once, long ago, she was soft, trusting. she trusted mrs. garner and her husband too. she knottedthe earrings into her underskirt to take along, not so much to wear but to hold. earrings that madeher believe she could discriminate among them. that for every schoolteacher there would be anamy; that for every pupil there was a garner, or bodwin, or even a sheriff, whose touch at herelbow was gentle and who looked away when she nursed. but she had come to believe every oneof baby suggs' last words and buried all recollection of them and luck. paul d dug it up, gave herback her body, kissed her divided back, stirred her rememory and brought her more news: ofclabber, of iron, of roosters' smiling, but when he heard her news, he counted her feet and didn'teven say goodbye.
"don't talk to me, mr. sawyer. don't say nothing to me this morning.""what? what? what? you talking back to me?" "i'm telling you don't say nothing to me." "youbetter get them pies made."sethe touched the fruit and picked up the paring knife.
when pie juice hit the bottom of the oven and hissed, sethe was well into the potato salad. sawyercame in and said, "not too sweet. you make it too sweet they don't eat it.""make it the way i always did.""yeah. too sweet."none of the sausages came back. the cook had a way with them and sawyer's restaurant neverhad leftover sausage. if sethe wanted any, she put them aside soon as they were ready. but therewas some passable stew. problem was, all her pies were sold too. only rice pudding left and half apan of gingerbread that didn't come out right. had she been paying attention instead ofdaydreaming all morning, she wouldn't be picking around looking for her dinner like a crab. shecouldn't read clock time very well, but she knew when the hands were closed in prayer at the top ofthe face she was through for the day. she got a metal-top jar, filled it with stew and wrapped thegingerbread in butcher paper. these she dropped in her outer skirt pockets and began washing up.
none of it was anything like what the cook and the two waiters walked off with. mr. sawyerincluded midday dinner in the terms of the job — along with $3.4o a week — and she made himunderstand from the beginning she would take her dinner home. but matches, sometimes a bit ofkerosene, a little salt, butter too — these things she took also, once in a while, and felt ashamedbecause she could afford to buy them; she just didn't want the embarrassment of waiting out backof phelps store with the others till every white in ohio was served before the keeper turned to thecluster of negro faces looking through a hole in his back door. she was ashamed, too, because itwas stealing and sixo's argument on the subject amused her but didn't change the way she felt; justas it didn't change schoolteacher's mind.
"did you steal that shoat? you stole that shoat." schoolteacher was quiet but firm, like he was justgoing through the motions — not expecting an answer that mattered. sixo sat there, not evengetting up to plead or deny. he just sat there, the streak-of-lean in his hand, the gristle clustered inthe tin plate like gemstones — -rough, unpolished, but loot nevertheless.
"you stole that shoat, didn't you?""no. sir." said sixo, but he had the decency, to keep his eyes on the meat.
"you telling me you didn't steal it, and i'm looking right at you?""no, sir. i didn't steal it."schoolteacher smiled. "did you kill it?""yes, sir. i killed it.""did you butcher it?""yes, sir.""did you cook it?""yes, sir.""well, then. did you eat it?""yes, sir. i sure did.""and you telling me that's not stealing?""no, sir. it ain't.""what is it then?""improving your property, sir.""what?""sixo plant rye to give the high piece a better chance. sixo take and feed the soil, give you morecrop. sixo take and feed sixo give you more work."clever, but schoolteacher beat him anyway to show him that definitions belonged to the definers— not the defined. after mr. garner died with a hole in his ear that mrs. garner said was an exploded ear drum brought on by stroke and sixo said was gunpowder, everything they touchedwas looked on as stealing. not just a rifle of corn, or two yard eggs the hen herself didn't evenremember, everything. schoolteacher took away the guns from the sweet home men and, deprivedof game to round out their diet of bread, beans, hominy, vegetables and a little extra at slaughtertime, they began to pilfer in earnest, and it became not only their right but their obligation. setheunderstood it then, but now with a paying job and an employer who was kind enough to hire an ex-convict, she despised herself for the pride that made pilfering better than standing in line at thewindow of the general store with all the other negroes. she didn't want to jostle them or be jostledby them. feel their judgment or their pity, especially now. she touched her forehead with the backof her wrist and blotted the perspiration. the workday had come to a close and already she wasfeeling the excitement. not since that other escape had she felt so alive. slopping the alley dogs,watching their frenzy, she pressed her lips. today would be a day she would accept a lift, ifanybody on a wagon offered it. no one would, and for sixteen years her pride had not let her ask.
but today. oh, today. now she wanted speed, to skip over the long walk home and be there. whensawyer warned her about being late again, she barely heard him. he used to be a sweet man.
patient, tender in his dealings with his help. but each year, following the death of his son in thewar, he grew more and more crotchety. as though sethe's dark face was to blame.
"un huh," she said, wondering how she could hurry tine along and get to the no-time waiting forher.
