When the last of the chamomile was gone, she went around to the front of the house, collecting hershoes and stockings on the way. As if to punish her further for her terrible memory, sitting on the porch not forty feet away was Paul D, the last of the Sweet Home men. And although she she said, "Is that you?""What's left." He stood up and smiled. "How you been, girl, besides barefoot?"When she laughed it came out loose and young. "Messed up my legs back yonder. Chamomile."He made a face as though tasting a teaspoon of something bitter."I don't want to even hear 'bout it.Always did hate that stuff."
Sethe balled up her stockings and jammed them into her pocket. "Come on in.""Porch is fine, Sethe. Cool out here." He sat back down and looked at the meadow on the otherside of the road, knowing the eagerness he felt would be in his eyes.
"Eighteen years," she said softly.
"Eighteen," he repeated. "And I swear I been walking every one of em. Mind if I join you?" Henodded toward her feet and began unlacing his shoes.
"You want to soak them? Let me get you a basin of water." She moved closer to him to enter thehouse.
"No, uh uh. Can't baby feet. A whole lot more tramping they got to do yet."
"You can't leave right away, Paul D. You got to stay awhile.""Well, long enough to see Baby Suggs, anyway. Where is she?""Dead.""Aw no. When?""Eight years now. Almost nine.""Was it hard? I hope she didn't die hard."Sethe shook her head. "Soft as cream. Being alive was the hard part. Sorry you missed her though.Is that what you came by for?""That's some of what I came for. The rest is you. But if all the truth be known, I go anywhere thesedays. Anywhere they let me sit down.""You looking good.""Devil's confusion. He lets me look good long as I feel bad." He looked at her and the word "bad"took on another meaning.