Read Online Sally Heming by Barbara Chase-Riboud - Free Book Online
Authors: Barbara Chase-Riboud
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you haven't got the common sense of
a jackrabbit. He's using Mama. Nathan Langdon is eaten up with curiosity about
Thomas Jefferson, that's all. It's fascination with our father, not with Sally Hemings!"
"He also has political ambitions, Mad. He wouldn't
risk any kind of compromise over Mama."
"Wouldn't he now? You know his visits up here don't go
unremarked."
"Nobody's crying scandal."
"Not yet. Because nobody knows, Eston, how damn often
he comes up here!"
Madison held the pale eyes of his brother. "You know
it ain't right, Eston."
Madison was right, thought Eston. Besides, there was
something of the master that he resented in Langdon, despite his genuine
affection for him. They had had many long conversations together, but he
despised Langdon's proprietary air with his mother. His presumed intimacy.
"All I know, Mad, is that she is happier seeing him
than not. There's probably no harm in it."
"That still don't make it right. Don't make it
correct. If Mama was white, Eston, there'd be a lot of tongues wagging about a
widow and a young engaged gentleman!"
"But she ain't white, Madison. And neither are we. We
can't stop him."
Eston stared at Madison. Twenty-one years later, at the age
of forty-four, Eston would indeed be what he was not. He, and his family
consisting of a wife and three children, would cross the color line from black
to white and take the name of his natural father, becoming Eston H. Jefferson.
The two men eyed each other. They would give anything never
to see Nathan Langdon again, but they didn't dare say such a thing in front of
their mother. Whatever she chose to do was correct in their eyes. Neither would
acknowledge that there was a double standard for black women and white men.
Madison turned to look out the window and saw the small resolute figure of his
mother approaching the house through the peach orchard. A flash of tenderness
and pity made Madison shift his gaze back to his brother.
"Nathan Langdon, you are not as cynical and
complicated as you like to appear."
"Do I like to appear complicated? Am I complicated?"
"No, but this ... situation is complicated, and
unhealthy. You should be spending your time with young people, not—"
"A historical monument?"
"Whose?"
"His!"
"What?"
"No, yours. Your monument to yourself. We must erect
it with your life as you have lived it... and write about it. He has enough
monuments. It's yours I'm concerned with."
"I need no monument."
"Let me decide that."
It was the seriousness in his voice, not the arrogance,
that turned Sally Hemings' eyes on him. His tone had been sharp, as if she had
caused him pain.
"I would allow you to decide everything, Nathan, if it
were possible. If I could," she said softly.
"I could, if I knew you. If I didn't come knocking at
your door each time and find a stranger. A new stranger, not even the old one.
You change like a chameleon."
"It's not I who change, but you. You come each time
expecting an answer. And there isn't one."
"I expect to find the answer to Sally Hemings."
"My answer to that is that you have the answer to me.
You know me better than anyone ever has, Nathan. It's just that you expect too
much. You expect explanations I can't give. The only thing I can give is that
knowledge of myself you already possess. It is my gift to you for all the
happiness you've brought me."
"Happiness?..."
"I have as much affection for you as for my own sons."
"Yet you've never told your sons your—their—history?"
"I've never told them for a reason—that reason is that
they are safer without it, Nathan."
"And I'm in danger?"
"You are white, Nathan. That puts you mostly out of
danger. But you would be, if you try to use the knowledge I've given you. You
are in danger if it has changed you."
"Of course it has changed me. You have changed
me."
"I know. That's what makes me sad."
"The change is for the better."
"Change is hardly ever for the better, I've learned. I
want you to be happy."
"Not at
a jackrabbit. He's using Mama. Nathan Langdon is eaten up with curiosity about
Thomas Jefferson, that's all. It's fascination with our father, not with Sally Hemings!"
"He also has political ambitions, Mad. He wouldn't
risk any kind of compromise over Mama."
"Wouldn't he now? You know his visits up here don't go
unremarked."
"Nobody's crying scandal."
"Not yet. Because nobody knows, Eston, how damn often
he comes up here!"
Madison held the pale eyes of his brother. "You know
it ain't right, Eston."
Madison was right, thought Eston. Besides, there was
something of the master that he resented in Langdon, despite his genuine
affection for him. They had had many long conversations together, but he
despised Langdon's proprietary air with his mother. His presumed intimacy.
"All I know, Mad, is that she is happier seeing him
than not. There's probably no harm in it."
"That still don't make it right. Don't make it
correct. If Mama was white, Eston, there'd be a lot of tongues wagging about a
widow and a young engaged gentleman!"
"But she ain't white, Madison. And neither are we. We
can't stop him."
Eston stared at Madison. Twenty-one years later, at the age
of forty-four, Eston would indeed be what he was not. He, and his family
consisting of a wife and three children, would cross the color line from black
to white and take the name of his natural father, becoming Eston H. Jefferson.
The two men eyed each other. They would give anything never
to see Nathan Langdon again, but they didn't dare say such a thing in front of
their mother. Whatever she chose to do was correct in their eyes. Neither would
acknowledge that there was a double standard for black women and white men.
Madison turned to look out the window and saw the small resolute figure of his
mother approaching the house through the peach orchard. A flash of tenderness
and pity made Madison shift his gaze back to his brother.
"Nathan Langdon, you are not as cynical and
complicated as you like to appear."
"Do I like to appear complicated? Am I complicated?"
"No, but this ... situation is complicated, and
unhealthy. You should be spending your time with young people, not—"
"A historical monument?"
"Whose?"
"His!"
"What?"
"No, yours. Your monument to yourself. We must erect
it with your life as you have lived it... and write about it. He has enough
monuments. It's yours I'm concerned with."
"I need no monument."
"Let me decide that."
It was the seriousness in his voice, not the arrogance,
that turned Sally Hemings' eyes on him. His tone had been sharp, as if she had
caused him pain.
"I would allow you to decide everything, Nathan, if it
were possible. If I could," she said softly.
"I could, if I knew you. If I didn't come knocking at
your door each time and find a stranger. A new stranger, not even the old one.
You change like a chameleon."
"It's not I who change, but you. You come each time
expecting an answer. And there isn't one."
"I expect to find the answer to Sally Hemings."
"My answer to that is that you have the answer to me.
You know me better than anyone ever has, Nathan. It's just that you expect too
much. You expect explanations I can't give. The only thing I can give is that
knowledge of myself you already possess. It is my gift to you for all the
happiness you've brought me."
"Happiness?..."
"I have as much affection for you as for my own sons."
"Yet you've never told your sons your—their—history?"
"I've never told them for a reason—that reason is that
they are safer without it, Nathan."
"And I'm in danger?"
"You are white, Nathan. That puts you mostly out of
danger. But you would be, if you try to use the knowledge I've given you. You
are in danger if it has changed you."
"Of course it has changed me. You have changed
me."
"I know. That's what makes me sad."
"The change is for the better."
"Change is hardly ever for the better, I've learned. I
want you to be happy."
"Not at
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