Stephen O'Connor - Thomas Jefferson Dreams of Sally Hemings

Callender doesn’t respond, only stares straight into Thomas Jefferson’s eyes, smiling all the while.

“My concern,” says Thomas Jefferson, “is entirely for the continuance of the Republic.”

“Of course! Of course! You know that no one has greater respect for you or is in closer accord with your political philosophy than I.”

Thomas Jefferson crosses one leg over the other and finishes his wine in a single swallow. His contempt for Callender is palpable, but so is his helplessness.

Callender lifts his index finger admonishingly. “Given how critical it is that we quash Adams and the Federalist traitors, we must pursue our every advantage. Anything less would show both a lack of backbone and a profound underestimation of the dangerousness of our enemies.”

“I agree that we should stop at nothing to defeat the Federalists, but it is my firm belief that we will be most likely to succeed if we pursue only necessary efforts. Irrelevant or unsubstantiated attacks will make us seem indifferent to moral and political principles and to care for nothing but the maximization of our own power, and so could undermine rather than advance our cause.”

“Mr. Jefferson?” Callender is holding out the bottle of wine.

Thomas Jefferson seems at first not to understand the significance of the gesture but then extends his empty glass.

Returning the bottle to the table, Callender sits back in his chair. “No one holds moral principle in greater estimation than I,” he says.

Thomas Jefferson recrosses his legs and takes a sip of his wine, his gaze turned entirely away from Callender.

“But in all due respect,” Callender continues, “you must bear in mind that our friend Colonel Hamilton was not brought down by the actions of the courts nor by any investigative body but by my revelations concerning his callous disregard for his wife’s reputation and feelings and his sordid exploitation of the poor Mrs. Reynolds.”

Thomas Jefferson takes another swallow of his wine but still does not look at Callender.

“I would ask you, then,” says Callender, “to consider which efforts were, in fact, necessary to rid the nation of so corrupt an influence as Hamilton.”

“Mr. Callender, I would not be here if I did not have immense respect for your capacities as a journalist.” Thomas Jefferson speaks with bitter irony, and he looks Callender straight in the eye, as if to underline that fact.

“Exactly,” says Callender. “And I trust, then, that you understand that as the journalist I will be taking full responsibility for what I write. What this means is that anything you have to tell me about Mr. Adams, Mr. Jay or about any other matter will be held in strictest confidence. My readers and the nation as a whole will benefit from your wisdom, but not a soul will even suspect that you were the one to advance my understanding.”

“Yes,” says Thomas Jefferson. “Good.”

He is weakening. James T. Callender smiles and refills his own glass with brandy.

“But at the same time,” he says, “since I am the one taking responsibility for what I write, I am the one who will determine what that might be. You may speak to me about Mr. Adams or not, as you choose. But if I determine that a trip to Braintree is merited, I am entirely within my rights to undertake it. Mr. Leiper has informed me of the gracious contribution you have made toward the care of my ailing wife and my poor children, and I am immensely grateful. I thank you, in fact, from the bottom of my heart. But nonetheless I must still insist upon my journalistic freedom. If you have any misgivings in that regard, I will immediately return your moneys to you, with interest.”

Thomas Jefferson has finished his second glass of wine. He is looking out the window. His voice is low. “That won’t be necessary.”

“I assure you that I hold myself to the strictest standards. My investigations will be exhaustive, and I will not make one assertion unsupported by fact.”

“Good,” says Thomas Jefferson.

Callender is holding out the bottle of wine once again. “Mr. Jefferson?”

Thomas Jefferson looks at the hovering bottle, then offers his empty glass. Callender fills it, then refills his own with brandy. He smiles and lifts his glass. “We are on the verge of great things!”

Sally Hemings says, “Is it possible that we will grow old together? That we will be purified by age? Is it possible that I will own enough of my heart that I might give it to you?”

Sally Hemings says, “I accept your kisses, your caresses, the blunt shoving of your veined member, not because I like any of it but because you so clearly want me to like it and I don’t — that is my revenge.”

Sally Hemings says, “You are more than a man. Other men are mere beagles sniffing your boot heels. How is it I am allowed to see your flesh float in bathwater? How is it I am allowed to make you great?”

Sally Hemings says, “I want us always to be as we are here, where we are only our eyes, our hands, those parts of us made for each other by nature, where our only words are the ones we whisper in the little caves we make between pillow, cheek and lips.”

Sally Hemings says, “My hope is so simple: to sit opposite you at a table we share with our children and friends. My hope is only pain. It is a mountain, airless at its peak, so it kills us. Love kills, too — that love, I mean, which is a variety of hate.”

Sally Hemings says, “Such hopes as I have are like orphans along the byway. They are beautiful, and they will die.”

Sally Hemings says, “Oh, I am black, I am white. I am stained to the bones by hate. Would that I had only been your trollop.”

Sally Hemings hears Thomas Jefferson’s landau drive up to the house before dawn. His rooms were prepared for his arrival two days ago, so she is not surprised. It is March 7, 1798, exactly three months since Harriet’s death, and Sally Hemings is eight months pregnant. Her head is throbbing. She has had the most painful headaches of her life these last weeks, but today is the worst. She feels as if her head is being crushed between two pointed stones. The sun has risen a fist’s width above the trees, and she is still lying in bed when she hears Thomas Jefferson’s footsteps passing along the muddy road outside. He is singing, just above a whisper, “‘He is no gypsy, my father,’ she said, ‘but lord of these lands all over….’”

An hour or so later, she has just pulled her chamber pot out from under her bed when she hears Thomas Jefferson returning. She doesn’t dare squat over the pot until he has passed, so she stands with her legs pressed tightly together, clutching the front of her shift and winding it tightly around her fist. His footsteps slow as he approaches and stop just in front of where she is standing. For a long time, she hears nothing but the repeated screech of a catbird, but then there are quick steps on the mud and the thump of a shoe on the porch. There is a knock on her door.

“Sally?”

She doesn’t move or speak. She hopes he will go away. The urging of her bladder is unbearable.

Another knock. “Sally?” With a soft thud, the door loosens from the jamb and opens. His hand still poised in midair to knock, a tremor of discomfort passes over his face as he watches the door swing inward. But when he spots her standing beside her bed, he breaks into a big smile. “Good morning. I’m not disturbing you, am I?”

She does not answer, but, letting go of her shift, she makes a shooing gesture with her hand that she realizes he will probably construe as an invitation to enter.

“One moment.” He backs out the door, and she hears him scraping the mud off his shoes on the edge of the porch. He stamps a couple of times, and then he is in the cabin. “Look at you!” he says, happily regarding her belly, which holds the front of her shift a good foot in front of the tips of her toes. “Clearly you’ve been hard at work! Do you think it’s a boy? It looks like a boy to me.”