“Nothing, just… you know: Sometimes people get sad.”
“So you agree that she is sad?”
“Sometimes.”
The fingertips of Thomas Jefferson’s pressed-together hands are touching his lips again. He lowers them.
“Listen, Sally, let me tell you why I’m worried. The entire time I was in New York, Maria hardly wrote to me. And when she did, her letters were models of filial decorum, but they were so brief — none even a page long — and they contained not one single word expressing anything like true feeling. All I could gather from them was that she was trying to conceal from me how seriously remiss she was being in her studies. And since I’ve been home, I’ve found that the situation was even worse than I had intuited. I don’t think that in six long months she’s read more than two chapters in Don Quixote, and she is unable to utter a single grammatical sentence in Spanish. She even seems to be losing her French. But none of that really matters. The main thing is that I have yet to see a hint of joy, or even of childish enthusiasm, in her countenance. Her gaze is always on the floor, she hardly speaks above a whisper and she prefers the solitude of her room to all other occupations.”
Thomas Jefferson’s entire expression is tremulous with worry — so much so that Sally Hemings wonders if he might shed a tear.
All at once the rigidity goes out of her body. She sinks into the chair in front of his desk — but not out of sympathy. She knows something — something she can never say, and yet that, at this moment, she wants desperately to reveal. The terrific intensity of her desire to speak is what has taken the strength out of her legs.
Thomas Jefferson looks at her, then smiles sadly. She senses that he is about to reach out and touch her arm, which is resting on the edge of the desk. She pulls the arm away.
“I’m sorry, Sally.” The worry has returned to his face. “I know that I am putting you in a difficult position. But I am concerned for other reasons as well.” He takes a deep breath, leans forward and speaks in a low, emphatic voice. “The truth is that there is a tendency toward melancholy on both sides of our family. As you may know, Maria’s dear mother was very delicate and sometimes so exhausted by sorrow that she could not rise from bed in the morning. I have often thought this susceptibility of hers contributed to her early death. And on my side… well, on my side there is an even more pronounced tendency. And I can hardly bear to think that poor little Polly may be laboring under a similar affliction.”
What Sally Hemings knows but cannot say is that during the weeks after Lucy’s death Polly came to hate her father, partially for leaving her behind when he went to France but mainly because, when she needed him most, after little Lucy’s death, he didn’t care enough to come to her side. During the three years before Polly boarded the ship to London, she waited every day for a letter from him telling her that he was coming home. When at last she woke from her drugged sleep and found herself miles out at sea, her first coherent words were, “I don’t want to go live with Papa. I hate him!” And she expressed exactly the same sentiment every day until Monsieur Petit escorted them down the gangplank and onto French soil. After that, Polly allowed herself to love her father again with an almost pathetic servility, but Sally Hemings knows that the hate has never left her heart and that she was, in fact, very sullen and unhappy throughout his stay in New York.
And this is what she wants to tell Thomas Jefferson — because he has no idea of it and because he has no idea how enraged she herself is this very moment, sitting across from him at his desk.
But she doesn’t speak the words that have gathered on her tongue. Instead she says, “I don’t know if you have to worry about that. Everybody gets sad from time to time. The world is a sad place — that’s all. You get sad for a little bit, then you get happy. I’ve seen Maria happy plenty of times.”
“So you think”—Thomas Jefferson smiles wryly—“that I am just being a worried old fool?”
“Not exactly,” says Sally Hemings. “But maybe.”
Thomas Jefferson laughs out loud and flings himself back into his squeaking seat.
“You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?” he says.
“No.” Her face grows pale, and when she speaks again, her voice is trembling. “But there is one thing I am going to say to you. You’ve got to stop thinking so much about yourself. And you’ve got to think a great deal more about how the things you do affect other people.”
Sally Hemings can no longer speak, because anger has choked off her voice. Her eyes are fixed and hard, her mouth a yellow seam.
Thomas Jefferson looks thoughtful but says nothing for a long time. Then he gives his head a barely detectable shake. His voice, when he speaks, is so low it is almost a moan.
“Oh, Sally.”
Sally Hemings stands up, then steps away from the desk. “I’ve got things I should be doing.”
“No, wait!” He leans across his desk, one hand extended.
She doesn’t move. She doesn’t speak. Her blue-gray eyes so filled with fury and yet so beautiful.
Thomas Jefferson’s hand falls to the desktop, and he leans back again.
“I’m sorry, Sally.” He covers his nose and mouth with both hands, then lets them fall into his lap. “I’m so sorry. And if it is any comfort to you, I, too, have been suffering—”
“I’m not talking about that!” she says. “You made perfectly clear how wrong all of that was, and I agree with you. So that’s over. You don’t even have to think about that anymore.”
This last sentence is spoken as she turns toward the door, which she pulls open so rapidly it flies from her hand and bangs a chair against the wall. She walks straight out into the dark corridor and leaves the door swaying behind her.
~ ~ ~
“Well, all right,” Betty says to her daughter. “You do what you got to do. I just hope you don’t make things worse, that’s all. Mr. Jefferson’s not a bad man. There’s lots of worse men out there, colored or white.”
“Stop it!” shouts Sally Hemings. “You don’t know anything about Mr. Jefferson! You don’t know one single thing! Everybody around here talks about him like he’s some kind of saint or god or Jesus Christ himself! But I won’t do that! Thomas Jefferson can roast in hell for all I care!”
“Hush, child! Somebody’ll hear you, talking so loud.”
“I don’t care who hears me! I hope he hears me himself! I hope he roasts in hell! And when he dies, I’m going to dance on his grave! I promise you that! And I hope he just heard every word I said!”
~ ~ ~
… I could insult Mr. Jefferson, I could hate him, I could reject his overtures and acts of kindness, I could cast him cold stares for weeks on end, but in the back of my mind I always knew that these were mere pretense and nothing that would actually satisfy my rage or quell my pain. The only way that I could be truly rid of Mr. Jefferson would have been to flee Monticello, but that would have meant leaving all the people I loved most and abandoning myself to a future that at the very best would have been decidedly uncertain.
It is possible that I could have convinced Mr. Jefferson to sell me, as had my sisters Mary and Thenia when they wanted to be with their husbands and children. But I had no husband to go to, and I had buried my only child under shards of frozen earth. And from a purely practical point of view, it was almost impossible to imagine that I might find a more comfortable situation with another owner and very easy to imagine that I might end up subjected to the sort of barbarities that every southern Negro dreads and that for too many are simple facts of life.