It went on that way and might have stayed that way but one evening, after supper, after Sethe, hecame downstairs, sat in the rocker and didn't want to be there. He stood up and realized he didn'twant to go upstairs either. Irritable and longing for rest, he opened the door to Baby Suggs' roomand dropped off to sleep on the bed the old lady died in. That settled it — so it seemed. It becamehis room and Sethe didn't object — her bed made for two had been occupied by one for eighteenyears before Paul D came to call. And maybe it was better this way, with young girls in the houseand him not being her true-to-life husband. In any case, since there was no reduction in his before-breakfast or after-supper appetites, he never heard her complain.
It went on that way and might have stayed that way, except one evening, after supper, after Sethe,he came downstairs and lay on Baby Suggs' bed and didn't want to be there.He believed he was having house-fits, the glassy anger men sometimes feel when a woman's housebegins to bind them, when they want to yell and break something or at least run off. He knew allabout that — felt it lots of times — in the Delaware weaver's house, for instance. But always heassociated the house-fit with the woman in it. This nervousness had nothing to do with the woman,whom he loved a little bit more every day: her hands among vegetables, her mouth when shelicked a thread end before guiding it through a needle or bit it in two when the seam was done, theblood in her eye when she defended her girls (and Beloved was hers now) or any coloredwomanfrom a slur. Also in this house-fit there was no anger, no suffocation, no yearning to be elsewhere.He just could not, would not, sleep upstairs or in the rocker or, now, in Baby Suggs' bed. So hewent to the storeroom.
It went on that way and might have stayed that way except one evening, after supper, after Sethe,he lay on a pallet in the storeroom and didn't want to be there. Then it was the cold house and itwas out there, separated from the main part of 124, curled on top of two croaker sacks full of sweetpotatoes, staring at the sides of a lard can, that he realized the moving was involuntary. He wasn'tbeing nervous; he was being prevented.
So he waited. Visited Sethe in the morning; slept in the cold room at night and waited.
She came, and he wanted to knock her down.