Thomas Jefferson Dreams of Sally Hemings by Stephen O'Connor Page B

pitting the ever-more-hopeless possibility that she might, in fact, visit against the ever-more-monumental-and-oppressive certainty that she won’t.
    He is standing in his study off the garden, in front of the cabinet where he keeps his wine, and he is pouring himself a second glass. How could he have strayed so far outside his better nature? Isn’t this relentless agony his punishment for having betrayed the memory of his tender and beautiful wife and for having neglected his dear daughters? He is nothing but a monster and a fool, who will be unloved and lonely in his old age, a pathetic, neglected, ridiculed, gout-ridden inebriate and an incurable onanist—and that will be the only fate he deserves! It is an unfortunate fact of his nature that his moral instinct is strong enough only to punish him for his transgressions but not to preserve him from transgressing in the first place. He pours himself another glass.

“A re we here!” Polly says. “Are we here!”
    The coach passes along a grand boulevard lined with row on row of geometrically shaped trees through a massive wrought-iron gate and then turns right, with a lurch like a ship surmounting a swell, into a small courtyard before a magnificent marble-and-limestone house with columns on either side of its portico and marble steps cascading down to the sandy paving.
    â€œAre we here!” says Polly.
    â€œI don’t know,” says Sally Hemings, although, in fact, she does know; she just can’t bring herself to say it.
    â€œAre we here!”
    â€œYes, you silly girl!” says Monsieur Petit. “This is your new house, the Hôtel de Langeac. Your father is waiting.”
    â€œWe’re here, Sally! We’re here!”
    Polly has grabbed hold of Sally Hemings’s forearm and is shaking it up and down in her excitement. For some reason Sally Hemings is not excited. She is the opposite of excited. There is an ache in her heart and stomach, as if something bad is about to happen.
    â€œYes, my little Polly-Pie,” she says softly. “We’re here.”
    A female voice is calling, “Polly! Polly!”
    At the top of the steps is a huge black door, half open, with a young woman standing in it. “Polly!” she shouts, waving her plump, pale hand. “Polly! Dear Polly!” And now the young woman has lifted the skirts of her embroidered green gown and is drifting down the stairs, her little feet appearing and disappearing beneath a white cloud of lace.
    Can this possibly be Patsy? The last time Sally Hemings saw her was almost exactly three years ago. They’d both been eleven years old then, and it was the day before Patsy left Monticello for Paris. She had just been to say good-bye to her horse and was sitting on a box in front of the stable, scraping manure off her boots with a stick, tears making pale trails through the dust coating her cheeks. When Sally Hemings had asked her what was wrong, she had wailed, “I don’t want to go! I’m going to hateParis! Why can’t I stay here with Polly and Lucy?” How is it possible that this young woman, in her flowing gown, with her hair pinned high atop her head and a cameo pendant at the base of her neck, should ever have been so filthy and abject with grief? It is not just that Patsy’s clothes are so elegant and her manner so refined, but that she seems even at fourteen (though she is almost fifteen) to have shot right out of girlhood and be ready for marriage.
    â€œPatsy! Patsy! Patsy!”
    Polly is so excited that she can’t get the coach door unlatched, and Monsieur Petit has to walk around from the other side to do it for her. The little girl leaps straight to the ground and races up the steps. By the time Sally Hemings has lowered herself to the gritty, yellowish driveway, the two sisters already have their arms around each other and are rocking from side to side.
    A number of other people have emerged from