Stephen O'Connor - Thomas Jefferson Dreams of Sally Hemings

She doesn’t answer. She is as still as a painting of herself. He wonders if she is looking at him. He tries to determine where her eyes are focused. One instant he thinks she is looking at him, the next instant no. Her eyes glitter in the firelight.

“Not really,” she says. “I just wanted to say good night.”

“Good night, Sally.”

… All the while I told myself that Mr. Jefferson’s struggle with his darker nature was entirely sincere and that he was sure to win, because he so thoroughly regretted what he had attempted that night, now months in the past, and he entirely understood how frightened I had been. But even as I worked so hard to deceive myself, I understood that the longer I failed to say no, the more my silence would come to seem like assent and that if I remained silent too long, my apparent assent would ultimately make this dreaded eventuality inevitable.

Every night when I lay in bed, I would remember the weight of Mr. Jefferson’s huge body lying on top of me and his smell — repulsive in memory — filling my nostrils. I would go rigid all over again, and cold with dread. Often I would surge upright amid my covers or even leap out of bed and pace the floor, devising elaborate speeches to Mr. Jefferson, in which I insisted upon my virtue and condemned his dishonorable inclinations.

And yet when I would once more be lying with my covers to my chin, my mind would race with assertions that directly contradicted my imaginary speeches. I would remind myself that this eventuality I so feared was the signal act of womanhood, that far from loathing it, many women smile with a private satisfaction as they talk about it or laugh loudly. My own mother made no secret of her enjoyment of what she always called “a little poke.” She had had three husbands in addition to my father, and at the time I was leaving for France, she seemed to be contemplating a fourth. I could hardly imagine ever feeling as my mother and so many other women so obviously did, and I could only assume that, in my profound ignorance, I was unaware of something essential in the carnal act — the very thing that evoked those loud laughs and private smiles. There were times, in fact, when I would despair at what I took to be my utter unfitness for womanhood.

I simply could not stop such bewildering suppositions from streaming through my brain. I had absolutely no intentions of ever acting upon them, but still they filled my head, leaving me deeply confused and afraid.

It is also true, however — and this strikes me now as loathsome and pathetic — that I did sometimes think that if I were only able to endure whatever it was that Mr. Jefferson wanted of me, I might one day, like my sister, become his wife….

Thomas Jefferson looks up from his book when he hears Sally Hemings’s footsteps on the stairs. As her candle comes into view just outside the door, he calls, “Good evening, Sally.”

She stops and smiles, something in the way the powdery gold of the candlelight falls upon her cheek and gleams in her eyes making her look so like Martha that he feels a sudden falling in his chest that is both sorrow and yearning.

“Good evening, Mr. Jefferson.”

“Everything all cleaned up downstairs?”

“Yes, at last.” She has taken a step into the room and is standing just inside the door frame. She seems faintly distracted, maybe restless. Her eyes dart about the room.

“I hope you are not too tired.”

She crumples her lips and gives the ceiling a comically askew glance. “Oh, no. Not too tired. But it will be good to sleep.”

“Good,” he says. “Thank you.”

She smiles and looks embarrassed… or maybe not embarrassed. He has the feeling that if he asked her to come into the room and sit down, she would.

“Sally?” he says.

“Yes.” She is waiting for him to speak, her smile maybe slightly hesitant, her eyebrow lifted, alert. Again he feels that falling of sorrow and yearning.

“Oh, well,” he says. “Never mind.”

She looks at him quizzically a second but doesn’t say anything.

“Good night, Sally.”

“Good night, Mr. Jefferson.”

As she turns and leaves, he feels that he has disappointed her.

Then he is on his feet and hurrying toward the door, where he sees her receding along the dark corridor, her sage green gown deepening toward hemlock, then black, her head silhouetted against the wavering glow of her candle. In an instant she will reach the stairs, turn and be gone.

He knows that he should go back to his chair by the fire and continue to read (a treatise on flight in birds), but something has just happened between him and this beautiful girl, something totally unexpected. He tells himself he is mistaken. Nothing has happened. It couldn’t have. But it did happen. He knows it did. And he would be a fool to deny it.

He is afraid as he steps into the hallway. Her name is on his lips, but he doesn’t speak it, only hurries after her, until with a rush of crinoline she reels around, her eyes wide, her open mouth a warped O.

“I’m sorry,” he says, drawing next to her. “I didn’t mean—”

“Oh!” She touches her lips with the clutched fingertips of one hand.

“Please excuse me.” He feels stupid. He is blushing and is thankful that the corridor is so dark. “I was just wondering…” He has no idea what to say. “I’m sorry I startled you.”

“I didn’t hear you coming.” She lowers her hand, open now, to the base of her throat.

“It’s my fault. I should have said something.”

Sally Hemings’s eyes are still wide, though her lips have contracted to a small pucker of uncertainty. She is breathing heavily. He can see her chest rise and fall.

“It’s just…” He still doesn’t know what to say. “There’s something I forgot to ask you. I’m wondering if you might come back to the parlor for a moment. It won’t take a second.”

She swallows. “All right.”

He turns and walks back toward the parlor door, which is flickering orange in the firelight. He has no idea what he is going to do, but he is almost certain he will make a fool of himself.

“Do you mind if I close the door?” he asks once she has followed him into the room. He sees that the question disconcerts her, but he closes the door anyway. “It’s a personal matter. I think it best if we are not overheard.”

She backs against the wall, just beside the door. She looks worried, but so terribly beautiful and alive, like a doe in the instant before it bounds into the forest.

He gestures at the couch just beside her. “Please sit down.”

Her head makes a barely detectable shake, and her back remains pressed against the wall. He should tell her to go, but he can’t. He just wants to see what will happen. His mouth is dry. He runs his fingers through the hair on the top of his head.

“I don’t know how else to do this,” he says, “than to be completely honest.” He licks his lips. “I know that I behaved like an utter fool…” He is silent an instant. “… before. Worse than a fool.”

There is a faint twitch at the corner of her mouth, but he cannot tell what it means.

“As I hope you understand,” he says, “I have tried very hard to behave toward you as would be fitting, given the rules of propriety and our stations in life. But as you have probably concluded — no doubt you know this very well right now — I have mostly failed rather miserably.”

There is another twitch at the corner of her mouth, just slightly more pronounced, and he allows himself to hope.

“You are so astoundingly beautiful,” he says, “and I have fallen completely in love with you. I have tried and tried to resist it, but there is nothing I can do.”