denver climbed up on the bed and folded her arms under her apron. she had not been in the treeroom once since beloved sat on their stump after the carnival, and had not remembered that shehadn't gone there until this very desperate moment. nothing was out there that this sister-girl didnot provide in abundance: a racing heart, dreaminess, society, danger, beauty. she swallowedtwice to prepare for the telling, to construct out of the strings she had heard all her life a net to holdbeloved.
"she had good hands, she said. the whitegirl, she said, had thin little arms but good hands. shesaw that right away, she said. hair enough for five heads and good hands, she said. i guess thehands made her think she could do it: get us both across the river. but the mouth was what kept herfrom being scared. she said there ain't nothing to go by with whitepeople. you don't know howthey'll jump. say one thing, do another. but if you looked at the mouth sometimes you could tellby that. she said this girl talked a storm, but there wasn't no meanness around her mouth. she tookma'am to that lean-to and rubbed her feet for her, so that was one thing. and ma'am believed shewasn't going to turn her over. you could get money if you turned a runaway over, and she wasn'tsure this girl amy didn't need money more than anything, especially since all she talked about wasgetting hold of some velvet.""what's velvet?""it's a cloth, kind of deep and soft.""go ahead.""anyway, she rubbed ma'am's feet back to life, and she cried, she said, from how it hurt. but itmade her think she could make it on over to where grandma baby suggs was and...""who is that?""i just said it. my grandmother.""is that sethe's mother?""no. my father's mother.""go ahead.""that's where the others was. my brothers and.., the baby girl. she sent them on before to wait forher at grandma baby's. so she had to put up with everything to get there. and this here girl amyhelped."denver stopped and sighed. this was the part of the story she loved. she was coming to it now,and she loved it because it was all about herself; but she hated it too because it made her feel like abill was owing somewhere and she, denver, had to pay it. but who she owed or what to pay it witheluded her. now, watching beloved's alert and hungry face, how she took in every word, askingquestions about the color of things and their size, her downright craving to know, denver began tosee what she was saying and not just to hear it: there is this nineteen-year-old slave girl — a yearolder than her self — walking through the dark woods to get to her children who are far away. sheis tired, scared maybe, and maybe even lost. most of all she is by herself and inside her is anotherbaby she has to think about too. behind her dogs, perhaps; guns probably; and certainly mossyteeth. she is not so afraid at night because she is the color of it, but in the day every sound is a shotor a tracker's quiet step. denver was seeing it now and feeling it — through beloved. feeling howit must have felt to her mother. seeing how it must have looked. and the more fine points shemade, the more detail she provided, the more beloved liked it. so she anticipated the questions bygiving blood to the scraps her mother and grandmother had told herwand a heartbeat. themonologue became, iri fact, a duet as they lay down together, denver nursing beloved's interestlike a lover whose pleasure was to overfeed the loved. the dark quilt with two orange patches wasthere with them because beloved wanted it near her when she slept. it was smelling like grass andfeeling like hands — the unrested hands of busy women: dry, warm, prickly. denver spoke,beloved listened, and the two did the best they could to create what really happened, how it reallywas, something only sethe knew because she alone had the mind for it and the time afterward toshape it: the quality of amy's voice, her breath like burning wood. the quick-change weather up inthose hills — -cool at night, hot in the day, sudden fog. how recklessly she behaved with thiswhitegirlna recklessness born of desperation and encouraged by amy's fugitive eyes and hertenderhearted mouth.
丹芙爬上床，把胳膊叠放在围裙下面。自从狂欢节过后宠儿坐在他们的树桩上那一天起，她一次也没去过那间树屋，而且直到这个绝望的时刻才想起来，她已冷落它这么久了。那儿没有什么这个姐姐姑娘不能大量地提供：狂跳的心，梦幻，交往，危险，美。她咽了两口唾沫，准备讲故事，准备用她有生以来听到的所有线索织成一张网，去抓住宠儿。
“她说，她有双好手。她说，那个白人姑娘胳膊精细，却有双好手。她说，她一下子就发现了。她说，头发足够五个脑袋用的，还有双好手。我猜想，是那双好手让她觉得她能成功：把我们俩都弄过河。是那张嘴，让她一直不觉得害怕。她说，你根本搞不清白人是怎么回事。你不知道他们会拉什么屎。说一套，做一套。可有的时候，你能从嘴角上看出来。她说，这个姑娘说起话来像下暴雨，可是她嘴周围没有残忍。她把太太带到那间披屋，还帮她揉脚，就是一个例子。太太相信她不会把自己交出去。交出一个逃跑的黑奴你会得到一笔赏金的。她敢肯定这个姑娘最需要的就是钱，尤其是，她说来说去全是去弄天鹅绒之类的。
”
“天鹅绒是什么？
”
“是一种布料，又密又软。
”
“说下去。
”
“不管怎么说，她把太太的脚给揉活了；她说她哭了，太疼了。可是那让她觉得她能挨到贝比·萨格斯奶奶那儿，而且……”
“那是谁？
”
“我刚才说了。我奶奶。
”
“是塞丝的妈妈么？
”
“不是。我爸爸的妈妈。
”
“说下去。
”
“其他人都在那儿。有我的两个哥哥，还有……那个小女婴。她先把他们送了出去，让他们在贝比·萨格斯那儿等她。所以她为了赶到那里什么苦都得吃。这个爱弥姑娘帮了大忙。
”
丹芙停下来，叹了口气。这是故事里她最爱的部分。马上就要说到这段了。她之所以爱这段，是因为它讲的全是她自己；可她又恨这段，因为这让她觉得好像有一笔债欠下了，而还债的是她，丹芙。然而她究竟欠的是谁的债，又拿什么来偿还，她不懂。此刻，注视着宠儿警觉而饥渴的脸，看她怎样捕捉每一个词、打听东西的颜色和大小，注意到她明白无误的了解真相的渴望，丹芙不仅听见，也开始看见自己正在讲述的一切：这个十九岁的黑奴姑娘———比自己大一岁———正穿过幽暗的树林去找远方的孩子们。她累了，可能有点害怕，甚至还可能迷了路。问题的关键是，她孤身一人，而且腹中还怀着个让她牵肠挂肚的婴儿。她身后也许有狗，也许有枪；当然，肯定有生了青苔的牙齿。在夜里她倒不那么害怕，因为夜色就是她的肤色，可是到了白天，每一个动静都可能是一声枪响，或者一个追捕者悄悄接近的脚步声。
此刻丹芙看到了，也感受到了———借助宠儿。感受到她妈妈当时的真实感受。看到当时的真实景象。而且好点子出得越多，提供的细节越多，宠儿就越爱听。于是她通过向妈妈、奶奶给她讲的故事注入血液———和心跳，预先设想出问题和答案。当她们两个一起躺下的时候，独角戏实际上变成了二重唱，由丹芙来满足宠儿的嗜好，表现得好像一个情人，他的乐趣就是过分娇惯他的心上人。带着两块橘黄色补丁的深色被子也和她们在一起，因为宠儿睡觉的时候执意要它在身边。它闻着像草，摸起来像手———忙碌的女人从不消停的手：干燥，温暖，多刺。丹芙说着，宠儿听着，两个人尽最大的努力去重现事情的真相，而到底是怎么回事，只有塞丝知道，因为只有她一个人有心思去琢磨，事后又有空将它勾勒出来：爱弥的音质，她那燃烧的木头似的呼吸。丘陵地带那多变的天气———凉爽的夜晚，酷热的白天，骤降的雾。她和这个白人姑娘一道，是那样毫无顾忌———因绝望而生，又受到爱弥那亡命徒一般的目光和善良的嘴纵容的毫无顾忌。
