"Uh huh," said Sethe, and told Denver that she believed Beloved had been locked up by somewhiteman for his own purposes, and never let out the door. That she must have escaped to a bridgeor someplace and rinsed the rest out of her mind. Something like that had happened to Ella exceptit was two men — -a father and son — - and Ella remembered every bit of it. For more than a year,they kept her locked in a room for themselves.
"You couldn't think up," Ella had said, "what them two done to me."
Sethe thought it explained Beloved's behavior around Paul D, whom she hated so.
Denver neither believed nor commented on Sethe's speculations, and she lowered her eyes andnever said a word about the cold house. She was certain that Beloved was the white dress that hadknelt with her mother in the keeping room, the true-to-life presence of the baby that had kept hercompany most of her life. And to be looked at by her, however briefly, kept her grateful for therest of the time when she was merely the looker. Besides, she had her own set of questions whichhad nothing to do with the past. The present alone interested Denver, but she was careful to appearuninquisitive about the things she was dying to ask Beloved, for if she pressed too hard, she mightlose the penny that the held-out palm wanted, and lose, therefore, the place beyond appetite. It wasbetter to feast, to have permission to be the looker, because the old hunger — the before-Belovedhunger that drove her into boxwood and cologne for just a taste of a life, to feel it bumpy and notflat — was out of the question. Looking kept it at bay.
So she did not ask Beloved how she knew about the earrings, the night walks to the cold house orthe tip of the thing she saw when Beloved lay down or came undone in her sleep. The look, whenit came, came when Denver had been careful, had explained things, or participated in things, ortold stories to keep her occupied when Sethe was at the restaurant. No given chore was enough toput out the licking fire that seemed always to burn in her. Not when they wrung out sheets so tightthe rinse water ran back up their arms. Not when they shoveled snow from the path to theouthouse. Or broke three inches of ice from the rain barrel; scoured and boiled last summer'scanning jars, packed mud in the cracks of the hen house and warmed the chicks with their skirts.