Stephen O'Connor - Thomas Jefferson Dreams of Sally Hemings

But Sally Hemings has other thoughts.

Two weeks after Thenia’s tiny coffin is placed into the ground, Thomas Jefferson returns to Philadelphia, less to resume his duties as vice president than to garner support for his plan to challenge Adams in the upcoming presidential election. Madison, Monroe, Burr and half the editorialists of the Republican newspapers have been saying that Thomas Jefferson alone can stop Adams and Hamilton from reestablishing the monarchy. The night before his departure he protests to Sally Hemings yet again that he has no taste for government and would much rather remain at home, attending to his family, his books and the construction of his house.

She shakes her head ruefully and pats his cheek. “Do you actually believe that you might be happy here when you can have the love of a nation?”

“Do I seem so vain as that?” he says. “Is that what you truly believe?”

She answers only with a gently mocking smile.

No sooner has his carriage lumbered out the gate and turned toward the South Road than Sally Hemings has gone to his library and stands staring at his bookshelves, her arms folded across her chest. She has no idea how many books there are in this room. Hundreds? Thousands? She breathes deeply, her sinuses filling with a thin sweetness that reminds her equally of dried oats and mice.

She has decided that she will take advantage of Thomas Jefferson’s long absences to read as many of these books as she can — until, perhaps, she will have read them all. She has absolutely no idea where to begin, however, so simply walks up to the nearest shelf and pulls out the first book that catches her eye. It is black and shiny, with red bands across its narrow spine, but the letters on its pages look like tiny knots, twists and curls of string — not a one of them intelligible. She snaps the book shut and picks up its neighbor, only to find that it is written in an entirely different and equally incomprehensible alphabet — this one dark and jagged, like an army of tiny, heavily armed soldiers standing row upon row upon row. It has never occurred to her that there might be more than one alphabet. Could there be a different alphabet for every language? Will she have to learn two, three or ten new alphabets in order to read every book that Thomas Jefferson has read?

This thought exhausts her and makes her left temple throb. She thinks of giving up and going back to her cabin. Instead she decides to try the books on the shelves on the opposite wall. But these are all filled with numbers, diagrams and drawings of buildings — none of which make any sense to her, though the words at least are written in familiar letters.

Several books on the neighboring shelf are filled with pictures of flowers, and she spends a long time looking at these, even though the drawings make the flowers look crotchety and old. But she does not want to look at pictures, she wants to read — she wants, in fact, to learn to read every word in the English language, and possibly in French, too. She wants words to flow through her eyes and into her mind as easily as air flows into her lungs.

The next book is a treatise on the art of war, which she thinks might be interesting, though grim and sad. She puts it back. Then she notices a book lying across the tops of other books, perhaps because there is not enough room on the crowded shelf. She feels sorry for this book, which is squat and brown and reminds her of a brick. It is entitled The History of America and by a man named William Robertson, D.D., whose picture is on the facing page. He, too, appears crotchety and old, but his eyes look straight into hers.

She closes the book and presses it against her chest, where it seems to have the effect of speeding up her heart and making it just a little hard to breathe. Suddenly she is frightened. She puts the book back in its lonely spot atop all the others, then pulls it out again and hugs it to her chest a second time.

She lifts her head and closes her eyes as if she is praying. But she is not praying, only waiting for something to feel right. In the end maybe it does or maybe it doesn’t. She can’t say for sure. But she slips the book into the pocket of her apron anyway, hurries to the door and steps out into the dark hall.

After an unimaginable length of time, the prisoner has been reduced to a barely human mass — less a man than an insect without a carapace. To a casual observer, it would not be clear whether he is conscious, or even alive. The guard, too, is exhausted. Gaunt. Gray of hair and complexion. She is chewing gum. She speaks.

— You know how this is going to end, don’t you?

— …

— I finish you off.

— …

— Terminate you. Cancel you out. Right? What other ending is there? It’s inevitable.

— …

— Though I guess that means I’m not God, right? Because nothing is inevitable for God. I mean, God, absolute freedom, all-powerful — aren’t those just three ways of saying the same thing?

— …

— So it’s a paradox. And one of the many things that makes me think this is my nightmare and not yours.

— …

— Maybe I’m just dreaming you. Maybe you’re nothing but my own sick delusion.

— …

— Never mind. I’m tired of fucking with your head.

— …

— Actually, I take that back. Because now I am really going to fuck with your head. Although some people might call it grace.

— …

— Grace! Do you hear me, fuckface? Grace!

— …

— Get the fuck up!

— …

— Get up! Do you want me to come in there and step on you, you fucking cockroach? I can always do the inevitable. I mean, that is a choice I have. Is that what you want?

— …

— Look, just get the fuck up. I’m setting you free.

— …

— Do you hear me? I’m setting you free.

— Fuck you!

— What?

The guard laughs. The guard speaks.

— I suppose you think this is too good to be true. Well, it is too good to be true! But even so, I’m still setting you free.

— …

— Get the fuck up! You hear me? Get the fuck up! Now! You’ve got two choices: Either I come in there and put you out of your misery forever or you get the fuck up and go free.

— Leave me alone.

— That’s an improvement. Look.

The guard pulls the keys out of her pocket. Unlocks the cell door. Opens it. She takes the gum out of her mouth and rolls it into a ball on her finger. She speaks.

— I’m sticking this into the latch hole.

She sticks the gum into the hole where the tongue of the lock goes. The hole is filled. She flattens the gum inside the hole with her index finger and covers it with a folded-up piece of the foil gum wrapper. She speaks.

— Okay. So you stole this gum from me. Right? Because that’s the only thing that makes sense. Because why would I give it to you? So you stole it. And look.

She opens and closes the cell door twice. She speaks.

— It looks like it’s locked. But it isn’t. So you can get out anytime you want.

— …

— Only here’s the deal: You do it on somebody else’s watch. You get me? You wait till that fuckface Quinn comes on. Or Rex. I don’t give a shit. Just wait until I’m long gone, and then you can do whatever you like.

The prisoner crawls to the front of his cell, then pulls himself up on the bars until he is balanced unsteadily on his knees. The guard speaks.

— You wondering why I’m doing this?

— Yes.

— I told you already: I’m fucking with your head. Although, actually, the truth is that I’m sick of you.