Below her bloody knees, there was no feeling at all; her chest was two cushions of pins. It was thevoice full of velvet and Boston and good things to eat that urged her along and made her think thatmaybe she wasn't, after all, just a crawling graveyard for a six-month baby's last hours.
The lean-to was full of leaves, which Amy pushed into a pile for Sethe to lie on. Then she gatheredrocks, covered them with more leaves and made Sethe put her feet on them, saying: "I know awoman had her feet cut off they was so swole." And she made sawing gestures with the blade ofher hand across Sethe's ankles.
"Zzz Zzz Zzz Zzz.""I used to be a good size. Nice arms and everything. Wouldn't think it, would you? That wasbefore they put me in the root cellar. I was fishing off the Beaver once. Catfish in Beaver Riversweet as chicken. Well I was just fishing there and a nigger floated right by me. I don't likedrowned people, you? Your feet remind me of him. All swole like."Then she did the magic: lifted Sethe's feet and legs and massaged them until she cried salt tears.
"It's gonna hurt, now," said Amy. "Anything dead coming back to life hurts."A truth for all times, thought Denver. Maybe the white dress holding its arm around her mother'swaist was in pain. If so, it could mean the baby ghost had plans. When she opened the door, Sethewas just leaving the keeping room.
"I saw a white dress holding on to you," Denver said.