Paul D had only begun, what he was telling her was only the beginning when her fingers on hisknee, soft and reassuring, stopped him. Just as well. Just as well. Saying more might push themboth to a place they couldn't get back from. He would keep the rest where it belonged: in thattobacco tin buried in his chest where a red heart used to be. Its lid rusted shut. He would not pry itloose now in front of this sweet sturdy woman, for if she got a whiff of the contents it wouldshame him. And it would hurt her to know that there was no red heart bright as Mister's combbeating in him.
Sethe rubbed and rubbed, pressing the work cloth and the stony curves that made up his knee. Shehoped it calmed him as it did her. Like kneading bread in the half-light of the restaurant kitchen. Before the cook arrived when she stood in a space no wider than a bench is long, back behind andto the left of the milk cans. Working dough. Working, working dough. Nothing better than that tostart the day's serious work of beating back the past.
UPSTAIRS was dancing. A little two-step, two-step, make-a-new-step, slide, slide and strut ondown.
Denver sat on the bed smiling and providing the music.
She had never seen Beloved this happy. She had seen her pouty lips open wide with the pleasure ofsugar or some piece of news Denver gave her. She had felt warm satisfaction radiating fromBeloved's skin when she listened to her mother talk about the old days. But gaiety she had never seen. Not ten minutes had passed since Beloved had fallen backward tothe floor, pop-eyed, thrashing and holding her throat. Now, after a few seconds lying in Denver'sbed, she was up and dancing.
"Where'd you learn to dance?" Denver asked her.