Jefferson's Sons

The first Sunday after James was sold, sleet fell in driving sheets the whole day long. James didn’t come home. No one expected him to, not with a three-mile walk in such horrible weather, but when Maddy went into the kitchen at noon to get something to eat, Miss Edith swung around from the hearth, hope lighting her eyes.

Miss Edith gave a short laugh. “Oh, I know I raised him smart enough to stay out of the rain,” she said. “We’ll see him next Sunday, I’m sure.”

They did. James was skinnier and dirtier. His shirt was torn. His face looked closed, almost wary. He cuddled Peter on his lap in the kitchen while his sister Maria mended his shirt, and Miss Edith made Sunday dinner for the great house.

“Aren’t they feeding you?” Miss Edith asked. She pushed a plate of chicken toward James. “That’s from yesterday. Eat it.”

James pushed the plate toward Maddy. Maddy loved chicken, but he shook his head. He hadn’t thought James would look hungry.

“They give out plenty of food,” James said between mouthfuls. “It’s just not good food, not like here. Since Master Randolph rides over here for dinner most nights they don’t bother keeping much of a cook. All the hands are on their own. I get my week’s allotment, cornmeal and half a pound of fatback and salt. Couple of salt fish. Like the field hands here. They gave me a pot too. I handed it over to one of the women, and she cooks for me in exchange.” James snorted. “Which is good, because if I had to cook for myself, I’d probably starve.”

Miss Edith pushed another bowl toward James. Mashed turnips, flavored with pieces of bacon. This time, when James offered it to Maddy, Maddy did take a bite.

James didn’t raise his eyes. “Master Randolph doesn’t have a forge. Doesn’t need one, he sends his work here.” He looked up. “I got put to ground.” James scooped another spoonful of turnips. Miss Edith poured him a glass of milk. “How’s the carpentry shop?”

Maddy looked at James’s thin shoulders, his grimy shirt. He felt ashamed of becoming a carpenter while James had to work in a field. It wasn’t his fault, but he still felt ashamed.

Just before James left Maddy pulled him aside. “I’ll take care of Peter for you,” he said. “I’ll be good to him, and I’ll make sure he knows all about you. You’ll see him a lot, I know, I just—” He stopped. James’s eyes were full of tears.

“He looked bigger already,” James said, his voice shaking a little. “He changed so much, in just those two weeks.”

Beverly said they couldn’t forget, but they could choose to move on. He said anger was like a heavy rock, hard to carry every day. It was easier to get through life if you could set your anger down.

Maddy said if anger was a rock, then he meant to throw it hard. He might hit somebody with it, did he get the chance. Beverly’s eyes grew sad, sad. “Won’t do any good,” he said.

“Oh, Maddy.” He pulled Maddy tight against him, like Mama did, and kissed the top of his head before Maddy could squirm away.

In spring Master Jefferson went for a month to Poplar Forest. The bustle of visitors ceased. When Miss Martha was in charge of the house, she didn’t invite everyone in the world to dinner, so Maddy didn’t have to stand in the dining room while white folks stared. Burwell traveled with Master Jefferson, but Miss Martha said she’d do just fine with one of the women to wait table, thank you. Beverly and Maddy could go back to Mulberry Row.

Mama shook her head. “She doesn’t like her husband,” Mama said, “and he’s considered a failure. His farm isn’t profitable. He can’t keep Miss Martha and the children in the style they’re accustomed to. Master Jefferson can.”

Mama sighed. “He has some,” she said. “The Monticello farms do make money. Mister Jeff manages them well.”

“But everyone says that Master Jefferson spends more than he has. That there’s no money, but all sorts of debts to pay, and all that French wine—”

“I know, but Mama? If Master Jefferson didn’t have to keep Miss Martha’s children, could he have afforded to keep James? And if Mr. Randolph doesn’t have any money, how could he buy James?”

Mama hugged him. “I don’t think selling James was about money. I think Mr. Randolph just wanted another slave.”

“But it doesn’t make sense,” Maddy said. “James was going to be a blacksmith. Now he’s just a field hand. If Mr. Randolph wanted a field hand, a grown man would have been more useful to him than James.”

In June, Beverly and Uncle John worked the wheat harvest. Mama insisted Maddy was still too young. It was a bad year. When all the wheat had been ground into flour, and enough for everyone to eat during the year put by, there was hardly any left over to sell.

Wheat was the most profitable crop Monticello grew. Now there would be no wheat money that year. Mama said not to worry. She said worry couldn’t change a thing.

After a while Maddy did start to feel like his anger was weighing him down. He wanted James back so badly it made his stomach hurt, but sometimes his head throbbed with all the anger inside of it, and more than anything he wanted rest.

One evening in late summer, as Maddy walked home from the shop, he saw Master Jefferson on the bottom porch step of the great house, using his pocket watch to time his younger grandchildren running laps of the lush green lawn. Miss Mary watched, laughing, holding Tim’s little hands, while the boys, James, Lewis, and Ben, raced. Lewis lost, of course; he was littlest. But he tried so hard to catch up to his brothers that when he reached the porch he couldn’t stop. He cannoned into Master Jefferson and knocked him down.

Without thinking, Maddy ran. Master Jefferson lay on his side, unmoving, his legs tangled up with Lewis’s. The other James Madison began to pull his arm. “Don’t touch him,” Maddy yelled. “Don’t touch him ’til we know if he’s hurt.” He looked at Miss Mary. “Get Burwell!” Mary nodded and ran.

Maddy remembered when Eston had fallen off a chair and caught the edge of a table on his stomach. “He’s knocked the air out of himself,” he said. It was frightening but not dangerous. “You’ve knocked the air out, right, sir?”

Master Jefferson nodded. He looked like he was starting to breathe again. Maddy knelt beside him, relieved. The other James Madison hauled Lewis up. After another minute, Master Jefferson rose shakily to his feet. He waved off Burwell, who had started to run from the house.

“We were worried, sir,” the other James Madison said. He glared at Lewis, who started to sob. “You’re too old to fall down.”

“Too old! Why, I should hope not.” He rumpled the other James Madison’s hair, and smiled just a bit at Maddy. “You don’t think I’m old, do you?” he asked Maddy.

Maddy looked at the wrinkles on Master Jefferson’s face, and the age spots on his long hands; he could see how frail and thin Master Jefferson was. “I’m glad you’re all right, sir,” he said.

Maddy walked home, more confused than ever. He guessed he’d managed to set some of his anger down after all. He’d just rushed to help the man who sold James.

“You rushed to help your elderly father,” Beverly said, later, when Maddy told him about it. “That’s a good thing. You can’t change him, but you can decide what kind of person you’re going to be.”