Stephen O'Connor - Thomas Jefferson Dreams of Sally Hemings

The glasses in the hands of the guests are like balls of fire, each reflecting the hundreds of candles that Sally Hemings has been replacing constantly ever since the white sun touched the iron clouds over the western hills. That was at four-thirty; it is now after ten.

“Love,” says Thomas Jefferson, his face red, candlelight glinting in his eyes, “is our greatest gift.”

The guests are being served champagne from bottles carried around the room by Jupiter, Thenia and Critta. Some of them sip from their glasses immediately; some are waiting for Thomas Jefferson to finish.

“Without love,” he says, “our homes would be as comfortless as caves. Our labors would have no purpose, for what is the point of straining our backs and going exhausted to bed if not to bring happiness to those we most want to be happy?”

Some of the guests gaze with fixed grins into empty space, as if they hear and see nothing of what is happening around them. Old Mrs. Randolph is seated in the corner, her chair entirely concealed beneath the lavender heap of her skirts, her head against the wall, her eyes closed. Her son, Tom, is standing beside her, shifting restlessly from foot to foot, constantly looking down into his glass. And between him and Thomas Jefferson, her cheeks bunched into shiny pink balls from the huge smile that has not left her face all day, stands Patsy — although she has announced that as a married woman she wants to be called only by her Christian name: Martha. She is seventeen. Not to be outdone, Polly, eleven years old, has announced that she only wants to be called Maria, although the name she was given at birth is Mary. She is not in the room, however. Sally Hemings has not seen her for more than an hour.

“Without love,” says Thomas Jefferson, “the word ‘home’ would have no meaning, for what else makes our homes places of solace and joy than the love that we find in them?”

A candle is guttering on the sideboard just behind Thomas Jefferson, but Sally Hemings is not going to replace it. She remains on the opposite side of the room, staring directly at him, although he has yet to notice her.

“But love,” he says, “is not merely a gift we are given; it is a gift we give. Our labors in office, field or manufactory are not meaningless, because they are the gifts we give to our wives and to our children — to the people we love — and their labors in the home are their gifts to us.”

Sally Hemings has not moved. She is waiting. But Thomas Jefferson has not looked her way.

“When Tom,” he says, “first visited us in France, I loved him already as the son of my dear cousin.” He glances at old Mrs. Randolph, but seeing she is entirely unaware of what he is saying, he continues. “But when I noticed the looks he turned toward my dearest Martha and I saw the blushes those looks engendered, my love for him redoubled, not merely because he is, as everyone in this room knows, a fine and responsible young man but because he had the power to give dear Martha the greatest happiness in life — by meeting her love with an equal love of his own.”

Tom Randolph lifts his gaze from his glass and trades an embarrassed glance with his ferociously grinning bride.

“And on this day, when the feelings they share have been sanctified before God and in the hearts of all in this room”—Thomas Jefferson lifts his glass, as do all the guests—“I want to make a toast to the sentiment that binds these two young people and without which none of us could bear to spend a day on this bleak earth.”

As he raises his glass above his head and says, “To love!” his gaze at last turns to Sally Hemings, who holds it for a long instant before turning her back and leaving the room.

The guard bangs her billy club against the bars of the prisoner’s cell. He is lying on his cot, the side of his head swollen — purple and red, capillary laced. She speaks.

— Morning! Rise and shine!

— …

— Don’t worry. I’m in a much better mood today.

— …

— What’s the matter? You look so glum.

— I don’t see any reason why I should talk to you.

— Well then, maybe you haven’t learned your lesson.

— What lesson?

— That you have no rights.

— It’s not in your power to deprive me of my rights.

— On the contrary. I can do absolutely anything I want to you.

— I won’t deny that you can treat me any way you want to, but that doesn’t mean you can deprive me of my rights. My rights are given by God and exist independently of anything you do. You may make it impossible for me to enjoy my rights, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have them.

— Don’t get all academic on me.

— …

— If you can’t exercise your rights, then you don’t have them. End of story.

— …

— You idiot! You haven’t learned a fucking thing. You still don’t know that you’re a fucking piece of shit. A disgrace to humanity.

— Leave me alone.

— Hah! Fat chance! I’m your judge, jury and executioner. You got that? And I am not going to let you get away with one fucking thing. You won’t be able to touch your dick or pick your nose without me seeing it. I’m going to catch you out on your every lie, your every evasion, your every attempt to escape your own conscience.

— Leave me alone, I said!

— No way. I’m with you to the end.

— You’re a fucking lunatic! This is so fucking insane!

— Of course it’s insane! Justice is relentless. And monomaniacal. It has to be. I mean, do you think that once you commit an evil act it can ever be undone? Give me a fucking break!

The guard laughs. She speaks.

— You can do a thousand good deeds and make a thousand apologies, but the evil is still there. It never changes, and it never ends, and you can never escape it. Justice, too. Justice never ends; it is eternal, universal and implacable. That’s the lesson I’m teaching you. I’m going to strip you of every shred of dignity and pride until you are so desperate you fall on your knees and beg forgiveness. And guess what? There will be no forgiveness. But you know that, don’t you? You always have. That’s why you trembled when you thought that God is just. And actually, that’s the beauty of all this. You are condemned, not merely by your most evil acts but by your finest words, those self-evident truths of yours that created a whole new world — a world that will never forgive you for your sins.

Maria is halfway through embroidering an image of a ship at sea for a pillow cover and has run out of all three of the shades of blue thread she is using for the water and the sky. Sally Hemings is walking down to the stable, a list of the needed shades in hand, hoping to catch Jupiter before he heads into Charlottesville for provisions.

As she nears the stable, she sees Thomas Jefferson’s horse rear its head, then leap out into the yard, as if over a snake stretched out in the doorway. Thomas Jefferson pulls the horse’s reins tight to steady it, then leans forward, strokes its neck with a gloved hand and murmurs a brief consolation into its ear.

Sally Hemings veers off the road and strides across the crusted snow beside the stable, although she could have no possible business in that direction. She keeps walking even after Thomas Jefferson calls her name but then stops because she realizes her ruse is transparent and she is only humiliating herself.

He calls her name a second time and says, “Could you please come here for a moment?”

She turns about-face and retraces her footsteps without ever lifting her head high enough to meet his eyes. She stops close enough to the horse to smell its breath and keeps her gaze on the red mud, ice and snow beneath the horse’s hooves.