In Ohio seasons are theatrical. Each one enters like a prima donna, convinced its performance isthe reason the world has people in it. When Paul D had been forced out of 124 into a shed behindit, summer had been hooted offstage and autumn with its bottles of blood and gold had everybody'sattention. Even at night, when there should have been a restful intermission, there was nonebecause the voices of a dying landscape were insistent and loud. Paul D packed newspaper under himself and over, to give his thin blanket some help. But the chilly night was not on his mind. When he heard the door open behind him he refused to turn and look.
"What you want in here? What you want?" He should have been able to hear her breathing.
"I want you to touch me on the inside part and call me my name."
Paul D never worried about hislittle tobacco tin anymore. It was rusted shut. So, while she hoisted her skirts and turned her headover her shoulder the way the turtles had, he just looked at the lard can, silvery in moonlight, andspoke quietly.
"When good people take you in and treat you good, you ought to try to be good back. You don't...Sethe loves you. Much as her own daughter. You know that."
Beloved dropped her skirts as he spoke and looked at him with empty eyes. She took a step hecould not hear and stood close behind him.
"She don't love me like I love her. I don't love nobody but her."
"Then what you come in here for?"