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