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。
