Jefferson's Sons (28 page)

Eston said, “The bank ought to wait and sell for nine hundred.”

“They can't wait that long.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know,” Harriet said. “I'm not a bank. But that's what's happening.”

Mama nodded. “Everyone's worried. Land isn't selling, and there isn't enough work for people to do.”

They didn't say it, but they all thought of Beverly. They hadn't heard from him yet, and they were starting to worry. Beverly was a good carpenter, surely he could find work somewhere. And he had fifty dollars. A man could live a long time on fifty dollars.

Maddy figured the panic wouldn't hurt Monticello, because Master Jefferson would never sell his land. No planter would. Mama pursed her lips when Maddy said so.

“Master Jefferson signed a loan for Mr. Nicholas,” she said. “That means he has to pay the bank back if Mr. Nicholas can't.”

“Why'd he do that?”

“Friendship, I suppose. Mr. Nicholas asked him to. And Mr. Nicholas once signed a loan for your father, so your father felt he couldn't say no.”

Since Maddy's first night at Mr. Nicholas's farm, on his first trip to Poplar Forest, he'd stayed there many times. It sure seemed prosperous. It was kept up much nicer than Monticello. “Why does Mr. Nicholas need a loan?” he asked.

Mama shook her head. “I don't know. It's for twenty thousand dollars, I do know that.”

Eston burst out laughing. “Mama! You're making that up!”

Mama smiled back, but she didn't look happy. “I'm not, no, I'm not. Twenty thousand dollars.” She stretched the words out. “Twen-ty thou-sand dol-lars.”

Maddy knew Joe Fossett had over two hundred dollars saved. He made marks on his slate to help count: Twenty thousand dollars was Joe Fossett's two hundred dollars, a hundred times over. Maddy thought of a hundred men working as hard and saving as long as Joe Fossett had. He tried to imagine all that work turned into a piece of paper Master Jefferson could sign.

“It's as much as the government paid for Master Jefferson's library,” Harriet said.

Eston sighed. “Too bad he doesn't have another one to sell.”

 

It never once rained at Monticello that summer, but at Poplar Forest a fierce storm broke the drought—not just rain, but hail, big chunks of ice hurled from the sky. They crushed the meager crops flat and shattered the windows of the great house. The overseers wrote there wasn't a single one still whole.

Master Jefferson went there at once, with Miss Ellen and Miss Cornelia, Burwell, and Miss Fanny's brother Israel. A week later Master Jefferson sent for Uncle John. He wrote that he'd ordered new glass shipped to the nearest port on the James River. Uncle John should pick it up along the way.

Uncle John, Maddy, and Eston traveled three days in sweltering heat under a blazing sun. When they reached Poplar Forest the house looked as though it had sat empty and neglected for years. Tall weeds grew up around the front portico, and all the front windows were covered with boards. “Where's that rascal Israel?” Uncle John muttered. “Can't he at least cut the grass?”

No one came out to hail the wagon. Uncle John drove around to the stables, and asked a boy working there to unhitch and care for the horses. They looked into the empty kitchen, then found Hannah in the laundry next door.

“Oh, they need you in the great house,” she said, the moment she saw them. “Burwell's that sick, nobody knows what to do.”

Burwell lay in Maddy's bed, in the room on the lower floor. Usually he slept on a mat in the small room off Master Jefferson's bedroom. “Couldn't stay upstairs,” he said. “Not when I can't stand up, and have to keep using—” He broke off, groaning, his hands pressed to his belly. Maddy didn't have to ask what he meant. The stench from the chamber pot nearly made him retch.

“Where's Master Jefferson?” Uncle John asked. He knelt beside Burwell. “Eston—get fresh water. Maddy—deal with that pot.”

Maddy carried the pot to the privy. On his way back he ran into Miss Ellen, who was carrying a mug full of liquid. “Have you seen Burwell?” she cried. “I've got another dose for him—something Cornelia says Mama used to use. At least, she thinks so. We've tried everything. Grandpa's sent twice for the doctor, but he hasn't come.”

The dose didn't help. Burwell gritted his teeth and groaned; his sweat soaked the blanket he lay on. “How long have you been like this?” Uncle John asked.

Miss Ellen said, “I don't think he's slept for two days.”

Uncle John told them to leave him alone with Burwell for a while. Maddy and Eston followed Miss Ellen upstairs. “It's horrid here,” she said. “The books grew mold after the storm.”

Inside, the house smelled dank and stuffy. All the windows facing north were broken. The dining room was entirely ruined, its wooden floor buckled, its plaster walls moldy, and its skylight beaten into an empty frame. The beautiful octagonal table Uncle John had made did survive the storm; Hannah had moved it to the parlor.

That night Maddy thought Burwell would die. He tossed and turned on the bed, sweating and groaning through clenched teeth. Uncle John sat beside him, wiping his face with damp cloths and trying to get him to drink.

In the middle of the night Maddy rose from his pallet on the floor. “Let me have a turn,” he said to Uncle John. “You get some rest.”

Uncle John shook his head. “I'll stay up with him,” he said. “If it comes to the worst, I want to know I did all I could do.”

 

In the morning Uncle John said, “Let's try a warm bath. A really warm bath might ease him.”

Maddy went to the kitchen to ask Hannah's help. Israel was loading a breakfast tray for the table upstairs. “More bad news,” he said. “Master Jefferson's sick.”

Maddy's heart fell. If Master Jefferson was as sick as Burwell, he would die; he was too old to fight it. While Hannah put bathwater to heat, Maddy climbed the steps to see. Master Jefferson lay on his bed, panting a little, his face stiff from pain. “It's only rheumatism,” he said. “My knees mostly. I'll get Ellen to wrap my legs in flannels. I'll be fine.”

The warm bath helped; Burwell sank into something like sleep. Israel went for the doctor again. Eston and Maddy began to replace broken windows.

“Will you serve dinner?” Miss Cornelia asked Maddy that afternoon. “Since Burwell can't, and Israel's gone.”

It was the hottest day in the history of the world. Half the house lay sick in bed. Maddy thought Miss Cornelia and Miss Ellen might just once have been able to fetch themselves something from the kitchen, but no. They expected dinner served as usual. Maddy washed his hands, composed his face, and started to shuttle food from the downstairs kitchen to the table in the parlor. Part of the girls' old bedroom had been turned into a pantry, so at least he had a place to set the food down after he brought it up the stairs. He wished he had a dumbwaiter, like at Monticello, or about three more people to help him. When the table was finally ready, he called the granddaughters to sit down.

Miss Cornelia patted the sweat off her neck. “Is there ice today?” she asked.

Maddy didn't see how there could be. Poplar Forest didn't have an icehouse.

Miss Ellen nodded to Maddy. “Go check.”

In the kitchen, Miss Hannah said that they bought ice from a neighbor's icehouse, a little bit every day, but that today's ice was gone. “Half of it melted on the way over here,” Hannah said. “If you ask me, it's a waste of time. But those girls get fussy when the butter's melted, or the wine isn't chilled.”

Maddy reported the lack of ice. Miss Cornelia pursed her lips. He filled her empty water glass. “Oh, don't bother,” she said. “I wanted something cold.”

Someone knocked on the front door. Maddy answered it. A man handed him a packet of mail. Master Jefferson couldn't go anywhere without letters following him. He'd probably have mail delivered to his grave.

Maddy went through the boarded-up dining room and knocked gently on the door to Master Jefferson's bedroom. “Sir?”

“Come in,” Master Jefferson said. Maddy opened the door. Master Jefferson looked puny, but nothing like as sick as Burwell.

“The mail,” Maddy said, handing him the packet. “Shall I bring you some dinner?”

“No. The girls said they'd fix me a plate.”

A little bell rang. That was the girls, calling Maddy to the parlor. “Could you give this plate to Grandpa?” Miss Ellen said.

Maddy took the plate back to Master Jefferson's bedroom.

Master Jefferson had propped himself up on a pillow. He was staring at a letter open in his hand, and his face was so perfectly still that for a moment Maddy thought he had died. He could swear Master Jefferson wasn't breathing. Maddy cleared his throat. Slowly, very slowly, Master Jefferson looked up.

“What's wrong?” Maddy asked.

“Nothing,” Master Jefferson said. “Nothing.” He closed the letter in his hand, and set it atop the others on the pile. “I'm not hungry. Take that food away.”

 

The letter turned out to be from Mr. Nicholas. The bank had asked him to repay his loan. He couldn't; he had no money left. Mr. Nicholas's money had disappeared. Since Master Jefferson had signed the loan, he would have to pay instead. The twenty-thousand-dollar debt belonged to him.

 

A day later the doctor finally arrived. He bled Burwell until Burwell nearly fainted, and gave him laudanum to make him sleep. Burwell survived.

 

Master Jefferson's rheumatism gradually improved. Uncle John, Maddy, and Eston repaired the windows, one by one. It seemed to take forever. For the first time Maddy was impatient to return to Monticello. He might get news of Beverly there. But when they finally reached home Maddy got the shock of his life.

 

Beverly had returned.

The first thing Maddy saw as he came down Mulberry Row was that someone had shut the door to their room. He scowled. In summertime that room could heat up something dreadful. He yanked open the door.

Beverly sat on the edge of the bed. He looked up at Maddy with a sad half smile.

Maddy froze, his hand still holding the door. Eston bumped into him, then ducked under his arm.

“Beverly!”
shouted Eston.

Maddy hoped everyone on Mulberry Row already knew Beverly was back, because if not, Eston had just told them.

Eston jumped forward and threw himself on Beverly. Beverly hugged him, hard. Then he turned to Maddy, who stood frozen from shock. “Aren't you glad to see me, Maddy?” Beverly asked.

“I don't know,” Maddy said. “What happened?”

Beverly sighed. He sat down again, Eston clinging to his arm. “I've been back three days. Haven't done much. Straightened the woodshop a little, worked on a cabinet—”

“Beverly.”

“I didn't like it, Maddy. Being alone. I've never felt like that.”

Maddy thought of all those roads, all the places between Monticello and Poplar he wanted to explore. Beverly didn't like freedom? Maddy didn't know what to think. Finally he asked, “What'd Mama say?”

Beverly shook his head. “She's about wore me out. She was so mad, for the first day she couldn't quit screaming at me. Since then she hasn't talked to me at all.” Beverly sank his face into his hands. “She cried.”

Maddy walked forward and hugged Beverly tight. Oh, he'd missed Beverly. He'd missed him so much, and he never wanted to see him again. His heart hammered. He didn't know what to think or say or do.

“She thinks I don't appreciate her,” Beverly said. “She thinks I don't want what she's given me. It's not that. She won't listen. We're not doing it the best way, but Mama doesn't want to hear it. Neither does Harriet.” Beverly sighed. “The women in this family wear me out.”

 

Beverly was right. Neither Mama nor Harriet would speak to Beverly, or listen to a thing he had to say. For a few days Eston and Maddy just kept their heads down and hoped the storm would pass. Beverly went back to work in the shop. He stayed indoors and mostly out of sight. Maddy waited to hear what folks along Mulberry Row would say, but it was like Beverly was some kind of ghost. Nobody had said anything when he left, nobody said anything when he returned. Joe Fossett and Miss Edith and Burwell all looked like they could say plenty, but they held their tongues. The white overseers just passed their eyes over Beverly as though they couldn't see him.

Strangest thing ever, Maddy thought.

After a few days, when the hum of Mama's anger had begun to subside, Beverly told his story. It was evening. They'd propped the door to their room open with a chair, and Harriet sat on it, brushing out her hair. Mama sat on the other chair, near the empty hearth, and Beverly and Eston and Maddy sat on the floor.

“We're not doing it right,” Beverly said. “We've got to have a story. We didn't know.”

Mama looked at Beverly, but didn't speak.

“White folks are different from black folks,” Beverly said.

Mama snorted. Harriet said, “That is such twaddle. You're as good as any white man—you
are
a white man—Beverly, I—” Harriet was getting wound up again.

“Harriet,
listen
!” Maddy said. He was suddenly furious. Why wouldn't they listen to Beverly? He'd been out there, he knew more than they did. “Nobody said you aren't going to get what you want. Nobody took anything away from you. You're not leaving here for another three years. Shut up and pay attention.”