the nephew, the one who had nursed her while his brother held her down, didn't know he wasshaking. his uncle had warned him against that kind of confusion, but the warning didn't seem tobe taking. what she go and do that for? on account of a beating? hell, he'd been beat a milliontimes and he was white. once it hurt so bad and made him so mad he'd smashed the well bucket.
another time he took it out on samson — a few tossed rocks was all. but no beating ever madehim... i mean no way he could have... what she go and do that for? and that is what he asked thesheriff, who was standing there, amazed like the rest of them, but not shaking. he was swallowinghard, over and over again. "what she want to go and do that for?"the sheriff turned, then said to the other three, "you all better go on. look like your business isover. mine's started now." schoolteacher beat his hat against his thigh and spit before leaving thewoodshed. nephew and the catcher backed out with him. they didn't look at the woman in thepepper plants with the flower in her hat. and they didn't look at the seven or so faces that hadedged closer in spite of the catcher's rifle warning. enough nigger eyes for now. little nigger-boyeyes open in sawdust; little nigger-girl eyes staring between the wet fingers that held her face soher head wouldn't fall off; little nigger-baby eyes crinkling up to cry in the arms of the old niggerwhose own eyes were nothing but slivers looking down at his feet. but the worst ones were thoseof the nigger woman who looked like she didn't have any. since the whites in them haddisappeared and since they were as black as her skin, she looked blind.
they unhitched from schoolteacher's horse the borrowed mule that was to carry the fugitivewoman back to where she belonged, and tied it to the fence. then, with the sun straight up overtheir heads, they trotted off, leaving the sheriff behind among the damnedest bunch of coons they'dever seen. all testimony to the results of a little so-called freedom imposed on people who neededevery care and guidance in the world to keep them from the cannibal life they preferred.
the sheriff wanted to back out too. to stand in the sunlight outside of that place meant for housingwood, coal, kerosene — fuel for cold ohio winters, which he thought of now, while resisting theurge to run into the august sunlight. not because he was afraid. not at all. he was just cold. andhe didn't want to touch anything. the baby in the old man's arms was crying, and the woman's eyeswith no whites were gazing straight ahead. they all might have remained that way, frozen tillthursday, except one of the boys on the floor sighed. as if he were sunk in the pleasure of a deepsweet sleep, he sighed the sigh that flung the sheriff into action.
"i'll have to take you in. no trouble now. you've done enough to last you. come on now."she did not move.
"you come quiet, hear, and i won't have to tie you up." she stayed still and he had made up hismind to go near her and some kind of way bind her wet red hands when a shadow behind him inthe doorway made him turn. the nigger with the flower in her hat entered.
baby suggs noticed who breathed and who did not and went straight to the boys lying in the dirt.
the old man moved to the woman gazing and said, "sethe. you take my armload and gimme yours."she turned to him, and glancing at the baby he was holding, made a low sound in her throat asthough she'd made a mistake, left the salt out of the bread or something.
"i'm going out here and send for a wagon," the sheriff said and got into the sunlight at last.
but neither stamp paid nor baby suggs could make her put her crawling-already? girl down. outof the shed, back in the house, she held on. baby suggs had got the boys inside and was bathingtheir heads, rubbing their hands, lifting their lids, whispering, "beg your pardon, i beg yourpardon," the whole time. she bound their wounds and made them breathe camphor before turningher attention to sethe. she took the crying baby from stamp paid and carried it on her shoulder fora full two minutes, then stood in front of its mother. "it's time to nurse your youngest," she said.
sethe reached up for the baby without letting the dead one go. baby suggs shook her head. "one ata time," she said and traded the living for the dead, which she carried into the keeping room. whenshe came back, sethe was aiming a bloody nipple into the baby's mouth. baby suggs slammed herfist on the table and shouted, "clean up! clean yourself up!"they fought then. like rivals over the heart of the loved, they fought. each struggling for thenursing child. baby suggs lost when she slipped in a red puddle and fell. so denver took hermother's milk right along with the blood of her sister. and that's the way they were when thesheriff returned, having commandeered a neighbor's cart, and ordered stamp to drive it.
outside a throng, now, of black faces stopped murmuring. holding the living child, sethe walkedpast them in their silence and hers. she climbed into the cart, her profile knife-clean against acheery blue sky. a profile that shocked them with its clarity. was her head a bit too high? herback a little too straight? probably. otherwise the singing would have begun at once, the momentshe appeared in the doorway of the house on bluestone road. some cape of sound would havequickly been wrapped around her, like arms to hold and steady her on the way. as it was, theywaited till the cart turned about, headed west to town. and then no words. humming. no words atall.
baby suggs meant to run, skip down the porch steps after the cart, screaming, no. no. don't lether take that last one too. she meant to. had started to, but when she got up from the floor andreached the yard the cart was gone and a wagon was rolling up. a red-haired boy and a yellow-haired girl jumped down and ran through the crowd toward her. the boy had a half-eaten sweetpepper in one hand and a pair of shoes in the other.
"mama says wednesday." he held them together by their tongues. "she says you got to have thesefixed by wednesday." baby suggs looked at him, and then at the woman holding a twitching leadhorse to the road.
"she says wednesday, you hear? baby? baby?" she took the shoes from him — high-topped and muddy — saying, "i beg your pardon. lord, i beg your pardon. i sure do." out of sight, the cartcreaked on down bluestone road. nobody in it spoke. the wagon rock had put the baby to sleep.
the hot sun dried sethe's dress, stiff, like rigor morris.
that ain't her mouth.
anybody who didn't know her, or maybe somebody who just got a glimpse of her through thepeephole at the restaurant, might think it was hers, but paul d knew better. oh well, a littlesomething around the forehead — a quietness — that kind of reminded you of her. but there wasno way you could take that for her mouth and he said so. told stamp paid, who was watching himcarefully.
"i don't know, man. don't look like it to me. i know sethe's mouth and this ain't it." he smoothedthe clipping with his fingers and peered at it, not at all disturbed. from the solemn air with whichstamp had unfolded the paper, the tenderness in the old man's fingers as he stroked its creases andflattened it out, first on his knees, then on the split top of the piling, paul d knew that it ought tomess him up. that whatever was written on it should shake him.
pigs were crying in the chute. all day paul d, stamp paid and twenty more had pushed andprodded them from canal to shore to chute to slaughterhouse. although, as grain farmers movedwest, st. louis and chicago now ate up a lot of the business, cincinnati was still pig port in theminds of ohioans. its main job was to receive, slaughter and ship up the river the hogs thatnortherners did not want to live without. for a month or so in the winter any stray man had work,if he could breathe the stench of offal and stand up for twelve hours, skills in which paul d wasadmirably trained. a little pig shit, rinsed from every place he could touch, remained on his boots,and he was conscious of it as he stood there with a light smile of scorn curling his lips. usually heleft his boots in the shed and put his walking shoes on along with his day clothes in the cornerbefore he went home. a route that took him smack dab through the middle of a cemetery as old assky, rife with the agitation of dead miami no longer content to rest in the mounds that coveredthem. over their heads walked a strange people; through their earth pillows roads were cut; wellsand houses nudged them out of eternal rest. outraged more by their folly in believing land washoly than by the disturbances of their peace, they growled on the banks of licking river, sighed inthe trees on catherine street and rode the wind above the pig yards. paul d heard them but hestayed on because all in all it wasn't a bad job, especially in winter when cincinnati reassumed itsstatus of slaughter and riverboat capital. the craving for pork was growing into a mania in everycity in the country. pig farmers were cashing in, provided they could raise enough and get themsold farther and farther away. and the germans who flooded southern ohio brought and developedswine cooking to its highest form. pig boats jammed the ohio river, and their captains' holleringat one another over the grunts of the stock was as common a water sound as that of the ducksflying over their heads. sheep, cows and fowl too floated up and down that river, and all a negrohad to do was show up and there was work: poking, killing, cutting, skinning, case packing andsaving offal.
a hundred yards from the crying pigs, the two men stood behind a shed on western row and it was clear why stamp had been eyeing paul d this last week of work; why he paused when theevening shift came on, to let paul d's movements catch up to his own. he had made up his mind toshow him this piece of paper — newspaper — with a picture drawing of a woman who favoredsethe except that was not her mouth. nothing like it.
paul d slid the clipping out from under stamp's palm. the print meant nothing to him so he didn'teven glance at it. he simply looked at the face, shaking his head no. no. at the mouth, you see.
and no at whatever it was those black scratches said, and no to whatever it was stamp paid wantedhim to know. because there was no way in hell a black face could appear in a newspaper if thestory was about something anybody wanted to hear. a whip of fear broke through the heartchambers as soon as you saw a negro's face in a paper, since the face was not there because theperson had a healthy baby, or outran a street mob. nor was it there because the person had beenkilled, or maimed or caught or burned or jailed or whipped or evicted or stomped or raped orcheated, since that could hardly qualify as news in a newspaper. it would have to be something outof the ordinary — something whitepeople would find interesting, truly different, worth a fewminutes of teeth sucking if not gasps. and it must have been hard to find news about negroesworth the breath catch of a white citizen of cincinnati.
so who was this woman with a mouth that was not sethe's, but whose eyes were almost as calm ashers? whose head was turned on her neck in the manner he loved so well it watered his eye to seeit. and he said so. "this ain't her mouth. i know her mouth and this ain't it." before stamp paidcould speak he said it and even while he spoke paul d said it again. oh, he heard all the old manwas saying, but the more he heard, the stranger the lips in the drawing became.
stamp started with the party, the one baby suggs gave, but stopped and backed up a bit to tellabout the berries — where they were and what was in the earth that made them grow like that.
现在这个侄子，他兄弟按住她时吃她的奶的那个，不由自主地战栗着。他叔叔警告过他，要提防那种慌乱，可是看来这个警告没被采纳。她干吗逃走，还这样做？为了一回打？妈的，他挨过一百万次打，他还是个白人呢。有一回打得特别疼，气得他摔坏了水桶。另一回他把气撒到了参孙身上———也不过扔了几颗石子。可是挨打从来没让他……我是说他不可能会……她干吗逃走，还这样做？他就这样问了警官这个问题，警官正站在那里像其他人一样惊诧不已，但没有战栗。他使劲咽着唾沫，一口接一口地。
“她干吗想逃走，还这样做？
”
警官转过身，然后对其他三个人说道：
“你们趁早都走吧。看来没你们什么事了。该我了。
”
“学校老师”用帽子使劲抽打自己的大腿，离开木棚屋之前又啐了一口。侄子和猎奴者跟他一起退了出来。他们没去看胡椒地里那个帽子上戴花的女人。他们也没去看猎奴者的枪没能拦住的七张凑过来的脸。够了，黑鬼的眼睛。黑鬼小男孩的眼睛在锯末里张着；黑鬼小姑娘的眼睛在血淋淋的手指缝里瞪着，那只手扶住她的脑袋，好让它掉不下来；黑鬼小婴儿皱起眼睛在老黑鬼的怀里哭闹，老黑鬼的眼睛只不过是两道裂缝，正盯着自己的脚面。然而最可怕的是那个女黑鬼的，看上去就像她没有眼睛似的。眼白消失了，于是她的眼睛有如她皮肤一般黑，她像个瞎子。
他们从“学校老师”的马身上解下那匹借来的、本来要运女逃犯回去的骡子，拴在栅栏上。然后，他们顶着烈日骑马走了，把警官留在身后这伙罪该万死的黑熊中间。他们全部目睹了以一点所谓自由来欺骗这帮人的恶果，这些家伙需要世上一切的监督和指导，才能避免他们自己更喜欢的同类相残的生活。
警官也想退出来。走出这间本该贮藏木料、煤炭、石油———寒冷的俄亥俄冬天的燃料———的棚屋，站到屋外的阳光里。他一边这样想，一边抗拒着跑进八月阳光里的冲动。不是因为害怕。
根本不是。他只是觉得冷。他也不想碰任何东西。老人怀里的婴儿在哭，那女人没有眼白的一双眼睛直勾勾地瞪着前方。他们都可以就那样一直待下去，冻结到星期四，可是地上一个男孩叹了口气。仿佛沉溺在甜美酣睡的乐趣中，他这一声轻叹叹得警官猛一激灵，立即开始行动。
“我必须把你抓进去。别再找麻烦了。你已经干得不少了。现在跟我走吧。
”
她没有动。
“你乖乖地走，听见没有，我就不用把你捆起来了。
”
她还是不动，于是他决定走近她，想个办法捆上她那双血淋淋的手，这时他身后门口的一个人影让他转过头来。帽子上戴花的黑鬼走了进来。
贝比·萨格斯注意到谁还有气、谁没气了，便径直走向躺在尘土里的男孩们。老头走向那个女人，盯着她，说道：
“塞丝，抱着我怀里这个，把你的那个给我。
”
她转过头，瞟了一眼他怀里的婴儿，喉咙里低叫了一声，就像她出了个错，面包里忘了放盐什么的。
“我出去叫辆大车。
”警官说着，终于走进了阳光。
可是无论斯坦普·沛德，还是贝比·萨格斯，都不能让塞丝把她那“都会爬了？
”的女孩放下。走出棚屋，走进房子，一直抱着她不放。贝比·萨格斯已经把男孩们带了进来，正在给他们洗头、搓手、扒开眼皮，自始至终嘀咕着：
“请原谅，请你们原谅。
”她包扎好他们的伤口，让他们吸过樟脑，然后才开始对付塞丝。她从斯坦普·沛德手里接过哭闹的婴儿，在肩膀上扛了足足两分钟，然后站到孩子的母亲面前。
“该喂你的小宝贝了。
”她说。
塞丝接过婴儿，还是没撒开那个死的。
贝比·萨格斯摇了摇头。
“一次一个。
”她说着用活的换了死的，把死的抱进起居室。她回来时，塞丝正要将一个血淋淋的奶头塞进婴儿的嘴里。贝比·萨格斯一拳砸在桌上，大叫道：“洗干净!你先洗干净!”
于是她们厮打起来。仿佛在争夺一颗爱心，她们厮打起来。都在抢那个等着吃奶的婴儿。贝比·萨格斯一脚滑倒在血泊之中，输掉了。于是丹芙就着姐姐的血喝了妈妈的奶。她们就那样待着，直到警官征用了一辆邻居的运货马车回来，命令斯坦普来赶车。
这时，外面的一大群黑脸孔停止了嘀嘀咕咕。塞丝抱着那个活着的孩子，在他们和她自己的静默中走过他们面前。她爬进车厢，刀锋般光洁的侧影映入欢快的蓝天。那侧影的明晰使他们震惊。
她的头是否昂得有点太高了？她的背是否挺得有点太直了？也许。否则，在她从房子门口出现的那一刻，蓝石路上的歌声就会马上响起来了。某种声音的披肩就会迅速地裹上她，像手臂一样一路搀扶她、稳住她。然而在这样的情形下，他们一直等到货车朝西掉头、向城里开去，才唱起来。然后也没有歌词。哼唱着。一句歌词也没有。
贝比·萨格斯本来想跑，跳下门廊的台阶去追运货马车，尖叫着：不。不。别让她把那个最小的也带走。她本来要这样做，也已经开始了，可是当她从地上站起来，走进院子，运货马车已经没影了，而一辆大车隆隆而至。一个红发男孩和一个金发女孩跳下车，穿过人群向她跑来。男孩一手拿着吃了一半的甜椒，一手提着一双鞋。
“妈妈说星期三。
”他提着鞋舌头，“她说你得在星期三之前修好。
”
贝比·萨格斯看了他一眼，又看了看大路上拽着缰绳的女人。
“她说星期三，你听见了吗？贝比？贝比？
”
她从他手里接过鞋———高靿的，沾着泥———说道：
“请原谅。主啊，我求你原谅。我真的求你了。
”
视线之外，运货马车吱吱呀呀地驶下蓝石路。里面没有人开口。大车已经把婴儿摇晃得睡着了。炎热的太阳晒干了塞丝的裙子，硬挺挺的，仿佛尸僵。
那不是她的嘴。
素不相识的人，或者也许只从餐馆的门洞里瞥见过她一眼的人，可能会认为那是她的嘴，但是这事保罗·d更明白。噢，的确，前额上还笼罩着那么一点东西———一种安详———能使你想起她来。可是你单凭这个就说那是她的嘴，那可不行，于是他就这样讲了。告诉了正在审视他的斯坦普·沛德。
“我不知道，大叔。反正我看着不像。我认识塞丝的嘴，可不是这样。
”他用手指抚平那张剪报，凝视着，丝毫不为所动。从斯坦普打开报纸的庄严气氛中，从老人用手指按平折痕，先是在他的膝盖上、然后在树桩劈裂的顶端将它摊平的慎重中，保罗·d知道，它该搅得他不得安宁了。无论那上面写的是什么，都会震动他。
猪在滑运道里嚎叫着。保罗·d、斯坦普·沛德和另外二十多人一整天都在把它们催来赶去，从运河到岸上到滑运道再到屠宰场。尽管由于粮农迁往西部，圣路易斯和芝加哥现在吞并了许多企业，但辛辛那提在俄亥俄人的印象里仍旧是猪的港口。它的主要职责是接收、屠宰和向上游运去北方人离不开的肉猪。冬天里有一个月左右的时间，所有流浪汉都有活儿干，只要他们能忍受死牲口的恶臭，一连站上十二个小时。这些事，保罗·d都令人惊叹地训练有素。
他冲洗干净身上所有够得着的地方，还剩一点猪屎粘在他的靴子上；他站在那里，意识到这一点，一丝鄙夷的微笑卷起了他的嘴唇。他通常是把靴子留在棚屋里，回家之前在角落里换上便鞋和便衣。一条路正好把他带进一片天空一样古老的墓地中央，路上充斥着死去的迈阿密人骚动的亡灵，他们已不再满足于在坟堆下面安眠了。他们的头顶上走动着一个陌生的人种；他们的土地枕头被公路切开；水井和房屋将他们从永恒的憩息中撼醒。与其说是由于安宁受到搅扰，不如说是他们对土地之神圣的愚蠢信仰令他们恼羞成怒，于是他们在黎津河畔怒吼，在凯瑟琳大街的树上叹息，并乘风驶过宰猪场的上空。保罗·d听见了他们的声音，但仍旧留了下来，因为无论如何那是个不赖的工作，尤其是在辛辛那提作为屠宰与河运之都的地位得到确立的冬天。在这个国家的每一座城市里，对猪肉的渴望正在演化成一种癫狂。倘若猪农们能养足够的猪，再把它们卖得越来越远，他们是会赚大钱的。在南俄亥俄泛滥的德国人带来了猪肉烹调术，并把它发展到登峰造极的地步。运肉猪的船只阻塞了俄亥俄河；在水上，船长们彼此的吆喝声盖过了牲口的哼叫声，这就像鸭群飞过头顶一样寻常。绵羊、奶牛和家禽也在河上往来辗转，而一个黑人只须露个面，就会有活儿干：捅、杀、割肉、剥皮、装箱，以及储存下脚料。
距离号叫的猪群一百码远，两个男人站在西线公司的一间棚屋后面。现在清楚了，为什么这一个星期的工作中斯坦普一直盯着保罗·d看；为什么轮到上夜班时他就停下来，好让保罗·d的动作赶上他的。他已经打定主意要向他出示这张纸———报纸———上面有一个女人的肖像，酷似塞丝，只不过那不是她的嘴。一点也不像。
保罗·d从斯坦普的手掌下抽出那张剪报。上面的铅字他一个也不认得，所以他根本就没瞥上一眼。他只是看了看那张脸，摇头说不是。不是。嘴那儿，你看。不管那些黑道道写的是什么，也不管斯坦普·沛德想让他知道些什么，反正不是。因为即便在地狱里，一张黑脸也不可能上报纸，哪怕那个故事有人想听。你在报上刚看见一张黑人的脸，恐惧的鞭笞就会掠过你的心房，因为那张脸上报，不可能是由于那个人生了个健康的婴儿，或是逃脱了一群暴徒。也不会因为那个人被杀害、被打残、被抓获、被烧死、被拘禁、被鞭打、被驱赶、被蹂躏、被奸污、被欺骗，那些作为新闻报道根本不够资格。它必须是件离奇的事情———白人会感兴趣的事情，确实非同凡响，值得他们回味几分钟，起码够倒吸一口凉气的。而找到一则值得辛辛那提的白人公民屏息咋舌的有关黑人的新闻，肯定非常困难。
那么这个嘴不像塞丝、但眼睛几乎同样平静的女人是谁呢？她的头以一种令他如此迷恋的姿态从脖子上扭开，看得他热泪盈眶。
而他还是这句话。
“这不是她的嘴。我认识她的嘴，可不是这样子。
”斯坦普·沛德没来得及开口他就这样说，甚至在斯坦普原原本本娓娓道来的时候，保罗·d又说了一遍。噢，老人的话他全听见了，可听得越多，画像上的嘴就越陌生。
斯坦普先从宴会讲起，贝比·萨格斯举办的那个，又停下来，倒回去一点，讲起了莓子———它们在哪儿，以及是土里的什么东西让它们长成那样。
