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.