"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.