他们回味几分钟，起码够倒吸一口凉气的。而找到一则值得辛辛那提的白人公民屏息咋舌的有关黑人的新闻，肯定非常困难。
　　那么这个嘴不像塞丝、但眼睛几乎同样平静的女人是谁呢？她的头以一种令他如此迷恋的姿态从脖子上扭开，看得他热泪盈眶。
　　而他还是这句话。
　　“这不是她的嘴。我认识她的嘴，可不是这样子。
　　”斯坦普•沛德没来得及开口他就这样说，甚至在斯坦普原原本本娓娓道来的时候，保罗•D又说了一遍。噢，老人的话他全听见了，可听得越多，画像上的嘴就越陌生。
　　斯坦普先从宴会讲起，贝比•萨格斯举办的那个，又停下来，倒回去一点，讲起了莓子———它们在哪儿，以及是土里的什么东西让它们长成那样。
Chapter 35
    "They open to the sun, but not the birds, 'cause snakes down in there and the birds know it, so theyjust grow — fat and sweet — with nobody to bother em 'cept me because don't nobody go in thatpiece of water but me and ain't too many legs willing to glide down that bank to get them. Meneither. But I was willing that day. Somehow or 'nother I was willing. And they whipped me, I'mtelling you. Tore me up. But I filled two buckets anyhow. And took em over to Baby Suggs' house.
　　It was on from then on. Such a cooking you never see no more. We baked, fried and stewedeverything God put down here. Everybody came. Everybody stuffed. Cooked so much there wasn'ta stick of kirdlin left for the next day. I volunteered to do it. And next morning I come over, like Ipromised, to do it." "But this ain't her mouth," Paul D said. "This ain't it at all." Stamp Paid lookedat him. He was going to tell him about how restless Baby Suggs was that morning, how she had alistening way about her; how she kept looking down past the corn to the stream so much he lookedtoo. In between ax swings, he watched where Baby was watching. Which is why they both missedit: they were looking the wrong way — toward water — and all the while it was coming down theroad. Four. Riding close together, bunched-up like, and righteous. He was going to tell him that,because he thought it was important: why he and Baby Suggs both missed it. And about the partytoo, because that explained why nobody ran on ahead; why nobody sent a fleet-footed son to cut'cross a field soon as they saw the four horses in town hitched for watering while the riders asked questions. Not Ella, not John, not anybody ran down or to Bluestone Road, to say some newwhitefolks with the Look just rode in. The righteous Look every Negro learned to recognize alongwith his ma'am's tit. Like a flag hoisted, this righteousness telegraphed and announced the faggot,the whip, the fist, the lie, long before it went public. Nobody warned them, and he'd alwaysbelieved it wasn't the exhaustion from a long day's gorging that dulled them, but some other thing— like, well, like meanness — that let them stand aside, or not pay attention, or tell themselvessomebody else was probably bearing the news already to the house on Bluestone Road where apretty woman had been living for almost a month. Young and deft with four children one of whichshe delivered herself the day before she got there and who now had the full benefit of Baby Suggs'
　　bounty and her big old heart. Maybe they just wanted to know if Baby really was special, blessedin some way they were not. He was going to tell him that, but Paul D was laughing, saying, "Uhuh. No way. A little semblance round the forehead maybe, but this ain't her mouth." So Stamp Paiddid not tell him how she flew, snatching up her children like a hawk on the wing; how her facebeaked, how her hands worked like claws, how she collected them every which way: one on hershoulder, one under her arm, one by the hand, the other shouted forward into the woodshed filledwith just sunlight and shavings now because there wasn't any wood. The party had used it all,which is why he was chopping some. Nothing was in that shed, he knew, having been there earlythat morning. Nothing but sunlight. Sunlight, shavings, a shovel. The ax he himself took out.
　　Nothing else was in there except the shovel — and of course the saw. "You forgetting I knew herbefore," Paul D was saying. "Back in Kentucky. When she was a girl. I didn't just make heracquaintance a few months ago. I been knowing her a long time. And I can tell you for sure: thisain't her mouth. May look like it, but it ain't." So Stamp Paid didn't say it all. Instead he took abreath and leaned toward the mouth that was not hers and slowly read out the words Paul Dcouldn't. And when he finished, Paul D said with a vigor fresher than the first time, "I'm sorry,Stamp. It's a mistake somewhere 'cause that ain't her mouth."Stamp looked into Paul D's eyes and the sweet conviction in them almost made him wonder if ithad happened at all, eighteen years ago, that while he and Baby Suggs were looking the wrongway, a pretty little slavegirl had recognized a hat, and split to the woodshed to kill her children.
　　"SHE WAS crawling already when I got here. One week, less, and the baby who was sitting upand turning over when I put her on the wagon was crawling already. Devil of a time keeping heroff the stairs. Nowadays babies get up and walk soon's you drop em, but twenty years ago when Iwas a girl, babies stayed babies longer. Howard didn't pick up his own head till he was ninemonths. Baby Suggs said it was the food, you know. If you ain't got nothing but milk to give em,well they don't do things so quick. Milk was all I ever had. I thought teeth meant they was ready tochew. Wasn't nobody to ask. Mrs. Garner never had no children and we was the only womenthere."She was spinning. Round and round the room. Past the jelly cupboard, past the window, past thefront door, another window, the sideboard, the keeping-room door, the dry sink, the stove — backto the jelly cupboard. Paul D sat at the table watching her drift into view then disappear behind hisback, turning like a slow but steady wheel. Sometimes she crossed her hands behind her back.
　　Other times she held her ears, covered her mouth or folded her arms across her breasts. Once in a while she rubbed her hips as she turned, but the wheel never stopped.
　　"Remember Aunt Phyllis? From out by Minnoveville? Mr. Garner sent one a you all to get her foreach and every one of my babies. That'd be the only time I saw her. Many's the time I wanted toget over to where she was. Just to talk. My plan was to ask Mrs. Garner to let me off atMinnowville whilst she went to meeting. Pick me up on her way back. I believe she would a donethat if I was to ask her. I never did, 'cause that's the only day Halle and me had with sunlight in itfor the both of us to see each other by. So there wasn't nobody. To talk to, I mean, who'd knowwhen it was time to chew up a little something and give it to em. Is that what make the teeth comeon out, or should you wait till the teeth came and then solid food? Well, I know now, becauseBaby Suggs fed her right, and a week later, when I got here she was crawling already. No stoppingher either. She loved those steps so much we painted them so she could see her way to the top."Sethe smiled then, at the memory of it. The smile broke in two and became a sudden suck of air,but she did not shudder or close her eyes. She wheeled.
　　"I wish I'd a known more, but, like I say, there wasn't nobody to talk to. Woman, I mean. So I triedto recollect what I'd seen back where I was before Sweet Home. How the women did there. Ohthey knew all about it. How to make that thing you use to hang the babies in the trees — so youcould see them out of harm's way while you worked the fields. Was a leaf thing too they gave emto chew on. Mint, I believe, or sassafras. Comfrey, maybe. I still don't know how they constructedthat basket thing, but I didn't need it anyway, because all my work was in the barn and the house,but I forgot what the leaf was. I could have used that. I tied Buglar when we had all that pork tosmoke. Fire everywhere and he was getting into everything. I liked to lost him so many times.
　　Once he got up on the well, right on it. I flew. Snatched him just in time. So when I knew we'd berendering and smoking and I couldn't see after him, well, I got a rope and tied it round his ankle.
　　Just long enough to play round a little, but not long enough to reach the well or the fire. I didn'tlike the look of it, but I didn't know what else to do. It's hard, you know what I mean? by yourselfand no woman to help you get through. Halle was good, but he was debt-working all over theplace. And when he did get down to a little sleep, I didn't want to be bothering him with all that.
　　Sixo was the biggest help. I don't 'spect you rememory this, but Howard got in the milk parlor andRed Cora I believe it was mashed his hand. Turned his thumb backwards. When I got to him, shewas getting ready to bite it. I don't know to this day how I got him out. Sixo heard him screamingand come running. Know what he did? Turned the thumb right back and tied it cross his palm tohis little finger. See, I never would have thought of that. Never. Taught me a lot, Sixo."It made him dizzy. At first he thought it was her spinning. Circling him the way she was circlingthe subject. Round and round, never changing direction, which might have helped his head. Thenhe thought, No, it's the sound of her voice; it's too near. Each turn she made was at least threeyards from where he sat, but listening to her was like having a child whisper into your ear so closeyou could feel its lips form the words you couldn't make out because they were too close. Hecaught only pieces of what she said — which was fine, because she hadn't gotten to the main part— the answer to the question he had not asked outright, but which lay in the clipping he showedher. And lay in the smile as well. Because he smiled too, when he showed it to her, so when she burst out laughing at the joke — the mix-up of her face put where some other coloredwoman'sought to be — well, he'd be ready to laugh right along with her. "Can you beat it?" he would ask.
　　And "Stamp done lost his mind," she would giggle.
　　"Plumb lost it."But his smile never got a chance to grow. It hung there, small and alone, while she examined theclipping and then handed it back.
　　Perhaps it was the smile, or maybe the ever-ready love she saw in his eyes — easy and upfront, theway colts, evangelists and children look at you: with love you don't have to deserve — that madeher go ahead and tell him what she had not told Baby Suggs, the only person she felt obliged toexplain anything to. Otherwise she would have said what the newspaper said she said and no more.
　　Sethe could recognize only seventy-five printed words (half of which appeared in the newspaperclipping), but she knew that the words she did not understand hadn't any more power than she hadto explain. It was the smile and the upfront love that made her try.
　　"I don't have to tell you about Sweet Home — what it was — but maybe you don't know what itwas like for me to get away from there."Covering the lower half of her face with her palms, she paused to consider again the size of themiracle; its flavor.
　　"I did it. I got us all out. Without Halle too. Up till then it was the only thing I ever did on my own.
　　Decided. And it came off right, like it was supposed to. We was here. Each and every one of mybabies and me too. I birthed them and I got em out and it wasn't no accident. I did that. I had help,of course, lots of that, but still it was me doing it; me saying, Go on, and Now. Me having to lookout. Me using my own head. But it was more than that. It was a kind of selfishness I never knewnothing about before. It felt good. Good and right. I was big, Paul D, and deep and wide and whenI stretched out my arms all my children could get in between. I was that wide. Look like I lovedem more after I got here. Or maybe I couldn't love em proper in Kentucky because they wasn'tmine to love. But when I got here, when I jumped down off that wagon — there wasn't nobody inthe world I couldn't love if I wanted to. You know what I mean?" Paul D did not answer becauseshe didn't expect or want him to, but he did know what she meant. Listening to the doves in Alfred,Georgia, and having neither the right nor the permission to enjoy it because in that place mist,doves, sunlight, copper dirt, moon — -every thing belonged to the men who had the guns. Littlemen, some of them, big men too, each one of whom he could snap like a twig if he wanted to. Menwho knew their manhood lay in their guns and were not even embarrassed by the knowledge thatwithout gunshot fox would laugh at them. And these "men" who made even vixen laugh could, ifyou let them, stop you from hearing doves or loving moonlight. So you protected yourself andloved small. Picked the tiniest stars out of the sky to own; lay down with head twisted in order tosee the loved one over the rim of the trench before you slept. Stole shy glances at her between thetrees at chain-up. Grass blades, salamanders, spiders, woodpeckers, beetles, a kingdom of ants.
　　Anything bigger wouldn't do. A woman, a child, a brother — a big love like that would split you wide open in Alfred, Georgia. He knew exactly what she meant: to get to a place where you couldlove anything you chose — not to need permission for desire — well now, that was freedom.
　　Circling, circling, now she was gnawing something else instead of getting to the point.
    “它们生长的地方朝阳，可是鸟又吃不着，因为鸟知道底下有蛇，所以它们只管长———又肥又甜———除了我没人去打扰它们，因为除了我谁也不下那滩水，再说也没有什么人愿意滑下悬崖去摘它们。我也不愿意。可是那天我愿意。不知怎么回事，就是愿意。它们可把我抽了一顿，我跟你说。把我划了个稀巴烂。可是我还是装了满满两桶，把它们带到贝比•萨格斯家。就是从那会儿开始的。你再也见不到那种场面了。我们把上帝赐给这地方的所有东西都又烤又炸又炖。大伙儿全来了。每个人都撑着了。那顿饭做得太多了，没给第二天剩下一根劈柴。是我自告奋勇去劈劈柴的。第二天早晨我就过来了，我答应过的，来干活儿。
　　”
　　“可这不是她的嘴，”保罗•D说，“这根本不是。
　　”
　　斯坦普•沛德看着他。他要告诉他那天早晨贝比•萨格斯是怎样地坐立不安，她是怎样地侧耳倾听；她是怎样地透过玉米凝望小溪，搞得他也忍不住去看。每抡一下斧子，他就望一眼贝比•萨格斯望的地方。所以他们俩都错过了它———他们看错了方向———向着溪水———而同时它却从大路上赶来。四个。并排骑着马，像是一伙的，而且铁面无私。他要告诉保罗•D那件事，因为他认为它很重要：为什么他和贝比•萨格斯都错过了它。还要谈谈那次宴会，因为宴会能够解释，为什么没有人提前跑来；为什么看见城里来的四匹马饮着水、骑马的问着问题时，就没有一个人派个飞毛腿儿子穿过田野来报信。艾拉没有，约翰没有，谁都没有沿着或者朝着蓝石路跑来，来跟他们说有几个陌生的带“相”的白人刚刚骑马进来。每个黑人一降生就跟妈妈的奶头一起认得的那种铁面无私“相”。早在公开发作之前，这种铁面无私就像一面高举的旗帜，流露和显示出荆条、鞭子、拳头、谎言的迹象。没有人来警告他们，他也根本不相信是一整天累死人的胡吃海塞让他们变得迟钝了，而是别的什么———比如，唉，比如卑鄙———使得他们袖手旁观，或者置若罔闻，或者对他们自己说，别人可能已经把消息传到了蓝石路上一个漂亮女人住了将近一个月的那所房子里。她年轻、能干，有四个孩子，其中一个是她到那儿的前一天自己分娩的；她现在正享受着贝比•萨格斯的慷慨和她那颗伟大苍老的心灵的恩泽。也许他们只是想知道贝比是否真的与众不同，比他们多点什么福气。他想对他讲这一切，可是保罗•D大笑着说：
　　“啊不。不可能。没准脑门周围有点相像，可这不是她的嘴。
　　”
　　所以斯坦普•沛德没有告诉他她怎样飞起来，像翱翔的老鹰一样掠走她自己的孩子们；她的脸上怎样长出了喙，她的手怎样像爪子一样动作，她怎样将他们一个个抓牢：一个扛在肩上，一个夹在腋下，一个用手拎着，另一个则被她一路吼着，进了满是阳光、由于没有木头而只剩下木屑的木棚屋。木头都被宴会用光了，所以那时他才在劈劈柴。棚屋里什么也没有，他知道，那天一早他去过了。只有阳光。阳光，木屑，一把铁锹。斧子是他自己带来的。那里除了铁锹什么也没有———当然，有锯子。
　　“你忘了我从前就认识她，”保罗•D说道，“在肯塔基那会儿。她还是个小姑娘哪。我可不是几个月前才认识她的。我认识她好久了。我敢向你保证：这不是她的嘴。可能看着像，可这不是。”
　　所以斯坦普•沛德没有全说出来。他就吸了一口气，凑近那张不是她的嘴的嘴，慢慢读出那些保罗•D不认识的字。他念完之后，保罗•D以一种比第一次更莽撞的魄力说道：“对不起，斯坦普。哪儿出了岔子，因为那不是她的嘴。
　　”
　　斯坦普望着保罗•D的眼睛，眼睛里面那甜蜜的坚信几乎使他怀疑一切是否发生过，在十八年前，正当他和贝比•萨格斯看错了方向的时候，一个漂亮的小女奴认出了一顶帽子，然后冲向木棚屋去杀她的孩子们。
　　“我到这里的时候她都会爬了。我把她放在大车上时，她还只会坐着和翻身，一个星期不见，那小宝贝已经会爬了。不让她上楼梯可真费了牛劲。如今的娃娃一落地就会站、会走路了，可二十年前我是个姑娘的时候，娃娃们好长时间还不能呢。霍华德生下来九个月没能抬起头来。贝比•萨格斯说是吃的问题，你知道。要是你除了奶水再没什么喂他们，那他们就不能太快开始做事情。我从来都只有奶水。我以为长了牙他们才可以嚼东西呢。没人可以打听。加纳太太从没生过孩子，可那个地方只有我俩是女人。
　　”
　　她在转圈。一圈又一圈，在屋里绕着。绕过果酱柜，绕过窗户，绕过前门，另一扇窗户，碗柜，起居室门，干燥的水池子，炉子———又绕回果酱柜。保罗•D坐在桌旁，看着她转到眼前又转到背后，像个缓慢而稳定的轮子一样转动着。有时她把手背在背后。要不就抓耳朵、捂嘴，或者在胸前抱起双臂。她一边转，一边不时地揉揉屁股，可是轮子一直没停。
　　“记得菲莉丝大妈么？从米诺村来的那个？每一回我生孩子，加纳先生都派你们去请她来帮我。只有那时候我才能见到她。有好多回，我都想到她那儿去一趟。就去说说话。我本来打算去求加纳太太，让她去做礼拜的时候在米诺村放下我。回家的路上再接我。我相信，要是求她她会答应的。我从来没问过，因为只有那天黑尔和我才能在阳光底下看见对方。所以再没有什么人了。能去说说话的，我是说，谁能知道我什么时候该开始嚼点东西喂他们。是因为嚼东西才长牙呢，还是应该等牙长出来再喂干粮？唉，现在我明白了，因为贝比•萨格斯喂她喂得特别好，一个星期之后，我到这里的时候，她已经在爬了。拦都拦不住。她那么喜欢那些楼梯磴，于是我们涂上油漆，好让她看着自己一路爬到顶。
　　”
　　回想起那件事，塞丝笑了。微笑戛然而止，变成猛的一抽气，可她没哆嗦也没闭眼睛。她转着圈子。
　　“我希望多知道些，可是，我说了，那地方没有个能说说话的人。女人，我是说。所以我试着回忆我在‘甜蜜之家’以前见过的。想想那里的女人是怎么做的。噢她们什么都懂。怎么做那种把娃娃吊在树上的东西———这样，你在田里干活儿的时候，就会看到他们没有危险。她们还给过他们一种树叶让他们嚼。薄荷，我想是，要么就是黄樟。也可能是雏菊。我至今还是不明白她们怎么编的那种篮子，幸亏我用不着它，因为我所有的活儿都在仓库和房子里，不过我忘了那种叶子是什么。我本来可以用那个的。我们要熏好多猪肉时，我就把巴格勒拴起来。到处都是火，他又什么地方都去。有好多回我差点儿丢了他。有一回他爬到井上，正好在井口上。我蹿了过去，刚好及时抓住了他。于是我明白了，我们在熬猪油、熏猪肉的时候不能看着他，没法子，我就拿一根绳子拴住他的脚脖子。绳子的长度只够在周围玩玩的，可是挨不到井架或是炉火。我并不喜欢他那个样子，可我没有别的办法。挺糟心的，你明白我的意思吧？全靠你自己，没有别的女人帮你熬过去。黑尔好是好，可他还到处有还债的活儿要干。他好不容易停下来睡一会儿的时候，我不想用那些烂事打扰他。西克索可帮了我大忙。我估计你记不得这个了，可是那回霍华德进了牛奶房，肯定是红科拉踩坏了他的手，把他的大拇指扭到了后面。我赶到的时候，它正要咬他呢。我至今不知道我是怎么把他弄出来的。西克索听见他的尖叫声就跑过来了。知道他是怎么弄的吗？一下子就把他的大拇指掰了回来，在手掌上把它和小拇指绑到了一起。你瞧，我怎么也不会想到那个法子。怎么也想不到。教了我好多东西呢，西克索。
　　”
　　他被弄得头晕目眩。一开始他以为是因为她转个不停。像绕着话题转一样绕着他兜圈子。一圈又一圈，从不改换方向，否则他的脑袋或许还能得救。然后他想，不对，是因为她的声音，太近了。她转的每一圈离他坐的地方都至少有三码远，可听她说起话来，就像是一个孩子对着你的耳朵低语，这样近，以致你能感到嘴唇翕动却听不出个子午卯酉。他只捕捉到了只言片语———那没关系，因为她还没说到主要部分呢———还没回答那个他并未直接提问，却放在给她看的剪报里的问题。也是放在微笑里的。因为他是微笑着把剪报递给她看的，所以，他都准备好了，当她对着这个笑话放声大笑的时候———她脸上的迷惑本该出现在另外的某个黑女人脸上———当然，他就会马上和她一起大笑起来。
　　“你能相信这种事吗？
　　”他会问。
　　“斯坦普真没脑子，”她会格格笑着，“一点儿脑子没有。
　　”
　　但是他的微笑一直没有机会发展。它悬在那里，又小又孤单；而她仔细看了看剪报，然后就把它递了回来。
　　也许是那个微笑，也许是她在他眼里看到的时刻准备着的爱———轻松而不加掩饰的，小马驹、传道士和孩子们看人的那种眼神，充满着你并不一定配得上的爱———驱使她开口道出了她从没告诉过贝比•萨格斯的事情，她从前觉得只对她一个人有责任解释一切。否则她会只讲报纸上说她讲过的话，而不再多说一句。塞丝只能认出七十五个印出来的词（一半出现在那张剪报上），可她知道，自己不认识的字不比她要解释的话更有力。是那微笑和不加掩饰的爱驱使她来作一次尝试。
　　“我不用给你讲‘甜蜜之家’———它是什么———可也许你不知道我从那儿逃出去是什么滋味。”
　　她用双掌遮住下半边脸，稍作停顿，再一次在心里掂量那个奇迹的大小，它的味道。
　　“我成功了。我把大家都弄了出来。而且没靠黑尔。到那时为止，那是唯一一件我自己干成的事。铁了心的。然后事情很顺利，跟设想的一样。我们到了这里。我的每一个宝贝，还有我自己。
　　我生了他们，还把他们弄了出来，那可不是撞大运。是我干的。我有帮手，当然了，好多呢，可还是我干的；是我说的，走吧，我说的，快点。是我得多加小心。是我用了自己的头脑。而且还不止那些。那是一种自私自利，我从前根本不知道。感觉起来很好。很好，而且正确。我很大，保罗•D，又深又宽，一伸开胳膊就能把我所有的孩子都揽进怀里。我是那么宽。看来我到了这儿以后更爱他们。也许是因为我在肯塔基不能正当地爱他们，他们不是让我爱的。可是等我到了这里，等我从那辆大车上跳下来———只要我愿意，世界上没有谁我不能爱。你明白我的意思么？
　　”
　　保罗•D没搭腔，因为她并没指望或者要求他回答，可他的确明白了她的意思。在佐治亚的阿尔弗雷德听鸽子叫的时候，他既没有权利也不被允许去享受它，因为那个地方的雾、鸽子、阳光、铜锈、月亮———什么都属于那些持枪的人。有些是小个子，大个子也一样，愿意的话，他可以把他们像根树枝似的一个个折断。那些人知道他们自己的男子气概藏在枪杆子里，他们知道离开枪连狐狸也会笑话他们，却不因此感到羞耻。要是你随他们摆布，这些甚至让母狐狸笑话的“男人”会阻止你去聆听鸽子的叫声或者热爱月光。所以你要保护自己，去爱很小的东西。挑出天外最小的星星给自己；睡觉前扭着头躺下，为了看见壕沟的边缘上你最爱的那一颗。上锁链时在树木中间含羞偷偷瞥上一眼。草叶、蝾螈、蜘蛛、啄木鸟、甲虫、蚂蚁王国。任何再大点的东西都不行。
　　一个女人、一个孩子、一个兄弟———在佐治亚的阿尔弗雷德，一个那么大的爱将把你一劈两半。
　　他准确地理解了她的意思：到一个你想爱什么就爱什么的地方去———欲望无须得到批准———总而言之，那就是自由。
　　转啊，转啊，现在她又嚼起了别的事情，就是不往点子上说。
Chapter 36
    "There was this piece of goods Mrs. Garner gave me. Calico.
　　Stripes it had with little flowers in between. 'Bout a yard — not enough for more 'n a head tie. ButI been wanting to make a shift for my girl with it. Had the prettiest colors. I don't even know whatyou call that color: a rose but with yellow in it. For the longest time I been meaning to make it forher and do you know like a fool I left it behind? No more than a yard, and I kept putting it offbecause I was tired or didn't have the time. So when I got here, even before they let me get out ofbed, I stitched her a little something from a piece of cloth Baby Suggs had. Well, all I'm saying isthat's a selfish pleasure I never had before. I couldn't let all that go back to where it was, and Icouldn't let her nor any of em live under schoolteacher. That was out."Sethe knew that the circle she was making around the room, him, the subject, would remain one.
　　That she could never close in, pin it down for anybody who had to ask. If they didn't get it right off— she could never explain. Because the truth was simple, not a long drawn-out record of floweredshifts, tree cages, selfishness, ankle ropes and wells. Simple: she was squatting in the garden andwhen she saw them coming and recognized schoolteacher's hat, she heard wings. Littlehummingbirds stuck their needle beaks right through her headcloth into her hair and beat theirwings. And if she thought anything, it was No. No. Nono. Nonono. Simple. She just flew.
　　Collected every bit of life she had made, all the parts of her that were precious and fine andbeautiful, and carried, pushed, dragged them through the veil, out, away, over there where no onecould hurt them. Over there. Outside this place, where they would be safe. And the hummingbirdwings beat on. Sethe paused in her circle again and looked out the window. She remembered whenthe yard had a fence with a gate that somebody was always latching and unlatching in the. timewhen 124 was busy as a way station. She did not see the whiteboys who pulled it down, yanked upthe posts and smashed the gate leaving 124 desolate and exposed at the very hour when everybodystopped dropping by. The shoulder weeds of Bluestone Road were all that came toward the house.
　　When she got back from the jail house, she was glad the fence was gone. That's where they hadhitched their horses — where she saw, floating above the railing as she squatted in the garden,school-teacher's hat. By the time she faced him, looked him dead in the eye, she had something inher arms that stopped him in his tracks. He took a backward step with each jump of the baby heartuntil finally there were none.
　　"I stopped him," she said, staring at the place where the fence used to be. "I took and put my babieswhere they'd be safe." The roaring in Paul D's head did not prevent him from hearing the pat shegave to the last word, and it occurred to him that what she wanted for her children was exactlywhat was missing in 124: safety. Which was the very first message he got the day he walkedthrough the door. He thought he had made it safe, had gotten rid of the danger; beat the shit out ofit; run it off the place and showed it and everybody else the difference between a mule and a plow.
　　And because she had not done it before he got there her own self, he thought it was because she could not do it. That she lived with 124 in helpless, apologetic resignation because she had nochoice; that minus husband, sons, mother-in-law, she and her slow-witted daughter had to livethere all alone making do. The prickly, mean-eyed Sweet Home girl he knew as Halle's girl wasobedient (like Halle), shy (like Halle), and work-crazy (like Halle). He was wrong. This here Sethewas new. The ghost in her house didn't bother her for the very same reason a room-and-boardwitch with new shoes was welcome. This here Sethe talked about love like any other woman;talked about baby clothes like any other woman, but what she meant could cleave the bone. Thishere Sethe talked about safety with a handsaw. This here new Sethe didn't know where the worldstopped and she began. Suddenly he saw what Stamp Paid wanted him to see: more important thanwhat Sethe had done was what she claimed. It scared him.
　　"Your love is too thick," he said, thinking, That bitch is looking at me; she is right over my headlooking down through the floor at me.
　　"Too thick?" she said, thinking of the Clearing where Baby Suggs' commands knocked the podsoff horse chestnuts. "Love is or it ain't. Thin love ain't love at all.""Yeah. It didn't work, did it? Did it work?" he asked.
　　"It worked," she said.
　　"How? Your boys gone you don't know where. One girl dead, the other won't leave the yard. Howdid it work?""They ain't at Sweet Home. Schoolteacher ain't got em.""Maybe there's worse.""It ain't my job to know what's worse. It's my job to know what is and to keep them away fromwhat I know is terrible. I did that.""What you did was wrong, Sethe.""I should have gone on back there? Taken my babies back there?""There could have been a way. Some other way.""What way?""You got two feet, Sethe, not four," he said, and right then a forest sprang up between them;trackless and quiet.
　　Later he would wonder what made him say it. The calves of his youth? or the conviction that hewas being observed through the ceiling? How fast he had moved from his shame to hers. From his cold-house secret straight to her too-thick love. Meanwhile the forest was locking the distancebetween them, giving it shape and heft.
　　He did not put his hat on right away. First he fingered it, deciding how his going would be, how tomake it an exit not an escape. And it was very important not to leave without looking. He stood up,turned and looked up the white stairs. She was there all right. Standing straight as a line with herback to him. He didn't rush to the door. He moved slowly and when he got there he opened itbefore asking Sethe to put supper aside for him because he might be a little late getting back. Onlythen did he put on his hat.
　　Sweet, she thought. He must think I can't bear to hear him say it. That after all I have told him andafter telling me how many feet I have, "goodbye" would break me to pieces. Ain't that sweet. "Solong," she murmured from the far side of the trees.
    “加纳太太给了我一块好东西———印花布，竖条中间夹着小碎花。大概有一码———只够做一条头巾的。可我一直想用它给我的女儿变个花样。颜色真漂亮。我简直不知道你应该管那色儿叫什么：玫瑰红里带点黄色。我花了好长时间准备给她做出来，可你不知道，我像个蠢货一样把它落在那儿了。连一码都不到，我一直放着它，因为我又累又没工夫。所以我到了这儿以后，在他们还不让我下床的时候，就用一块贝比•萨格斯的布料给她缝了件小东西。唉，我只是想说那是一种我从来没有过的自私自利的乐趣。我不能让那一切都回到从前，我也不能让她或者他们任何一个在‘学校老师’手底下活着。那已经一去不返了。
　　”
　　塞丝知道，她在房间、他和话题周围兜的圈子会延续下去。她永远不能围拢来，为了哪个刨根问底的人将它按住。如果他们没有马上明白———她也永远不会解释。因为事实很简单，不是一长串流水账，关于什么变花样、树上挂篮、自私自利、脚脖子上的绳子和水井。很简单：她蹲在菜园里，当她看见他们赶来，并且认出了“学校老师”的帽子时，她的耳边响起了鼓翼声。小蜂鸟将针喙一下子穿透她的头巾，扎进头发，扇动着翅膀。如果说她在想什么，那就是不。不。不不。不不不。很简单。她就飞了起来。收拾起她创造出的每一个生命，她所有宝贵、优秀和美丽的部分，拎着、推着、拽着他们穿过幔帐，出去，走开，到没人能伤害他们的地方去。到那里去。远离这个地方，去那个他们能获得安全的地方。蜂鸟的翅膀扇个不停。塞丝在转的圈子中又停顿了一下，向窗外望去。她记得，当时院子曾经有道带门的栅栏，总有人在开门闩关门闩，那个时期124号像个驿站一样门庭若市。她没有看见那些白人孩子把它拆毁，拽倒了柱子，砸碎了门，正好在所有人停止过访的时刻让124号变得荒凉而光秃。唯有蓝石路路肩的野草仍向这座房子爬来。
　　当她从牢里归来时，她很高兴栅栏不见了。那正是他们拴马的地方———她蹲在菜园里看见的，“学校老师”的帽子从栏杆上方飘来。等到她面对他，死死盯住他的眼睛的时候，她怀里抱着的什么东西止住了他的追踪。婴儿的心每跳一下，他就退后一步，直到最后，心跳彻底停息。
　　“我止住了他。
　　”她凝视着曾经有过栅栏的地方，说道，“我把我的宝贝们带到了安全的地方。
　　”
　　保罗•D脑袋里的咆哮没能阻止他听到她强调的最后一句话。他忽然发现，她为她的孩子们争取的东西偏偏是124号所缺乏的：安全。这正是那天他走进门时接收到的第一个信号。他以为他已经使124号获得了安全，驱逐了危险；把那个混账鬼魂打出家门；把它赶出门去，让它和其他人都看到一头骡子和一张犁的区别。因为在他之前她自己没有干这一切，他就以为是因为她干不了。她和124号生活在无助、愧疚的屈从中，是因为她别无选择；失去了丈夫、儿子、婆婆，她和她的迟钝的女儿只能孤单地住在那里挨日子。这个浑身是刺、眼睛冒火的“甜蜜之家”的姑娘，他认识的黑尔的姑娘，曾是那样顺从（像黑尔一样）、害羞（像黑尔一样）的一个工作狂（像黑尔一样）。他错了。眼前的这个塞丝是全新的。她房子里的鬼并没有让她烦恼，出于同样的原因，一个穿着新鞋、白吃白住的女巫也在家里受到欢迎。眼前的这个塞丝像所有其他女人一样谈起爱，像所有其他女人一样谈起婴儿的小衣服，可是她的本意却能够劈开骨头。眼前的这个塞丝谈起一把手锯带来的安全。眼前的这个全新的塞丝不知道世界在哪里停止，而她又从哪里开始。突然间他看到了斯坦普•沛德想让他看的东西：比塞丝的所作所为更重要的是她的动机。这把他吓坏了。
　　“你的爱太浓了。
　　”他说道，心想，那条母狗在看着我；她正在我的头顶上穿透屋顶俯视着我。
　　“太浓了？
　　”她回道，又想起了“林间空地”，贝比•萨格斯的号令在那里震落了七叶树的荚果。
　　“要么是爱，要么不是。淡的爱根本就不是爱。
　　”
　　“对。它不管用，对不对？它管用了吗？
　　”他问。
　　“它管用了。
　　”她说。
　　“怎么管用了？你的儿子们走了，可你不知道他们去了哪儿。一个女儿死了，另一个不肯迈出院子一步。它怎么管用了？
　　”
　　“他们不在‘甜蜜之家’。‘学校老师’没抓走他们。
　　”
　　“没准儿倒更糟呢。
　　”
　　“我才不管什么更糟呢。我只知道什么可怕，然后让他们躲得远远的。我做到了。
　　”
　　“你做错了，塞丝。
　　”
　　“我应该回到那儿去？把我的宝贝们带回到那儿去？
　　”
　　“可能有个办法。别的办法。
　　”
　　“什么办法？
　　”
　　“你长了两只脚，塞丝，不是四只。
　　”他说道。就在这时，一座森林骤然耸立在他们中间，无径可寻，而且一片死寂。
　　事后他会纳闷，是什么驱使他那么说的。是年轻时代的小母牛？还是因为他确信屋顶有人在盯着他？他从自己的耻辱跳到了她的耻辱，多快啊。从他的冷藏室秘密，直接跳到了她的过浓的爱。
　　同时，那片森林在锁定他们之间的距离，给它规定了形状和重量。
　　他没有立即戴上帽子。他先是用手指碰了碰它，盘算着他应该怎样离去，怎样才能算是退场，而不是逃脱。更要紧的是，不能不看上一眼就离开。他站起来，转过身看着白楼梯。她倒的确在那儿。背对着他，站得笔直。他没有向门口奔去。他慢慢地蹭到那里，打开门，然后告诉塞丝晚饭别等他了，因为他可能晚一点回来。直到这时他才戴上帽子。
　　真可爱，她想。他肯定以为我听他说出来会受不了。以为在我全告诉了他之后，在对我讲了我有几只脚之后，“再见”会把我打个粉碎。那不是挺可爱吗？
　　“别了。
　　”她在树林的远端嘟哝着。
Chapter 37
    124 WAS LOUD. Stamp Paid could hear it even from the road. He walked toward the householding his head as high as possible so nobody looking could call him a sneak, although hisworried mind made him feel like one. Ever since he showed that newspaper clipping to Paul D andlearned that he'd moved out of 124 that very day, Stamp felt uneasy. Having wrestled with thequestion of whether or not to tell a man about his woman, and having convinced himself that heshould, he then began to worry about Sethe. Had he stopped the one shot she had of the happinessa good man could bring her? Was she vexed by the loss, the free and unasked-for revival of gossipby the man who had helped her cross the river and who was her friend as well as Baby Suggs'?
　　"I'm too old," he thought, "for clear thinking. I'm too old and I seen too much." He had insisted onprivacy during the revelation at the slaughter yard — now he wondered whom he was protecting.
　　Paul D was the only one in town who didn't know. How did information that had been in thenewspaper become a secret that needed to be whispered in a pig yard? A secret from whom? Sethe,that's who. He'd gone behind her back, like a sneak. But sneaking was his job — his life; thoughalways for a clear and holy purpose. Before the War all he did was sneak: runaways into hiddenplaces, secret information to public places. Underneath his legal vegetables were the contrabandhumans that he ferried across the river. Even the pigs he worked in the spring served his purposes.
　　Whole families lived on the bones and guts he distributed to them. He wrote their letters and readto them the ones they received. He knew who had dropsy and who needed stovewood; whichchildren had a gift and which needed correction. He knew the secrets of the Ohio River and itsbanks; empty houses and full; the best dancers, the worst speakers, those with beautiful voices andthose who could not carry a tune. There was nothing interesting between his legs, but heremembered when there had been — when that drive drove the driven — and that was why heconsidered long and hard before opening his wooden box and searching for the eighteen-year-oldclipping to show Paul D as proof.
　　Afterward — not before — he considered Sethe's feelings in the matter. And it was the lateness ofthis consideration that made him feel so bad. Maybe he should have left it alone; maybe Sethe would have gotten around to telling him herself; maybe he was not the high minded Soldier ofChrist he thought he was, but an ordinary, plain meddler who had interrupted something goingalong just fine for the sake of truth and forewarning, things he set much store by. Now 124 wasback like it was before Paul D came to town — worrying Sethe and Denver with a pack of hauntshe could hear from the road. Even if Sethe could deal with the return of the spirit, Stamp didn'tbelieve her daughter could. Denver needed somebody normal in her life. By luck he had been thereat her very birth almost — before she knew she was alive — and it made him partial to her. It wasseeing her, alive, don't you know, and looking healthy four weeks later that pleased him so muchhe gathered all he could carry of the best blackberries in the county and stuck two in her mouthfirst, before he presented the difficult harvest to Baby Suggs. To this day he believed his berries(which sparked the feast and the wood chopping that followed) were the reason Denver was stillalive. Had he not been there, chopping firewood, Sethe would have spread her baby brains on theplanking. Maybe he should have thought of Denver, if not Sethe, before he gave Paul D the newsthat ran him off, the one normal somebody in the girl's life since Baby Suggs died. And right therewas the thorn.
Chapter 38
    Deeper and more painful than his belated concern for Denver or Sethe, scorching his soul like asilver dollar in a fool's pocket, was the memory of Baby Suggs — the mountain to his sky. It wasthe memory of her and the honor that was her due that made him walk straight-necked into theyard of 124, although he heard its voices from the road.
　　He had stepped foot in this house only once after the Misery (which is what he called Sethe's roughresponse to the Fugitive Bill) and that was to carry Baby Suggs, holy, out of it. When he pickedher up in his arms, she looked to him like a gift, and he took the pleasure she would have knowingshe didn't have to grind her hipbone anymore — that at last somebody carried bar. Had she waitedjust a little she would have seen the end of the War, its short, flashy results. They could havecelebrated together; gone to hear the great sermons preached on the occasion. As it was, he wentalone from house to joyous house drinking what was offered. But she hadn't waited and heattended her funeral more put out with her than bereaved. Sethe and her daughter were dry-eyed onthat occasion. Sethe had no instructions except "Take her to the Clearing," which he tried to do,but was prevented by some rule the whites had invented about where the dead should rest. BabySuggs went down next to the baby with its throat cut — a neighborliness that Stamp wasn't surehad Baby Suggs' approval.
　　The setting-up was held in the yard because nobody besides himself would enter 124 — an injurySethe answered with another by refusing to attend the service Reverend Pike presided over. Shewent instead to the gravesite, whose silence she competed with as she stood there not joining in thehymns the others sang with all their hearts. That insult spawned another by the mourners: back inthe yard of 124, they ate the food they brought and did not touch Sethe's, who did not touch theirsand forbade Denver to. So Baby Suggs, holy, having devoted her freed life to harmony, was buriedamid a regular dance of pride, fear, condemnation and spite. Just about everybody in town waslonging for Sethe to come on difficult times. Her outrageous claims, her self-sufficiency seemed todemand it, and Stamp Paid, who had not felt a trickle of meanness his whole adult life, wondered ifsome of the "pride goeth before a fall" expectations of the townsfolk had rubbed off on him anyhow — which would explain why he had not considered Sethe's feelings or Denver's needswhen he showed Paul D the clipping.
　　He hadn't the vaguest notion of what he would do or say when and if Sethe opened the door andturned her eyes on his. He was willing to offer her help, if she wanted any from him, or receive heranger, if she harbored any against him. Beyond that, he trusted his instincts to right what he mayhave done wrong to Baby Suggs' kin, and to guide him in and through the stepped-up haunting 124was subject to, as evidenced by the voices he heard from the road. Other than that, he would relyon the power of Jesus Christ to deal with things older, but not stronger, than He Himself was. Whathe heard, as he moved toward the porch, he didn't understand. Out on Bluestone Road he thoughthe heard a conflagration of hasty voices — loud, urgent, all speaking at once so he could not makeout what they were talking about or to whom. The speech wasn't nonsensical, exactly, nor was ittongues. But something was wrong with the order of the words and he couldn't describe or cipher itto save his life. All he could make out was the word mine. The rest of it stayed outside his mind'sreach. Yet he went on through. When he got to the steps, the voices drained suddenly to less than awhisper. It gave him pause. They had become an occasional mutter — like the interior sounds awoman makes when she believes she is alone and unobserved at her work: a sth when she missesthe needle's eye; a soft moan when she sees another chip in her one good platter; the low, friendlyargument with which she greets the hens. Nothing fierce or startling. Just that eternal, privateconversation that takes place between women and their tasks.
　　Stamp Paid raised his fist to knock on the door he had never knocked on (because it was alwaysopen to or for him) and could not do it. Dispensing with that formality was all the pay he expectedfrom Negroes in his debt. Once Stamp Paid brought you a coat, got the message to you, saved yourlife, or fixed the cistern he took the liberty of walking in your door as though it were his own.
　　Since all his visits were beneficial, his step or holler through a doorway got a bright welcome.
　　Rather than forfeit the one privilege he claimed for himself, he lowered his hand and left the porch.
　　Over and over again he tried it: made up his mind to visit Sethe; broke through the loud hastyvoices to the mumbling beyond it and stopped, trying to figure out what to do at the door. Sixtimes in as many days he abandoned his normal route and tried to knock at 124 . But the coldnessof the gesture — its sign that he was indeed a stranger at the gate — overwhelmed him. Retracinghis steps in the snow, he sighed. Spirit willing; flesh weak.
Chapter 39
    While Stamp Paid was making up his mind to visit 124 for Baby Suggs' sake, Sethe was trying totake her advice: to lay it all down, sword and shield. Not just to acknowledge the advice BabySuggs gave her, but actually to take it. Four days after Paul D reminded her of how many feet shehad, Sethe rummaged among the shoes of strangers to find the ice skates she was sure were there.
　　Digging in the heap she despised herself for having been so trusting, so quick to surrender at thestove while Paul D kissed her back. She should have known that he would behave like everybodyelse in town once he knew. The twenty-eight days of having women friends, a mother in-law, andall her children together; of being part of a neighborhood; of, in fact, having neighbors at all to callher own — all that was long gone and would never come back. No more dancing in the Clearing orhappy feeds. No more discussions, stormy or quiet, about the true meaning of the Fugitive Bill, theSettlement Fee, God's Ways and Negro pews; antislavery, manumission, skin voting, Republicans, Dred Scott, book learning, Sojourner's high-wheeled buggy, the Colored Ladies of Delaware,Ohio, and the other weighty issues that held them in chairs, scraping the floorboards or pacingthem in agony or exhilaration. No anxious wait for the North Star or news of a beat-off. No sighingat a new betrayal or handclapping at a small victory.
　　Those twenty-eight happy days were followed by eighteen years of disapproval and a solitary life.
　　Then a few months of the sun splashed life that the shadows holding hands on the road promisedher; tentative greetings from other coloredpeople in Paul D's company; a bed life for herself.
　　Except for Denver's friend, every bit of it had disappeared. Was that the pattern? she wondered.
　　Every eighteen or twenty years her unlivable life would be interrupted by a short-lived glory?
　　Well, if that's the way it was — that's the way it was. She had been on her knees, scrubbing thefloor, Denver trailing her with the drying rags, when Beloved appeared saying, "What these do?"On her knees, scrub brush in hand, she looked at the girl and the skates she held up. Sethe couldn'tskate a lick but then and there she decided to take Baby Suggs' advice: lay it all down. She left thebucket where it was. Told Denver to get out the shawls and started searching for the other skatesshe was certain were in that heap somewhere. Anybody feeling sorry for her, anybody wanderingby to peep in and see how she was getting on (including Paul D) would discover that the womanjunkheaped for the third time because she loved her children — that woman was sailing happily ona frozen creek.
　　Hurriedly, carelessly she threw the shoes about. She found one blade — a man's.
　　"Well," she said. "We'll take turns. Two skates on one; one skate on one; and shoe slide for theother."Nobody saw them falling.
　　Holding hands, bracing each other, they swirled over the ice. Beloved wore the pair; Denver woreone, step-gliding over the treacherous ice. Sethe thought her two shoes would hold and anchor her.
　　She was wrong. Two paces onto the creek, she lost her balance and landed on her behind. Thegirls, screaming with laughter, joined her on the ice. Sethe struggled to stand and discovered notonly that she could do a split, but that it hurt. Her bones surfaced in unexpected places and so didlaughter. Making a circle or a line, the three of them could not stay upright for one whole minute,but nobody saw them falling.
　　Each seemed to be helping the other two stay upright, yet every tumble doubled their delight. Thelive oak and soughing pine on the banks enclosed them and absorbed their laughter while theyfought gravity for each other's hands. Their skirts flew like wings and their skin turned pewter inthe cold and dying light.
　　Nobody saw them falling.
Chapter 40
    Exhausted finally they lay down on their backs to recover breath. The sky above them was another country. Winter stars, close enough to lick, had come out before sunset. For a moment, looking up,Sethe entered the perfect peace they offered. Then Denver stood up and tried for a long,independent glide. The tip of her single skate hit an ice bump, and as she fell, the flapping of herarms was so wild and hopeless that all three — Sethe, Beloved and Denver herself — laughed tillthey coughed. Sethe rose to her hands and knees, laughter still shaking her chest, making her eyeswet. She stayed that way for a while, on all fours. But when her laughter died, the tears did not andit was some time before Beloved or Denver knew the difference. When they did they touched herlightly on the shoulders.
　　Walking back through the woods, Sethe put an arm around each girl at her side. Both of them hadan arm around her waist. Making their way over hard snow, they stumbled and had to hold ontight, but nobody saw them fall.
　　Inside the house they found out they were cold. They took off their shoes, wet stockings, and puton dry woolen ones. Denver fed the fire. Sethe warmed a pan of milk and stirred cane syrup andvanilla into it. Wrapped in quilts and blankets before the cooking stove, they drank, wiped theirnoses, and drank again.
　　"We could roast some taters," said Denver.
　　"Tomorrow," said Sethe. "Time to sleep."She poured them each a bit more of the hot sweet milk. The stovefire roared.
　　"You finished with your eyes?" asked Beloved.
　　Sethe smiled. "Yes, I'm finished with my eyes. Drink up. Time for bed."But none of them wanted to leave the warmth of the blankets, the fire and the cups for the chill ofan unheated bed. They went on sipping and watching the fire.
　　When the click came Sethe didn't know what it was. Afterward it was clear as daylight that theclick came at the very beginning — a beat, almost, before it started; before she heard three notes;before the melody was even clear. Leaning forward a little, Beloved was humming softly.
　　It was then, when Beloved finished humming, that Sethe recalled the click — the settling of piecesinto places designed and made especially for them. No milk spilled from her cup because her handwas not shaking. She simply turned her head and looked at Beloved's profile: the chin, mouth,nose, forehead, copied and exaggerated in the huge shadow the fire threw on the wall behind her.
　　Her hair, which Denver had braided into twenty or thirty plaits, curved toward her shoulders likearms. From where she sat Sethe could not examine it, not the hairline, nor the eyebrows, the lips,nor... "All I remember," Baby Suggs had said, "is how she loved the burned bottom of bread. Herlittle hands I wouldn't know em if they slapped me.". . the birthmark, nor the color of the gums, the shape of her ears, nor...
　　"Here. Look here. This is your ma'am. If you can't tell me by my face, look here.".. the fingers, nor their nails, nor even...
　　But there would be time. The click had clicked; things were where they ought to be or poised andready to glide in.
　　"I made that song up," said Sethe. "I made it up and sang it to my children. Nobody knows thatsong but me and my children." Beloved turned to look at Sethe. "I know it," she said.
　　A hobnail casket of jewels found in a tree hollow should be fondled before it is opened. Its lockmay have rusted or broken away from the clasp. Still you should touch the nail heads, and test itsweight. No smashing with an ax head before it is decently exhumed from the grave that has hiddenit all this time. No gasp at a miracle that is truly miraculous because the magic lies in the fact thatyou knew it was there for you all along.
　　Sethe wiped the white satin coat from the inside of the pan, brought pillows from the keeping roomfor the girls' heads. There was no tremor in her voice as she instructed them to keep the fire — -ifnot, come on upstairs.
Chapter 41
    With that, she gathered her blanket around her elbows and asc.ended the lily-white stairs like abride. Outside, snow solidified itself into graceful forms. The peace of winter stars seemedpermanent. Fingering a ribbon and smelling skin, Stamp Paid approached 124 again. "My marrowis tired," he thought. "I been tired all my days, bone-tired, but now it's in the marrow. Must bewhat Baby Suggs felt when she lay down and thought about color for the rest of her life." Whenshe told him what her aim was, he thought she was ashamed and too shamed to say so. Herauthority in the pulpit, her dance in the Clearing, her powerful Call (she didn't deliver sermons orpreach — insisting she was too ignorant for that — she called and the hearing heard) — all thathad been mocked and rebuked by the bloodspill in her backyard. God puzzled her and she was tooashamed of Him to say so. Instead she told Stamp she was going to bed to think about the colors ofthings. He tried to dissuade her. Sethe was in jail with her nursing baby, the one he had saved. Hersons were holding hands in the yard, terrified of letting go. Strangers and familiars were stoppingby to hear how it went one more time, and suddenly Baby declared peace. She just up and quit. Bythe time Sethe was released she had exhausted blue and was well on her way to yellow.
　　At first he would see her in the yard occasionally, or delivering food to the jail, or shoes in town.
　　Then less and less. He believed then that shame put her in the bed. Now, eight years after hercontentious funeral and eighteen years after the Misery, he changed his mind. Her marrow wastired and it was a testimony to the heart that fed it that it took eight years to meet finally the colorshe was hankering after. The onslaught of her fatigue, like his, was sudden, but lasted for years.
　　After sixty years of losing children to the people who chewed up her life and spit it out like a fishbone; after five years of freedom given to her by her last child, who bought her future with his, exchanged it, so to speak, so she could have one whether he did or not — to lose him too; toacquire a daughter and grandchildren and see that daughter slay the children (or try to); to belongto a community of other free Negroes — to love and be loved by them, to counsel and becounseled, protect and be protected, feed and be fed — and then to have that community step backand hold itself at a distance — -well, it could wear out even a Baby Suggs, holy. "Listen here,girl," he told her, "you can't quit the Word. It's given to you to speak. You can't quit the Word, Idon't care what all happen to you."They were standing in Richmond Street, ankle deep in leaves. Lamps lit the downstairs windowsof spacious houses and made the early evening look darker than it was. The odor of burning leaveswas brilliant. Quite by chance, as he pocketed a penny tip for a delivery, he had glanced across thestreet and recognized the skipping woman as his old friend. He had not seen her in weeks. Quicklyhe crossed the street, scuffing red leaves as he went. When he stopped her with a greeting, shereturned it with a face knocked clean of interest. She could have been a plate. A carpetbag full ofshoes in her hand, she waited for him to begin, lead or share a conversation. If there had beensadness in her eyes he would have understood it; but indifference lodged where sadness shouldhave been.
　　"You missed the Clearing three Saturdays running," he told her. She turned her head away andscanned the houses along the street. "Folks came," he said.
　　"Folks come; folks go," she answered.
　　"Here, let me carry that." He tried to take her bag from her but she wouldn't let him.
　　"I got a delivery someplace long in here," she said. "Name of Tucker.""Yonder," he said. "Twin chestnuts in the yard. Sick, too."They walked a bit, his pace slowed to accommodate her skip.
　　"Well?""Well, what?""Saturday coming. You going to Call or what?""If I call them and they come, what on earth I'm going to say?""Say the Word!" He checked his shout too late. Two whitemen burning leaves turned their heads inhis direction. Bending low he whispered into her ear, "The Word. The Word.""That's one other thing took away from me," she said, and that was when he exhorted her, pleadedwith her not to quit, no matter what. The Word had been given to her and she had to speak it. Had to.
　　They had reached the twin chestnuts and the white house that stood behind them.
　　"See what I mean?" he said. "Big trees like that, both of em together ain't got the leaves of a youngbirch." "I see what you mean," she said, but she peered instead at the white house.
　　"You got to do it," he said. "You got to. Can't nobody Call like you. You have to be there.""What I have to do is get in my bed and lay down. I want to fix on something harmless in thisworld.""What world you talking about? Ain't nothing harmless down here.""Yes it is. Blue. That don't hurt nobody. Yellow neither.""You getting in the bed to think about yellow?""I likes yellow.""Then what? When you get through with blue and yellow, then what?""Can't say. It's something can't be planned.""You blaming God," he said. "That's what you doing.""No, Stamp. I ain't.""You saying the whitefolks won? That what you saying?""I'm saying they came in my yard.""You saying nothing counts.""I'm saying they came in my yard.""Sethe's the one did it.""And if she hadn't?""You saying God give up? Nothing left for us but pour out our own blood?""I'm saying they came in my yard.""You punishing Him, ain't you.""Not like He punish me.""You can't do that, Baby. It ain't right.""Was a time I knew what that was.""You still know.""What I know is what I see: a nigger woman hauling shoes." "Aw, Baby." He licked his lipssearching with his tongue for the words that would turn her around, lighten her load. "We have tobe steady. 'These things too will pass.' What you looking for? A miracle?""No," she said. "I'm looking for what I was put here to look for: the back door," and skipped rightto it. They didn't let her in. They took the shoes from her as she stood on the steps and she restedher hip on the railing while the whitewoman went looking for the dime.
Chapter 42
    Stamp Paid rearranged his way. Too angry to walk her home and listen to more, he watched her fora moment and turned to go before the alert white face at the window next door had come to anyconclusion.
　　Trying to get to 124 for the second time now, he regretted that conversation: the high tone he took;his refusal to see the effect of marrow weariness in a woman he believed was a mountain. Now,too late, he understood her. The heart that pumped out love, the mouth that spoke the Word, didn'tcount. They came in her yard anyway and she could not approve or condemn Sethe's rough choice.
　　One or the other might have saved her, but beaten up by the claims of both, she went to bed. Thewhitefolks had tired her out at last. And him. Eighteen seventy-four and whitefolks were still onthe loose. Whole towns wiped clean of Negroes; eighty-seven lynchings in one year alone inKentucky; four colored schools burned to the ground; grown men whipped like children; childrenwhipped like adults; black women raped by the crew; property taken, necks broken. He smelledskin, skin and hot blood. The skin was one thing, but human blood cooked in a lynch fire was awhole other thing. The stench stank. Stank up off the pages of the North Star, out of the mouths ofwitnesses, etched in crooked handwriting in letters delivered by hand. Detailed in documents andpetitions full of whereas and presented to any legal body who'd read it, it stank. But none of thathad worn out his marrow. None of that. It was the ribbon. Tying his flatbed up on the bank of theLicking River, securing it the best he could, he caught sight of something red on its bottom.
　　Reaching for it, he thought it was a cardinal feather stuck to his boat. He tugged and what cameloose in his hand was a red ribbon knotted around a curl of wet woolly hair, clinging still to its bitof scalp. He untied the ribbon and put it in his pocket, dropped the curl in the weeds. On the wayhome, he stopped, short of breath and dizzy. He waited until the spell passed before continuing onhis way. A moment later, his breath left him again. This time he sat down by a fence. Rested, hegot to his feet, but before he took a step he turned to look back down the road he was traveling andsaid, to its frozen mud and the river beyond, "What are these people? You tell me, Jesus. What are they?"When he got to his house he was too tired to eat the food his sister and nephews had prepared. Hesat on the porch in the cold till way past dark and went to his bed only because his sister's voicecalling him was getting nervous. He kept the ribbon; the skin smell nagged him, and his weakenedmarrow made him dwell on Baby Suggs' wish to consider what in the world was harmless. Hehoped she stuck to blue, yellow, maybe green, and never fixed on red. Mistaking her, upbraidingher, owing her, now he needed to let her know he knew, and to get right with her and her kin. So,in spite of his exhausted marrow, he kept on through the voices and tried once more to knock at thedoor of 124. This time, although he couldn't cipher but one word, he believed he knew who spokethem. The people of the broken necks, of fire-cooked blood and black girls who had lost theirribbons.
　　What a roaring.
　　Sethe had gone to bed smiling, eager to lie down and unravel the proof for the conclusion she hadalready leapt to. Fondle the day and circumstances of Beloved's arrival and the meaning of thatkiss in the Clearing. She slept instead and woke, still smiling, to a snow bright morning, coldenough to see her breath. She lingered a moment to collect the courage to throw off the blanketsand hit a chilly floor.
　　For the first time, she was going to be late for work.
　　Downstairs she saw the girls sleeping where she'd left them, but back to back now, each wrappedtight in blankets, breathing into their pillows. The pair and a half of skates were lying by the frontdoor, the stockings hung on a nail behind the cooking stove to dry had not.
Chapter 43
    Sethe looked at Beloved's face and smiled.
　　Quietly, carefully she stepped around her to wake the fire. First a bit of paper, then a little kindlin— not too much — just a taste until it was strong enough for more. She fed its dance until it waswild and fast. When she went outside to collect more wood from the shed, she did not notice theman's frozen footprints. She crunched around to the back, to the cord piled high with snow. Afterscraping it clean, she filled her arms with as much dry wood as she could. She even looked straightat the shed, smiling, smiling at the things she would not have to remember now. Thinking, "Sheain't even mad with me. Not a bit."Obviously the hand-holding shadows she had seen on the road were not Paul D, Denver andherself, but "us three." The three holding on to each other skating the night before; the threesipping flavored milk. And since that was so — if her daughter could come back home from thetimeless place — certainly her sons could, and would, come back from wherever they had gone to.
　　Sethe covered her front teeth with her tongue against the cold. Hunched forward by the burden inher arms, she walked back around the house to the porch — not once noticing the frozen tracks she stepped in.
　　Inside, the girls were still sleeping, although they had changed positions while she was gone, bothdrawn to the fire. Dumping the armload into the woodbox made them stir but not wake. Sethestarted the cooking stove as quietly as she could, reluctant to wake the sisters, happy to have themasleep at her feet while she made breakfast. Too bad she would be late for work — -too, too bad.
　　Once in sixteen years? That's just too bad.
　　She had beaten two eggs into yesterday's hominy, formed it into patties and fried them with someham pieces before Denver woke completely and groaned.
　　"Back stiff?""Ooh yeah.""Sleeping on the floor's supposed to be good for you.""Hurts like the devil," said Denver.
　　"Could be that fall you took."Denver smiled. "That was fun." She turned to look down at Beloved snoring lightly. "Should Iwake her?""No, let her rest.""She likes to see you off in the morning."I'll make sure she does," said Sethe, and thought, Be nice to think first, before I talk to her, let herknow I know. Think about all I ain't got to remember no more. Do like Baby said: Think on it thenlay it down — for good. Paul D convinced me there was a world out there and that I could live init. Should have known better. Did know better. Whatever is going on outside my door ain't for me.
　　The world is in this room. This here's all there is and all there needs to be.
　　They ate like men, ravenous and intent. Saying little, content with the company of the other andthe opportunity to look in her eyes. When Sethe wrapped her head and bundled up to go to town, itwas already midmorning. And when she left the house she neither saw the prints nor heard thevoices that ringed 124 like a noose. Trudging in the ruts left earlier by wheels, Sethe was excited togiddiness by the things she no longer had to remember.
　　I don't have to remember nothing. I don't even have to explain. She understands it all. I can forgethow Baby Suggs' heart collapsed; how we agreed it was consumption without a sign of it in theworld. Her eyes when she brought my food, I can forget that, and how she told me that Howardand Buglar were all right but wouldn't let go each other's hands. Played that way: stayed that way especially in their sleep. She handed me the food from a basket; things wrapped small enough toget through the bars, whispering news: Mr. Bodwin going to see the judge — in chambers, shekept on saying, in chambers, like I knew what it meant or she did. The Colored Ladies ofDelaware, Ohio, had drawn up a petition to keep me from being hanged. That two white preachershad come round and wanted to talk to me, pray for me. That a newspaperman came too. She toldme the news and I told her I needed something for the rats. She wanted Denver out and slapped herpalms when I wouldn't let her go. "Where your earrings?" she said. I'll hold em for you." I told herthe jailer took them, to protect me from myself. He thought I could do some harm with the wire.
　　Baby Suggs covered her mouth with her hand. "Schoolteacher left town," she said. "Filed a claimand rode on off. They going to let you out for the burial," she said, "not the funeral, just the burial,"and they did. The sheriff came with me and looked away when I fed Denver in the wagon. NeitherHoward nor Buglar would let me near them, not even to touch their hair. I believe a lot of folkswere there, but I just saw the box. Reverend Pike spoke in a real loud voice, but I didn't catch aword — -except the first two, and three months later when Denver was ready for solid food andthey let me out for good, I went and got you a gravestone, but I didn't have money enough for thecarving so I exchanged (bartered, you might say) what I did have and I'm sorry to this day I neverthought to ask him for the whole thing: all I heard of what Reverend Pike said. Dearly Beloved,which is what you are to me and I don't have to be sorry about getting only one word, and I don'thave to remember the slaughterhouse and the Saturday girls who worked its yard. I can forget thatwhat I did changed Baby Suggs' life. No Clearing, no company. Just laundry and shoes. I canforget it all now because as soon as I got the gravestone in place you made your presence known inthe house and worried us all to distraction. I didn't understand it then. I thought you were mad withme. And now I know that if you was, you ain't now because you came back here to me and I wasright all along: there is no world outside my door. I only need to know one thing. How bad is thescar?
Chapter 44
    As Sethe walked to work, late for the first time in sixteen years and wrapped in a timeless present,Stamp Paid fought fatigue and the habit of a lifetime. Baby Suggs refused to go to the Clearingbecause she believed they had won; he refused to acknowledge any such victory. Baby had noback door; so he braved the cold and a wall of talk to knock on the one she did have. He clutchedthe red ribbon in his pocket for strength. Softly at first, then harder. At the last he bangedfuriously-disbelieving it could happen. That the door of a house with coloredpeople in it did not flyopen in his presence. He went to the window and wanted to cry. Sure enough, there they were, nota one of them heading for the door. Worrying his scrap of ribbon to shreds, the old man turned andwent down the steps. Now curiosity joined his shame and his debt. Two backs curled away fromhim as he looked in the window. One had a head he recognized; the other troubled him. He didn'tknow her and didn't know anybody it could be. Nobody, but nobody visited that house.
　　After a disagreeable breakfast he went to see Ella and John to find out what they knew. Perhapsthere he could find out if, after all these years of clarity, he had misnamed himself and there wasyet another debt he owed. Born Joshua, he renamed himself when he handed over his wife to hismaster's son. Handed her over in the sense that he did not kill anybody, thereby himself, becausehis wife demanded he stay alive. Otherwise, she reasoned, where and to whom could she returnwhen the boy was through? With that gift, he decided that he didn't owe anybody anything.
　　Whatever his obligations were, that act paid them off. He thought it would make himrambunctious, renegade — a drunkard even, the debtlessness, and in a way it did. But there wasnothing to do with it. Work well; work poorly. Work a little; work not at all. Make sense; makenone. Sleep, wake up; like somebody, dislike others. It didn't seem much of a way to live and itbrought him no satisfaction. So he extended this debtlessness to other people by helping them payout and off whatever they owed in misery. Beaten runaways? He ferried them and rendered thempaid for; gave them their own bill of sale, so to speak. "You paid it; now life owes you." And thereceipt, as it were, was a welcome door that he never had to knock on, like John and Ella's in frontof which he stood and said, "Who in there?" only once and she was pulling on the hinge.
　　"where you been keeping yourself? I told John must be cold if Stamp stay inside.""Oh, I been out." He took off his cap and massaged his scalp. "Out where? Not by here." Ella hungtwo suits of underwear on a line behind the stove.
　　"Was over to Baby Suggs' this morning.""What you want in there?" asked Ella. "Somebody invite you in?""That's Baby's kin. I don't need no invite to look after her people.""Sth." Ella was unmoved. She had been Baby Suggs' friend and Sethe's too till the rough time.
　　Except for a nod at the carnival, she hadn't given Sethe the time of day.
　　"Somebody new in there. A woman. Thought you might know who is she.""Ain't no new Negroes in this town I don't know about," she said. "what she look like? You surethat wasn't Denver?""I know Denver. This girl's narrow.""You sure?""I know what I see.""Might see anything at all at 124.""True.""Better ask Paul D," she said.
　　"Can't locate him," said Stamp, which was the truth although his efforts to find Paul D had beenfeeble. He wasn't ready to confront the man whose life he had altered with his graveyardinformation.
　　"He's sleeping in the church," said Ella.
　　"The church!" Stamp was shocked and very hurt.
　　"Yeah. Asked Reverend Pike if he could stay in the cellar.""It's cold as charity in there!""I expect he knows that.""What he do that for?""Hes a touch proud, seem like.""He don't have to do that! Any number'll take him in."Ella turned around to look at Stamp Paid. "Can't nobody read minds long distance. All he have todo is ask somebody.""Why? Why he have to ask? Can't nobody offer? What's going on? Since when a blackman cometo town have to sleep in a cellar like a dog?""Unrile yourself, Stamp.""Not me. I'm going to stay riled till somebody gets some sense and leastway act like a Christian.""It's only a few days he been there.""Shouldn't be no days! You know all about it and don't give him a hand? That don't sound like you,Ella. Me and you been pulling coloredfolk out the water more'n twenty years. Now you tell me youcan't offer a man a bed? A working man, too! A man what can pay his own way.""He ask, I give him anything.""Why's that necessary all of a sudden?""I don't know him all that well.""You know he's colored!""Stamp, don't tear me up this morning. I don't feel like it." "It's her, ain't it?""Her who?""Sethe. He took up with her and stayed in there and you don't want nothing to — ""Hold on. Don't jump if you can't see bottom.""Girl, give it up. We been friends too long to act like this.""Well, who can tell what all went on in there? Look here, I don't know who Sethe is or none of herpeople.""What?!""All I know is she married Baby Suggs' boy and I ain't sure I know that. Where is he, huh? Babynever laid eyes on her till John carried her to the door with a baby I strapped on her chest.""I strapped that baby! And you way off the track with that wagon. Her children know who she waseven if you don't.""So what? I ain't saying she wasn't their ma'ammy, but who's to say they was Baby Suggs'
　　grandchildren? How she get on board and her husband didn't? And tell me this, how she have thatbaby in the woods by herself? Said a whitewoman come out the trees and helped her. Shoot. Youbelieve that? A whitewoman? Well, I know what kind of white that was.""Aw, no, Ella.""Anything white floating around in the woods — -if it ain't got a shotgun, it's something I don'twant no part of!""You all was friends.""Yeah, till she showed herself.""Ella.""I ain't got no friends take a handsaw to their own children.""You in deep water, girl.""Uh uh. I'm on dry land and I'm going to stay there. You the one wet.""What's any of what you talking got to do with Paul D?""What run him off? Tell me that.""I run him off.""You?""I told him about — I showed him the newspaper, about the — what Sethe did. Read it to him. Heleft that very day.""You didn't tell me that. I thought he knew.""He didn't know nothing. Except her, from when they was at that place Baby Suggs was at.""He knew Baby Suggs?""Sure he knew her. Her boy Halle too.""And left when he found out what Sethe did?""Look like he might have a place to stay after all.""What you say casts a different light. I thought — "But Stamp Paid knew what she thought.
　　"You didn't come here asking about him," Ela said. "You came about some new girl.""That's so.""Well, Paul D must know who she is. Or what she is.""Your mind is loaded with spirits. Everywhere you look you see one.""You know as well as I do that people who die bad don't stay in the ground."He couldn't deny it. Jesus Christ Himself didn't, so Stamp ate a piece of Ella's head cheese to showthere were no bad feelings and set out to find Paul D. He found him on the steps of HolyRedeemer, holding his wrists between his knees and looking red-eyed. Sawyer shouted at her whenshe entered the kitchen, but she just turned her back and reached for her apron. There was no entrynow. No crack or crevice available. She had taken pains to keep them out, but knew full well thatat any moment they could rock her, rip her from her moorings, send the birds twittering back intoher hair. Drain her mother's milk, they had already done. Divided her back into plant life — thattoo. Driven her fat-bellied into the woods — they had done that. All news of them was rot. Theybuttered Halle's face; gave Paul D iron to eat; crisped Sixo; hanged her own mother. She didn'twant any more news about whitefolks; didn't want to know what Ella knew and John and StampPaid, about the world done up the way whitefolks loved it. All news of them should have stopped with the birds in her hair.
Chapter 45
    Once, long ago, she was soft, trusting. She trusted Mrs. Garner and her husband too. She knottedthe earrings into her underskirt to take along, not so much to wear but to hold. Earrings that madeher believe she could discriminate among them. That for every schoolteacher there would be anAmy; that for every pupil there was a Garner, or Bodwin, or even a sheriff, whose touch at herelbow was gentle and who looked away when she nursed. But she had come to believe every oneof Baby Suggs' last words and buried all recollection of them and luck. Paul D dug it up, gave herback her body, kissed her divided back, stirred her rememory and brought her more news: ofclabber, of iron, of roosters' smiling, but when he heard her news, he counted her feet and didn'teven say goodbye.
　　"Don't talk to me, Mr. Sawyer. Don't say nothing to me this morning.""What? What? What? You talking back to me?" "I'm telling you don't say nothing to me." "Youbetter get them pies made."Sethe touched the fruit and picked up the paring knife.
　　When pie juice hit the bottom of the oven and hissed, Sethe was well into the potato salad. Sawyercame in and said, "Not too sweet. You make it too sweet they don't eat it.""Make it the way I always did.""Yeah. Too sweet."None of the sausages came back. The cook had a way with them and Sawyer's Restaurant neverhad leftover sausage. If Sethe wanted any, she put them aside soon as they were ready. But therewas some passable stew. Problem was, all her pies were sold too. Only rice pudding left and half apan of gingerbread that didn't come out right. Had she been paying attention instead ofdaydreaming all morning, she wouldn't be picking around looking for her dinner like a crab. Shecouldn't read clock time very well, but she knew when the hands were closed in prayer at the top ofthe face she was through for the day. She got a metal-top jar, filled it with stew and wrapped thegingerbread in butcher paper. These she dropped in her outer skirt pockets and began washing up.
　　None of it was anything like what the cook and the two waiters walked off with. Mr. Sawyerincluded midday dinner in the terms of the job — along with $3.4o a week — and she made himunderstand from the beginning she would take her dinner home. But matches, sometimes a bit ofkerosene, a little salt, butter too — these things she took also, once in a while, and felt ashamedbecause she could afford to buy them; she just didn't want the embarrassment of waiting out backof Phelps store with the others till every white in Ohio was served before the keeper turned to thecluster of Negro faces looking through a hole in his back door. She was ashamed, too, because itwas stealing and Sixo's argument on the subject amused her but didn't change the way she felt; justas it didn't change schoolteacher's mind.
　　"Did you steal that shoat? You stole that shoat." Schoolteacher was quiet but firm, like he was justgoing through the motions — not expecting an answer that mattered. Sixo sat there, not evengetting up to plead or deny. He just sat there, the streak-of-lean in his hand, the gristle clustered inthe tin plate like gemstones — -rough, unpolished, but loot nevertheless.
　　"You stole that shoat, didn't you?""No. Sir." said Sixo, but he had the decency, to keep his eyes on the meat.
　　"You telling me you didn't steal it, and I'm looking right at you?""No, sir. I didn't steal it."Schoolteacher smiled. "Did you kill it?""Yes, sir. I killed it.""Did you butcher it?""Yes, sir.""Did you cook it?""Yes, sir.""Well, then. Did you eat it?""Yes, sir. I sure did.""And you telling me that's not stealing?""No, sir. It ain't.""What is it then?""Improving your property, sir.""What?""Sixo plant rye to give the high piece a better chance. Sixo take and feed the soil, give you morecrop. Sixo take and feed Sixo give you more work."Clever, but schoolteacher beat him anyway to show him that definitions belonged to the definers— not the defined. After Mr. Garner died with a hole in his ear that Mrs. Garner said was an exploded ear drum brought on by stroke and Sixo said was gunpowder, everything they touchedwas looked on as stealing. Not just a rifle of corn, or two yard eggs the hen herself didn't evenremember, everything. Schoolteacher took away the guns from the Sweet Home men and, deprivedof game to round out their diet of bread, beans, hominy, vegetables and a little extra at slaughtertime, they began to pilfer in earnest, and it became not only their right but their obligation. Setheunderstood it then, but now with a paying job and an employer who was kind enough to hire an ex-convict, she despised herself for the pride that made pilfering better than standing in line at thewindow of the general store with all the other Negroes. She didn't want to jostle them or be jostledby them. Feel their judgment or their pity, especially now. She touched her forehead with the backof her wrist and blotted the perspiration. The workday had come to a close and already she wasfeeling the excitement. Not since that other escape had she felt so alive. Slopping the alley dogs,watching their frenzy, she pressed her lips. Today would be a day she would accept a lift, ifanybody on a wagon offered it. No one would, and for sixteen years her pride had not let her ask.
　　But today. Oh, today. Now she wanted speed, to skip over the long walk home and be there. WhenSawyer warned her about being late again, she barely heard him. He used to be a sweet man.
　　Patient, tender in his dealings with his help. But each year, following the death of his son in theWar, he grew more and more crotchety. As though Sethe's dark face was to blame.
　　"Un huh," she said, wondering how she could hurry tine along and get to the no-time waiting forher.
Chapter 46
    She needn't have worried. Wrapped tight, hunched forward, as she started home her mind was busywith the things she could forget.
　　Thank God I don't have to rememory or say a thing because you know it. All. You know I neverwould a left you. Never. It was all I could think of to do. When the train came I had to be ready.
　　Schoolteacher was teaching us things we couldn't learn. I didn't care nothing about the measuringstring. We all laughed about that — except Sixo. He didn't laugh at nothing. But I didn't care.
　　Schoolteacher'd wrap that string all over my head, 'cross my nose, around my behind. Number myteeth. I thought he was a fool. And the questions he asked was the biggest foolishness of all.
　　Then me and your brothers come up from the second patch. The first one was close to the housewhere the quick things grew: beans,onions, sweet peas. The other one was further down for long-lasting things, potatoes, pumpkin, okra, pork salad. Not much was up yet down there. It was earlystill. Some young salad maybe, but that was all. We pulled weeds and hoed a little to giveeverything a good start. After that we hit out for the house. The ground raised up from the secondpatch. Not a hill exactly but kind of. Enough for Buglar and Howard to run up and roll down, runup and roll down. That's the way I used to see them in my dreams, laughing, their short fat legsrunning up the hill. Now all I see is their backs walking down the railroad tracks. Away from me.
　　Always away from me. But that day they was happy, running up and rolling down. It was earlystill — the growing season had took hold but not much was up. I remember the peas still hadflowers. The grass was long though, full of white buds and those tall red blossoms people callDiane and something there with the leastest little bit of blue — -light, like a cornflower but pale,pale. Real pale. I maybe should have hurried because I left you back at the house in a basket in the yard. Away from where the chickens scratched but you never know. Anyway I took my timegetting back but your brothers didn't have patience with me staring at flowers and sky every two orthree steps. They ran on ahead and I let em. Something sweet lives in the air that time of year, andif the breeze is right, it's hard to stay indoors. When I got back I could hear Howard and Buglarlaughing down by the quarters. I put my hoe down and cut across the side yard to get to you. Theshade moved so by the time I got back the sun was shining right on you. Right in your face, butyou wasn't woke at all. Still asleep. I wanted to pick you up in my arms and I wanted to look at yousleeping too. Didn't know which; you had the sweetest face. Yonder, not far, was a grape arbor Mr.
　　Garner made. Always full of big plans, he wanted to make his own wine to get drunk off. Neverdid get more than a kettle of jelly from it. I don't think the soil was right for grapes. Your daddybelieved it was the rain, not the soil. Sixo said it was bugs. The grapes so little and tight. Sour asvinegar too. But there was a little table in there. So I picked up your basket and carried you over tothe grape arbor. Cool in there and shady. I set you down on the little table and figured if I got apiece of muslin the bugs and things wouldn't get to you. And if Mrs. Garner didn't need me rightthere in the kitchen, I could get a chair and you and me could set out there while I did thevegetables. I headed for the back door to get the clean muslin we kept in the kitchen press. Thegrass felt good on my feet. I got near the door and I heard voices. Schoolteacher made his pupils sitand learn books for a spell every afternoon. If it was nice enough weather, they'd sit on the sideporch. All three of em. He'd talk and they'd write. Or he would read and they would write downwhat he said. I never told nobody this. Not your pap, not nobody. I almost told Mrs. Garner, butshe was so weak then and getting weaker. This is the first time I'm telling it and I'm telling it toyou because it might help explain something to you although I know you don't need me to do it. Totell it or even think over it. You don't have to listen either, if you don't want to. But I couldn't helplistening to what I heard that day. He was talking to his pupils and I heard him say, "Which one areyou doing?" And one of the boys said, "Sethe." That's when I stopped because I heard my name,and then I took a few steps to where I could see what they was doing. Schoolteacher was standingover one of them with one hand behind his back. He licked a forefinger a couple of times andturned a few pages. Slow. I was about to turn around and keep on my way to where the muslinwas, when I heard him say, "No, no. That's not the way. I told you to put her human characteristicson the left; her animal ones on the right. And don't forget to line them up." I commenced to walkbackward, didn't even look behind me to find out where I was headed. I just kept lifting my feetand pushing back. When I bumped up against a tree my scalp was prickly. One of the dogs waslicking out a pan in the yard. I got to the grape arbor fast enough, but I didn't have the muslin. Fliessettled all over your face, rubbing their hands. My head itched like the devil. Like somebody wassticking fine needles in my scalp. I never told Halle or nobody. But that very day I asked Mrs.
　　Garner a part of it. She was low then. Not as low as she ended up, but failing. A kind of bag grewunder her jaw. It didn't seem to hurt her, but it made her weak. First she'd be up and spry in themorning and by the second milking she couldn't stand up. Next she took to sleeping late. The day Iwent up there she was in bed the whole day, and I thought to carry her some bean soup and ask herthen. When I opened the bedroom door she looked at me from underneath her nightcap. Already itwas hard to catch life in her eyes. Her shoes and stockings were on the floor so I knew she hadtried to get dressed.
　　"I brung you some bean soup," I said.
　　She said, "I don't think I can swallow that.""Try a bit," I told her.
　　"Too thick. I'm sure it's too thick.""Want me to loosen it up with a little water?""No. Take it away. Bring me some cool water, that's all.""Yes, ma'am. Ma'am? Could I ask you something?""What is it, Sethe?""What do characteristics mean?""What?""A word. Characteristics.""Oh." She moved her head around on the pillow. "Features. Who taught you that?""I heard the schoolteacher say it.""Change the water, Sethe. This is warm.""Yes, ma'am. Features?""Water, Sethe. Cool water."I put the pitcher on the tray with the white bean soup and went downstairs. When I got back withthe fresh water I held her head while she drank. It took her a while because that lump made it hardto swallow. She laid back and wiped her mouth. The drinking seemed to satisfy her but shefrowned and said, "I don't seem able to wake up, Sethe. All I seem to want is sleep.""Then do it," I told her. "I'm take care of things."
Chapter 47
    Then she went on: what about this? what about that? Said she knew Halle was no trouble, but shewanted to know if schoolteacher was handling the Pauls all right and Sixo.
　　"Yes, ma'am," I said. "Look like it.""Do they do what he tells them?""They don't need telling.""Good. That's a mercy. I should be back downstairs in a day or two. I just need more rest. Doctor'sdue back. Tomorrow, is it?" "You said features, ma'am?""What?""Features?""Umm. Like, a feature of summer is heat. A characteristic is a feature. A thing that's natural to athing.""Can you have more than one?""You can have quite a few. You know. Say a baby sucks its thumb. That's one, but it has otherstoo. Keep Billy away from Red Corn. Mr. Garner never let her calve every other year. Sethe, youhear me? Come away from that window and listen.""Yes, ma'am.""Ask my brother-in-law to come up after supper.""Yes, ma'am.""If you'd wash your hair you could get rid of that lice.""Ain't no lice in my head, ma'am.""Whatever it is, a good scrubbing is what it needs, not scratching.
　　Don't tell me we're out of soap.""No, ma'am.""All right now. I'm through. Talking makes me tired.""Yes, ma'am.""And thank you, Sethe.""Yes, ma'am."You was too little to remember the quarters. Your brothers slept under the window. Me, you andyour daddy slept by the wall. The night after I heard why schoolteacher measured me, I had troublesleeping. When Halle came in I asked him what he thought about schoolteacher. He said therewasn't nothing to think about. Said, He's white, ain't he? I said, But I mean is he like Mr. Garner?
　　"What you want to know, Sethe?""Him and her," I said, "they ain't like the whites I seen before. The ones in the big place I wasbefore I came here.""How these different?" he asked me.
　　"Well," I said, "they talk soft for one thing.""It don't matter, Sethe. What they say is the same. Loud or soft.""Mr. Garner let you buy out your mother," I said.
　　"Yep. He did.""Well?""If he hadn't of, she would of dropped in his cooking stove.""Still, he did it. Let you work it off.""Uh huh.""Wake up, Halle.""I said, Uh huh.""He could of said no. He didn't tell you no.""No, he didn't tell me no. She worked here for ten years. If she worked another ten you think shewould've made it out? I pay him for her last years and in return he got you, me and three morecoming up. I got one more year of debt work; one more. Schoolteacher in there told me to quit it.
　　Said the reason for doing it don't hold. I should do the extra but here at Sweet Home.""Is he going to pay you for the extra?""Nope.""Then how you going to pay it off? How much is it?""$123.7o.""Don't he want it back?""He want something.""What?""I don't know. Something, But he don't want me off Sweet Home no more. Say it don't pay to havemy labor somewhere else while the boys is small.""What about the money you owe?""He must have another way of getting it.""What way?""I don't know, Sethe.""Then the only question is how? How he going get it?""No. That's one question. There's one more.""What's that?"He leaned up and turned over, touching my cheek with his knuckles. "The question now is, Who'sgoing buy you out? Or me? Or her?" He pointed over to where you was laying.
　　"What?""If all my labor is Sweet Home, including the extra, what I got left to sell?"He turned over then and went back to sleep and I thought I wouldn't but I did too for a while.
Chapter 48
    Something he said, maybe, or something he didn't say woke me. I sat up like somebody hit me, andyou woke up too and commenced to cry. I rocked you some, but there wasn't much room, so Istepped outside the door to walk you. Up and down I went. Up and down. Everything dark butlamplight in the top window of the house. She must've been up still. I couldn't get out of my headthe thing that woke me up: "While the boys is small." That's what he said and it snapped meawake. They tagged after me the whole day weeding, milking, getting firewood. For now. Fornow.
　　That's when we should have begun to plan. But we didn't. I don't know what we thought — butgetting away was a money thing to us. Buy out. Running was nowhere on our minds. All of us?
　　Some? Where to? How to go? It was Sixo who brought it up, finally, after Paul F. Mrs. Garner soldhim, trying to keep things up. Already she lived two years off his price. But it ran out, I guess, soshe wrote schoolteacher to come take over. Four Sweet Home men and she still believed sheneeded her brother-in-law and two boys 'cause people said she shouldn't be alone out there withnothing but Negroes. So he came with a big hat and spectacles and a coach box full of paper.
　　Talking soft and watching hard. He beat Paul A. Not hard and not long, but it was the first timeanyone had, because Mr. Garner disallowed it. Next time I saw him he had company in theprettiest trees you ever saw. Sixo started watching the sky. He was the only one who crept at nightand Halle said that's how he learned about the train.
　　"That way." Halle was pointing over the stable. "Where he took my ma'am. Sixo say freedom isthat way. A whole train is going and if we can get there, don't need to be no buyout.""Train? What's that?" I asked him.
　　They stopped talking in front of me then. Even Halle. But they whispered among themselves andSixo watched the sky. Not the high part, the low part where it touched the trees. You could tell hismind was gone from Sweet Home.
　　The plan was a good one, but when it came time, I was big with Denver. So we changed it a little.
　　A little. Just enough to butter Halle's face, so Paul D tells me, and make Sixo laugh at last. But Igot you out, baby. And the boys too. When the signal for the train come, you all was the only onesready. I couldn't find Halle or nobody. I didn't know Sixo was burned up and Paul D dressed in acollar you wouldn't believe. Not till later. So I sent you all to the wagon with the woman whowaited in the corn. Ha ha. No notebook for my babies and no measuring string neither. What I hadto get through later I got through because of you. Passed right by those boys hanging in the trees.
　　One had Paul A's shirt on but not his feet or his head. I walked right on by because only me hadyour milk, and God do what He would, I was going to get it to you. You remember that, don't you;that I did? That when I got here I had milk enough for all?
　　One more curve in the road, and Sethe could see her chimney; it wasn't lonely-looking anymore.
　　The ribbon of smoke was from a fire that warmed a body returned to her — just like it never wentaway, never needed a headstone. And the heart that beat inside it had not for a single momentstopped in her hands.
　　She opened the door, walked in and locked it tight behind her. The day Stamp Paid saw the twobacks through the window and then hurried down the steps, he believed the undecipherablelanguage clamoring around the house was the mumbling of the black and angry dead. Very fewhad died in bed, like Baby Suggs, and none that he knew of, including Baby, had lived a livablelife. Even the educated colored: the long-school people, the doctors, the teachers, the paper-writersand businessmen had a hard row to hoe. In addition to having to use their heads to get ahead, theyhad the weight of the whole race sitting there. You needed two heads for that. Whitepeoplebelieved that whatever the manners, under every dark skin was a jungle. Swift unnavigable waters,swinging screaming baboons, sleeping snakes, red gums ready for their sweet white blood. In a way, he thought, they were right. The more coloredpeople spent their strength trying to convincethem how gentle they were, how clever and loving, how human, the more they used themselves upto persuade whites of something Negroes believed could not be questioned, the deeper and moretangled the jungle grew inside. But it wasn't the jungle blacks brought with them to this place fromthe other (livable) place. It was the jungle whitefolks planted in them. And it grew. It spread. In,through and after life, it spread, until it invaded the whites who had made it. Touched them everyone. Changed and altered them. Made them bloody, silly, worse than even they wanted to be, soscared were they of the jungle they had made. The screaming baboon lived under their own whiteskin; the red gums were their own. Meantime, the secret spread of this new kind of whitefolks'
　　jungle was hidden, silent, except once in a while when you could hear its mumbling in places like124.
　　Stamp Paid abandoned his efforts to see about Sethe, after the pain of knocking and not gainingentrance, and when he did, 124 was left to its own devices. When Sethe locked the door, thewomen inside were free at last to be what they liked, see whatever they saw and say whatever wason their minds.
Chapter 49
    Almost. Mixed in with the voices surrounding the house, recognizable but undecipherable toStamp Paid, were the thoughts of the women of 124, unspeakable thoughts, unspoken.
　　, she my daughter. She mine. See. She come back to me of her own free will and I don't have toexplain a thing. I didn't have time to explain before because it had to be done quick. Quick. Shehad to be safe and I put her where she would be. But my love was tough and she back now. I knewshe would be. Paul D ran her off so she had no choice but to come back to me in the flesh. I betyou Baby Suggs, on the other side, helped. I won't never let her go. I'll explain to her, even thoughI don't have to. Why I did it. How if I hadn't killed her she would have died and that is something Icould not bear to happen to her. When I explain it she'll understand, because she understandseverything already. I'll tend her as no mother ever tended a child, a daughter. Nobody will ever getmy milk no more except my own children. I never had to give it to nobody else — and the onetime I did it was took from me — they held me down and took it. Milk that belonged to my baby.
　　Nan had to nurse whitebabies and me too because Ma'am was in the rice. The little whitebabies gotit first and I got what was left. Or none. There was no nursing milk to call my own. I know what itis to be without the milk that belongs to you; to have to fight and holler for it, and to have so littleleft. i'll tell Beloved about that; she'll understand. She my daughter. The one I managed to havemilk for and to get it to her even after they stole it; after they handled me like I was the cow, no,the goat, back behind the stable because it was too nasty to stay in with the horses. But I wasn't toonasty to cook their food or take care of Mrs. Garner. I tended her like I would have tended my ownmother if she needed me. If they had let her out the rice field, because I was the one she didn'tthrow away. I couldn't have done more for that woman than I would my own ma'am if she was totake sick and need me and I'd have stayed with her till she got well or died. And I would havestayed after that except Nan snatched me back. Before I could check for the sign. It was her allright, but for a long time I didn't believe it. I looked everywhere for that hat. Stuttered after that.
　　Didn't stop it till I saw Halle. Oh, but that's all over now. I'm here. I lasted. And my girl comehome. Now I can look at things again because she's here to see them too. After the shed, I stopped.
　　Now, in the morning, when I light the fire I mean to look out the window to see what the sun isdoing to the day. Does it hit the pump handle first or the spigot? See if the grass is gray-green orbrown or what. Now I know why Baby Suggs pondered color her last years. She never had time tosee, let alone enjoy it before. Took her a long time to finish with blue, then yellow, then green. Shewas well into pink when she died. I don't believe she wanted to get to red and I understand whybecause me and Beloved outdid ourselves with it. Matter of fact, that and her pinkish headstonewas the last color I recall. Now I'll be on the lookout. Think what spring will he for us! I'll plantcarrots just so she can see them, and turnips. Have you ever seen one, baby? A prettier thing Godnever made. White and purple with a tender tail and a hard head. Feels good when you hold it inyour hand and smells like the creek when it floods, bitter but happy. We'll smell them together,Beloved. Beloved. Because you mine and I have to show you these things, and teach you what amother should. Funny how you lose sight of some things and memory others. I never will forgetthat whitegirl's hands. Amy. But I forget the color of all that hair on her head. Eyes must have beengray, though. Seem like I do rememory that. Mrs. Garner's was light brown — while she was well.
　　Got dark when she took sick. A strong woman, used to be. And when she talked off her head, she'dsay it. "I used to be strong as a mule, Jenny." Called me "Jenny" when she was babbling, and I canbear witness to that. Tall and strong. The two of us on a cord of wood was as good as two men.
　　Hurt her like the devil not to be able to raise her head off the pillow. Still can't figure why shethought she needed schoolteacher, though. I wonder if she lasted, like I did.
　　Last time I saw her she couldn't do nothing but cry, and I couldn't do a thing for her but wipe herface when I told her what they done to me. Somebody had to know it. Hear it. Somebody. Maybeshe lasted. Schoolteacher wouldn't treat her the way he treated me. First beating I took was the last.
　　Nobody going to keep me from my children. Hadn't been for me taking care of her maybe I wouldhave known what happened. Maybe Halle was trying to get to me. I stood by her bed waiting forher to finish with the slop jar. Then I got her back in the bed she said she was cold. Hot as blazesand she wanted quilts. Said to shut the window. I told her no. She needed the cover; I needed thebreeze. Long as those yellow curtains flapped, I was all right. Should have heeded her. Maybewhat sounded like shots really was. Maybe I would have seen somebody or something. Maybe.
　　Anyhow I took my babies to the corn, Halle or no. Jesus. then I heard that woman's rattle. She said,Any more? I told her I didn't know. She said, I been here all night. Can't wait. I tried to make her.
　　She said, Can't do it. Come on. Hoo! Not a man around. Boys scared. You asleep on my back.
　　Denver sleep in my stomach. Felt like I was split in two. I told her to take you all; I had to go back.
　　In case. She just looked at me. Said, Woman? Bit a piece of my tongue off when they opened myback. It was hanging by a shred. I didn't mean to. Clamped down on it, it come right off. I thought,Good God, I'm going to eat myself up. They dug a hole for my stomach so as not to hurt the baby.
　　Denver don't like for me to talk about it. She hates anything about Sweet Home except how shewas born. But you was there and even if you too young to memory it, I can tell it to you. The grapearbor. You memory that? I ran so fast. Flies beat me to you. I would have known right away whoyou was when the sun blotted out your face the way it did when I took you to the grape arbor. Iwould have known at once when my water broke. The minute I saw you sitting on the stump, itbroke. And when I did see your face it had more than a hint of what you would look like after allthese years. I would have known who you were right away because the cup after cup of water youdrank proved and connected to the fact that you dribbled clear spit on my face the day I got to 124.
Chapter 50
    I would have known right off, but Paul D distracted me. Otherwise I would have seen myfingernail prints right there on your forehead for all the world to see. From when I held your headup, out in the shed. And later on, when you asked me about the earrings I used to dangle for you toplay with, I would have recognized you right off, except for Paul D. Seems to me he wanted youout from the beginning, but I wouldn't let him. What you think? And look how he ran when hefound out about me and you in the shed. Too rough for him to listen to. Too thick, he said. My lovewas too thick. What he know about it? Who in the world is he willing to die for? Would he givehis privates to a stranger in return for a carving? Some other way, he said. There must have beensome other way. Let schoolteacher haul us away, I guess, to measure your behind before he tore itup? I have felt what it felt like and nobody walking or stretched out is going to make you feel ittoo. Not you, not none of mine, and when I tell you you mine, I also mean I'm yours I wouldn'tdraw breath without my children. I told Baby Suggs that and she got down on her knees to begGod's pardon for me. Still, it's so. My plan was to take us all to the other side where my ownma'am is. They stopped me from getting us there, but they didn't stop you from getting here. Ha ha.
　　You came right on back like a good girl, like a daughter which is what I wanted to be and wouldhave been if my ma'am had been able to get out of the rice long enough before they hanged her andlet me be one. You know what? She'd had the bit so many times she smiled. When she wasn'tsmiling she smiled, and I never saw her own smile. I wonder what they was doing when they wascaught. Running, you think? No. Not that. Because she was my ma'am and nobody's ma'am wouldrun off and leave her daughter, would she? Would she, now? Leave her in the yard with a one-armed woman? Even if she hadn't been able to suckle the daughter for more than a week or twoand had to turn her over to another woman's tit that never had enough for all. They said it was thebit that made her smile when she didn't want to. Like the Saturday girls working theslaughterhouse yard. When I came out of jail I saw them plain. They came when the shift changedon Saturday when the men got paid and worked behind the fences, back of the outhouse. Someworked standing up, leaning on the toolhouse door. They gave some of their nickels and dimes tothe foreman as they left but by then their smiles was over. Some of them drank liquor to keep fromfeeling what they felt. Some didn't drink a drop — just beat it on over to Phelps to pay for whattheir children needed, or their ma'ammies. Working a pig yard. That has got to be something for awoman to do, and I got close to it myself when I got out of jail and bought, so to speak, your name.
　　But the Bodwins got me the cooking job at Sawyer's and left me able to smile on my own like nowwhen I think about you.
　　But you know all that because you smart like everybody said because when I got here you wascrawling already. Trying to get up the stairs. Baby Suggs had them painted white so you could seeyour way to the top in the dark where lamplight didn't reach. Lord, you loved the stairsteps.
　　I got close. I got close. To being a Saturday girl. I had already worked a stone mason's shop. A stepto the slaughterhouse would have been a short one. When I put that headstone up I wanted to lay inthere with you, put your head on my shoulder and keep you warm, and I would have if Buglar andHoward and Denver didn't need me, because my mind was homeless then. I couldn't lay down withyou then. No matter how much I wanted to. I couldn't lay down nowhere in peace, back then. NowI can. I can sleep like the drowned, have mercy. She come back to me, my daughter, and she ismine.
Chapter 51
   is my sister. I swallowed her blood right along with my mother's milk. The first thing I heard afternot hearing anything was the sound of her crawling up the stairs. She was my secret company untilPaul D came. He threw her out. Ever since I was little she was my company and she helped mewait for my daddy. Me and her waited for him. I love my mother but I know she killed one of herown daughters, and tender as she is with me, I'm scared of her because of it. She missed killing mybrothers and they knew it. They told me die-witch! stories to show me the way to do it, if ever Ineeded to. Maybe it was getting that close to dying made them want to fight the War. That's whatthey told me they were going to do. I guess they rather be around killing men than killing women,and there sure is something in her that makes it all right to kill her own. All the time, I'm afraid thething that happened that made it all right for my mother to kill my sister could happen again. Idon't know what it is, I don't know who it is, but maybe there is something else terrible enough tomake her do it again. I need to know what that thing might be, but I don't want to. Whatever it is, itcomes from outside this house, outside the yard, and it can come right on in the yard if it wants to.
　　So I never leave this house and I watch over the yard, so it can't happen again and my motherwon't have to kill me too. Not since Miss Lady Jones' house have I left 124 by myself. Never. Theonly other times — two times in all — I was with my mother. Once to see Grandma Baby putdown next to Beloved, she's my sister. The other time Paul D went too and when we came back Ithought the house would still be empty from when he threw my sister's ghost out. But no. When Icame back to 124, there she was. Beloved. Waiting for me. Tired from her long journey back.
　　Ready to be taken care of; ready for me to protect her. This time I have to keep my mother awayfrom her. That's hard, but I have to. It's all on me. I've seen my mother in a dark place, withscratching noises. A smell coming from her dress. I have been with her where something littlewatched us from the corners. And touched. Sometimes they touched. I didn't remember it for along time until Nelson Lord made me. I asked her if it was true but couldn't hear what she said andthere was no point in going back to Lady Jones if you couldn't hear what anybody said. So quiet.
　　Made me have to read faces and learn how to figure out what people were thinking, so I didn'tneed to hear what they said. That's how come me and Beloved could play together. Not talking. Onthe porch. By the creek. In the secret house. It's all on me, now, but she can count on me. I thoughtshe was trying to kill her that day in the Clearing. Kill her back. But then she kissed her neck and Ihave to warn her about that. Don't love her too much. Don't. Maybe it's still in her the thing thatmakes it all right to kill her children. I have to tell her. I have to protect her.
　　She cut my head off every night. Buglar and Howard told me she would and she did. Her prettyeyes looking at me like I was a stranger. Not mean or anything, but like I was somebody she foundand felt sorry for. Like she didn't want to do it but she had to and it wasn't going to hurt. That itwas just a thing grown-up people do — like pull a splinter out your hand; touch the corner of atowel in your eye if you get a cinder in it. She looks over at Buglar and Howard — see if they allright. Then she comes over to my side. I know she'll be good at it, careful. That when she cuts itoff it'll be done right; it won't hurt. After she does it I lie there for a minute with just my head.
　　Then she carries it downstairs to braid my hair. I try not to cry but it hurts so much to comb it.
　　When she finishes the combing and starts the braiding, I get sleepy. I want to go to sleep but Iknow if I do I won't wake up. So I have to stay awake while she finishes my hair, then I can sleep.
　　The scary part is waiting for her to come in and do it. Not when she does it, but when I wait for her to. Only place she can't get to me in the night is Grandma Baby's room. The room we sleep inupstairs used to be where the help slept when whitepeople lived here. They had a kitchen outside,too. But Grandma Baby turned it into a woodshed and toolroom when she moved in. And sheboarded up the back door that led to it because she said she didn't want to make that journey nomore. She built around it to make a storeroom, so if you want to get in 124 you have to come byher. Said she didn't care what folks said about her fixing a two story house up like a cabin whereyou cook inside. She said they told her visitors with nice dresses don't want to sit in the same roomwith the cook stove and the peelings and the grease and the smoke. She wouldn't pay them nomind, she said. I was safe at night in there with her. All I could hear was me breathing butsometimes in the day I couldn't tell whether it was me breathing or somebody next to me. I used towatch Here Boy's stomach go in and out, in and out, to see if it matched mine, holding my breathto get off his rhythm, releasing it to get on. Just to see whose it was — that sound like when youblow soft in a bottle only regular, regular. Am I making that sound? Is Howard? Who is? That waswhen everybody was quiet and I couldn't hear anything they said. I didn't care either because thequiet let me dream my daddy better. I always knew he was coming. Something was holding himup. He had a problem with the horse. The river flooded; the boat sank and he had to make a newone. Sometimes it was a lynch mob or a windstorm. He was coming and it was a secret. I spent allof my outside self loving Ma'am so she wouldn't kill me, loving her even when she braided myhead at night. I never let her know my daddy was coming for me. Grandma Baby thought he wascoming, too. For a while she thought so, then she stopped. I never did. Even when Buglar andHoward ran away. Then Paul D came in here. I heard his voice downstairs, and Ma'am laughing,so I thought it was him, my daddy. Nobody comes to this house anymore. But when I gotdownstairs it was Paul D and he didn't come for me; he wanted my mother. At first. Then hewanted my sister, too, but she got him out of here and I'm so glad he's gone. Now it's just us and Ican protect her till my daddy gets here to help me watch out for Ma'am and anything come in theyard. My daddy do anything for runny fried eggs. Dip his bread in it. Grandma used to tell me histhings. She said anytime she could make him a plate of soft fried eggs was Christmas, made him sohappy. She said she was always a little scared of my daddy. He was too good, she said. From thebeginning, she said, he was too good for the world. Scared her. She thought, He'll never make itthrough nothing. Whitepeople must have thought so too, because they never got split up. So shegot the chance to know him, look after him, and he scared her the way he loved things. Animalsand tools and crops and the alphabet. He could count on paper. The boss taught him. Offered toteach the other boys but only my daddy wanted it. She said the other boys said no. One of themwith a number for a name said it would change his mind — make him forget things he shouldn'tand memorize things he shouldn't and he didn't want his mind messed up. But my daddy said, Ifyou can't count they can cheat you. If you can't read they can beat you. They thought that wasfunny. Grandma said she didn't know, but it was because my daddy could count on paper andfigure that he bought her away from there. And she said she always wished she could read theBible like real preachers. So it was good for me to learn how, and I did until it got quiet and all Icould hear was my own breathing and one other who knocked over the milk jug while it wassitting on the table. Nobody near it. Ma'am whipped Buglar but he didn't touch it. Then it messedup all the ironed clothes and put its hands in the cake. Look like I was the only one who knew rightaway who it was. Just like when she came back I knew who she was too. Not right away, but soonas she spelled her name — not her given name, but the one Ma'am paid the stonecutter for — I knew. And when she wondered about Ma'am's earrings — something I didn't know about — well,that just made the cheese more binding: my sister come to help me wait for my daddy. My daddywas an angel man. He could look at you and tell where you hurt and he could fix it too. He made ahanging thing for Grandma Baby, so she could pull herself up from the floor when she woke up inthe morning, and he made a step so when she stood up she was level. Grandma said she wasalways afraid a whiteman would knock her down in front of her children. She behaved and dideverything right in front of her children because she didn't want them to see her knocked down.
　　She said it made children crazy to see that. At Sweet Home nobody did or said they would, so mydaddy never saw it there and never went crazy and even now I bet he's trying to get here. If Paul Dcould do it my daddy could too. Angel man. We should all be together. Me, him and Beloved.
　　Ma'am could stay or go off with Paul D if she wanted to. Unless Daddy wanted her himself, but Idon't think he would now, since she let Paul D in her bed. Grandma Baby said people look downon her because she had eight children with different men. Coloredpeople and whitepeople bothlook down on her for that. Slaves not supposed to have pleasurable feelings on their own; theirbodies not supposed to be like that, but they have to have as many children as they can to pleasewhoever owned them. Still, they were not supposed to have pleasure deep down. She said for menot to listen to all that. That I should always listen to my body and love it.
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    The secret house. When she died I went there. Ma'am wouldn't let me go outside in the yard andeat with the others. We stayed inside. That hurt. I know Grandma Baby would have liked the partyand the people who came to it, because she got low not seeing anybody or going anywhere — justgrieving and thinking about colors and how she made a mistake. That what she thought about whatthe heart and the body could do was wrong. The whitepeople came anyway. In her yard. She haddone everything right and they came in her yard anyway. And she didn't know what to think. Allshe had left was her heart and they busted it so even the War couldn't rouse her.
　　She told me all my daddy's things. How hard he worked to buy her. After the cake was ruined andthe ironed clothes all messed up, and after I heard my sister crawling up the stairs to get back toher bed, she told me my things too. That I was charmed. My birth was and I got saved all the time.
　　And that I shouldn't be afraid of the ghost. It wouldn't harm me because I tasted its blood whenMa'am nursed me. She said the ghost was after Ma'am and her too for not doing anything to stop it.
　　But it would never hurt me. I just had to watch out for it because it was a greedy ghost and neededa lot of love, which was only natural, considering. And I do. Love her. I do. She played with meand always came to be with me whenever I needed her. She's mine, Beloved. She's mine.
　　I AM and she is mine. I see her take flowers away from leaves she puts them in a round basket theleaves are not for her she fills the basket she opens the grass I would help her but the clouds are inthe way how can I say things that are pictures I am not separate from her there is no place where Istop her face is my own and I want to be there in the place where her face is and to be looking at ittoo a hot thing All of it is now it is always now there will never be a time when I am not crouchingand watching others who are crouching too I am always crouching the man on my face is dead hisface is not mine his mouth smells sweet but his eyes are locked some who eat nasty themselves Ido not eat the men without skin bring us their morning water to drink we have none at night Icannot see the dead man on my face daylight comes through the cracks and I can see his locked eyes I am not big small rats do not wait for us to sleep someone is thrashing but there is no room todo it in if we had more to drink we could make tears we cannot make sweat or morning water sothe men without skin bring us theirs one time they bring us sweet rocks to suck we are all trying toleave our bodies behind the man on my face has done it it is hard to make yourself die forever yousleep short and then return in the beginning we could vomit now we do not now we cannot histeeth are pretty white points someone is trembling I can feel it over here he is fighting hard to leavehis body which is a small bird trembling there is no room to tremble so he is not able to die myown dead man is pulled away from my face I miss his pretty white points We are not crouchingnow we are standing but my legs are like my dead man's eyes I cannot fall because there is noroom to the men without skin are making loud noises I am not dead the bread is sea-colored I amtoo hungry to eat it the sun closes my eyes those able to die are in a pile I cannot find my man theone whose teeth I have loved a hot thing the little hill of dead people a hot thing the men withoutskin push them through with poles the woman is there with the face I want the face that is minethey fall into the sea which is the color of the bread she has nothing in her ears if I had the teeth ofthe man who died on my face I would bite the circle around her neck bite it away I know she doesnot like it now there is room to crouch and to watch the crouching others it is the crouching that isnow always now inside the woman with my face is in the sea a hot thing In the beginning I couldsee her I could not help her because the clouds were in the way in the beginning I could see her theshining in her ears she does not like the circle around her neck I know this I look hard at her so shewill know that the clouds are in the way I am sure she saw me I am looking at her see me sheempties out her eyes I am there in the place where her face is and telling her the noisy clouds werein my way she wants her earrings she wants her round basket I want her face a hot thing in thebeginning the women are away from the men and the men are away from the women storms rockus and mix the men into the women and the women into the men that is when I begin to be on theback of the man for a long time I see only his neck and his wide shoulders above me I am small Ilove him because he has a song when he turned around to die I see the teeth he sang through hissinging was soft his singing is of the place where a woman takes flowers away from their leavesand puts them in a round basket before the clouds she is crouching near us but I do not see her untilhe locks his eyes and dies on my face we are that way there is no breath coming from his mouthand the place where breath should be is sweet-smelling the others do not know he is dead I knowhis song is gone now I love his pretty little teeth instead I cannot lose her again my dead man wasin the way like the noisy clouds when he dies on my face I can see hers she is going to smile at meshe is going to her sharp earrings are gone the men without skin are making loud noises they pushmy own man through they do not push the woman with my face through she goes in they do notpush her she goes in the little hill is gone she was going to smile at me she was going to a hot thingThey are not crouching now we are they are floating on the water they break up the little hill andpush it through I cannot find my pretty teeth I see the dark face that is going to smile at me it is mydark face that is going to smile at me the iron circle is around our neck she does not have sharpearrings in her ears or a round basket she goes in the water with my face I am standing in the rainfalling the others are taken I am not taken I am falling like the rain is I watch him eat inside I amcrouching to keep from falling with the rain I am going to be in pieces he hurts where I sleep heputs his finger there I drop the food and break into pieces she took my face away there is no one towant me to say me my name I wait on the bridge because she is under it there is night and there isday again again night day night day I am waiting no iron circle is around my neck no boats go on this water no men without skin my dead man is not floating here his teeth are down there where theblue is and the grass so is the face I want the face that is going to smile at me it is going to in theday diamonds are in the water where she is and turtles in the night I hear chewing and swallowingand laughter it belongs to me she is the laugh I am the laugher I see her face which is mine it is theface that was going to smile at me in the place where we crouched now she is going to her facecomes through the water a hot thing her face is mine she is not smiling she is chewing andswallowing I have to have my face I go in the grass opens she opens it I am in the water and she iscoming there is no round basket no iron circle around her neck she goes up where the diamondsare I follow her we are in the diamonds which are her earrings now my face is coming I have tohave it I am looking for the join I am loving my face so much my dark face is close to me I want tojoin she whispers to me she whispers I reach for her chewing and swallowing she touches me sheknows I want to join she chews and swallows me I am gone now I am her face my own face hasleft me I see me swim away a hot thing I see the bottoms of my feet I am alone I want to be thetwo of us I want the join I come out of blue water after the bottoms of my feet swim away from meI come up I need to find a place to be the air is heavy I am not dead I am not there is a house thereis what she whispered to me I am where she told me I am not dead I sit the sun closes my eyeswhen I open them I see the face I lost Sethe's is the face that lef me Sethe sees me see her and I seethe smile her smiling face is the place for me it is the face I lost she is my face smiling at me doingit at last a hot thing now we can join a hot thing.
Chapter 53
    I AM BE LOV ED and she is mine. Sethe is the one that picked flowers, yellow flowers in theplace before the crouching. Took them away from their green leaves. They are on the quilt nowwhere we sleep. She was about to smile at me when the men without skin came and took us up intothe sunlight with the dead and shoved them into the sea. Sethe went into the sea. She went there.
　　They did not push her. She went there. She was getting ready to smile at me and when she saw thedead people pushed into the sea she went also and left me there with no face or hers. Sethe is theface I found and lost in the water under the bridge. When I went in, I saw her face coming to meand it was my face too. I wanted to join. I tried to join, but she went up into the pieces of light atthe top of the water. I lost her again, but I found the house she whispered to me and there she was,smiling at last. It's good, but I cannot lose her again. All I want to know is why did she go in thewater in the place where we crouched? Why did she do that when she was just about to smile atme? I wanted to join her in the sea but I could not move; I wanted to help her when she waspicking the flowers, but the clouds of gunsmoke blinded me and I lost her. Three times I lost her:
　　once with the flowers because of the noisy clouds of smoke; once when she went into the seainstead of smiling at me; once under the bridge when I went in to j oin her and she came towardme but did not smile. She whispered to me, chewed me, and swam away. Now I have found her inthis house. She smiles at me and it is my own face smiling. I will not lose her again. She is mine.
　　Tell me the truth. Didn't you come from the other side? Yes. I was on the other side. You cameback because of me? Yes. You rememory me? Yes. I remember you. You never forgot me? Yourface is mine. Do you forgive me? Will you stay? You safe here now. Where are the men withoutskin? Out there. Way off. Can they get in here? No. They tried that once, but I stopped them. Theywon't ever come back. One of them was in the house I was in. He hurt me. They can't hurt us nomore. Where are your earrings? They took them from me. The men without skin took them? Yes. I was going to help you but the clouds got in the way. There're no clouds here. If they put an ironcircle around your neck I will bite it away. Beloved. I will make you a round basket. You're back.
　　You're back. Will we smile at me? Can't you see I'm smiling? I love your face. We played by thecreek. I was there in the water. In the quiet time, we played. The clouds were noisy and in the way.
　　When I needed you, you came to be with me. I needed her face to smile. I could only hearbreathing.
　　The breathing is gone; only the teeth are left.
　　She said you wouldn't hurt me.
　　She hurt me.
　　I will protect you.
　　I want her face.
　　Don't love her too much.
　　I am loving her too much.
　　Watch out for her; she can give you dreams.
　　She chews and swallows.
　　Don't fall asleep when she braids your hair.
　　She is the laugh; I am the laughter.
　　I watch the house; I watch the yard.
　　She left me.
　　Daddy is coming for us.
　　A hot thing.
　　BelovedYou are my sisterYou are my daughterYou are my face; you are meI have found you again; you have come back to meYou are my BelovedYou are mineYou are mineYou are mineI have your milkI have your smileI will take care of youYou are my face; I am you. Why did you leave me who am you?
　　I will never leave you againDon't ever leave me againYou will never leave me againYou went in the waterI drank your bloodI brought your milkYou forgot to smileI loved youYou hurt meYou came back to meYou left meI waited for youYou are mineYou are mineYou are mine
Chapter 54
    IT WAS a tiny church no bigger than a rich man's parlor. The pews had no backs, and since thecongregation was also the choir, it didn't need a stall. Certain members had been assigned theconstruction of a platform to raise the preacher a few inches above his congregation, but it was aless than urgent task, since the major elevation, a white oak cross, had already taken place. Beforeit was the Church of the Holy Redeemer, it was a dry-goods shop that had no use for sidewindows, just front ones for display. These were papered over while members considered whetherto paint or curtain them — how to have privacy without losing the little light that might want toshine on them. In the summer the doors were left open for ventilation. In winter an iron stove inthe aisle did what it could. At the front of the church was a sturdy porch where customers used tosit, and children laughed at the boy who got his head stuck between the railings. On a sunny andwindless day in January it was actually warmer out there than inside, if the iron stove was cold.
　　The damp cellar was fairly warm, but there was no light lighting the pallet or the washbasin or thenail from which a man's clothes could be hung. And a oil lamp in a cellar was sad, so Paul D sat onthe porch steps and got additional warmth from a bottle of liquor jammed in his coat pocket.
　　Warmth and red eyes. He held his wrist between his knees, not to keep his hands still but becausehe had nothing else to hold on to. His tobacco tin, blown open, spilled contents that floated freelyand made him their play and prey.
　　He couldn't figure out why it took so long. He may as well have jumped in the fire with Sixo andthey both could have had a good laugh. Surrender was bound to come anyway, why not meet itwith a laugh, shouting Seven-O! Why not? Why the delay? He had already seen his brother wavegoodbye from the back of a dray, fried chicken in his pocket, tears in his eyes. Mother. Father.
　　Didn't remember the one. Never saw the other. He was the youngest of three half-brothers (samemother — different fathers) sold to Garner and kept there, forbidden to leave the farm, for twentyyears. Once, in Maryland, he met four families of slaves who had all been together for a hundredyears: great-grands, grands, mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, cousins, children. Half white, partwhite, all black, mixed with Indian. He watched them with awe and envy, and each time hediscovered large families of black people he made them identify over and over who each was, whatrelation, who, in fact, belonged to who.
　　"That there's my auntie. This here's her boy. Yonder is my pap's cousin. My ma'am was marriedtwice — this my half-sister and these her two children. Now, my wife..."Nothing like that had ever been his and growing up at Sweet Home he didn't miss it. He had hisbrothers, two friends, Baby Suggs in the kitchen, a boss who showed them how to shoot andlistened to what they had to say. A mistress who made their soap and never raised her voice. Fortwenty years they had all lived in that cradle, until Baby left, Sethe came, and Halle took her. Hemade a family with her, and Sixo was hell-bent to make one with the Thirty-Mile Woman. WhenPaul D waved goodbye to his oldest brother, the boss was dead, the mistress nervous and the cradle already split. Sixo said the doctor made Mrs. Garner sick. Said he was giving her to drink whatstallions got when they broke a leg and no gunpowder could be spared, and had it not been forschoolteacher's new rules, he would have told her so. They laughed at him. Sixo had a knowingtale about everything. Including Mr. Garner's stroke, which he said was a shot in his ear put thereby a jealous neighbor.
　　"where's the blood?" they asked him.
　　There was no blood. Mr. Garner came home bent over his mare's neck, sweating and blue-white.
　　Not a drop of blood. Sixo grunted, the only one of them not sorry to see him go. Later, however, hewas mighty sorry; they all were.
　　"Why she call on him?" Paul D asked. "Why she need the schoolteacher?""She need somebody can figure," said Halle.
　　"You can do figures.""Not like that.""No, man," said Sixo. "She need another white on the place.""What for?""What you think? What you think?"Well, that's the way it was. Nobody counted on Garner dying. Nobody thought he could. How'bout that? Everything rested on Garner being alive. Without his life each of theirs fell to pieces.
　　Now ain't that slavery or what is it? At the peak of his strength, taller than tall men, and strongerthan most, they clipped him, Paul D. First his shotgun, then his thoughts, for schoolteacher didn'ttake advice from Negroes. The information they offered he called backtalk and developed a varietyof corrections (which he recorded in his notebook) to reeducate them. He complained they ate toomuch, rested too much, talked too much, which was certainly true compared to him, becauseschoolteacher ate little, spoke less and rested not at all. Once he saw them playing — a pitchinggame — and his look of deeply felt hurt was enough to make Paul D blink. He was as hard on hispupils as he was on them — except for the corrections. For years Paul D believed schoolteacherbroke into children what Garner had raised into men. And it was that that made them run off. Now,plagued by the contents of his tobacco tin, he wondered how much difference there really wasbetween before schoolteacher and after. Garner called and announced them men — but only onSweet Home, and by his leave. Was he naming what he saw or creating what he did not? That wasthe wonder of Sixo, and even Halle; it was always clear to Paul D that those two were menwhether Garner said so or not. It troubled him that, concerning his own manhood, he could notsatisfy himself on that point. Oh, he did manly things, but was that Garner's gift or his own will?
　　What would he have been anyway — before Sweet Home — without Garner? In Sixo's country, or his mother's? Or, God help him, on the boat? Did a whiteman saying it make it so? Suppose Garnerwoke up one morning and changed his mind? Took the word away. Would they have run then?
　　And if he didn't, would the Pauls have stayed there all their lives? Why did the brothers need theone whole night to decide? To discuss whether they would join Sixo and Halle. Because they hadbeen isolated in a wonderful lie, dismissing Halle's and Baby Suggs' life before Sweet Home asbad luck. Ignorant of or amused by Sixo's dark stories. Protected and convinced they were special.
　　Never suspecting the problem of Alfred, Georgia; being so in love with the look of the world,putting up with anything and everything, just to stay alive in a place where a moon he had no rightto was nevertheless there. Loving small and in secret. His little love was a tree, of course, but notlike Brother — old, wide and beckoning.
　　In Alfred, Georgia, there was an aspen too young to call sapling.
Chapter 55
    Just a shoot no taller than his waist. The kind of thing a man would cut to whip his horse. Song-murder and the aspen. He stayed alive to sing songs that murdered life, and watched an aspen thatconfirmed it, and never for a minute did he believe he could escape. Until it rained. Afterward,after the Cherokee pointed and sent him running toward blossoms, he wanted simply to move, go,pick up one day and be somewhere else the next. Resigned to life without aunts, cousins, children.
　　Even a woman, until Sethe.
　　And then she moved him. Just when doubt, regret and every single unasked question was packedaway, long after he believed he had willed himself into being, at the very time and place he wantedto take root — she moved him. From room to room. Like a rag doll. Sitting on the porch of a dry-goods church, a little bit drunk and nothing much to do, he could have these thoughts. Slow, what-if thoughts that cut deep but struck nothing solid a man could hold on to. So he held his wrists.
　　Passing by that woman's life, getting in it and letting it get in him had set him up for this fall.
　　Wanting to live out his life with a whole woman was new, and losing the feeling of it made himwant to cry and think deep thoughts that struck nothing solid. When he was drifting, thinking onlyabout the next meal and night's sleep, when everything was packed tight in his chest, he had nosense of failure, of things not working out. Anything that worked at all worked out. Now hewondered what-all went wrong, and starting with the Plan, everything had. It was a good plan, too.
　　Worked out in detail with every possibility of error eliminated.
　　Sixo, hitching up the horses, is speaking English again and tells Halle what his Thirty-MileWoman told him. That seven Negroes on her place were joining two others going North. That thetwo others had done it before and knew the way. That one of the two, a woman, would wait forthem in the corn when it was high — one night and half of the next day she would wait, and if theycame she would take them to the caravan, where the others would be hidden. That she would rattle,and that would be the sign. Sixo was going, his woman was going, and Halle was taking his wholefamily. The two Pauls say they need time to think about it. Time to wonder where they will end up;how they will live. What work; who will take them in; should they try to get to Paul F, whoseowner, they remember, lived in something called the "trace"? It takes them one evening'sconversation to decide.
　　Now all they have to do is wait through the spring, till the corn is as high as it ever got and themoon as fat.
　　And plan. Is it better to leave in the dark to get a better start, or go at daybreak to be able to see theway better? Sixo spits at the suggestion. Night gives them more time and the protection of color.
　　He does not ask them if they are afraid. He manages some dry runs to the corn at night, buryingblankets and two knives near the creek. Will Sethe be able to swim the creek? they ask him. It willbe dry, he says, when the corn is tall. There is no food to put by, but Sethe says she will get a jugof cane syrup or molasses, and some bread when it is near the time to go. She only wants to be surethe blankets are where they should be, for they will need them to tie her baby on her back and tocover them during the journey. There are no clothes other than what they wear. And of course noshoes. The knives will help them eat, but they bury rope and a pot as well. A good plan. Theywatch and memorize the comings and goings of schoolteacher and his pupils: what is wanted whenand where; how long it takes. Mrs. Garner, restless at night, is sunk in sleep all morning. Somedays the pupils and their teacher do lessons until breakfast. One day a week they skip breakfastcompletely and travel ten miles to church, expecting a large dinner upon their return.
　　Schoolteacher writes in his notebook after supper; the pupils clean, mend or sharpen tools. Sethe'swork is the most uncertain because she is on call for Mrs. Garner anytime, including nighttimewhen the pain or the weakness or the downright loneliness is too much for her. So: Sixo and thePauls will go after supper and wait in the creek for the Thirty Mile Woman. Halle will bring Setheand the three children before dawn — before the sun, before the chickens and the milking cowneed attention, so by the time smoke should be coming from the cooking stove, they will be in ornear the creek with the others. That way, if Mrs. Garner needs Sethe in the night and calls her,Sethe will be there to answer. They only have to wait through the spring.
Chapter 56
    But. Sethe was pregnant in the spring and by August is so heavy with child she may not be able to keep up with the men, who can carry the children but not her.
　　But. Neighbors discouraged by Garner when he was alive now feel free to visit Sweet Home andmight appear in the right place at the wrong time.
　　But. Sethe's children cannot play in the kitchen anymore, so she is dashing back and forth betweenhouse and quarters-fidgety and frustrated trying to watch over them. They are too young for men'swork and the baby girl is nine months old. Without Mrs. Garner's help her work increases as doschoolteacher's demands.
　　But. After the conversation about the shoat, Sixo is tied up with the stock at night, and locks areput on bins, pens, sheds, coops, the tackroom and the barn door. There is no place to dart into orcongregate. Sixo keeps a nail in his mouth now, to help him undo the rope when he has to.
　　But. Halle is told to work his extra on Sweet Home and has no call to be anywhere other thanwhere schoolteacher tells him. Only Sixo, who has been stealing away to see his woman, andHalle, who has been hired away for years, know what lies outside Sweet Home and how to getthere.
　　It is a good plan. It can be done right under the watchful pupils and their teacher.
　　But. They had to alter it — just a little. First they change the leaving. They memorize thedirections Halle gives them. Sixo, needing time to untie himself, break open the door and notdisturb the horses, will leave later, joining them at the creek with the Thirty-Mile Woman. All fourwill go straight to the corn. Halle, who also needs more time now, because of Sethe, decides tobring her and the children at night; not wait till first light. They will go straight to the corn and notassemble at the creek. The corn stretches to their shoulders — it will never be higher. The moon isswelling. They can hardly harvest, or chop, or clear, or pick, or haul for listening for a rattle that isnot bird or snake. Then one midmorning, they hear it. Or Halle does and begins to sing it to theothers: "Hush, hush. Somebody's calling my name. Hush, hush. Somebody's calling my name. Omy Lord, O my Lord, what shall I do?"On his dinner break he leaves the field. He has to. He has to tell Sethe that he has heard the sign.
　　For two successive nights she has been with Mrs. Garner and he can't chance it that she will notknow that this night she cannot be. The Pauls see him go. From underneath Brother's shade wherethey are chewing corn cake, they see him, swinging along. The bread tastes good. They lick sweatfrom their lips to give it a saltier flavor. Schoolteacher and his pupils are already at the houseeating dinner. Halle swings along. He is not singing now.
　　Nobody knows what happened. Except for the churn, that was the last anybody ever saw of Halle.
　　What Paul D knew was that Halle disappeared, never told Sethe anything, and was next seensquatting in butter. Maybe when he got to the gate and asked to see Sethe, schoolteacher heard atint of anxiety in his voice — the tint that would make him pick up his ever-ready shotgun. MaybeHalle made the mistake of saying "my wife" in some way that would put a light in schoolteacher'seye. Sethe says now that she heard shots, but did not look out the window of Mrs. Garner'sbedroom. But Halle was not killed or wounded that day because Paul D saw him later, after shehad run off with no one's help; after Sixo laughed and his brother disappeared. Saw him greasedand flat-eyed as a fish. Maybe schoolteacher shot after him, shot at his feet, to remind him of thetrespass. Maybe Halle got in the barn, hid there and got locked in with the rest of schoolteacher'sstock. Maybe anything. He disappeared and everybody was on his own.
　　Paul A goes back to moving timber after dinner. They are to meet at quarters for supper. He nevershows up. Paul D leaves for the creek on time, believing, hoping, Paul A has gone on ahead;certain schoolteacher has learned something. Paul D gets to the creek and it is as dry as Sixopromised. He waits there with the Thirty-Mile Woman for Sixo and Paul A. Only Sixo shows up,his wrists bleeding, his tongue licking his lips like a flame.
　　"You see Paul A?""No.""Halle?""No.""No sign of them?""No sign. Nobody in quarters but the children.""Sethe?""Her children sleep. She must be there still.""I can't leave without Paul A.""I can't help you.""Should I go back and look for them?""I can't help you.""What you think?""I think they go straight to the corn."
Chapter 57
    Sixo turns, then, to the woman and they clutch each other and whisper. She is lit now with someglowing, some shining that comes from inside her. Before when she knelt on creek pebbles withPaul D, she was nothing, a shape in the dark breathing lightly. Sixo is about to crawl out to lookfor the knives he buried. He hears something. He hears nothing. Forget the knives. Now. The threeof them climb up the bank and schoolteacher, his pupils and four other whitemen move towardthem. With lamps. Sixo pushes the Thirty-Mile Woman and she runs further on in the creekbed.
　　Paul D and Sixo run the other way toward the woods. Both are surrounded and tied.
　　The air gets sweet then. Perfumed by the things honeybees love. Tied like a mule, Paul D feelshow dewy and inviting the grass is. He is thinking about that and where Paul A might be whenSixo turns and grabs the mouth of the nearest pointing rifle. He begins to sing. Two others shovePaul D and tie him to a tree. Schoolteacher is saying, "Alive. Alive. I want him alive." Sixo swingsand cracks the ribs of one, but with bound hands cannot get the weapon in position to use it in anyother way. All the whitemen have to do is wait. For his song, perhaps, to end? Five guns aretrained on him while they listen. Paul D cannot see them when they step away from lamplight.
　　Finally one of them hits Sixo in the head with his rifle, and when he comes to, a hickory fire is infront of him and he is tied at the waist to a tree. Schoolteacher has changed his mind: "This onewill never be suitable." The song must have convinced him.
　　The fire keeps failing and the whitemen are put out with themselves at not being prepared for thisemergency. They came to capture, not kill. What they can manage is only enough for cooking hominy. Dry faggots are scarce and the grass is slick with dew.
　　By the light of the hominy fire Sixo straightens. He is through with his song. He laughs. A ripplingsound like Sethe's sons make when they tumble in hay or splash in rainwater. His feet are cooking;the cloth of his trousers smokes. He laughs. Something is funny. Paul D guesses what it is whenSixo interrupts his laughter to call out, "Seven-O! Seven-O!"Smoky, stubborn fire. They shoot him to shut him up. Have to. Shackled, walking through theperfumed things honeybees love, Paul D hears the men talking and for the first time learns hisworth. He has always known, or believed he did, his value — as a hand, a laborer who could makeprofit on a farm — but now he discovers his worth, which is to say he learns his price. The dollarvalue of his weight, his strength, his heart, his brain, his penis, and his future. As soon as thewhitemen get to where they have tied their horses and mount them, they are calmer, talking amongthemselves about the difficulty they face. The problems. Voices remind schoolteacher about thespoiling these particular slaves have had at Garner's hands. There's laws against what he done:
　　letting niggers hire out their own time to buy themselves. He even let em have guns! And youthink he mated them niggers to get him some more? Hell no! He planned for them to marry! if thatdon't beat all! Schoolteacher sighs, and says doesn't he know it? He had come to put the placearight. Now it faced greater ruin than what Garner left for it, because of the loss of two niggers, atthe least, and maybe three because he is not sure they will find the one called Halle. The sister-inlawis too weak to help out and doggone if now there ain't a full-scale stampede on his hands. Hewould have to trade this here one for $900 if he could get it, and set out to secure the breeding one,her foal and the other one, if he found him. With the money from "this here one" he could get twoyoung ones, twelve or fifteen years old. And maybe with the breeding one, her three pickaninniesand whatever the foal might be, he and his nephews would have seven niggers and Sweet Homewould be worth the trouble it was causing him.
　　"Look to you like Lillian gonna make it?""Touch and go. Touch and go.""You was married to her sister-in-law, wasn't you?""I was.""She frail too?""A bit. Fever took her.""Well, you don't need to stay no widower in these parts.""My cogitation right now is Sweet Home.""Can't say as I blame you. That's some spread."They put a three-spoke collar on him so he can't lie down and they chain his ankles together. Thenumber he heard with his ear is now in his head. Two. Two? Two niggers lost? Paul D thinks hisheart is jumping. They are going to look for Halle, not Paul A. They must have found Paul A and ifa whiteman finds you it means you are surely lost.
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    Schoolteacher looks at him for a long time before he closes the door of the cabin. Carefully, helooks. Paul D does not look back. It is sprinkling now. A teasing August rain that raisesexpectations it cannot fill. He thinks he should have sung along. Loud something loud and rollingto go with Sixo's tune, but the words put him off — he didn't understand the words. Although itshouldn't have mattered because he understood the sound: hatred so loose it was juba. The warmsprinkle comes and goes, comes and goes. He thinks he hears sobbing that seems to come fromMrs. Garner's window, but it could be anything, anyone, even a she-cat making her yearningknown. Tired of holding his head up, he lets his chin rest on the collar and speculates on how hecan hobble over to the grate, boil a little water and throw in a handful of meal. That's what he isdoing when Sethe comes in, rain-wet and big-bellied, saying she is going to cut. She has just comeback from taking her children to the corn. The whites were not around. She couldn't find Halle.
　　Who was caught? Did Sixo get away? Paul A?
　　He tells her what he knows: Sixo is dead; the Thirty-Mile Woman ran, and he doesn't know whathappened to Paul A or Halle. "Where could he be?" she asks.
　　Paul D shrugs because he can't shake his head.
　　"You saw Sixo die? You sure?""I'm sure.""Was he woke when it happened? Did he see it coming?""He was woke. Woke and laughing.""Sixo laughed?""You should have heard him, Sethe."Sethe's dress steams before the little fire over which he is boiling water. It is hard to move aboutwith shackled ankles and the neck jewelry embarrasses him. In his shame he avoids her eyes, butwhen he doesn't he sees only black in them — no whites. She says she is going, and he thinks shewill never make it to the gate, but he doesn't dissuade her. He knows he will never see her again,and right then and there his heart stopped.
　　The pupils must have taken her to the barn for sport right afterward, and when she told Mrs.
　　Garner, they took down the cowhide.
　　Who in hell or on this earth would have thought that she would cut anyway? They must havebelieved, what with her belly and her back, that she wasn't going anywhere. He wasn't surprised tolearn that they had tracked her down in Cincinnati, because, when he thought about it now, herprice was greater than his; property that reproduced itself without cost.
　　Remembering his own price, down to the cent, that schoolteacher was able to get for him, hewondered what Sethe's would have been. What had Baby Suggs' been? How much did Halle owe,still, besides his labor? What did Mrs. Garner get for Paul F? More than nine hundred dollars?
　　How much more? Ten dollars? Twenty? Schoolteacher would know. He knew the worth ofeverything. It accounted for the real sorrow in his voice when he pronounced Sixo unsuitable. Whocould be fooled into buying a singing nigger with a gun ? Shouting Seven-O! Seven-O! becausehis Thirty-Mile Woman got away with his blossoming seed. What a laugh. So rippling and full ofglee it put out the fire. And it was Sixo's laughter that was on his mind, not the bit in his mouth,when they hitched him to the buckboard. Then he saw Halle, then the rooster, smiling as if to say,You ain't seen nothing yet. How could a rooster know about Alfred, Georgia?
　　"HOWDY."
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    Stamp Paid was still fingering the ribbon and it made a little motion in his pants pocket.
　　Paul D looked up, noticed the side pocket agitation and snorted. "I can't read. You got any morenewspaper for me, just a waste of time."Stamp withdrew the ribbon and sat down on the steps. "No. This here's something else." Hestroked the red cloth between forefinger and thumb. "Something else."Paul D didn't say anything so the two men sat in silence for a few moments.
　　"This is hard for me," said Stamp. "But I got to do it. Two things I got to say to you. I'm a take theeasy one first."Paul D chuckled. "If it's hard for you, might kill me dead.""No, no. Nothing like that. I come looking for you to ask your pardon. Apologize.""For what?" Paul D reached in his coat pocket for his bottle. "You pick any house, any housewhere colored live. In all of Cincinnati. Pick any and you welcome to stay there. I'mapologizingbecausetheydidn'tofferortellyou.Butyou(one) welcome anywhere you want to be. Myhouse is your house too. John and Ella, Miss Lady, Able Woodruff, Willie Pike — anybody. Youchoose. You ain't got to sleep in no cellar, and I apologize for each and every night you did. I don'tknow how that preacher let you do it. I knowed him since he was a boy.""Whoa, Stamp. He offered.""Did? Well?""Well. I wanted, I didn't want to, I just wanted to be off by myself a spell. He offered. Every time Isee him he offers again.""That's a load off. I thought everybody gone crazy."Paul D shook his head. "Just me.""You planning to do anything about it?""Oh, yeah. I got big plans." He swallowed twice from the bottle. Any planning in a bottle is short,thought Stamp, but he knew from personal experience the pointlessness of telling a drinking mannot to. He cleared his sinuses and began to think how to get to the second thing he had come tosay. Very few people were out today. The canal was frozen so that traffic too had stopped. Theyheard the dop of a horse approaching. Its rider sat a high Eastern saddle but everything else abouthim was Ohio Valley. As he rode by he looked at them and suddenly reined his horse, and came upto the path leading to the church. He leaned forward.
　　"Hey," he said.
　　Stamp put his ribbon in his pocket. "Yes, sir?""I'm looking for a gal name of Judy. Works over by the slaughterhouse.""Don't believe I know her. No, sir.""Said she lived on Plank Road.""Plank Road. Yes, sir. That's up a ways. Mile, maybe.""You don't know her? Judy. Works in the slaughterhouse.""No, sir, but I know Plank Road. 'Bout a mile up thataway."Paul D lifted his bottle and swallowed. The rider looked at him and then back at Stamp Paid.
　　Loosening the right rein, he turned his horse toward the road, then changed his mind and cameback.
　　"Look here," he said to Paul D. "There's a cross up there, so I guess this here's a church or used tobe. Seems to me like you ought to show it some respect, you follow me?""Yes, sir," said Stamp. "You right about that. That's just what I come over to talk to him about. Justthat."
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    The rider clicked his tongue and trotted off. Stamp made small circles in the palm of his left handwith two fingers of his right. "You got to choose," he said. "Choose anyone. They let you be if youwant em to. My house. Ella. Willie Pike. None of us got much, but all of us got room for one more.
　　Pay a little something when you can, don't when you can't. Think about it. You grown. I can'tmake you do what you won't, but think about it."Paul D said nothing.
　　"If I did you harm, I'm here to rectify it.""No need for that. No need at all."A woman with four children walked by on the other side of the road. She waved, smiling. "Hoooo.
　　I can't stop. See you at meeting.""I be there," Stamp returned her greeting. "There's another one," he said to Paul D. "ScriptureWoodruff, Able's sister. Works at the brush and tallow factory. You'll see. Stay around here longenough, you'll see ain't a sweeter bunch of colored anywhere than what's right here. Pride, well,that bothers em a bit. They can get messy when they think somebody's too proud, but when itcomes right down to it, they good people and anyone will take you in.""What about Judy? She take me in?""Depends. What you got in mind?""You know Judy?""Judith. I know everybody.""Out on Plank Road?""Everybody.""Well? She take me in?"Stamp leaned down and untied his shoe. Twelve black buttonhooks, six on each side at the bottom,led to four pairs of eyes at the top. He loosened the laces all the way down, adjusted the tonguecarefully and wound them back again. When he got to the eyes he rolled the lace tips with hisfingers before inserting them. "Let me tell you how I got my name." The knot was tight and so wasthe bow. "They called me Joshua," he said. "I renamed myself," he said, "and I'm going to tell youwhy I did it," and he told him about Vashti. "I never touched her all that time. Not once. Almost a year. We was planting when it started and picking when it stopped. Seemed longer. I should havekilled him. She said no, but I should have. I didn't have the patience I got now, but I figured maybesomebody else didn't have much patience either — his own wife. Took it in my head to see if shewas taking it any better than I was. Vashti and me was in the fields together in the day and everynow and then she be gone all night. I never touched her and damn me if I spoke three words to hera day. I took any chance I had to get near the great house to see her, the young master's wife.
　　Nothing but a boy. Seventeen, twenty maybe. I caught sight of her finally, standing in the backyardby the fence with a glass of water. She was drinking out of it and just gazing out over the yard. Iwent over. Stood back a ways and took off my hat. I said, 'Scuse me, miss. Scuse me?' She turnedto look. I'm smiling. 'Scuse me. You seen Vashti? My wife Vashti?' A little bitty thing, she was.
　　Black hair. Face no bigger than my hand. She said, "What? Vashti?' I say, 'Yes'm, Vashti. Mywife. She say she owe you all some eggs. You know if she brung em? You know her if you seeher. Wear a black ribbon on her neck.' She got rosy then and I knowed she knowed. He give Vashtithat to wear. A cameo on a black ribbon. She used to put it on every time she went to him. I put myhat back on. 'You see her tell her I need her. Thank you. Thank you, ma'am.' I backed off beforeshe could say something. I didn't dare look back till I got behind some trees. She was standing justas I left her, looking in her water glass. I thought it would give me more satisfaction than it did. Ialso thought she might stop it, but it went right on. Till one morning Vashti came in and sat by thewindow. A Sunday. We worked our own patches on Sunday. She sat by the window looking out ofit. 'I'm back,' she said. 'I'm back, Josh.' I looked at the back of her neck. She had a real small neck.
　　I decided to break it. You know, like a twig — just snap it. I been low but that was as low as I evergot.""Did you? Snap it?""Uh uh. I changed my name.""How you get out of there? How you get up here?""Boat. On up the Mississippi to Memphis. Walked from Memphis to Cumberland.""Vashti too?""No. She died.""Aw, man. Tie your other shoe!""What?""Tie your goddamn shoe! It's sitting right in front of you!
　　Tie it!""That make you feel better?""No." Paul D tossed the bottle on the ground and stared at the golden chariot on its label. Nohorses. Just a golden coach draped in blue cloth.
　　"I said I had two things to say to you. I only told you one. I have to tell you the other.""I don't want to know it. I don't want to know nothing. Just if Judy will take me in or won't she.""I was there, Paul D.""You was where?""There in the yard. When she did it.""Judy?""Sethe.""Jesus.""It ain't what you think.""You don't know what I think.""She ain't crazy. She love those children. She was trying to out hurt the hurter.""Leave off.""And spread it.""Stamp, let me off. I knew her when she was a girl. She scares me and I knew her when she was agirl.""You ain't scared of Sethe. I don't believe you.""Sethe scares me. I scare me. And that girl in her house scares me the most.""Who is that girl? Where she come from?""I don't know. Just shot up one day sitting on a stump." "Huh. Look like you and me the only onesoutside 124 lay eyes on her.""She don't go nowhere. Where'd you see her?""Sleeping on the kitchen floor. I peeped in.""First minute I saw her I didn't want to be nowhere around her. Something funny about her. Talksfunny. Acts funny." Paul D dug his fingers underneath his cap and rubbed the scalp over histemple. "She reminds me of something. Something, look like, I'm supposed to remember.""She never say where she was from? Where's her people?""She don't know, or says she don't. All I ever heard her say was something about stealing herclothes and living on a bridge." "What kind of bridge?""Who you asking?""No bridges around here I don't know about. But don't nobody live on em. Under em neither. Howlong she been over there with Sethe?""Last August. Day of the carnival.""That's a bad sign. Was she at the carnival?""No. When we got back, there she was — 'sleep on a stump. Silk dress. Brand-new shoes. Black asoil.""You don't say? Huh. Was a girl locked up in the house with a whiteman over by Deer Creek.
　　Found him dead last summer and the girl gone. Maybe that's her. Folks say he had her in theresince she was a pup.""Well, now she's a bitch.""Is she what run you off? Not what I told you 'bout Sethe?"A shudder ran through Paul D. A bone-cold spasm that made him clutch his knees. He didn't knowif it was bad whiskey, nights in the cellar, pig fever, iron bits, smiling roosters, fired feet, laughingdead men, hissing grass, rain, apple blossoms, neck jewelry, Judy in the slaughterhouse, Halle inthe butter, ghost-white stairs, chokecherry trees, cameo pins, aspens, Paul A's face, sausage or theloss of a red, red heart.
　　"Tell me something, Stamp." Paul D's eyes were rheumy. "Tell me this one thing. How much is anigger supposed to take? Tell me. How much?""All he can," said Stamp Paid. "All he can.""why? Why? Why? Why? Why?"
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    124 WAS QUIET. 
    Denver, who thought she knew all about silence, was surprised to learn hungercould do that: quiet you down and wear you out. Neither Sethe nor Beloved knew or cared about itone way or another. They were too busy rationing their strength to fight each other. So it was shewho had to step off the edge of the world and die because if she didn't, they all would. The fleshbetween her mother's forefinger and thumb was thin as china silk and there wasn't a piece ofclothing in the house that didn't sag on her. Beloved held her head up with the palms of her hands,slept wherever she happened to be, and whined for sweets although she was getting bigger,plumper by the day. Everything was gone except two laying hens, and somebody would soon haveto decide whether an egg every now and then was worth more than two fried chickens. Thehungrier they got, the weaker; the weaker they got, the quieter they were — which was better thanthe furious arguments, the poker slammed up against the wall, all the shouting and crying thatfollowed that one happy January when they played. Denver had joined in the play, holding back abit out of habit, even though it was the most fun she had ever known. But once Sethe had seen thescar, the tip of which Denver had been looking at whenever Beloved undressed — the little curvedshadow of a smile in the kootchy-kootchy-coo place under her chin — once Sethe saw it, fingeredit and closed her eyes for a long time, the two of them cut Denver out of the games. The cookinggames, the sewing games, the hair and dressing-up games. Games her mother loved so well shetook to going to work later and later each day until the predictable happened: Sawyer told her notto come back. And instead of looking for another job, Sethe played all the harder with Beloved,who never got enough of anything: lullabies, new stitches, the bottom of the cake bowl, the top ofthe milk. If the hen had only two eggs, she got both. It was as though her mother had lost her mind,like Grandma Baby calling for pink and not doing the things she used to. But different because,unlike Baby Suggs, she cut Denver out completely. Even the song that she used to sing to Denvershe sang for Beloved alone: "High Johnny, wide Johnny, don't you leave my side, Johnny."At first they played together. A whole month and Denver loved it. From the night they ice-skatedunder a star-loaded sky and drank sweet milk by the stove, to the string puzzles Sethe did for themin afternoon light, and shadow pictures in the gloaming. In the very teeth of winter and Sethe, hereyes fever bright, was plotting a garden of vegetables and flowers — talking, talking about whatcolors it would have. She played with Beloved's hair, braiding, puffing, tying, oiling it until itmade Denver nervous to watch her They changed beds and exchanged clothes. Walked arm in armand smiled all the time. When the weather broke, they were on their knees in the backyarddesigning a garden in dirt too hard to chop. The thirty-eight dollars of life savings went to feedthemselves with fancy food and decorate themselves with ribbon and dress goods, which Sethe cutand sewed like they were going somewhere in a hurry. Bright clothes — with blue stripes andsassy prints. She walked the four miles to John Shillito's to buy yellow ribbon, shiny buttons andbits of black lace. By the end of March the three of them looked like carnival women with nothingto do. When it became clear that they were only interested in each other, Denver began to driftfrom the play, but she watched it, alert for any sign that Beloved was in danger. Finally convincedthere was none, and seeing her mother that happy, that smiling — how could it go wrong? — shelet down her guard and it did. Her problem at first was trying to find out who was to blame. Hereye was on her mother, for a signal that the thing that was in her was out, and she would kill again.
　　But it was Beloved who made demands. Anything she wanted she got, and when Sethe ran out ofthings to give her, Beloved invented desire. She wanted Sethe's company for hours to watch thelayer of brown leaves waving at them from the bottom of the creek, in the same place where, as alittle girl, Denver played in the silence with her. Now the players were altered. As soon as the thawwas complete Beloved gazed at her gazing face, rippling, folding, spreading, disappearing into theleaves below. She flattened herself on the ground, dirtying her bold stripes, and touched therocking faces with her own. She filled basket after basket with the first things warmer weather letloose in the ground — dandelions, violets, forsythia — presenting them to Sethe, who arrangedthem, stuck them, wound them all over the house. Dressed in Sethe's dresses, she stroked her skinwith the palm of her hand. She imitated Sethe, talked the way she did, laughed her laugh and usedher body the same way down to the walk, the way Sethe moved her hands, sighed through hernose, held her head. Sometimes coming upon them making men and women cookies or tackingscraps of cloth on Baby Suggs' old quilt, it was difficult for Denver to tell who was who. Then themood changed and the arguments began. Slowly at first. A complaint from Beloved, an apologyfrom Sethe. A reduction of pleasure at some special effort the older woman made. Wasn't it toocold to stay outside? Beloved gave a look that said, So what? Was it past bedtime, the light nogood for sewing? Beloved didn't move; said, "Do it," and Sethe complied. She took the best ofeverything — first. The best chair, the biggest piece, the prettiest plate, the brightest ribbon for herhair, and the more she took, the more Sethe began to talk, explain, describe how much she hadsuffered, been through, for her children, waving away flies in grape arbors, crawling on her kneesto a lean-to. None of which made the impression it was supposed to. Beloved accused her ofleaving her behind. Of not being nice to her, not smiling at her. She said they were the same, hadthe same face, how could she have left her? And Sethe cried, saying she never did, or meant to —-that she had to get them out, away, that she had the milk all the time and had the money too forthe stone but not enough. That her plan was always that they would all be together on the otherside, forever. Beloved wasn't interested. She said when she cried there was no one. That dead menlay on top of her. That she had nothing to eat. Ghosts without skin stuck their fingers in her andsaid beloved in the dark and bitch in the light. Sethe pleaded for forgiveness, counting, listingagain and again her reasons: that Beloved was more important, meant more to her than her ownlife. That she would trade places any day. Give up her life, every minute and hour of it, to takeback just one of Beloved's tears. Did she know it hurt her when mosquitoes bit her baby? That toleave her on the ground to run into the big house drove her crazy? That before leaving SweetHome Beloved slept every night on her chest or curled on her back? Beloved denied it. Sethe nevercame to her, never said a word to her, never smiled and worst of all never waved goodbye or evenlooked her way before running away from her.
Chapter 62
    When once or twice Sethe tried to assert herself — be the unquestioned mother whose word waslaw and who knew what was best — Beloved slammed things, wiped the table clean of plates,threw salt on the floor, broke a windowpane.
　　She was not like them. She was wild game, and nobody said, Get on out of here, girl, and comeback when you get some sense. Nobody said, You raise your hand to me and I will knock you intothe middle of next week. Ax the trunk, the limb will die. Honor thy mother and father that thy daysmay be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee. I will wrap you round that doorknob, don't nobody work for you and God don't love ugly ways.
　　No, no. They mended the plates, swept the salt, and little by little it dawned on Denver that if Sethedidn't wake up one morning and pick up a knife, Beloved might. Frightened as she was by thething in Sethe that could come out, it shamed her to see her mother serving a girl not much olderthan herself. When she saw her carrying out Beloved's night bucket, Denver raced to relieve her ofit. But the pain was unbearable when they ran low on food, and Denver watched her mother gowithout — pick-eating around the edges of the table and stove: the hominy that stuck on thebottom; the crusts and rinds and peelings of things. Once she saw her run her longest finger deep inan empty jam jar before rinsing and putting it away.
　　They grew tired, and even Beloved, who was getting bigger, seemed nevertheless as exhausted asthey were. In any case she substituted a snarl or a tooth-suck for waving a poker around and 124was quiet. Listless and sleepy with hunger Denver saw the flesh between her mother's forefingerand thumb fade. Saw Sethe's eyes bright but dead, alert but vacant, paying attention to everythingabout Beloved — her lineless palms, her forehead, the smile under her jaw, crooked and much toolong — everything except her basket-fat stomach. She also saw the sleeves of her own carnivalshirtwaist cover her fingers; hems that once showed her ankles now swept the floor. She sawthemselves beribboned, decked-out, limp and starving but locked in a love that wore everybodyout. Then Sethe spit up something she had not eaten and it rocked Denver like gunshot. The jobshe started out with, protecting Beloved from Sethe, changed to protecting her mother fromBeloved. Now it was obvious that her mother could die and leave them both and what wouldBeloved do then? Whatever was happening, it only worked with three — not two — and sinceneither Beloved nor Sethe seemed to care what the next day might bring (Sethe happy whenBeloved was; Beloved lapping devotion like cream), Denver knew it was on her. She would haveto leave the yard; step off the edge of the world, leave the two behind and go ask somebody forhelp.
　　Who would it be? Who could she stand in front of who wouldn't shame her on learning that hermother sat around like a rag doll, broke down, finally, from trying to take care of and make up for.
　　Denver knew about several people, from hearing her mother and grandmother talk. But she knew,personally, only two: an old man with white hair called Stamp and Lady Jones. Well, Paul D, ofcourse. And that boy who told her about Sethe. But they wouldn't do at all. Her heart kicked and anitchy burning in her throat made her swallow all her saliva away. She didn't even know which wayto go. When Sethe used to work at the restaurant and when she still had money to shop, she turnedright. Back when Denver went to Lady Jones' school, it was left.
　　The weather was warm; the day beautiful. It was April and everything alive was tentative. Denverwrapped her hair and her shoulders. In the brightest of the carnival dresses and wearing a stranger'sshoes, she stood on the porch of 124 ready to be swallowed up in the world beyond the edge of theporch. Out there where small things scratched and sometimes touched. Where words could bespoken that would close your ears shut. Where, if you were alone, feeling could overtake you andstick to you like a shadow. Out there where there were places in which things so bad had happenedthat when you went near them it would happen again. Like Sweet Home where time didn't pass and where, like her mother said, the bad was waiting for her as well. How would she know theseplaces? What was more — much more — -out there were whitepeople and how could you tellabout them? Sethe said the mouth and sometimes the hands. Grandma Baby said there was nodefense — they could prowl at will, change from one mind to another, and even when they thoughtthey were behaving, it was a far cry from what real humans did.
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    "They got me out of jail," Sethe once told Baby Suggs.
　　"They also put you in it," she answered.
　　"They drove you 'cross the river.""On my son's back.""They gave you this house.""Nobody gave me nothing.""I got a job from them.""He got a cook from them, girl.""Oh, some of them do all right by us.""And every time it's a surprise, ain't it?""You didn't used to talk this way.""Don't box with me. There's more of us they drowned than there is all of them ever lived from thestart of time. Lay down your sword. This ain't a battle; it's a rout."Remembering those conversations and her grandmother's last and final words, Denver stood on theporch in the sun and couldn't leave it. Her throat itched; her heart kicked — and then Baby Suggslaughed, clear as anything. "You mean I never told you nothing about Carolina? About yourdaddy? You don't remember nothing about how come I walk the way I do and about your mother'sfeet, not to speak of her back? I never told you all that? Is that why you can't walk down the steps?
　　My Jesus my."But you said there was no defense.
　　"There ain't."Then what do I do?
　　"Know it, and go on out the yard. Go on."* * *It came back. A dozen years had passed and the way came back. Four houses on the right, sittingclose together in a line like wrens. The first house had two steps and a rocking chair on the porch;the second had three steps, a broom propped on the porch beam, two broken chairs and a clump offorsythia at the side. No window at the front. A little boy sat on the ground chewing a stick. Thethird house had yellow shutters on its two front windows and pot after pot of green leaves withwhite hearts or red. Denver could hear chickens and the knock of a badly hinged gate. At thefourth house the buds of a sycamore tree had rained down on the roof and made the yard look asthough grass grew there. A woman, standing at the open door, lifted her hand halfway in greeting,then froze it near her shoulder as she leaned forward to see whom she waved to. Denver loweredher head. Next was a tiny fenced plot with a cow in it. She remembered the plot but not the cow.
　　Under her headcloth her scalp was wet with tension. Beyond her, voices, male voices, floated,coming closer with each step she took. Denver kept her eyes on the road in case they werewhitemen; in case she was walking where they wanted to; in case they said something and shewould have to answer them. Suppose they flung out at her, grabbed her, tied her. They weregetting closer. Maybe she should cross the road — now. Was the woman who half waved at herstill there in the open door? Would she come to her rescue, or, angry at Denver for not wavingback, would she withhold her help? Maybe she should turn around, get closer to the wavingwoman's house. Before she could make up her mind, it was too late — they were right in front ofher. Two men, Negro. Denver breathed. Both men touched their caps and murmured, "Morning.
　　Morning." Denver believed her eyes spoke gratitude but she never got her mouth open in time toreply. They moved left of her and passed on.
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    Braced and heartened by that easy encounter, she picked up speed and began to look deliberately atthe neighborhood surrounding her. She was shocked to see how small the big things were: theboulder by the edge of the road she once couldn't see over was a sitting-on rock. Paths leading tohouses weren't miles long. Dogs didn't even reach her knees. Letters cut into beeches and oaks bygiants were eye level now.
　　She would have known it anywhere. The post and scrap-lumber fence was gray now, not white, butshe would have known it anywhere. The stone porch sitting in a skirt of ivy, pale yellow curtains atthe windows; the laid brick path to the front door and wood planks leading around to the back,passing under the windows where she had stood on tiptoe to see above the sill. Denver was aboutto do it again, when she realized how silly it would be to be found once more staring into the parlorof Mrs. Lady Jones. The pleasure she felt at having found the house dissolved, suddenly, in doubt.
　　Suppose she didn't live there anymore? Or remember her former student after all this time? Whatwould she say? Denver shivered inside, wiped the perspiration from her forehead and knocked.
　　Lady Jones went to the door expecting raisins. A child, probably, from the softness of the knock,sent by its mother with the raisins she needed if her contribution to the supper was to be worth thetrouble. There would be any number of plain cakes, potato pies. She had reluctantly volunteered her own special creation, but said she didn't have raisins, so raisins is what the president saidwould be provided — early enough so there would be no excuses. Mrs. Jones, dreading the fatigueof beating batter, had been hoping she had forgotten. Her bake oven had been cold all week —getting it to the right temperature would be awful. Since her husband died and her eyes grew dim,she had let up-to-snuff housekeeping fall away. She was of two minds about baking something forthe church. On the one hand, she wanted to remind everybody of what she was able to do in thecooking line; on the other, she didn't want to have to. When she heard the tapping at the door, shesighed and went to it hoping the raisins had at least been cleaned.
　　She was older, of course, and dressed like a chippy, but the girl was immediately recognizable toLady Jones. Everybody's child was in that face: the nickel-round eyes, bold yet mistrustful; thelarge powerful teeth between dark sculptured lips that did not cover them. Some vulnerability layacross the bridge of the nose, above the cheeks. And then the skin. Flawless, economical — justenough of it to cover the bone and not a bit more. She must be eighteen or nineteen by now,thought Lady Jones, looking at the face young enough to be twelve. Heavy eyebrows, thick babylashes and the unmistakable love call that shimmered around children until they learned better.
　　"Why, Denver," she said. "Look at you."Lady Jones had to take her by the hand and pull her in, because the smile seemed all the girl couldmanage. Other people said this child was simple, but Lady Jones never believed it. Having taughther, watched her eat up a page, a rule, a figure, she knew better. When suddenly she had stoppedcoming, Lady Jones thought it was the nickel. She approached the ignorant grandmother one dayon the road, a woods preacher who mended shoes, to tell her it was all right if the money wasowed. The woman said that wasn't it; the child was deaf, and deaf Lady Jones thought she still wasuntil she offered her a seat and Denver heard that.
　　"It's nice of you to come see me. What brings you?"Denver didn't answer.
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    "Well, nobody needs a reason to visit. Let me make us some tea." Lady Jones was mixed. Grayeyes and yellow woolly hair, every strand of which she hated — though whether it was the color orthe texture even she didn't know. She had married the blackest man she could find, had fiverainbow-colored children and sent them all to Wilberforce, after teaching them all she knew rightalong with the others who sat in her parlor. Her light skin got her picked for a coloredgirls', normalschool in Pennsylvania and she paid it back by teaching the unpicked. The children who played indirt until they were old enough for chores, these she taught. The colored population of Cincinnatihad two graveyards and six churches, but since no school or hospital was obliged to serve them,they learned and died at home. She believed in her heart that, except for her husband, the wholeworld (including her children) despised her and her hair. She had been listening to "all that yellowgone to waste" and "white nigger" since she was a girl in a houseful of silt-black children, so shedisliked everybody a little bit because she believed they hated her hair as much as she did. Withthat education pat and firmly set, she dispensed with rancor, was indiscriminately polite, saving herreal affection for the unpicked children of Cincinnati, one of whom sat before her in a dress so loud it embarrassed the needlepoint chair seat.
　　"Sugar?""Yes. Thank you." Denver drank it all down.
　　"More?""No, ma'am.""Here. Go ahead.""Yes, ma'am.""How's your family, honey?"Denver stopped in the middle of a swallow. There was no way to tell her how her family was, so she said what was at the top of her mind.
　　"I want work, Miss Lady.""Work?""Yes, ma'am. Anything."Lady Jones smiled. "What can you do?""I can't do anything, but I would learn it for you if you have a little extra.""Extra?""Food. My ma'am, she doesn't feel good.""Oh, baby," said Mrs. Jones. "Oh, baby."Denver looked up at her. She did not know it then, but it was the word "baby," said softly and withsuch kindness, that inaugurated her life in the world as a woman. The trail she followed to get tothat sweet thorny place was made up of paper scraps containing the handwritten names of others.
　　Lady Jones gave her some rice, four eggs and some tea. Denver said she couldn't be away fromhome long because of her mother's condition. Could she do chores in the morning? Lady Jonestold her that no one, not herself, not anyone she knew, could pay anybody anything for work theydid themselves. "But if you all need to eat until your mother is well, all you have to do is say so."She mentioned her church's committee invented so nobody had to go hungry. That agitated herguest who said, "No, no," as though asking for help from strangers was worse than hunger. Lady Jones said goodbye to her and asked her to come back anytime. "Anytime at all."Two days later Denver stood on the porch and noticed something lying on the tree stump at theedge of the yard. She went to look and found a sack of white beans. Another time a plate of coldrabbit meat. One morning a basket of eggs sat there. As she lifted it, a slip of paper fluttered down.
　　She picked it up and looked at it. "M. Lucille Williams" was written in big crooked letters. On theback was a blob of flour-water paste. So Denver paid a second visit to the world outside the porch,although all she said when she returned the basket was "Thank you.""Welcome," said M. Lucille Williams.
　　Every now and then, all through the spring, names appeared near or in gifts of food. Obviously forthe return of the pan or plate or basket; but also to let the girl know, if she cared to, who the donorwas, because some of the parcels were wrapped in paper, and though there was nothing to return,the name was nevertheless there. Many had X's with designs about them, and Lady Jones tried toidentify the plate or pan or the covering towel. When she could only guess, Denver followed herdirections and went to say thank you anywaym whether she had the right benefactor or not. Whenshe was wrong, when the person said, "No, darling. That's not my bowl. Mine's got a blue ring onit," a small conversation took place. All of them knew her grandmother and some had even dancedwith her in the Clearing. Others remembered the days when 124 was a way station, the place theyassembled to catch news, taste oxtail soup, leave their children, cut out a skirt. One rememberedthe tonic mixed there that cured a relative. One showed her the border of a pillowslip, the stamensof its pale blue flowers French-knotted in Baby Suggs' kitchen by the light of an oil lamp whilearguing the Settlement Fee. They remembered the party with twelve turkeys and tubs of strawberrysmash. One said she wrapped Denver when she was a single day old and cut shoes to fit hermother's blasted feet. Maybe they were sorry for her. Or for Sethe. Maybe they were sorry for theyears of their own disdain. Maybe they were simply nice people who could hold meanness towardeach other for just so long and when trouble rode bareback among them, quickly, easily they didwhat they could to trip him up. In any case, the personal pride, the arrogant claim staked out at 124seemed to them to have run its course. They whispered, naturally, wondered, shook their heads.
　　Some even laughed outright at Denver's clothes of a hussy, but it didn't stop them caring whethershe ate and it didn't stop the pleasure they took in her soft "Thank you."
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    At least once a week, she visited Lady Jones, who perked up enough to do a raisin loaf especiallyfor her, since Denver was set on sweet things. She gave her a book of Bible verse and listenedwhile she mumbled words or fairly shouted them. By June Denver had read and memorized allfifty-two pages — one for each week of the year. As Denver's outside life improved, her home lifedeteriorated. If the whitepeople of Cincinnati had allowed Negroes into their lunatic asylum theycould have found candidates in 124. Strengthened by the gifts of food, the source of which neitherSethe nor Beloved questioned, the women had arrived at a doomsday truce designed by the devil.
　　Beloved sat around, ate, went from bed to bed. Sometimes she screamed, "Rain! Rain!" andclawed her throat until rubies of blood opened there, made brighter by her midnight skin. ThenSethe shouted, "No!" and knocked over chairs to get to her and wipe the jewels away. Other timesBeloved curled up on the floor, her wrists between her knees, and stayed there for hours. Or she would go to the creek, stick her feet in the water and whoosh it up her legs. Afrerward she wouldgo to Sethe, run her fingers over the woman's teeth while tears slid from her wide black eyes. Thenit seemed to Denver the thing was done: Beloved bending over Sethe looked the mother, Sethe theteething child, for other than those times when Beloved needed her, Sethe confined herself to acorner chair. The bigger Beloved got, the smaller Sethe became; the brighter Beloved's eyes, themore those eyes that used never to look away became slits of sleeplessness. Sethe no longercombed her hair or splashed her face with water. She sat in the chair licking her lips like achastised child while Beloved ate up her life, took it, swelled up with it, grew taller on it. And theolder woman yielded it up without a murmur. Denver served them both. Washing, cooking,forcing, cajoling her mother to eat a little now and then, providing sweet things for Beloved asoften as she could to calm her down. It was hard to know what she would do from minute tominute. When the heat got hot, she might walk around the house naked or wrapped in a sheet, herbelly protruding like a winning watermelon.
　　Denver thought she understood the connection between her mother and Beloved: Sethe was tryingto make up for the handsaw; Beloved was making her pay for it. But there would never be an endto that, and seeing her mother diminished shamed and infuriated her. Yet she knew Sethe's greatestfear was the same one Denver had in the beginning — that Beloved might leave. That before Sethecould make her understand what it meant — what it took to drag the teeth of that saw under thelittle chin; to feel the baby blood pump like oil in her hands; to hold her face so her head wouldstay on; to squeeze her so she could absorb, still, the death spasms that shot through that adoredbody, plump and sweet with life — Beloved might leave. Leave before Sethe could make herrealize that worse than that — far worse — was what Baby Suggs died of, what Ella knew, whatStamp saw and what made Paul D tremble. That anybody white could take your whole self foranything that came to mind. Not just work, kill, or maim you, but dirty you. Dirty you so bad youcouldn't like yourself anymore. Dirty you so bad you forgot who you were and couldn't think it up.
　　And though she and others lived through and got over it, she could never let it happen to her own.
　　The best thing she was, was her children. Whites might dirty bet all right, but not her best thing,her beautiful, magical best thing — the part of her that was cl ean. No undreamable dreams aboutwhether the headless, feetless torso hanging in the tree with a sign on it was her husband or PaulA; whether the bubbling-hot girls in the colored-school fire set by patriots included her daughter;whether a gang of whites invaded her daughter's private parts, soiled her daughter's thighs andthrew her daughter out of the wagon. She might have to work the slaughterhouse yard, but not herdaughter.
　　And no one, nobody on this earth, would list her daughter's characteristics on the animal side ofthe paper. No. Oh no. Maybe Baby Suggs could worry about it, live with the likelihood of it; Sethehad refused — and refused still. This and much more Denver heard her say from her corner chair,trying to persuade Beloved, the one and only person she felt she had to convince, that what she haddone was right because it came from true love.
　　Beloved, her fat new feet propped on the seat of a chair in front of the one she sat in, her unlinedhands resting on her stomach, looked at her. Uncomprehending everything except that Sethe wasthe woman who took her face away, leaving her crouching in a dark, dark place, forgetting to smile.
　　Her father's daughter after all, Denver decided to do the necessary. Decided to stop relying onkindness to leave something on the stump. She would hire herself out somewhere, and althoughshe was afraid to leave Sethe and Beloved alone all day not knowing what calamity either one ofthem would create, she came to realize that her presence in that house had no influence on whateither woman did. She kept them alive and they ignored her. Growled when they chose; sulked,explained, demanded, strutted, cowered, cried and provoked each other to the edge of violence,then over. She had begun to notice that even when Beloved was quiet, dreamy, minding her ownbusiness, Sethe got her going again. Whispering, muttering justification, some bit ofclarifyinginformationtoBelovedtoexplainwhatithadbeenlike,and(some) why, and how come. It wasas though Sethe didn't really want forgiveness given; she wanted it refused. And Beloved helpedher out.
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    Somebody had to be saved, but unless Denver got work, there would be no one to save, no one tocome home to, and no Denver either. It was a new thought, having a self to look out for andpreserve. And it might not have occurred to her if she hadn't met Nelson Lord leaving hisgrandmother's house as Denver entered it to pay a thank you for half a pie. All he did was smileand say, "Take care of yourself, Denver," but she heard it as though it were what language wasmade for. The last time he spoke to her his words blocked up her ears. Now they opened her mind.
　　Weeding the garden, pulling vegetables, cooking, washing, she plotted what to do and how. TheBodwins were most likely to help since they had done it twice. Once for Baby Suggs and once forher mother. Why not the third generation as well? She got lost so many times in the streets ofCincinnati it was noon before she arrived, though she started out at sunrise. The house sat backfrom the sidewalk with large windows looking out on a noisy, busy street. The Negro woman whoanswered the front door said,"Yes?""May I come in?""What you want?""I want to see Mr. and Mrs. Bodwin.""Miss Bodwin. They brother and sister.""Oh.""What you want em for?""I'm looking for work. I was thinking they might know of some.""You Baby Suggs' kin, ain't you?""Yes, ma'am.""Come on in. You letting in flies." She led Denver toward the kitchen, saying, "First thing youhave to know is what door to knock on." But Denver only half heard her because she was steppingon something soft and blue. All around her was thick, soft and blue. Glass cases crammed full ofglistening things. Books on tables and shelves. Pearl-white lamps with shiny metal bottoms. And asmell like the cologne she poured in the emerald house, only better. "Sit down," the woman said.
　　"You know my name?""No, ma'am.""Janey. Janey Wagon.""How do you do?""Fairly. I heard your mother took sick, that so?""Yes, ma'am.""Who's looking after her?""I am. But I have to find work."Janey laughed. "You know what? I've been here since I was fourteen, and I remember likeyesterday when Baby Suggs, holy, came here and sat right there where you are. Whiteman broughther. That's how she got that house you all live in. Other things, too.""Yes, ma'am.""What's the trouble with Sethe?" Janey leaned against an indoor sink and folded her arms.
　　It was a little thing to pay, but it seemed big to Denver. Nobody was going to help her unless shetold it — told all of it. It was clear Janey wouldn't and wouldn't let her see the Bodwins otherwise.
　　So Denver told this stranger what she hadn't told Lady Jones, in return for which Janey admittedthe Bodwins needed help, although they didn't know it. She was alone there, and now that heremployers were getting older, she couldn't take care of them like she used to.
　　More and more she was required to sleep the night there. Maybe she could talk them into lettingDenver do the night shift, come right after supper, say, maybe get the breakfast. That way Denvercould care for Sethe in the day and earn a little something at night, how's that?
　　Denver had explained the girl in her house who plagued her mother as a cousin come to visit, whogot sick too and bothered them both. Janey seemed more interested in Sethe's condition, and from what Denver told her it seemed the had lost her mind. That wasn't the Sethe she remembered.ThisSethehadlostherwits,final(woman) ly, as Janey knew she would — trying to do it allalone with her nose in the air. Denver squirmed under the criticism of her mother, shifting in thechair and keeping her eyes on the inside sink. Janey Wagon went on about pride until she got toBaby Suggs, for whom she had nothing but sweet words. "I never went to those woodland servicesshe had, but she was always nice to me. Always. Never be another like her.""I miss her too," said Denver.
　　"Bet you do. Everybody miss her. That was a good woman."Denver didn't say anything else and Janey looked at her face for a while. "Neither one of yourbrothers ever come back to see how you all was?""No, ma'am.""Ever hear from them?""No, ma'am. Nothing.""Guess they had a rough time in that house. Tell me, this here woman in your house. The cousin.
　　She got any lines in her hands?" "No," said Denver.
　　"Well," said Janey. "I guess there's a God after all." The interview ended with Janey telling her tocome back in a few days. She needed time to convince her employers what they needed: night helpbecause Janey's own family needed her. "I don't want to quit these people, but they can't have allmy days and nights too." What did Denver have to do at night?
　　"Be here. In case."In case what?
　　Janey shrugged. "In case the house burn down." She smiled then.
　　"Or bad weather slop the roads so bad I can't get here early enough for them. Case late guests needserving or cleaning up after. Anything. Don't ask me what whitefolks need at night.""They used to be good whitefolks.""Oh, yeah. They good. Can't say they ain't good. I wouldn't trade them for another pair, tell youthat."With those assurances, Denver left, but not before she had seen, sitting on a shelf by the back door,a blackboy's mouth full of money. His head was thrown back farther than a head could go, his hands were shoved in his pockets. Bulging like moons, two eyes were all the face he had above thegaping red mouth. His hair was a cluster of raised, widely spaced dots made of nail heads. And hewas on his knees. His mouth, wide as a cup, held the coins needed to pay for a delivery or someother small service, but could just as well have held buttons, pins or crab-apple jelly. Paintedacross the pedestal he knelt on were the words "At Yo Service."
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    The news that Janey got hold of she spread among the other coloredwomen. Sethe's dead daughter,the one whose throat she cut, had come back to fix her. Sethe was worn down, speckled, dying,spinning, changing shapes and generally bedeviled. That this daughter beat her, tied her to the bedand pulled out all her hair. It took them days to get the story properly blown up and themselvesagitated and then to calm down and assess the situation. They fell into three groups: those thatbelieved the worst; those that believed none of it; and those, like Ella, who thought it through.
　　"Ella. What's all this I'm hearing about Sethe?""Tell me it's in there with her. That's all I know.""The daughter? The killed one?""That's what they tell me.""How they know that's her?""It's sitting there. Sleeps, eats and raises hell. Whipping Sethe every day.""I'll be. A baby?""No. Grown. The age it would have been had it lived.""You talking about flesh?""I'm talking about flesh.""whipping her?""Like she was batter.""Guess she had it coming.""Nobody got that coming.""But, Ella — ""But nothing. What's fair ain't necessarily right.""You can't just up and kill your children.""No, and the children can't just up and kill the mama."It was Ella more than anyone who convinced the others that rescue was in order. She was apractical who believed there was root either to chew or avoid for every ailment.
　　Cogitation,assh(woman) ecalledit,cloudedthings(a) and prevented action. Nobody loved her and shewouldn't have liked it if they had, for she considered love a serious disability. Her puberty wasspent in a house where she was shared by father and son, whom she called "the lowest yet." It was"the lowest yet" who gave her a disgust for sex and against whom she measured all atrocities. Akilling, a kidnap, a rape — whatever, she listened and nodded. Nothing compared to "the lowestyet." She understood Sethe's rage in the shed twenty years ago, but not her reaction to it, whichElla thought was prideful, misdirected, and Sethe herself too complicated. When she got out of jailand made no gesture toward anybody, and lived as though she were alone, Ella junked her andwouldn't give her the time of day.
　　The daughter, however, appeared to have some sense after all. At least she had stepped out thedoor, asked or the help she needed and wanted work. When Ella heard 124 was occupied bysomething or-other beating up on Sethe, it infuriated her and gave her another opportunity tomeasure what could very well be the devil himself against "the lowest yet." There was alsosomething very personal in her fury. Whatever Sethe had done, Ella didn't like the idea of pasterrors taking possession of the present. Sethe's crime was staggering and her pride outstrippedeven that; but she could not countenance the possibility of sin moving on in the house, unleashedand sassy. Daily life took as much as she had. The future was sunset; the past something to leavebehind. And if it didn't stay behind, well, you might have to stomp it out. Slave life; freed life —every day was a test and a trial. Nothing could be counted on in a world where even when youwere a solution you were a problem. "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," and nobodyneeded more; nobody needed a grown-up evil sitting at the table with a grudge. As long as theghost showed out from its ghostly place — shaking stuff, crying, smashing and such — Ellarespected it. But if it took flesh and came in her world, well, the shoe was on the other foot. Shedidn't mind a little communication between the two worlds, but this was an invasion. "Shall wepray?" asked the women.
　　"Uh huh," said Ella. "First. Then we got to get down to business." The day Denver was to spendher first night at the Bodwins', Mr. Bodwin had some business on the edge of the city and toldJaney he would pick the new girl up before supper. Denver sat on the porch steps with a bundle inher lap, her carnival dress sun-faded to a quieter rainbow. She was looking to the right, in thedirection Mr. Bodwin would be coming from. She did not the women approaching, accumulatingslowlyingroupsoftwosandthreesfromtheleft.Denv(see) er was looking to the right.
　　She was a little anxious about whether she would prove satisfactory to the Bodwins, and uneasytoo because she woke up crying from a dream about a running pair of shoes. The sadness of thedream she hadn't been able to shake, and the heat oppressed her as she went about the chores. Fartoo early she wrapped a nightdress and hairbrush into a bundle. Nervous, she fidgeted the knot and looked to the right.
　　Some brought what they could and what they believed would work. Stuffed in apron pockets,strung around their necks, lying in the space between their breasts. Others brought Christian faith— as shield and sword. Most brought a little of both. They had no idea what they would do oncethey got there. They just started out, walked down Bluestone Road and came together at theagreed-upon time. The heat kept a few women who promised to go at home. Others who believedthe story didn't want any part of the confrontation and wouldn't have come no matter what theweather. And there were those like Lady Jones who didn't believe the story and hated theignorance of those who did. So thirty women made up that company and walked slowly, slowlytoward 124.
　　It was three in the afternoon on a Friday so wet and hot Cincinnati's stench had traveled to thecountry: from the canal, from hanging meat and things rotting in jars; from small animals dead inthe fields, town sewers and factories. The stench, the heat, the moisture — - trust the devil to makehis presence known. Otherwise it looked almost like a regular workday. They could have beengoing to do the laundry at the orphanage or the insane asylum; corn shucking at the mill; or to deanfish, rinse offal, cradle whitebabies, sweep stores, scrape hog skin, press lard, case-pack sausage orhide in tavern kitchens so whitepeople didn't have to see them handle their food. But not today.
　　When they caught up with each other, all thirty, and arrived at 124, the first thing they saw was notDenver sitting on the steps, but themselves. Younger, stronger, even as little girls lying in the grassasleep. Catfish was popping grease in the pan and they saw themselves scoop German potato saladonto the plate. Cobbler oozing purple syrup colored their teeth. They sat on the porch, ran down tothe creek, teased the men, hoisted children on their hips or, if they were the children, straddled theankles of old men who held their little hands while giving them a horsey ride. Baby Suggs laughedand skipped among them, urging more. Mothers, dead now, moved their shoulders to mouth harps.
　　The fence they had leaned on and climbed over was gone. The stump of the butternut had split likea fan. But there they were, young and happy, playing in Baby Suggs' yard, not feeling the envy thatsurfaced the next day.
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   Denver heard mumbling and looked to the left. She stood when she saw them. They grouped,murmuring and whispering, but did not step foot in the yard. Denver waved. A few waved backbut came no closer. Denver sat back down wondering what was going on. A woman dropped to herknees. Half of the others did likewise. Denver saw lowered heads, but could not hear the leadprayer — only the earnest syllables of agreement that backed it: Yes, yes, yes, oh yes. Hear me.
　　Hear me. Do it, Maker, do it. Yes. Among those not on their knees, who stood holding 124 in afixed glare, was Ella, trying to see through the walls, behind the door, to what was really in there.
　　Was it true the dead daughter come back? Or a pretend? Was it whipping Sethe? Ella had beenbeaten every way but down. She remembered the bottom teeth she had lost to the brake and thescars from the bell were thick as rope around her waist. She had delivered, but would not nurse, ahairy white thing, fathered by "the lowest yet." It lived five days never making a sound. The ideaof that pup coming back to whip her too set her jaw working, and then Ella hollered.
　　Instantly the kneelers and the standers joined her. They stopped praying and took a step back to the beginning. In the beginning there were no words. In the beginning was the sound, and they allknew what that sound sounded like.
　　Edward Bodwin drove a cart down Bluestone Road. It displeased him a bit because he preferredhis figure astride Princess. Curved over his own hands, holding the reins made him look the age hewas. But he had promised his sister a detour to pick up a new girl. He didn't have to think about theway — he was headed for the house he was born in. Perhaps it was his destination that turned histhoughts to time — the way it dripped or ran. He had not seen the house for thirty years. Not thebutternut in front, the stream at the rear nor the block house in between. Not even the meadowacross the road. Very few of the interior details did he remember because he was three years oldwhen his family moved into town. But he did remember that the cooking was done behind thehouse, the well was forbidden to play near, and that women died there: his mother, grandmother,an aunt and an older sister before he was born. The men (his father and grandfather) moved withhimself and his baby sister to Court Street sixty-seven years ago. The land, of course, eighty acresof it on both sides of Bluestone, was the central thing, but he felt something sweeter and deeperabout the house which is why he rented it for a little something if he could get it, but it didn'ttrouble him to get no rent at all since the tenants at least kept it from the disrepair totalabandonment would permit.
　　There was a time when he buried things there. Precious things he wanted to protect. As a childevery item he owned was available and accountable to his family. Privacy was an adult indulgence,but when he got to be one, he seemed not to need it.
　　The horse trotted along and Edward Bodwin cooled his beautiful mustache with his breath. It wasgenerally agreed upon by the women in the Society that, except for his hands, it was the mostattractive feature he had. Dark, velvety, its beauty was enhanced by his strong clean-shaven chin.
　　But his hair was white, like his sister's — and had been since he was a young man. It made him themost visible and memorable person at every gathering, and cartoonists had fastened onto thetheatricality of his white hair and big black mustache whenever they depicted local politicalantagonism. Twenty years ago when the Society was at its height in opposing slavery, it was asthough his coloring was itself the heart of the matter. The "bleached nigger" was what his enemiescalled him, and on a trip to Arkansas, some Mississippi rivermen, enraged by the Negro boatmenthey competed with, had caught him and shoe-blackened his face and his hair. Those heady dayswere gone now; what remained was the sludge of ill will; dashed hopes and difficulties beyondrepair. A tranquil Republic?
　　Well, not in his lifetime.
　　Even the weather was getting to be too much for him. He was either too hot or freezing, and thisday was a blister. He pressed his hat down to keep the sun from his neck, where heatstroke was areal possibility. Such thoughts of mortality were not new to him (he was over seventy now), butthey still had the power to annoy. As he drew closer to the old homestead, the place that continuedto surface in his dreams, he was even more aware of the way time moved. Measured by the warshe had lived through but not fought in (against the Miami, the Spaniards, the Secessionists), it was slow. But measured by the burial of his private things it was the blink of an eye.
　　Where, exactly, was the box of tin soldiers? The watch chain with no watch? And who was hehiding them from? His father, probably, a deeply religious man who knew what God knew andtold everybody what it was. Edward Bodwin thought him an odd man, in so many ways, yet he hadone clear directive: human life is holy, all of it. And that his son still believed, although he had lessand less reason to.
　　Nothing since stimulating as the old days of letters, petitions, meetings, debates, recruitment, quarrels(was) , re(as) scue and downright sedition.
　　Yet it had worked, more or less, and when it had not, he and his sister made themselves availableto circumvent obstacles. As they had when a runaway slavewoman lived in his homestead with hermother-in-law and got herself into a world of trouble. The Society managed to turn infanticide andthe cry of savagery around, and build a further case for abolishing slavery. Good years, they were,full of spit and conviction. Now he just wanted to know where his soldiers were and his watchlesschain. That would be enough for this day of unbearable heat: bring back the new girl and recallexactly where his treasure lay. Then home, supper, and God willing, the sun would drop once moreto give him the blessing of a good night's sleep.
　　The road curved like an elbow, and as he approached it he heard the singers before he saw them.
　　When the women assembled outside 124, Sethe was breaking a lump of ice into chunks. Shedropped the ice pick into her apron pocket to scoop the pieces into a basin of water. When themusic entered the window she was wringing a cool cloth to put on Beloved's forehead. Beloved,sweating profusely, was sprawled on the bed in the keeping room, a salt rock in her hand. Bothwomen heard it at the same time and both lifted their heads. As the voices grew louder, Belovedsat up, licked the salt and went into the bigger room. Sethe and she exchanged glances and startedtoward the window. They saw Denver sitting on the steps and beyond her, where the yard met theroad, they saw the rapt faces of thirty neighborhood women.
　　Some had their eyes closed; others looked at the hot, cloudless sky.
　　Sethe opened the door and reached for Beloved's hand. Together they stood in the doorway. ForSethe it was as though the Clearing had come to her with all its heat and simmering leaves, wherethe voices of women searched for the right combination, the key, the code, the sound that broke theback of words. Building voice upon voice until they found it, and when they did it was a wave ofsound wide enough to sound deep water and knock the pods off chestnut trees. It broke over Setheand she trembled like the baptized in its wash.
　　The singing women recognized Sethe at once and surprised themselves by their absence of fearwhen they saw what stood next to her. The devil-child was clever, they thought. And beautiful. Ithad taken the shape of a pregnant woman, naked and smiling in the heat of the afternoon sun.
　　Thunderblack and glistening, she stood on long straight legs, her belly big and tight. Vines of hairtwisted all over her head. Jesus. Her smile was dazzling.
　　Sethe feels her eyes burn and it may have been to keep them clear that she looks up. The sky isblue and clear. Not one touch of death in the definite green of the leaves. It is when she lowers hereyes to look again at the loving faces before her that she sees him. Guiding the mare, slowingdown, his black hat wide-brimmed enough to hide his face but not his purpose. He is coming intoher yard and he is coming for her best thing. She hears wings. Little hummingbirds stick needlebeaks right through her headcloth into her hair and beat their wings. And if she thinks anything, itis no. No no. Nonono. She flies.
　　The ice pick is not in her hand; it is her hand.
　　Standing alone on the porch, Beloved is smiling. But now her hand is empty. Sethe is runningaway from her, running, and she feels the emptiness in the hand Sethe has been holding. Now sheis running into the faces of the people out there, joining them and leaving Beloved behind. Alone.
　　Again. Then Denver, running too.
　　Away from her to the pile of people out there. They make a hill. A hill of black people, falling.
　　And above them all, rising from his place with a whip in his hand, the man without skin, looking.
　　He is looking at her.
Chapter 70
    Bare feet and chamomile sap.
　　Took off my shoes; took off my hat.
　　Bare feet and chamomile sap,Gimme back my shoes; gimme back my hat.
　　Lay my head on a potato sack,Devil sneak up behind my back.
　　Steam engine got a lonesome whine;Love that woman till you go stone blind.
　　Stone blind; stone blind.
　　Sweet Home gal make you lose your mind.
　　HIS COMING is the reverse route of his going. First the cold house,the storeroom, then thekitchen before he tackles the beds. Here Boy, feeble and shedding his coat in patches, is asleep bythe pump, so Paul D knows Beloved is truly gone. Disappeared, some say, exploded right before their eyes. Ella is not so sure. "Maybe," she says, "maybe not. Could be hiding in the trees waitingfor another chance." But when Paul D sees the ancient dog, eighteen years if a day, he is certain124 is clear of her. But he opens the door to the cold house halfway expecting to hear her. "Touchme. Touch me. On the inside part and call me my name."There is the pallet spread with old newspapers gnawed at the edges by mice. The lard can. Thepotato sacks too, but empty now, they lie on the dirt floor in heaps. In daylight he can't imagine itin darkness with moonlight seeping through the cracks. Nor the desire that drowned him there andforced him to struggle up, up into that girl like she was the clear air at the top of the sea. Couplingwith her wasn't even fun. It was more like a brainless urge to stay alive.
　　Each time she came, pulled up her skirts, a life hunger overwhelmed him and he had no morecontrol over it than over his lungs. And afterward, beached and gobbling air, in the midst ofrepulsion and personal shame, he was thankful too for having been escorted to some ocean-deepplace he once belonged to.
　　Sifting daylight dissolves the memory, turns it into dust motes floating in light. Paul D shuts thedoor. He looks toward the house and, surprisingly, it does not look back at him. Unloaded, 124 isjust another weathered house needing repair. Quiet, just as Stamp Paid said.
　　"Used to be voices all round that place. Quiet, now," Stamp said.
　　"I been past it a few times and I can't hear a thing. Chastened, I reckon, 'cause Mr. Bodwin say heselling it soon's he can.""That the name of the one she tried to stab? That one?""Yep. His sister say it's full of trouble. Told Janey she was going to get rid of it.""And him?" asked Paul D.
　　"Janey say he against it but won't stop it.""Who they think want a house out there? Anybody got the money don't want to live out there.""Beats me," Stamp answered. "It'll be a spell, I guess, before it get took off his hands.""He don't plan on taking her to the law?""Don't seem like it. Janey say all he wants to know is who was the naked blackwoman standing onthe porch. He was looking at her so hard he didn't notice what Sethe was up to. All he saw wassome coloredwomen fighting. He thought Sethe was after one of them, Janey say.""Janey tell him any different?""No. She say she so glad her boss ain't dead. If Ella hadn't clipped her, she say she would have.
　　Scared her to death have that woman kill her boss. She and Denver be looking for a job.""Who Janey tell him the naked woman was?""Told him she didn't see none.""You believe they saw it?""Well, they saw something. I trust Ella anyway, and she say she looked it in the eye. It wasstanding right next to Sethe. But from the way they describe it, don't seem like it was the girl I sawin there.
　　The girl I saw was narrow. This one was big. She say they was holding hands and Sethe lookedlike a little girl beside it.""Little girl with a ice pick. How close she get to him?""Right up on him, they say. Before Denver and them grabbed her and Ella put her fist in her jaw.""He got to know Sethe was after him. He got to.""Maybe. I don't know. If he did think it, I reckon he decided not to. That be just like him, too. He'ssomebody never turned us down.
　　Steady as a rock. I tell you something, if she had got to him, it'd be the worst thing in the world forus. You know, don't you, he's the main one kept Sethe from the gallows in the first place.""Yeah. Damn. That woman is crazy. Crazy.""Yeah, well, ain't we all?"They laughed then. A rusty chuckle at first and then more, louder and louder until Stamp took outhis pocket handkerchief and wiped his eyes while Paul D pressed the heel of his hand in his own.
　　As the neither one had witnessed took shape before them, its seriousness and itsembarrassment (scene) made them shake with laughter.
　　"Every time a whiteman come to the door she got to kill somebody?""For all she know, the man could be coming for the rent.""Good thing they don't deliver mail out that way.""Wouldn't nobody get no letter.""Except the postman.""Be a mighty hard message.""And his last."When their laughter was spent, they took deep breaths and shook their heads.
　　"And he still going to let Denver spend the night in his house?
　　Ha!""Aw no. Hey. Lay off Denver, Paul D. That's my heart. I'm proud of that girl. She was the first onewrestle her mother down. Before anybody knew what the devil was going on.""She saved his life then, you could say.""You could. You could," said Stamp, thinking suddenly of the leap, the wide swing and snatch ofhis arm as he rescued the little curly-headed baby from within inches of a split skull. "I'm proud ofher. She turning out fine. Fine."It was true. Paul D saw her the next morning when he was on his way to work and she was leavinghers. Thinner, steady in the eyes, she looked more like Halle than ever.
　　She was the first to smile. "Good morning, Mr. D.""Well, it is now." Her smile, no longer the sneer he remembered, had welcome in it and strongtraces of Sethe's mouth. Paul D touchedhis cap. "How you getting along?""Don't pay to complain.""You on your way home?"She said no. She had heard about an afternoon job at the shirt factory. She hoped that with hernight work at the Bodwins' and another one, she could put away something and help her mothertoo.
　　When he asked her if they treated her all right over there, she said more than all right. MissBodwin taught her stuff. He asked her what stuff and she laughed and said book stuff. "She says Imight go to Oberlin. She's experimenting on me." And he didn't say, "Watch out. Watch out.
　　Nothing in the world more dangerous than a white schoolteacher." Instead he nodded and asked the question he wanted to.
　　"Your mother all right?""No," said Denver. "No. No, not a bit all right.""You think I should stop by? Would she welcome it?""I don't know," said Denver. "I think I've lost my mother, Paul D."They were both silent for a moment and then he said, "Uh, that girl. You know. Beloved?""Yes?""You think she sure 'nough your sister?"Denver looked at her shoes. "At times. At times I think she was — more." She fiddled with hershirtwaist, rubbing a spot of something.
Chapter 71
    Suddenly she leveled her eyes at his. "But who would know that better than you, Paul D? I mean,you sure 'nough knew her."He licked his lips. "Well, if you want my opinion — ""I don't," she said. "I have my own.""You grown," he said.
　　"Yes, sir.""Well. Well, good luck with the job.""Thank you. And, Paul D, you don't have to stay 'way, but be careful how you talk to my ma'am,hear?""Don't worry," he said and left her then, or rather she left him because a young man was runningtoward her, saying, "Hey, Miss Denver. Wait up."She turned to him, her face looking like someone had turned up the gas jet.
　　He left her unwillingly because he wanted to talk more, make sense out of the stories he had beenhearing: whiteman came to take Denver to work and Sethe cut him. Baby ghost came back evil andsent Sethe out to get the man who kept her from hanging. One point of agreement is: first they sawit and then they didn't. When they got Sethe down on the ground and the ice pick out of her handsand looked back to the house, it was gone. Later, a little boy put it out how he had been looking forbait back of 124, down by the stream, and saw, cutting through the woods, a naked woman withfish for hair.
　　As a matter of fact, Paul D doesn't care how It went or even why. He cares about how he left andwhy. Then he looks at himself through Garner's eyes, he sees one thing. Through Sixo's, another.
　　One makes him feel righteous. One makes him feel ashamed. Like the time he worked both sidesof the War. Running away from the Northpoint Bank and Railway to join the 44th ColoredRegiment in Tennessee, he thought he had made it, only to discover he had arrived at anothercolored regiment forming under a commander in New Jersey. He stayed there four weeks. Theregiment fell apart before it got started on the question of whether the soldiers should haveweapons or not. Not, it was decided, and the white commander had to figure out what to commandthem to do instead of kill other white men. Some of the ten thousand stayed there to clean, hauland build things; others drifted away to another regiment; most were abandoned, left to their owndevices with bitterness for pay. He was trying to make up his mind what to do when an agent fromNorthpoint Bank caught up with him and took him back to Delaware, where he slave-worked ayear. Then Northpoint took $300 in exchange for his services in Alabama, where he worked for theRebellers, first sorting the dead and then smelting iron. When he and his group combed the battlefields, their job was to pull the Confederate wounded away from the Confederate dead. Care,they told them. Take good care. Coloredmen and white, their faces wrapped to their eyes, pickedtheir way through the meadows with lamps, listening in the dark for groans of life in the indifferentsilence of the dead. Mostly young men, some children, and it shamed him a little to feel pity forwhat he imagined were the sons of the guards in Alfred, Georgia.
　　In five tries he had not had one permanent success. Every one of his escapes (from Sweet Home,from Brandywine, from Alfred, Georgia, from Wilmington, from Northpoint) had been frustrated.
　　Alone, undisguised, with visible skin, memorable hair and no whiteman to protect him, he neverstayed uncaught. The longest had been when he ran with the convicts, stayed with the Cherokee,followed their advice and lived in hiding with the weaver woman in Wilmington, Delaware: threeyears. And in all those escapes he could not help being astonished by the beauty of this land thatwas not his. He hid in its breast, fingered its earth for food, clung to its banks to lap water and triednot to love it. On nights when the sky was personal, weak with the weight of its own stars, he madehimself not love it. Its graveyards and low-lying rivers. Or just a house — -solitary under achinaberry tree; maybe a mule tethered and the light hitting its hide just so. Anything could stirhim and he tried hard not to love it.
　　After a few months on the battlefields of Alabama, he was impressed to a foundry in Selma alongwith three hundred captured, lent or taken coloredmen. That's where the War's end found him, andleaving Alabama when he had been declared free should have been a snap. He should have beenable to walk from the foundry in Selma straight to Philadelphia, taking the main roads, a train if hewanted to, or passage on a boat. But it wasn't like that. When he and two colored soldiers (who hadbeen captured from the 44th he had looked for) walked from Selma to Mobile, they saw twelvedead blacks in the first eighteen miles. Two were women, four were little boys. He thought this, forsure, would be the walk of his life.
　　The Yankees in control left the Rebels out of control. They got to the outskirts of Mobile, whereblacks were putting down tracks for the Union that, earlier, they had torn up for the Rebels. One ofthe men with him, a private called Keane, had been with the Massachusetts 54th. He told Paul Dthey had been paid less than white soldiers. It was a sore point with him that, as a group, they hadrefused the offer Massachusetts made to make up the difference in pay. Paul D was so impressedby the idea of being paid money to fight he looked at the private with wonder and envy.
　　Keane and his friend, a Sergeant Rossiter, confiscated a skiff and the three of them floated inMobile Bay. There the private hailed a Union gunboat, which took all three aboard. Keane andRossiter disembarked at Memphis to look for their commanders. The captain of the gunboat letPaul D stay aboard all the way to Wheeling, West Virginia. He made his own way to New Jersey.
　　By the time he got to Mobile, he had seen more dead people than living ones, but when he got toTrenton the crowds of alive people, neither hunting nor hunted, gave him a measure of free life sotasty he never forgot it. Moving down a busy street full of whitepeople who needed no explanationfor his presence, the glances he got had to do with his disgusting clothes and unforgivable hair.
　　Still, nobody raised an alarm. Then came the miracle. Standing in a street in front of a row of brickhouses, he heard a whiteman call him ("Say there! Yo!") to help unload two trunks from a coachcab. Afterward the whiteman gave him a coin. Paul D walked around with it for hours — not surewhat it could buy (a suit? a meal? a horse?) and if anybody would sell him anything. Finally hesaw a greengrocer selling vegetables from a wagon. Paul D pointed to a bunch of turnips. Thegrocer handed them to him, took his one coin and gave him several more. Stunned, he backed away. Looking around, he saw that nobody seemed interested in the "mistake" or him, so hewalked along, happily chewing turnips. Only a few women looked vaguely repelled as they passed.
　　His first earned purchase made him glow, never mind the turnips were withered dry. That waswhen he decided that to eat, walk and sleep anywhere was life as good as it got. And he did it forseven years till he found himself in southern Ohio, where an old woman and a girl he used to knowhad gone.
　　Now his coming is the reverse of his going. First he stands in the back, near the cold house,amazed by the riot of late-summer flowers where vegetables should be growing. Sweet william,morning glory, chrysanthemums. The odd placement of cans jammed with the rotting stems ofthings, the blossoms shriveled like sores. Dead ivy twines around bean poles and door handles.
　　Faded newspaper pictures are nailed to the outhouse and on trees. A rope too short for anything butskip-jumping lies discarded near the washtub; and jars and jars of dead lightning bugs. Like achild's house; the house of a very tall child.
　　He walks to the front door and opens it. It is stone quiet. In the place where once a shaft of sad redlight had bathed him, locking him where he stood, is nothing. A bleak and minus nothing. Morelike absence, but an absence he had to get through with the same determination he had when hetrusted Sethe and stepped through the pulsing light. He glances quickly at the lightning-whitestairs. The entire railing is wound with ribbons, bows, bouquets. Paul D steps inside. The outdoorbreeze he brings with him stirs the ribbons.
　　Carefully, not quite in a hurry but losing no time, he climbs the luminous stairs. He enters Sethe'sroom. She isn't there and the bed looks so small he wonders how the two of them had lain there. Ithas no sheets, and because the roof windows do not open the room is stifling. Brightly coloredclothes lie on the floor. Hanging from a wall peg is the dress Beloved wore when he first saw her.
　　A pair of ice skates nestles in a basket in the corner. He turns his eyes back to the bed and keepslooking at it. It seems to him a place he is not.
　　With an effort that makes him sweat he forces a picture of himself lying there, and when he sees it,it lifts his spirit. He goes to the other bedroom. Denver's is as neat as the other is messy. But stillno Sethe.
　　Maybe she has gone back to work, gotten better in the days since he talked to Denver. He goesback down the stairs, leaving the image of himself firmly in place on the narrow bed. At thekitchen table he sits down. Something is missing from 124. Something larger than the people wholived there. Something more than Beloved or the red light. He can't put his finger on it, but itseems, for a moment, that just beyond his knowing is the glare of an outside thing that embraceswhile it accuses.
　　To the right of him, where the door to the keeping room is ajar, he hears humming. Someone ishumming a tune. Something soft and sweet, like a lullaby. Then a few words. Sounds like "highJohnny, wide Johnny. Sweet William bend down low." Of course, he thinks. That's where she is —and she is. Lying under a quilt of merry colors.
　　Her hair, like the dark delicate roots of good plants, spreads and curves on the pillow. Her eyes,fixed on the window, are so expressionless he is not sure she will know who he is. There is toomuch light here in this room. Things look sold.
　　"Jackweed raise up high," she sings. "Lambswool over my shoulder, buttercup and clover fly." Sheis fingering a long clump of her hair.
　　Paul D clears his throat to interrupt her. "Sethe?"
Chapter 72
    She turns her head. "Paul D.""Aw, Sethe.""I made the ink, Paul D. He couldn't have done it if I hadn't made the ink.""What ink? Who?""You shaved.""Yeah. Look bad?""No. You looking good.""Devil's confusion. What's this I hear about you not getting out of bed?"She smiles, lets it fade and turns her eyes back to the window.
　　"I need to talk to you," he tells her.
　　She doesn't answer.
　　"I saw Denver. She tell you?""She comes in the daytime. Denver. She's still with me, my Denver.""You got to get up from here, girl." He is nervous. This reminds him of something.
　　"I'm tired, Paul D. So tired. I have to rest a while."Now he knows what he is reminded of and he shouts at her, "Don't you die on me! This is BabySuggs' bed! Is that what you planning?" He is so angry he could kill her. He checks himself,remembering Denver's warning, and whispers, "What you planning, Sethe?""Oh, I don't have no plans. No plans at all.""Look," he says, "Denver be here in the day. I be here in the night. I'm a take care of you, youhear? Starting now. First off, you don't smell right. Stay there. Don't move. Let me heat up somewater." He stops. "Is it all right, Sethe, if I heat up some water?""And count my feet?" she asks him.
　　He steps closer. "Rub your feet."Sethe closes her eyes and presses her lips together. She is thinking: No. This little place by awindow is what I want. And rest. There's nothing to rub now and no reason to. Nothing left tobathe, assuming he even knows how. Will he do it in sections? First her face, then her hands, herthighs, her feet, her back? Ending with her exhausted breasts? And if he bathes her in sections, willthe parts hold? She opens her eyes, knowing the danger of looking at him. She looks at him. Thepeachstone skin, the crease between his ready, waiting eyes and sees it — the thing in him, theblessedness, that has made him the kind of man who can walk in a house and make the women cry.
　　Because with him, in his presence, they could. Cry and tell him things they only told each other:
　　that time didn't stay put; that she called, but Howard and Buglar walked on down the railroad trackand couldn't hear her; that Amy was scared to stay with her because her feet were ugly and herback looked so bad; that her ma'am had hurt her feelings and she couldn't find her hat anywhereand "Paul D?""What, baby?""She left me.""Aw, girl. Don't cry.""She was my best thing."Paul D sits down in the rocking chair and examines the quilt patched in carnival colors. His handsare limp between his knees.
　　There are too many things to feel about this woman. His head hurts.
　　Suddenly he remembers Sixo trying to describe what he felt about the Thirty-Mile Woman. "She is a friend of my mind. She gather me, man. The pieces I am, she gather them and give them back tome in all the right order. It's good, you know, when you got a woman who is a friend of yourmind."He is staring at the quilt but he is thinking about her wrought iron back; the delicious mouth stillpuffy at the corner from Ella's fist. The mean black eyes. The wet dress steaming before the fire.
　　Her tenderness about his neck jewelry — its three wands, like attentive baby rattlers, curving twofeet into the air. How she never mentioned or looked at it, so he did not have to feel the shame ofbeing collared like a beast. Only this woman Sethe could have left him his manhood like that. Hewants to put his story next to hers.
　　"Sethe," he says, "me and you, we got more yesterday than anybody.
　　We need some kind of tomorrow."He leans over and takes her hand. With the other he touches her face. "You your best thing, Sethe.
　　You are." His holding fingers are holding hers.
　　"Me? Me?"
Chapter 73
    THERE IS a loneliness that can be rocked. Arms crossed, knees drawn up; holding, holding on,this motion, unlike a ship's, smooths and contains the rocker. It's an inside kind — wrapped tightlike skin.
　　Then there is a loneliness that roams. No rocking can hold it down. It is alive, on its own. A dryand spreading thing that makes the sound of one's own feet going seem to come from a far-offplace. Everybody knew what she was called, but nobody anywhere knew her name.
　　Disremembered and unaccounted for, she cannot be lost because no one is looking for her, andeven if they were, how can they call her if they don't know her name? Although she has claim, sheis not claimed. In the place where long grass opens, the girl who waited to be loved and cry shameerupts into her separate parts, to make it easy for the chewing laughter to swallow her all away.
　　It was not a story to pass on.
　　They forgot her like a bad dream. After they made up their tales,shaped and decorated them, those that saw her that day on the porch quickly and deliberatelyforgot her. It took longer for those who had spoken to her, lived with her, fallen in love with her, toforget, until they realized they couldn't remember or repeat a single thing she said, and began tobelieve that, other than what they themselves were thinking, she hadn't said anything at all. So, inthe end, they forgot her too. Remembering seemed unwise. They never knew where or why shecrouched, or whose was the underwater face she needed like that. Where the memory of the smileunder her chin might have been and was not, a latch latched and lichen attached its apple-greenbloom to the metal. What made her think her fingernails could open locks the rain rained on?
　　It was not a story to pass on.
　　So they forgot her. Like an unpleasant dream during a troubling sleep. Occasionally, however, therustle of a skirt hushes when they wake, and the knuckles brushing a cheek in sleep seem to belongto the sleeper. Sometimes the photograph of a close friend or relative — looked at too long —shifts, and something more familiar than the dear face itself moves there. They can touch it if theylike, but don't, because they know things will never be the same if they do.
　　This is not a story to pass on.
　　Down by the stream in back of 124 her footprints come and go, come and go. They are so familiar.
　　Should a child, an adult place his feet in them, they will fit. Take them out and they disappear again as though nobody ever walked there.
　　By and by all trace is gone, and what is forgotten is not only the footprints but the water too andwhat it is down there. The rest is weather. Not the breath of the disremembered and unaccountedfor, but wind in the eaves, or spring ice thawing too quickly. Just weather.
　　Certainly no clamor for a kiss.
　　Beloved.
The End