it was gone. denver wandered through the silence to the stove. she ashed over the fire and pulledthe pan of biscuits from the oven. the jelly cupboard was on its back, its contents lying in a heapin the corner of the bottom shelf. she took out a jar, and, looking around for a plate, found half ofone by the door. these things she carried out to the porch steps, where she sat down.
the two of them had gone up there. stepping lightly, easy-footed, they had climbed the whitestairs, leaving her down below. she pried the wire from the top of the jar and then the lid. under it was cloth and under that a thin cake of wax. she removed it all and coaxed the jelly onto one halfof the half a plate. she took a biscuit and pulled off its black top. smoke curled from the soft whiteinsides. she missed her brothers. buglar and howard would be twenty two and twenty-three now.
although they had been polite to her during the quiet time and gave her the whole top of the bed,she remembered how it was before: the pleasure they had sitting clustered on the white stairs —she between the knees of howard or buglar — while they made up die-witch! stories with provenways of killing her dead. and baby suggs telling her things in the keeping room. she smelled likebark in the day and leaves at night, for denver would not sleep in her old room after her brothersran away.
now her mother was upstairs with the man who had gotten rid of the only other company she had.
denver dipped a bit of bread into the jelly. slowly, methodically, miserably she ate it.
not quite in hurry, but losing no time, sethe and paul d climbed the white stairs. overwhelmedasmu(a) ch by the downright luck of finding her house and her in it as by the certaintyof giving her his sex, paul d dropped twenty-five years from his recent memory. a stair stepbefore him was baby suggs' replacement, the new girl they dreamed of at night and fucked cowsfor at dawn while waiting for her to choose. merely kissing the wrought iron on her back hadshook the house, had made it necessary for him to beat it to pieces. now he would do more.
she led him to the top of the stairs, where light came straight from the sky because the second-story windows of that house had been placed in the pitched ceiling and not the walls. there weretwo rooms and she took him into one of them, hoping he wouldn't mind the fact that she was notprepared; that though she could remember desire, she had forgotten how it worked; the clutch andhelplessness that resided in the hands; how blindness was altered so that what leapt to the eye wereplaces to lie down, and all else — door knobs, straps, hooks, the sadness that crouched in corners,and the passing of time — was interference.
it was over before they could get their clothes off. half-dressed and short of breath, they lay sideby side resentful of one another and the skylight above them. his dreaming of her had been toolong and too long ago. her deprivation had been not having any dreams of her own at all. nowthey were sorry and too shy to make talk.
sethe lay on her back, her head turned from him. out of the corner of his eye, paul d saw the floatof her breasts and disliked it, the spread-away, flat roundness of them that he could definitely livewithout, never mind that downstairs he had held them as though they were the most expensive partof himself. and the wrought-iron maze he had explored in the kitchen like a gold miner pawingthrough pay dirt was in fact a revolting clump of scars. not a tree, as she said. maybe shaped likeone, but nothing like any tree he knew because trees were inviting; things you could trust and benear; talk to if you wanted to as he frequently did since way back when he took the midday meal inthe fields of sweet home. always in the same place if he could, and choosing the place had beenhard because sweet home had more pretty trees than any farm around. his choice he calledbrother, and sat under it, alone sometimes, sometimes with halle or the other pauls, but moreoften with sixo, who was gentle then and still speaking english. indigo with a flame-red tongue,sixo experimented with night-cooked potatoes, trying to pin down exactly when to put smoking hot rocks in a hole, potatoes on top, and cover the whole thing with twigs so that by the time theybroke for the meal, hitched the animals, left the field and got to brother, the potatoes would be atthe peak of perfection. he might get up in the middle of the night, go all the way out there, start theearth-over by starlight; or he would make the stones less hot and put the next day's potatoes onthem right after the meal. he never got it right, but they ate those undercooked, overcooked, dried-out or raw potatoes anyway, laughing, spitting and giving him advice.
time never worked the way sixo thought, so of course he never got it right. once he plotted downto the minute a thirty-mile trip to see a woman. he left on a saturday when the moon was in theplace he wanted it to be, arrived at her cabin before church on sunday and had just enough time tosay good morning before he had to start back again so he'd make the field call on time mondaymorning. he had walked for seventeen hours, sat down for one, turned around and walkedseventeen more. halle and the pauls spent the whole day covering sixo's fatigue from mr. garner.
they ate no potatoes that day, sweet or white. sprawled near brother, his flame-red tongue hiddenfrom them, his indigo face closed, sixo slept through dinnerlike a corpse. now there was a man, and that was a tree. himself lying in the bed and the "tree"lying next to him didn't compare. paul d looked through the window above his feet and folded hishands behind his head. an elbow grazed sethe's shoulder. the touch of cloth on her skin startledher. she had forgotten he had not taken off his shirt. dog, she thought, and then remembered thatshe had not allowed him the time for taking it off. nor herself time to take off her petticoat, andconsidering she had begun undressing before she saw him on the porch, that her shoes andstockings were already in her hand and she had never put them back on; that he had looked at herwet bare feet and asked to join her; that when she rose to cook he had undressed her further;considering how quickly they had started getting naked, you'd think by now they would be. butmaybe a man was nothing but a man, which is what baby suggs always said. they encouragedyou to put some of your weight in their hands and soon as you felt how light and lovely that was,they studied your scars and tribulations, after which they did what he had done: ran her childrenout and tore up the house.
she needed to get up from there, go downstairs and piece it all back together. this house he toldher to leave as though a house was a little thing — a shirtwaist or a sewing basket you could walkoff from or give away any old time. she who had never had one but this one; she who left a dirtfloor to come to this one; she who had to bring a fistful of salsify into mrs. garner's kitchen everyday just to be able to work in it, feel like some part of it was hers, because she wanted to love thework she did, to take the ugly out of it, and the only way she could feel at home on sweet homewas if she picked some pretty growing thing and took it with her. the day she forgot was the daybutter wouldn't come or the brine in the barrel blistered her arms.
at least it seemed so. a few yellow flowers on the table, some myrtle tied around the handle of theflatiron holding the door open for a breeze calmed her, and when mrs. garner and she sat down tosort bristle, or make ink, she felt fine. fine. not scared of the men beyond. the five who slept inquarters near her, but never came in the night. just touched their raggedy hats when they saw herand stared. and if she brought food to them in the fields, bacon and bread wrapped in a piece of clean sheeting, they never took it from her hands. they stood back and waited for her to put it onthe ground (at the foot of a tree) and leave. either they did not want to take anything from her, ordid not want her to see them eat. twice or three times she lingered. hidden behind honeysuckleshe watched them. how different they were without her, how they laughed and played and urinatedand sang. all but sixo, who laughed once — at the very end. halle, of course, was the nicest. babysuggs' eighth and last child, who rented himself out all over the county to buy her away fromthere. but he too, as it turned out, was nothing but a man.
"a man ain't nothing but a man," said baby suggs. "but a son? well now, that's somebody."it made sense for a lot of reasons because in all of baby's life, as well as sethe's own, men andwomen were moved around like checkers. anybody baby suggs knew, let alone loved, who hadn'trun off or been hanged, got rented out, loaned out, bought up, brought back, stored up, mortgaged,won, stolen or seized. so baby's eight children had six fathers. what she called the nastiness of lifewas the shock she received upon learning that nobody stopped playing checkers just because thepieces included her children. halle she was able to keep the longest. twenty years. a lifetime.
given to her, no doubt, to make up for hearing that her two girls, neither of whom had their adultteeth, were sold and gone and she had not been able to wave goodbye. to make up for couplingwith a straw boss for four months in exchange for keeping her third child, a boy, with her — onlyto have him traded for lumber in the spring of the next year and to find herself pregnant by the manwho promised not to and did. that child she could not love and the rest she would not. "god takewhat he would," she said. and he did, and he did, and he did and then gave her halle who gaveher freedom when it didn't mean a thing. sethe had the amazing luck of six whole years ofmarriage to that "somebody" son who had fathered every one of her children. a blessing she wasreckless enough to take for granted, lean on, as though sweet home really was one. as though ahandful of myrtle stuck in the handle of pressing iron propped against the door in awhitewoman's kitchen could make it hers. as tho(a) ugh mint sprig in the mouth changed the breath aswell as its odor. a bigger fool never lived.
它走了。丹芙穿过死寂，晃到炉边。她用柴灰盖住炉火，从烤箱里抽出那锅烤饼。盛果酱的碗橱仰躺在地上，里面的东西在底格的一角挤作一团。她拿出一个罐子，然后四处去寻盘子，只在门旁边找到半个。她拿着这些东西，在门廊的台阶上坐下。
他们两个上去了。步履轻快、不慌不忙地，他们爬上了白楼梯，把她扔在下面。她撬开罐子的封口和盖子。盖子下边是布，再下边是薄薄的一层蜡。她一一揭掉，慢慢地把果酱倒在半拉盘子里。她拿起一块烤饼，揭掉黑黑的焦皮。又白又软的饼里冒出袅袅热气。
她思念哥哥们。巴格勒和霍华德现在该有二十二和二十三了。虽说在她听不见声音的那阵子他们待她很是彬彬有礼，还把整个上铺让给她，她记得的却仍是那以前的光景：他们乐融融地团坐在白楼梯上———她夹在巴格勒或者霍华德的膝盖中间———那时他们编了好多“杀巫婆!”故事，想出种种确凿的方法来杀死巫婆。她还想起贝比·萨格斯在起居室对她讲的事。奶奶白天闻起来像树皮，晚上闻起来像树叶———自打哥哥们出走以后，丹芙就不在自己原来的屋里过夜了。
现在她的妈妈正和那个男人一起待在楼上，就是他，赶跑了她唯一的伙伴。丹芙将一小块面包蘸进果酱。慢吞吞地，有条不紊地，凄苦不堪地，她吃掉了它。
并不很急，但也不浪费一点时间，塞丝和保罗·d爬着白楼梯。能够如此幸运地找到她的房子和当中的她，而且肯定要同她云雨一番，保罗·d彻底昏了头，把记忆中最近的二十五年丢个精光。前面一磴楼梯上就是那个顶替贝比·萨格斯的姑娘，那个他们夜里梦想、黎明为之去操母牛、同时等待她挑选的新来的姑娘。单是亲吻她后背上的锻铁，已经晃动了整座房子，已经逼着他把它打了个稀巴烂。现在他还要做得更多呢。
她把他领到楼梯的上面，那儿的光线从天空直射进来，因为二楼的窗户不是开在墙上，而是装在倾斜的屋顶上。楼上一共有两个房间，她带他进了其中一间，心下希望他不会介意她还没准备好———虽然她还能唤起欲望，却已经忘了欲望是如何作用的：挥之不去，手中的紧迫与无力；意乱情迷之下，跳进眼帘的只有可以躺下的地方，而其余的一切———门把手、皮带、挂钩、蜷在屋角的悲伤，以及时光的流逝———不过是干扰。
在他们把衣服脱光之前那事就都完了。胴体半裸，气喘吁吁，他们并排躺着，相互怨恨，也怨恨上面的天光。他对她的魂牵梦萦已是太久太久以前的事了，而她压根就被剥夺了梦想的权利。现在他们很难过，而且实在羞于彼此交谈。
塞丝仰卧着，头从他那边扭开。保罗·d从眼角瞥见她的乳房在一起一伏，觉得不舒服。那两个松弛的、又扁又圆的东西他绝对不需要，尽管在楼下他那样捧着它们，仿佛它们是他最珍贵的部分。还有他在厨房里好像淘金者扒拉矿砂那样探查的锻铁迷宫，实际上是一堆令人作呕的伤疤。不像她说的，是棵什么树。也许形状相似，不过可不像他认识的任何一棵树，因为树都是友好的，你能信赖，也能靠近它们，愿意的话还可以跟它们说话，多年前，在“甜蜜之家”的田里吃午饭时，他就经常这样做。可能的话，他就总在同一个地方；挑选地方是很困难的，因为“甜蜜之家”
里漂亮的树比周围任何农庄都要多。他管自己挑的那棵叫“兄弟”，坐在它下面，有时是自个儿，有时是和黑尔或其他保罗们，但更多的时候是和那时还很温顺、仍旧说英语的西克索一道。靛青色的西克索长着火红的舌头，他在夜里烤土豆做试验，试着算准恰好什么时刻把滚烫、冒烟的石头放进坑里，搁上土豆，再用小树枝全都盖严实；这样，当他们拴好牲口、离开田地，来到“兄弟”那儿歇 晌吃饭的时候，土豆就会烧得恰到好处。有时他三更半夜爬起来，大老远地一路走到那里，借着星光开始挖坑；要么他就不把石头烧得那么热，一吃完饭便将第二天的土豆搁上去。他从来都算不准，但他们一样吃掉那些火候不够的、烤过火的、干干巴巴的和生涩的土豆，大笑着，一边吐出来，一边给他提修改意见。
时间从来不按西克索设想的那样走，因此他当然不可能算准。有一次，他掐算好了时间走三十英里路去看一个女人，行程精确到一分一秒。他在一个星期六等月亮升到固定位置就动身了，星期天赶到教堂前面她的小屋，只有道声早安的时间，然后他必须开始再往回走，才能赶上星期一田里的早点名。他走了十七个小时，坐了一个小时，掉转身来再走十七个小时。黑尔和保罗们花了一整天的时间在加纳先生面前为他的瞌睡打马虎眼。那天他们没吃成土豆，也没吃成甘薯。开饭的时候，西克索懒在“兄弟”旁边，藏起火红的舌头，靛青的脸上毫无表情，一直睡得像具死尸。瞧，那才是个男人，那才是棵树呐。躺在床上的他自己，还有身边的那棵“树”，算个啥。
保罗·d透过脚上方的天窗望着外边，又叠起双手，枕到脑后。胳膊肘掠过塞丝的肩膀，布料擦着她的皮肤，把她吓了一跳。她都忘了，他还没脱下衬衫呢。狗，她心道，然后才想起是自己没给他脱衬衫的时间，也没给自己脱衬裙的时间。不过，要知道，在门廊上遇见他之前她可就开始宽衣解带了，鞋袜在手里拎着，而且一直就没再穿上；然后他盯着她湿漉漉的光脚看，还请求和她做伴；她起身做饭时，他又进一步地给她脱衣服；考虑到他们见面不久就这么快地开始脱，你会认为，到现在他们总该脱光了吧。但是也许一个男人不过是个男人，贝比·萨格斯就总这样说。他们鼓励你把你的一部分重量放到他们手中，正当你感到那有多么轻松、可爱的时候，他们便来研究你的伤疤和苦难，而在此之前，他们已经像他刚才那样干了：赶走她的孩子，砸烂整座房子。
她得从床上起来了，好下楼去把所有东西都拼拢到一起。他让她离开这所房子，就好像一所房子是小事一桩———一件罩衫，或者一个针线笸箩，你什么时候都可以丢开或是送人。可她呢，她除了这个还从未拥有过一所房子；她离开土地面，就是为了住进这样的家；她每天都得往加纳太太的厨房里带一把婆罗门参，才能开始在里面干活，才能感觉到它有一部分是属于自己的，因为她想热爱自己的工作；为把丑恶剔除，唯有这样摘一些美丽的花草随身带着，她才能觉得“甜蜜之家”是个家。如果哪天她忘了，那么不是黄油没送到，就是桶里的卤水把她的胳膊烫出了泡。
至少看起来如此。桌上有几朵黄花，把儿上缠着桃金娘的烙铁支开屋门，让轻风抚慰着她，这样，当加纳太太和她坐下来拔猪毛或者制墨水时，她会感觉良好。良好。不害怕远处的男人们。那五个人都睡在她附近的地方，但晚上从不进来。他们遇见她时只是捏一下他们的破帽子，盯着她。
如果她到田里给他们送饭，送去用干净的布包着的火腿和面包，他们也从不打她手里接过去。他们站远一点，等着她将包袱放到地上（树底下）然后离开。他们要么是不想从她手里接东西，要么就是不想让她看见自己的吃相。有两三回她磨蹭了一会儿，藏在忍冬树后面偷看他们。没有她他们是多么不同啊，他们怎样地大笑、打闹、撒尿和唱歌呀。所有人都是，只有西克索除外，他平生只大笑过一次———在生命的最后一刻。当然，黑尔是最好的。贝比·萨格斯的第八个，也是最后一个孩子，他在县里四处揽活儿干，就是为了把她从那里赎出来。可是他也一样，说到底，不过是个男人而已。
“一个男人不过是个男人，”贝比·萨格斯说道，“可是一个儿子？嗯，那才是个人物。
”
这话说得通，有很多理由，因为在贝比的一生里，还有在塞丝自己的生活中，男男女女都像棋子一样任人摆布。所有贝比·萨格斯认识的人，更不用提爱过的了，只要没有跑掉或吊死，就得被租用，被出借，被购入，被送还，被储存，被抵押，被赢被偷被掠夺。所以贝比的八个孩子有六个父亲。她惊愕地发现人们并不因为棋子中包括她的孩子而停止下这盘棋，这便是她所说的生活的龌龊。黑尔是她能留得最久的。二十年。一辈子。毫无疑问，是给她的补偿，因为当她听说她的两个还都未换牙的女儿被卖掉、带走的时候，她连再见都没能说上一声。是补偿，因为她跟一个工头同居了四个月，作为交换，她能把第三个孩子，一个儿子，留在身边———谁想到来年春天他被拿去换了木材，而那个不守信用的家伙又弄大了她的肚子。那个孩子她不能爱，而其余的她根本不去爱。
“上帝想带谁走就带谁走。
”她说。而且他带走了一个一个又一个，最后给了她黑尔，而黑尔给了她那时已一文不值的自由。
塞丝三生有幸与那个“人物”儿子度过了整整六年的婚姻生活，还跟他生了她的每一个孩子。她满不在乎地觉得福气是理所当然而又靠得住的，好像“甜蜜之家”果真是个甜蜜之家似的。好像用把上缠着桃金娘的烙铁支住白女人厨房的门，厨房就属于她了。好像嘴里的薄荷枝改变了呼吸的味道，也就改变了嘴本身的气味。世上没有更蠢的傻瓜了。
