deeper and more painful than his belated concern for denver or sethe, scorching his soul like asilver dollar in a fool's pocket, was the memory of baby suggs — the mountain to his sky. it wasthe memory of her and the honor that was her due that made him walk straight-necked into theyard of 124, although he heard its voices from the road.
he had stepped foot in this house only once after the misery (which is what he called sethe's roughresponse to the fugitive bill) and that was to carry baby suggs, holy, out of it. when he pickedher up in his arms, she looked to him like a gift, and he took the pleasure she would have knowingshe didn't have to grind her hipbone anymore — that at last somebody carried bar. had she waitedjust a little she would have seen the end of the war, its short, flashy results. they could havecelebrated together; gone to hear the great sermons preached on the occasion. as it was, he wentalone from house to joyous house drinking what was offered. but she hadn't waited and heattended her funeral more put out with her than bereaved. sethe and her daughter were dry-eyed onthat occasion. sethe had no instructions except "take her to the clearing," which he tried to do,but was prevented by some rule the whites had invented about where the dead should rest. babysuggs went down next to the baby with its throat cut — a neighborliness that stamp wasn't surehad baby suggs' approval.
the setting-up was held in the yard because nobody besides himself would enter 124 — an injurysethe answered with another by refusing to attend the service reverend pike presided over. shewent instead to the gravesite, whose silence she competed with as she stood there not joining in thehymns the others sang with all their hearts. that insult spawned another by the mourners: back inthe yard of 124, they ate the food they brought and did not touch sethe's, who did not touch theirsand forbade denver to. so baby suggs, holy, having devoted her freed life to harmony, was buriedamid a regular dance of pride, fear, condemnation and spite. just about everybody in town waslonging for sethe to come on difficult times. her outrageous claims, her self-sufficiency seemed todemand it, and stamp paid, who had not felt a trickle of meanness his whole adult life, wondered ifsome of the "pride goeth before a fall" expectations of the townsfolk had rubbed off on him anyhow — which would explain why he had not considered sethe's feelings or denver's needswhen he showed paul d the clipping.
he hadn't the vaguest notion of what he would do or say when and if sethe opened the door andturned her eyes on his. he was willing to offer her help, if she wanted any from him, or receive heranger, if she harbored any against him. beyond that, he trusted his instincts to right what he mayhave done wrong to baby suggs' kin, and to guide him in and through the stepped-up haunting 124was subject to, as evidenced by the voices he heard from the road. other than that, he would relyon the power of jesus christ to deal with things older, but not stronger, than he himself was. whathe heard, as he moved toward the porch, he didn't understand. out on bluestone road he thoughthe heard a conflagration of hasty voices — loud, urgent, all speaking at once so he could not makeout what they were talking about or to whom. the speech wasn't nonsensical, exactly, nor was ittongues. but something was wrong with the order of the words and he couldn't describe or cipher itto save his life. all he could make out was the word mine. the rest of it stayed outside his mind'sreach. yet he went on through. when he got to the steps, the voices drained suddenly to less than awhisper. it gave him pause. they had become an occasional mutter — like the interior sounds awoman makes when she believes she is alone and unobserved at her work: a sth when she missesthe needle's eye; a soft moan when she sees another chip in her one good platter; the low, friendlyargument with which she greets the hens. nothing fierce or startling. just that eternal, privateconversation that takes place between women and their tasks.
stamp paid raised his fist to knock on the door he had never knocked on (because it was alwaysopen to or for him) and could not do it. dispensing with that formality was all the pay he expectedfrom negroes in his debt. once stamp paid brought you a coat, got the message to you, saved yourlife, or fixed the cistern he took the liberty of walking in your door as though it were his own.
since all his visits were beneficial, his step or holler through a doorway got a bright welcome.
rather than forfeit the one privilege he claimed for himself, he lowered his hand and left the porch.
over and over again he tried it: made up his mind to visit sethe; broke through the loud hastyvoices to the mumbling beyond it and stopped, trying to figure out what to do at the door. sixtimes in as many days he abandoned his normal route and tried to knock at 124 . but the coldnessof the gesture — its sign that he was indeed a stranger at the gate — overwhelmed him. retracinghis steps in the snow, he sighed. spirit willing; flesh weak.
