Chapter Two

Papa

Mama wheeled about, angry. She said, “Don’t you call him Papa.”

“But—” Beverly danced up and down, waving the violin. “I’m going to take lessons, from Jesse Scott, and he gave me the violin, Papa, he really did, and when he comes back in the summer—”

“Don’t you ever call him Papa,” Mama said. “Do you hear me?” She shook her finger at him. Mama never messed around.

“Yes, Mama,” said Beverly. “But—”

“But nothing,” Mama said.

Beverly looked at the floor. “But you said he’s my father. You said so.” Mama had, a week ago. Beverly’d had that buzzing feeling in his stomach ever since. He had wondered if it could possibly be true. Now he had a violin to prove it.

Mama said, “What you know in your head and what you can say out loud are not always the same. You know that—”

“You’re not stupid,” chimed Harriet. Beverly glared at her. Mama had told Harriet about their father too. Beverly wished she hadn’t.

“I don’t ever want to hear you call him Papa,” Mama said. “Not to me, not to Harriet, not to anybody. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Now, show me this violin.” She took Beverly on her lap and helped him open the case.

Beverly snuggled against her. “He gave it to me,” he said. “To keep.”

Mama kissed him. “It’s a fine thing, to learn to play the violin.”

“He wants me to,” Beverly said. “He said.”

 

When Mama told Beverly that Master Jefferson was his father, she called it a secret everybody knew.

“Everybody in the world?” he asked.

“No,” Mama said. “Everybody at Monticello. The folks in Charlottesville whisper about it. Some people spread talk farther away, but we don’t need to worry about them.”

Beverly nodded because he thought Mama expected him to, but he didn’t understand.

Mama said Master Jefferson was president of the entire country, which was so big, a single person could never see it all, not if that person traveled all his days. She said Master Jefferson was a very important man. Beverly already knew that. He was proud to learn he had an important man for his father. He didn’t understand why it had to be a secret.

“Because I say so,” Mama said. She sighed, and brushed his hair back from his forehead. “You’re maybe too young to know. I shouldn’t have told you, maybe. But if you’re old enough to ask, I figure you’re old enough to hear the truth.”

 

He wouldn’t have thought to ask about his father if not for Joe Fossett. A few days before Master Jefferson came home, Davy Hern, the wagon man, arrived with a load of goods from Washington. Davy always brought Master Jefferson’s heavy luggage ahead. As he made the last turn onto Mulberry Row, Davy let out a big halloo, and folks came running from everywhere to hear his news. Beverly dashed out his cabin door. He saw Joe Fossett come out of the blacksmith shop and take three big steps toward the wagon, and then Beverly saw the light go out of Joe Fossett’s face. It was like somebody snuffing a candle.

“She didn’t come?” Joe Fossett said. He ran up to the wagon and grabbed Davy’s arm. “Where’s Edith? Why didn’t she come home? Is she all right? What about the baby?”

“They’re all right,” Davy said. “They’re fine. Baby’s healthy. Nursing fine. Edith thought four days of travel might be too much for them, though, in this wet weather. She said to tell you she’s sorry, and she and James’ll see you in July.”

Joe shook Davy’s hand, and went back to the shop before old Mr. Stewart could kick up a fuss. Beverly helped unload the wagon. He thought about that look on Joe Fossett’s face, that joy snuffed cold.

He waited until nighttime, when Harriet was asleep and Mama was stroking his back. Then he told Mama all about it. “Why was Joe Fossett sad?”

“He misses Miss Edith,” Mama said. “He wants to see his baby boy. He expected they’d come home.” After a pause she said, “It’s hard for families and mamas and daddies to be apart.”

Beverly thought of his family—Harriet snoring beside him, and Maddy making little baby noises from the cradle. Mama sat on the chair beside the bed, but later, when she got tired, she’d crawl in with him and Harriet. It was such a nice night, the fire crackling low. Beverly didn’t think they needed a daddy.

“Anyway,” he said, “I haven’t got one.”

“Haven’t got what?” Mama asked.

“A daddy,” he said.

Mama laughed. “Of course you do. Everybody’s got a daddy.”

“Do not,” said Beverly.

“Every living thing,” Mama continued. “Every cow in the field. Every chicken’s got a daddy. So do you.”

“Well, who is it, then? He doesn’t live around here. Is he dead?”

Mama’s hand stopped stroking Beverly’s back. “He lives here sometimes. He’s not dead.” After a pause she added, “Your daddy’s Master Jefferson.”

Beverly sat straight up. “Mama! Are you sure?”

She laughed again. “Yes. I’m sure. Hush, you’ll wake Maddy.”

“Who’s his daddy? Who’s Harriet’s?”

“Master Jefferson. All my children have the same daddy.” Mama pushed him back down. “But you listen, Beverly. It’s a secret. You mustn’t talk about it, except to me. Not to anybody. If you have questions, you ask me and I’ll answer you, but I don’t want you talking about it outside this room. Promise.”

“Why?” asked Beverly.

“’Cause I said so,” said Mama.

“He got more children around here?” Beverly asked.

“No,” Mama said. “Just you three. And the ones I had that died. And Miss Martha, of course. And Miss Maria, and the other babies his wife had, but they all died a long time ago.”

“Can I tell Joe Fossett?” Beverly asked.

“No, sir. You may not.”

“Uncle Peter? Uncle John?”

“No.”

“Nobody?”

“Nobody, Beverly. You promise me.”

“What about Miss Martha?”

Mama pushed her lips together. “I’m not joking, Beverly. I told you this, and I’m telling you not to speak about it. Especially not to Miss Martha. You’ve got no business talking to Miss Martha anyhow.”

Beverly considered. He had never thought much about his father before. Some people had daddies around, and some didn’t, that was all. He’d never thought his daddy could be Master Jefferson. “Doesn’t nobody know?”

“Doesn’t anybody,” Mama corrected. “Yes. Lots of people know, but we can’t talk about it.”

“Mama,” Beverly said, “that doesn’t make sense.”

“It will when you’re older,” Mama said.

Beverly thought hard. He’d heard people say how sad it was that Master Jefferson had only old Miss Martha left, out of all his children. Now here was Beverly, and Harriet, and Maddy. That wasn’t sad at all. “Mama? Why don’t we tell people? Maybe some people would be glad to know. Miss Martha—”

Mama sighed. “Miss Martha and Miss Maria were the children of Master Jefferson’s wife. I’m . . .” She paused.

“Won’t he marry you?” asked Beverly.

“He can’t,” Mama said, after a second silence.

“Why not?”

Mama sighed again. “A black person can’t marry a white person. A slave can’t marry at all.”

This was news to Beverly. “Are you a slave, Mama?”

“Yes.”

“Am I?”

“We’ll talk about that later,” Mama said.

“Are Harriet and Maddy—”

“Later,” Mama said. “You’ve had enough talk for the one night.”

Beverly tried to hold silent, but finally he had to say, “Then Joe Fossett, he’s not a slave.”

“How do you figure?” asked Mama.

“’Cause he’s married,” Beverly said. “He’s married to Miss Edith.”

“Yes and no,” Mama said. “Joe and Miss Edith pledged to each other. They’re married, but not by law. They’re married in their hearts. Joe and Miss Edith—they’re both slaves. We’ll talk about it later, all right?”

“Are you married to Master Jefferson in your heart, Mama? Like Joe and Edith?”

“Oh, Beverly,” Mama said.

“Are you?”

“Of course I am,” Mama said. “Now go to sleep.”

 

In the morning Beverly thought of another question. “Does he love me, Mama?” he asked. “Does he love me like Joe Fossett loves baby James?”

Mama smiled at him. “Of course he loves you,” she said. “He named you. William Beverly, after a friend of his father’s. And you’ll see. Someday you’ll have a fine life, because of him.”

The very next day Master Jefferson came home. Beverly hoped Master Jefferson would come to their cabin right away, but he didn’t. He hoped Master Jefferson would let them all sit down to dinner with him and Miss Martha, but he didn’t.

But then Master Jefferson gave Beverly a violin. So Beverly knew what Mama said was true.

 

Mama spent nights in the great house with Master Jefferson. A big girl named Fanny Gillette came each evening to stay with Beverly and Harriet and Maddy. Maddy was an easy baby and usually slept until morning; when he did wake before Mama returned, Fanny dipped a cloth in sugar water and let him suck on it. Maddy always woke up hungry, but other than that he was too little to mind Mama being gone, and Harriet slept so hard she barely noticed, but, after he got his violin, Beverly didn’t like it at all.

“I wanted to sleep in the great house with you,” he told Mama.

“Can’t,” Mama said, without a trace of a smile.

“I don’t see why not,” Beverly said. “Even if the bed up there is little. I wouldn’t mind.” He stomped his foot. Throwing a fit didn’t usually budge Mama, but you never knew.

Mama grabbed his arm, hard. “Don’t go down that road,” she said. “I told you it was a secret, about you and Master Jefferson. It’s a secret about me too. That I go up there at night. What kind of secret would it be if I took you and Harriet and Maddy along?”

“It can’t be a secret,” Beverly argued. “Fanny comes here—everybody on Mulberry Row knows that. And Burwell lights the fires every morning. And Miss Martha sleeps right upstairs.”

“Miss Martha doesn’t know anything,” Mama said. “Nor Burwell neither. Master Jefferson lights his fire himself in the morning. Burwell’s not allowed into the room until after breakfast.”

Beverly knew this didn’t make sense. Burwell was sure to know about Fanny even if he didn’t know anything else. But Mama looked so fierce Beverly kept quiet. Mouth shut, ears open, that was what Mama said.

 

A few days later, Beverly said, “I’ve been studying Miss Martha, Mama. She’s not stupid.”

Mama shook her head. “Don’t study her. She’s not stupid, but she only sees what she wants to.”

Beverly thought about this. “She doesn’t want to be my sister, does she?”

“No,” Mama said. “She does not.”

“But she is my sister, isn’t she?”

“She is,” Mama said. “But she won’t ever admit it, not this side of heaven. If you’re smart—and I know you are—if you’re smart, you’ll leave Miss Martha alone.”

“Doesn’t she like you, Mama?”

Mama sighed. “She likes me fine. She doesn’t like—I don’t know the words for it. She’ll never admit she’s kin to us, let’s leave it at that.”

Beverly tried to play his violin on his own, but he couldn’t make it sound right and he was a little afraid he might break it. He thought he’d die of impatience before Mama finally took him down to Charlottesville to see Jesse Scott.

Mama waited for a day when Davy Hern had business in Charlottesville, so she and Beverly could get a ride in the wagon. It was a pretty morning, soft and warm, and all the leaves on the mountainside were just popping out. In the woods the redbuds bloomed. The wagon circled slowly down, and Beverly, his violin on his lap, felt too happy to speak. He would learn to play beautiful music. He would make his father proud.

Jesse Scott was a kind, friendly man. When Beverly made the violin squawk and screech, Jesse laughed. He taught Beverly four notes, one for each string. He told Beverly to practice a little every day. “But not too much,” he said, “or you’ll drive your mama crazy.”

“Master Jefferson used to practice for hours,” said Beverly.

“When you’re older you can practice for hours,” said Jesse. “Right now you can practice a little each morning, and a little each night. Come back for a lesson next week if you can.”

Mama told Jesse to keep track of Beverly’s lessons and send Master Jefferson the bill. Beverly beamed.

 

He practiced as much as Mama would let him. He played for Mama, Harriet, and Maddy. He played for Joe Fossett in the blacksmith shop, Uncle John in the woodshop, and Uncle Peter in the kitchen. More than anything, he wanted to play for his father. He waited for Master Jefferson’s door to be open again, but it never was, and pretty soon both Mama and Burwell started shooing him out of the great house every single time they saw him there. They sent him on errands to the stables or gardens and kept him busy all day long.

“You need to stay away from the great house,” Mama told him.

“I need to see Papa,” Beverly said. “I need him to hear me play.”

“Don’t call him Papa,” Mama said. “You call him Master Jefferson, you hear me? Same as everybody else.”

“I’ll only call him Papa to you.”

“No, you won’t,” she said. “You’ll forget and let it slip sometime.”

Beverly said, “I don’t see why it has to be a secret.”

Mama bent over him, sparks of anger flashing in her eyes. “I don’t care whether you understand it or not,” she said. “I care whether or not you obey me. You keep your mouth quiet or I’ll give you something to help you remember. Now put that violin down and go help Uncle Peter with the dishes.”

Beverly didn’t move. Mama pointed to the door. “Go.”

“I need him to hear me,” Beverly said. “Please.”

“Go,” she said.

Beverly went. But later, after dinner and just before Mama left for the night, she called him over to the cabin door. “Stand just here, in the doorway, and play your notes. Master Jefferson said he’d stand by his bedroom window and listen.”

Beverly could see the open window, and the thin white curtains softly fluttering against it, but he couldn’t see through the curtains into the dark room.

“Is he really there, Mama?”

“This is the only chance I’m giving you. Play.”

Beverly played his best. It sounded like music, even though it was only four notes. Then he waited, watching the curtains. They fluttered once more. Maybe Master Jefferson was waving to him.

“Did he like it, Mama?” Beverly asked the next morning.

“He did,” Mama said.

“What did he say?”

Mama sighed. “Let it go, Beverly. Let it be.”

A week later Master Jefferson returned to Washington. Mama stayed home at night. Everything went back to normal, until one of the nail boys, James Hubbard, ran away.