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 Ne............