The President's Daughter (70 page)

In my mind's eye, I saw the colossal, beaten-copper wrist of Bartholdi's Statue of Liberty. The dismembered, gargantuan forearm of the statue holding her torch had been sent to the fair by its French sculptor to raise subscriptions for its completion. I had seen it being erected at the fairgrounds by hundreds of workers, a dreamlike and immense promise of what it would one day be, rising on Bedloe's Island in the New York harbor, one hundred sixty feet high, if they ever got the money to finish it. People would pay at the fair to clamber up the catwalk that circled her wrist like a bracelet. It stood on the concourse, which wound through the four hundred fifty acres of the exhibition park with its two hundred pavilions and monuments, memorials, sculptures, obelisks, and stands. I realized that not one was devoted to, or even mentioned, those dark citizens who had been the cause of the second American Revolution. There was no monument to Butler's or Ferrero's black troops, no mention of the inventions of Eli Whitney or George Washington Carver. No monument to those poor departed souls lost in the Atlantic middle passage, no pavilion dedicated to our history, our heroes, our lives. My life.

The vision of the complicated engine I had seen at the Centennial faded into the sound of the clattering weaving looms at which I had once spun with the other slave girls at Monticello.

My father's voice rose out of the recesses of a half-century: “Beverly says we could build a nail factory run on waterpower right here on Mulberry Row with free labor instead of this pitiful barn filled with seven-year-old slaves. …”

Suddenly, as if all the telepathy of childhood had returned, I knew that I had to stay at Anamacora.

“Grandma, are you feeling all right?”

“I'm not coming.”

“But, Grandma! Grandpa is waiting for you at the grandstands! What about the reception in the Pennsylvania Pavilion? You're supposed to meet there with Mayor Sweet William Stokley and the emperor of Brazil!”

“Grandma doesn't want to see Mr. Political Scandal, Mr. Spoils Man, Mr. Dirty Streets High Taxes Stokley, or that bloody Brazilian slave trader!” I declared to my grandchild's astonishment. “Let Grandpa do it.”

Revolt had finally stirred my soul.

“Tu viens, Maman? Non, je ne viens pas.
I'm not coming.” “You asked me in conversation, what constituted a mulatto.“ “Worse than an auction—selling yourself for whiteness.” “Since she's white enough to pass for white, then let her be white.” “Look down, Harriet. You are so beautiful.” “Of course I wouldn't change anything.” “I've changed my color, Petit, not my soul.” “Have you ever met one white man who did not ask you for something or take something away from you?” “Thance loves you.” “My children won't know who they are.” “Harriet, give Wellington a chance; tell him.” “Well, Mrs. Willowpole, welcome to the slave deck.” “There is an injury where reparation is impossible . . . dishonored birth.” “Never say that, Harriet. Your father loves you as much as he loves anything not written down on paper. “ “I love all things that are not. That could be the motto of my life.“ “I'm not Thance, Harriet. I'm Thor. “ “Because she didn't have her papers with her!” “Aw, God. They're not coming back. They ain't ever coming back.” “I'm never coming back here for you again, Maman!” “Daughter ...” “Push down hard, my heart won't stop beating.” “I've waited for the grave for you to tell me, tell me, tell me ... “

I felt the laughter and tears boil up within me and scald over like a cauldron of hot milk. The hundredth birthday of my country, of my father's Declaration of Independence. With a pedigree like mine, what ironic God had placed me on the podium of the celebration of a hundred years of silence? When would they recognize me? When would I belong to them? When? When would I be able to tell this magnificent family of mine who and what I was—that I was theirs with all the love and passion of my soul—without also having to beg them for their forgiveness?

The old yearning returned tenfold, something as infinitesimal as the dust motes dancing in the sunlight striking the marble bust of my father, or the ominous pile of birthday telegrams on the table by the door, or the mocking metronome of my pendulum clock keeping time . . . making time . . . . destroying time . . . time that was running out for me, ticktock time, or was that only the sound of my own heart beating—holding me back? Helplessly I kicked against time's walls, thicker than my skirts which twitched under my blow. I dared not limp forward, either as Harriet Hemings of Monticello or Harriet Wellington of Anamacora.

“No, I'm not coming, Roxanne.”

My astonished family exploded with protestations and pleas, but I ignored them. I surveyed my granddaughter with the abstract detachment elderly people often affect.

The sun streaming through the bull's-eye window played on Roxanne's sleek dark hair parted in the middle and drawn into two ropes of twisted hair coiled over each ear. She wore a small sultana, the tiny Turkish pillbox hat which was so in fashion these days. On one side was attached a length of fine lace which was pulled under the chin and attached by a brooch. Her dress was blue-and-white-striped, the bodice pleated and tucked into a hundred ruffles that were drawn back into a high bustle. All this and her crinolines jutted out around her in peaks and valleys of silk. With her pagoda sleeves festooned with black ribbons and bows, she looked as if she could at any moment overflow the confines of the world. Her hand rested lightly on the handle of her parasol, which was pinpointed firmly to the floor.

Roxanne returned my gaze with frank affection, then shook her head. She knew better than to argue with an old dying Virginian. Hadn't I tried it once and failed?

“Well, if you're not going, Grandma, I'm not going. I'm staying here with you.”

Even as the coach rolled down the driveway of Anamacora without me and away with all my family and I stepped down in the midst of my romping Dalmatians, I knew the past was already on its way. Its calling card lay with all my telegrams on the console inside the doorway. It read:

Eston Hemings Jefferson, President

The Jefferson Continental Cotton & Standard Screw Co.

300 Eastern Shore Drive

Chicago, Illinois

I turned it over as if it were a tarot card. I heard the voice of my murdered Thenia over my shoulder. WHITE PEOPLE.

At 4:00
P.M
., slowly, laboriously, I began my toilette: talcum and drawers, stays and corsets, wire hoop, crinoline, underpetticoat, six petticoats, black silk, green taffeta apron, green ribbons, jewels, locket, earrings, lace mittens, mantilla, tiara, more talcum, a bit of rouge, a strand of pearls, Guerlain's “Jacky,” and I was ready. What used to be pure joy, for I loved clothes, now
took longer and much more effort and produced only the mediocre results an old woman could expect. Beauty was no longer hoped for. Which of my friends had accused me of the coquetry of an actress? I was certainly an actress, I thought.

My house was built of white clapboard and yellow brick, commodious, wide-columned and handsome. It stood like a sentinel on the banks of the Schuylkill River, whose tributaries had run red with the blood of the battle of Gettysburg in ‘63 but now it had returned to its natural, neutral color: a streak of gunmetal drawn across the jade green sward of Pennsylvania Dutch country.

The conservatory was now a ballroom, and dinner tables had been set up in the other rooms and outside in the veranda. The floors had been stripped of their rugs; bouquets of flowers had been set everywhere; the Dalmatians had been locked in the stables; the torches outside had been lit; the oil lamps inside had been turned down; the candles burned; the crystal chandeliers glowed; the hired waiters and maître d'hôtel stood at attention with their backs to the wall. I inspected the buffets for the last time, gliding by the stacks of plates and banks of crystal and gleaming silverware, the mountain of stiff lace, napkins, the cold platters already set out: waxy
chaud-froids
of veal, glazed cold turkey, Virginia hams, boned woodcock, quails and guinea hens, iridescent obelisks of Maine oysters, tureens of cold asparagus soup, and trout in hollandaise sauce. I felt my fingers trail along the table, the lace of my sleeves mingling with the lace of the napkins. I had hired the best caterer in Philadelphia.

“Congratulations, Mr. Fullom. All this is quite wonderful.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wellington. I hear the President is coming.”

“He is indeed so honoring us, Mr. Fullom. I believe'we are first on his list of parties for tonight.” I gave him a smile of complicity. I listened to the orchestra tune up. My color rose as it always did at the sound of music. I felt free. And safe.

“Excuse me, madam, there's a colored woman who insists on speaking to you. I told her to go around to the back door. She's waiting for you there.”

Absently, I took another look at the banquet. As I passed through the kitchen, I stopped to peak under the huge white napkins covering trays of baked bread and homemade cake. Through the filigree of the screened door I could make out only the silhouette of a tall female figure. It was only when I opened the door that I realized, with the dread of a secret murderer, that the colored lady who had crossed my path in Market Street Square over fifty years ago was standing on my back porch. She was the same height, the same color, and she had on the same style of hat, trimmed with huge pink cabbage
roses and pink ribbons. But it couldn't be the lady in Market Street Square! She would be an old woman! This woman was vigorous and in the prime of life. She was brown skinned, in her early forties, giving an impression of quiet strength and femininity.

“Good evening. I'm Sarah Hemings, Madison's daughter. They call me Sally at home.”

I stared at her.

“You
are
Harriet Wellington?”

I recognized my mother's ruby earrings, which swung with her emphasis and sparkled in the sunlight. Sarah. The three-year-old I had held in my arms and had wept over the day Eston had delivered my mother's possessions.

“Yes,” I answered helplessly.

“Well”—she smiled her colored-lady-in-Market-Street-Square smile— “I'm Sarah,” she repeated triumphantly.

We stood on either side of the doorstep, but it was more than a doorstep that separated us. We tottered as if on the edge of a precipice. The color line separating us stretched from the Atlantic to the Pacific, from one end of America to the other. I knew that if I stepped over the threshold of my doorway, I would never return to my mansion. And if, on the other hand, Sarah stepped over it into my life, my family would never have another tranquil moment. Sarah's eyes held questions: Who do you think you are? What do you think you are? How long can you pretend you
are
at all?

“I'm afraid you are mistaken. You have come to the wrong house.”

“Impossible! I know you. You
are
Harriet of Monticello. How could you not be! You are his spitting image.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Of my grandfather, of Thomas Jefferson.”

I laughed out loud then, so true and terrible was this obnoxious farce being played out between us.

“No,” I repeated. “I am not Harriet ... of Monticello. No Harriet of Monticello lives here.”

“But, didn't you get Daddy's memoirs? They were published in the
Pike County Gazette.
I'm the one who sent you the article.”

So here was my blackmailer. My nemesis. My Callender. Sarah.

“You're really going to stand there and deny me?”

“My dear lady, there's nothing to deny. I cannot be who you think I am. That's all.”

Sarah threw back her head and let loose a gale of laughter, laughter that turned my bones to ice. “And
this
is why we fought the Civil War—I'll be damned, Aunt.”

“I can't let you in,” I whispered.

“And you can't let yourself out, I suppose ... but who would know unless you told them?”

“God would know.”

“God already knows, Aunt.”

“Thor!” I cried out as if he could save me, forgetting that I was the liar and he was the lied-to.

Sarah stood there in a smoldering rage, leaning on her parasol, the flowers on her hat trembling. She had beautiful gray eyes. Madison's eyes.

“You know how I found you, Aunt? The family that lives in Grandma's shack told me a white lady came to see them ten years ago. A scalawag who maybe wasn't even white and tried to evict them, but then she changed her mind when she heard ‘haunts.' They said I found out her name was Wellington.”

I'll never sell myself for whiteness.

“I suppose it's just as well my father wasn't sure whether you were alive or dead. I'm certainly not going to tell him otherwise, because I don't know if you
are
alive or dead. I still remember your tears that day, Aunt. They were so hot they scalded me. I have dreamed of finding you—not to harm you, to love you.”

She smiled and shook her head at the futility and childishness of that dream. Her eyes inspected me from head to toe in friendly curiosity. I tried to speak, but, as in a dream, found I could not. I reached out, hoping to touch her, but she turned on herself in that familiar way, like a stately ship heeling, and glided past me. Would she believe her aunt's heart was beating faster because she so resembled her great-grandmother? And because I loved her? How could I really love this beautiful woman dappled in the velvet shadows, leaning on her parasol, radiating innocence and indignation, without telling her that I was as much a part of her as her eyelashes? There was a courage about Sarah, standing there in her self-righteousness that inspired in me the heart-wrenching affection a veteran feels for an officer who has not yet been seen battle.

Carefully, Sarah guided herself, still laughing, through the orchard. Peach trees laden with flesh-colored blossoms genuflected to her, laying down their branches before her as if she were Jesus entering Jerusalem. I gave up trying to shake the peculiar feeling that I
knew
Sarah Hemings. It wasn't fair, I thought, that I knew so much more about Sarah than she would ever know about me. But the kind of ignorance I read in her face proscribed the quality of love I would have liked to have offered her.