"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.
“我那时候有奶水，”她说，“我怀着丹芙，可还有奶水给小女儿。直到我把她和霍华德、巴格勒先送走的时候，我还一直奶着她呢。
”
她用擀面杖把面团擀开。
“人们没看见我就闻得着。所以他一见我就看到了我裙子前襟的奶渍。我一点办法都没有。我只知道我得为我的小女儿生奶水。没人会像我那样奶她。没人会像我那样，总是尽快喂上她，或是等她吃饱了、可自己还不知道的时候就马上拿开。谁都不知道她只有躺在我的腿上才能打嗝，你要是把她扛在肩膀上她就不行了。除了我谁也不知道，除了我谁也没有给她的奶水。我跟大车上的女人们说了。跟她们说用布蘸上糖水让她咂，这样几天后我赶到那里时，她就不会忘了我。奶水到的时候，我也就跟着到了。
”
“男人可不懂那么多，”保罗·d说着，把烟口袋又揣回马甲兜里，“可他们知道，一个吃奶的娃娃不能离开娘太久。
”
“那他们也知道你乳房涨满时把你的孩子送走是什么滋味。
”
“我们刚才在谈一棵树，塞丝。
”
“我离开你以后，那两个家伙去了我那儿，抢走了我的奶水。他们就是为那个来的。把我按倒，吸走了我的奶水。我向加纳太太告了他们。她长着那个包，不能讲话，可她眼里流了泪。那些家伙发现我告了他们。
‘学校老师’让一个家伙划开我的后背，伤口愈合时就成了一棵树。它还在那儿长着呢。
”
“他们用皮鞭抽你了？
”
“还抢走了我的奶水。
”
“你怀着孩子他们还打你？
”
“还抢走了我的奶水!”
白胖的面圈在平底锅上排列成行。塞丝又一次用沾湿的食指碰了碰炉子。她打开烤箱门，把一锅面饼插进去。她刚刚起身离开烤箱的热气，就感觉到背后的保罗·d和托在她乳房下的双手。她站直身子，知道———却感觉不到———他正把脸埋进苦樱桃树的枝杈里。
几乎在不知不觉之间，他已经成为那种一进屋就能使女人哭泣的男人。有他相陪伴，当着他的面，她们就哭得出来。他的举止中有某种神圣的东西。女人们见了他就想流泪———向他诉说胸口和膝头的创伤。坚强的和智慧的女人见了他，将只有她们彼此间才说的事讲给他听：更年期早过了，她们内心的欲望却忽然间变得旺盛、贪婪起来，比十五岁的时候更狂野，让她们羞愧，也让她们悲哀；她们偷偷地渴望死去———以求得解脱———对她们来说睡去比任何醒着的日子都珍贵。
年轻姑娘则羞怯地凑近他坦白心事，或者向他描述在梦中尾随她们的不速之客穿着多么漂亮的衣裳。所以，虽然他不明白究竟是怎么一回事，但当丹芙独对炉火垂泪时，他并不感到惊讶。一刻钟之后，她的妈妈向他说完被掠走的奶水后同样啜泣的时候，他也不感到惊讶。他在她背后俯下身去，身体形成一道爱怜的弧线，手掌托起她的乳房。他用脸颊揉擦着她的后背，用这种方式感受她的悲伤，它的根，它巨大的主干和繁茂的枝杈。他把手指挪到裙子的挂钩上，不用看到眼泪，也不用听到一声叹息，便知道它们已汹涌而至。当裙子的上身褪下来围住她的臀部时，他看到她后背变成的雕塑，简直就像一个铁匠心爱得不愿示人的工艺品。他百感交集，一时说不出话来：
“噢，主啊，姑娘。
”直到每一道隆起、每一片树叶都被他的嘴唇犁遍，他才平静下来，而这一切塞丝丝毫感觉不到，因为她背上的皮肤已死去多年了。她只知道，她双乳的负担终于落在了另一个人的手中。
是否有一小块空间，一小段时光，她纳闷，有可能远离坎坷，把劳碌抛向屋角，只是赤裸上身站上片刻，卸下乳房的重荷，重新闻到被掠走的奶水，感受烤面包的乐趣？也许就是这回，在做饭的时候，她能够僵止不动———甚至不离开炉子———感受她的后背本该感受到的疼痛。难道在她沉沦的时候，有最后一个“甜蜜之家”的男人来拉她一把，她就该信任，就该重新记起吗？
炉子在适应自己的高温时没有抖动。隔壁的丹芙没有动静。红光的搏动没有回来。而自打1856年起，一连串抖了整整八十三天以后，保罗·d就一直没再哆嗦过。那时，手铐和脚镣加身，他的手抖得那么厉害，以至于不能抽烟，甚至不能正常地抓痒。此刻，他又一次哆嗦起来，不过这次是腿上。他过了一会儿才搞明白，他的双腿不是因为焦虑在颤抖，而是随着地板在抖动，并且转动和滑移的地板又仅仅是其中的一部分。是这栋房子整个在颠簸。塞丝滑倒在地，挣扎 着穿衣服。她四肢匍匐着地，像要把她的房子按在地上。这时，丹芙从起居室里冲出来，满眼恐惧，嘴唇上却挂着一丝隐约的微笑。
“该死的!停下来!”保罗·d一面吼着，一面跌跌撞撞地去抓扶手。
“别在这儿捣蛋!滚出去!”一张桌子向他扑来，他抓住了桌腿。他勉强站成了一个角度，举起桌子四处乱砸一气，毁坏每一样东西，冲着尖叫的房子尖叫。
“想打架吗？来吧!妈的!没有你她已经够受的了。她受够了!”
地震减弱为余震，但保罗·d并未停止四处乱舞桌子，直到一切都死一般寂静。他靠在墙上碗柜腾出的地方，大汗淋漓，喘着粗气。塞丝仍旧蜷缩在炉子旁，将抢救出来的两只鞋子抱在胸前。他们三个人，塞丝、丹芙和保罗·d，用同一个节拍呼吸，宛若同一个筋疲力尽的人。另一个的呼吸也同样筋疲力尽。
