Cogitation,assh(woman) ecalledit,cloudedthings(a) and prevented action. Nobody loved her and shewouldn't have liked it if they had, for she considered love a serious disability. Her puberty wasspent in a house where she was shared by father and son, whom she called "the lowest yet." It was"the lowest yet" who gave her a disgust for sex and against whom she measured all atrocities. Akilling, a kidnap, a rape — whatever, she listened and nodded. Nothing compared to "the lowestyet." She understood Sethe's rage in the shed twenty years ago, but not her reaction to it, whichElla thought was prideful, misdirected, and Sethe herself too complicated. When she got out of jailand made no gesture toward anybody, and lived as though she were alone, Ella junked her andwouldn't give her the time of day.
The daughter, however, appeared to have some sense after all. At least she had stepped out thedoor, asked or the help she needed and wanted work. When Ella heard 124 was occupied bysomething or-other beating up on Sethe, it infuriated her and gave her another opportunity tomeasure what could very well be the devil himself against "the lowest yet." There was alsosomething very personal in her fury. Whatever Sethe had done, Ella didn't like the idea of pasterrors taking possession of the present. Sethe's crime was staggering and her pride outstrippedeven that; but she could not countenance the possibility of sin moving on in the house, unleashedand sassy. Daily life took as much as she had. The future was sunset; the past something to leavebehind. And if it didn't stay behind, well, you might have to stomp it out. Slave life; freed life —every day was a test and a trial. Nothing could be counted on in a world where even when youwere a solution you were a problem. "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," and nobodyneeded more; nobody needed a grown-up evil sitting at the table with a grudge. As long as theghost showed out from its ghostly place — shaking stuff, crying, smashing and such — Ellarespected it. But if it took flesh and came in her world, well, the shoe was on the other foot. Shedidn't mind a little communication between the two worlds, but this was an invasion. "Shall wepray?" asked the women.
"Uh huh," said Ella. "First. Then we got to get down to business." The day Denver was to spendher first night at the Bodwins', Mr. Bodwin had some business on the edge of the city and toldJaney he would pick the new girl up before supper. Denver sat on the porch steps with a bundle inher lap, her carnival dress sun-faded to a quieter rainbow. She was looking to the right, in thedirection Mr. Bodwin would be coming from. She did not the women approaching, accumulatingslowlyingroupsoftwosandthreesfromtheleft.Denv(see) er was looking to the right.
She was a little anxious about whether she would prove satisfactory to the Bodwins, and uneasytoo because she woke up crying from a dream about a running pair of shoes. The sadness of thedream she hadn't been able to shake, and the heat oppressed her as she went about the chores. Fartoo early she wrapped a nightdress and hairbrush into a bundle. Nervous, she fidgeted the knot and looked to the right.
Some brought what they could and what they believed would work. Stuffed in apron pockets,strung around their necks, lying in the space between their breasts. Others brought Christian faith— as shield and sword. Most brought a little of both. They had no idea what they would do oncethey got there. They just started out, walked down Bluestone Road and came together at theagreed-upon time. The heat kept a few women who promised to go at home. Others who believedthe story didn't want any part of the confrontation and wouldn't have come no matter what theweather. And there were those like Lady Jones who didn't believe the story and hated theignorance of those who did. So thirty women made up that company and walked slowly, slowlytoward 124.
It was three in the afternoon on a Friday so wet and hot Cincinnati's stench had traveled to thecountry: from the canal, from hanging meat and things rotting in jars; from small animals dead inthe fields, town sewers and factories. The stench, the heat, the moisture — - trust the devil to makehis presence known. Otherwise it looked almost like a regular workday. They could have beengoing to do the laundry at the orphanage or the insane asylum; corn shucking at the mill; or to deanfish, rinse offal, cradle whitebabies, sweep stores, scrape hog skin, press lard, case-pack sausage orhide in tavern kitchens so whitepeople didn't have to see them handle their food. But not today.
When they caught up with each other, all thirty, and arrived at 124, the first thing they saw was notDenver sitting on the steps, but themselves. Younger, stronger, even as little girls lying in the grassasleep. Catfish was popping grease in the pan and they saw themselves scoop German potato saladonto the plate. Cobbler oozing purple syrup colored their teeth. They sat on the porch, ran down tothe creek, teased the men, hoisted children on their hips or, if they were the children, straddled theankles of old men who held their little hands while giving them a horsey ride. Baby Suggs laughedand skipped among them, urging more. Mothers, dead now, moved their shoulders to mouth harps.
The fence they had leaned on and climbed over was gone. The stump of the butternut had split likea fan. But there they were, young and happy, playing in Baby Suggs' yard, not feeling the envy thatsurfaced the next day.
Chapter 69
Denver heard mumbling and looked to the left. She stood when she saw them. They grouped,murmuring and whispering, but did not step foot in the yard. Denver waved. A few waved backbut came no closer. Denver sat back down wondering what was going on. A woman dropped to herknees. Half of the others did likewise. Denver saw lowered heads, but could not hear the leadprayer — only the earnest syllables of agreement that backed it: Yes, yes, yes, oh yes. Hear me.
Hear me. Do it, Maker, do it. Yes. Among those not on their knees, who stood holding 124 in afixed glare, was Ella, trying to see through the walls, behind the door, to what was really in there.
Was it true the dead daughter come back? Or a pretend? Was it whipping Sethe? Ella had beenbeaten every way but down. She remembered the bottom teeth she had lost to the brake and thescars from the bell were thick as rope around her waist. She had delivered, but would not nurse, ahairy white thing, fathered by "the lowest yet." It lived five days never making a sound. The ideaof that pup coming back to whip her too set her jaw working, and then Ella hollered.
Instantly the kneelers and the standers joined her. They stopped praying and took a step back to the beginning. In the beginning there were no words. In the beginning was the sound, and they allknew what that sound sounded like.
Edward Bodwin drove a cart down Bluestone Road. It displeased him a bit because he preferredhis figure astride Princess. Curved over his own hands, holding the reins made him look the age hewas. But he had promised his sister a detour to pick up a new girl. He didn't have to think about theway — he was headed for the house he was born in. Perhaps it was his destination that turned histhoughts to time — the way it dripped or ran. He had not seen the house for thirty years. Not thebutternut in front, the stream at the rear nor the block house in between. Not even the meadowacross the road. Very few of the interior details did he remember because he was three years oldwhen his family moved into town. But he did remember that the cooking was done behind thehouse, the well was forbidden to play near, and that women died there: his mother, grandmother,an aunt and an older sister before he was born. The men (his father and grandfather) moved withhimself and his baby sister to Court Street sixty-seven years ago. The land, of course, eighty acresof it on both sides of Bluestone, was the central thing, but he felt something sweeter and deeperabout the house which is why he rented it for a little something if he could get it, but it didn'ttrouble him to get no rent at all since the tenants at least kept it from the disrepair totalabandonment would permit.
There was a time when he buried things there. Precious things he wanted to protect. As a childevery item he owned was available and accountable to his family. Privacy was an adult indulgence,but when he got to be one, he seemed not to need it.
The horse trotted along and Edward Bodwin cooled his beautiful mustache with his breath. It wasgenerally agreed upon by the women in the Society that, except for his hands, it was the mostattractive feature he had. Dark, velvety, its beauty was enhanced by his strong clean-shaven chin.
But his hair was white, like his sister's — and had been since he was a young man. It made him themost visible and memorable person at every gathering, and cartoonists had fastened onto thetheatricality of his white hair and big black mustache whenever they depicted local politicalantagonism. Twenty years ago when the Society was at its height in opposing slavery, it was asthough his coloring was itself the heart of the matter. The "bleached nigger" was what his enemiescalled him, and on a trip to Arkansas, some Mississippi rivermen, enraged by the Negro boatmenthey competed with, had caught him and shoe-blackened his face and his hair. Those heady dayswere gone now; what remained was the sludge of ill will; dashed hopes and difficulties beyondrepair. A tranquil Republic?
Well, not in his lifetime.
Even the weather was getting to be too much for him. He was either too hot or freezing, and thisday was a blister. He pressed his hat down to keep the sun from his neck, where heatstroke was areal possibility. Such thoughts of mortality were not new to him (he was over seventy now), butthey still had the power to annoy. As he drew closer to the old homestead, the place that continuedto surface in his dreams, he was even more aware of the way time moved. Measured by the warshe had lived through but not fought in (against the Miami, the Spaniards, the Secessionists), it was slow. But measured by the burial of his private things it was the blink of an eye.
Where, exactly, was the box of tin soldiers? The watch chain with no watch? And who was hehiding them from? His father, probably, a deeply religious man who knew what God knew andtold everybody what it was. Edward Bodwin thought him an odd man, in so many ways, yet he hadone clear directive: human life is holy, all of it. And that his son still believed, although he had lessand less reason to.
Nothing since stimulating as the old days of letters, petitions, meetings, debates, recruitment, quarrels(was) , re(as) scue and downright sedition.
Yet it had worked, more or less, and when it had not, he and his sister made themselves availableto circumvent obstacles. As they had when a runaway slavewoman lived in his homestead with hermother-in-law and got herself into a world of trouble. The Society managed to turn infanticide andthe cry of savagery around, and build a further case for abolishing slavery. Good years, they were,full of spit and conviction. Now he just wanted to know where his soldiers were and his watchlesschain. That would be enough for this day of unbearable heat: bring back the new girl and recallexactly where his treasure lay. Then home, supper, and God willing, the sun would drop once moreto give him the blessing of a good night's sleep.
The road curved like an elbow, and as he approached it he heard the singers before he saw them.
When the women assembled outside 124, Sethe was breaking a lump of ice into chunks. Shedropped the ice pick into her apron pocket to scoop the pieces into a basin of water. When themusic entered the window she was wringing a cool cloth to put on Beloved's forehead. Beloved,sweating profusely, was sprawled on the bed in the keeping room, a salt rock in her hand. Bothwomen heard it at the same time and both lifted their heads. As the voices grew louder, Belovedsat up, licked the salt and went into the bigger room. Sethe and she exchanged glances and startedtoward the window. They saw Denver sitting on the steps and beyond her, where the yard met theroad, they saw the rapt faces of thirty neighborhood women.
Some had their eyes closed; others looked at the hot, cloudless sky.
Sethe opened the door and reached for Beloved's hand. Together they stood in the doorway. ForSethe it was as though the Clearing had come to her with all its heat and simmering leaves, wherethe voices of women searched for the right combination, the key, the code, the sound that broke theback of words. Building voice upon voice until they found it, and when they did it was a wave ofsound wide enough to sound deep water and knock the pods off chestnut trees. It broke over Setheand she trembled like the baptized in its wash.
The singing women recognized Sethe at once and surprised themselves by their absence of fearwhen they saw what stood next to her. The devil-child was clever, they thought. And beautiful. Ithad taken the shape of a pregnant woman, naked and smiling in the heat of the afternoon sun.
Thunderblack and glistening, she stood on long straight legs, her belly big and tight. Vines of hairtwisted all over her head. Jesus. Her smile was dazzling.
Sethe feels her eyes burn and it may have been to keep them clear that she looks up. The sky isblue and clear. Not one touch of death in the definite green of the leaves. It is when she lowers hereyes to look again at the loving faces before her that she sees him. Guiding the mare, slowingdown, his black hat wide-brimmed enough to hide his face but not his purpose. He is coming intoher yard and he is coming for her best thing. She hears wings. Little hummingbirds stick needlebeaks right through her headcloth into her hair and beat their wings. And if she thinks anything, itis no. No no. Nonono. She flies.
The ice pick is not in her hand; it is her hand.
Standing alone on the porch, Beloved is smiling. But now her hand is empty. Sethe is runningaway from her, running, and she feels the emptiness in the hand Sethe has been holding. Now sheis running into the faces of the people out there, joining them and leaving Beloved behind. Alone.
Again. Then Denver, running too.
Away from her to the pile of people out there. They make a hill. A hill of black people, falling.
And above them all, rising from his place with a whip in his hand, the man without skin, looking.
He is looking at her.
Chapter 70
Bare feet and chamomile sap.
Took off my shoes; took off my hat.
Bare feet and chamomile sap,Gimme back my shoes; gimme back my hat.
Lay my head on a potato sack,Devil sneak up behind my back.
Steam engine got a lonesome whine;Love that woman till you go stone blind.
