feet.
Some of them scatter. An arrow whizzes by
overhead. One of the Corps is about to shoot back, and I think, how
ridiculous, I’ve ruined everything by taking an at-bat. Clark is
screaming “No!” and so is Black Buffalo — you can tell, without a
translator — but no one else fires, and the kid runs over to where
ball rolls by the riverbank. He picks it up again, and turns to
look at me…
…and seems to be smiling.
“What game is that?” Black Buffalo asks.
I’m so excited, I don’t wait for the
translator and answer, “Baseball!”
Clark and Lewis both give quizzical looks at
my evident understanding of Lakota.
“And if this is September,” I tell Black
Buffalo, “it’s just about time for the playoffs.”
The Lakota translator is giving me a
quizzical look, too. He’s never heard anything like that from any
of the fur traders.
I see that the Lakota kid is picking up a
stick, too. He stands, holding it the way I held mine, but not
before tossing the ball back over the water to me.
I guess he’s ready for an at-bat.
Men on both sides are lowering their
weapons.
It looks like the Corps of Discovery will
make it through the day and off of Good Humor Island.
And if that means I’ve messed with history a
little, it feels all right.
Chapter Twelve
Thea: Monticello
May 1804
We follow Jefferson outside, going back up
Mulberry Row.
Sadness…
Eyes watch us. There are a few nods, but
fewer smiles.
Jefferson occasionally nods back at a slave
or two, but doesn’t stop to make conversation.
… sore…. tired…
I don’t know who’s talking…
No, I do know. No one is talking. The
lingo-spot is not only translating words now, but feelings. But
which feelings? Maybe…the strongest ones?
If this ability should grow, I may well go
mad.
And as mother might have observed, going mad
will not help me think clearly about my situation.
The slave cabins are opposite the extensive,
and apparently experimental, gardens that Jefferson keeps. Orange
light from a setting sun plays over the flowers, trees, and vines
there. Looking at them, smelling them, I could almost imagine
myself back in the gardens in Alexandria.
Almost.
We’re back at the front entrance to the
house quickly enough. “Come with me, girl,” Sally says, and takes
me upstairs.
I noticed she didn’t look too closely at the
slaves on Mulberry Row, either. She doesn’t quite belong there, but
she doesn’t quite belong here, in Jefferson’s house, as a full
family member.
Like me, she is caught between worlds.
Two of Jefferson’s granddaughters run by,
giggling as they see me. Jefferson’s grown daughter, Patsy, is here
with her family — I don’t think I’ve counted all the young ones
yet. There are around six or so. I don’t know how they can move so
fast in such garments, though, with all the bows and sashes around
their waists.
Even the men, those who aren’t slaves, seem
to wear numerous layers of clothing.
But to be a child is to move fast, no matter
what your clothing, so off the children go, perhaps to look at some
of the antlers on the wall. This is a busy house, which also
reminds me of Alexandria and the library. Something was always
happening there. Guests were forever arriving. Back when I was a child.
And if I’m not quite a child now, but not
yet grown into the sort of woman Mother was… then what am I? Who am
I?
Honoré stomps by on his way to the kitchen,
holding a basket full of peas he’s brought in from outside. “And I
still have to make ice cream for tout les petits Jeffersons!” he yells to no one in particular.
“We’ll go up here and wait in the cabinet
room.”
I follow Sally up the stairs, into what must
be Jefferson’s study.
Like Mother’s, it is strewn with papers and
scientific implements of every sort. There is a kind of paddle
hanging on the wall. There is a plate of oranges on his desk. The
scented fruit reminds me of home. I wonder if he has
Some of them scatter. An arrow whizzes by
overhead. One of the Corps is about to shoot back, and I think, how
ridiculous, I’ve ruined everything by taking an at-bat. Clark is
screaming “No!” and so is Black Buffalo — you can tell, without a
translator — but no one else fires, and the kid runs over to where
ball rolls by the riverbank. He picks it up again, and turns to
look at me…
…and seems to be smiling.
“What game is that?” Black Buffalo asks.
I’m so excited, I don’t wait for the
translator and answer, “Baseball!”
Clark and Lewis both give quizzical looks at
my evident understanding of Lakota.
“And if this is September,” I tell Black
Buffalo, “it’s just about time for the playoffs.”
The Lakota translator is giving me a
quizzical look, too. He’s never heard anything like that from any
of the fur traders.
I see that the Lakota kid is picking up a
stick, too. He stands, holding it the way I held mine, but not
before tossing the ball back over the water to me.
I guess he’s ready for an at-bat.
Men on both sides are lowering their
weapons.
It looks like the Corps of Discovery will
make it through the day and off of Good Humor Island.
And if that means I’ve messed with history a
little, it feels all right.
Chapter Twelve
Thea: Monticello
May 1804
We follow Jefferson outside, going back up
Mulberry Row.
Sadness…
Eyes watch us. There are a few nods, but
fewer smiles.
Jefferson occasionally nods back at a slave
or two, but doesn’t stop to make conversation.
… sore…. tired…
I don’t know who’s talking…
No, I do know. No one is talking. The
lingo-spot is not only translating words now, but feelings. But
which feelings? Maybe…the strongest ones?
If this ability should grow, I may well go
mad.
And as mother might have observed, going mad
will not help me think clearly about my situation.
The slave cabins are opposite the extensive,
and apparently experimental, gardens that Jefferson keeps. Orange
light from a setting sun plays over the flowers, trees, and vines
there. Looking at them, smelling them, I could almost imagine
myself back in the gardens in Alexandria.
Almost.
We’re back at the front entrance to the
house quickly enough. “Come with me, girl,” Sally says, and takes
me upstairs.
I noticed she didn’t look too closely at the
slaves on Mulberry Row, either. She doesn’t quite belong there, but
she doesn’t quite belong here, in Jefferson’s house, as a full
family member.
Like me, she is caught between worlds.
Two of Jefferson’s granddaughters run by,
giggling as they see me. Jefferson’s grown daughter, Patsy, is here
with her family — I don’t think I’ve counted all the young ones
yet. There are around six or so. I don’t know how they can move so
fast in such garments, though, with all the bows and sashes around
their waists.
Even the men, those who aren’t slaves, seem
to wear numerous layers of clothing.
But to be a child is to move fast, no matter
what your clothing, so off the children go, perhaps to look at some
of the antlers on the wall. This is a busy house, which also
reminds me of Alexandria and the library. Something was always
happening there. Guests were forever arriving. Back when I was a child.
And if I’m not quite a child now, but not
yet grown into the sort of woman Mother was… then what am I? Who am
I?
Honoré stomps by on his way to the kitchen,
holding a basket full of peas he’s brought in from outside. “And I
still have to make ice cream for tout les petits Jeffersons!” he yells to no one in particular.
“We’ll go up here and wait in the cabinet
room.”
I follow Sally up the stairs, into what must
be Jefferson’s study.
Like Mother’s, it is strewn with papers and
scientific implements of every sort. There is a kind of paddle
hanging on the wall. There is a plate of oranges on his desk. The
scented fruit reminds me of home. I wonder if he has
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