Thomas Jefferson Dreams of Sally Hemings by Stephen O'Connor

end of the hallway leads into the dark garden behind the State House. No sooner is he standing in the moist coolness of the deepening evening than his head begins to clear. Already he hates Philadelphia. He wonders if he shouldn’t just have Jupiter and Bob Hemings pack his carriage in the morning and take him back to Virginia.
    The sky is a metallic navy blue directly overhead and lightening toward a deep teal in the west. Thomas Jefferson can make out the silhouette of the roofs of the buildings across the street and of the trees and bushes in this very yard—which is surrounded by a high brick wall, faintly visible in the gloaming. He hears the mumble-grunt of two men talking to his right and a splattering of urine on bare earth. He cannot make out a word either is saying, but he also feels the need to urinate, so he walks toward the opposite wall, where he waits, legs spread, his penis in the evening air, until the two men have gone back inside. Once his own urine begins to flow, the relief is so great that he groans aloud.
    As he rebuttons his breeches, he contemplates walking right through the building and back out onto the street, where he might perhaps find ahospitable tavern. He is now distinctly hungry. But instead he returns to the yellow room.
    He is not even through the door when the bemused man—no longer seeming remotely bemused—is eyeing him again. As Thomas Jefferson makes his way back to the spot against the wall that he occupied for most of his time in the room, he wishes he knew someone well enough to ask for a glass of wine.
    He reinserts his thumbs beneath the waist of his breeches and prepares to resume his contemplative pacing. But now the man who has been watching him has gotten to his feet. As the man starts across the room, the bemused expression comes back onto his face. Thomas Jefferson looks away, his entire body simultaneously heating and chilling with sweat. The man is smiling as he walks, though perhaps there is a faint perturbation on his brow. Attempting a smile of his own, Thomas Jefferson wipes his palms against his waistcoat and takes a step in the direction of the advancing man.
    â€œPardon me,” says the man. “You wouldn’t by any chance be Peyton Randolph’s nephew?”
    â€œCousin,” says Thomas Jefferson, having to force himself to speak above a whisper.
    The man wrinkles his brow and leans his head closer. “Pardon?”
    â€œRandolph’s
cousin
,” Thomas Jefferson says more loudly. “I’m his cousin.”
    â€œAh!” says the man. “But you’re Jefferson, are you not?”
    Thomas Jefferson nods. “Yes.”
    The man’s eyes squeeze into arcs of delight, and his small mouth forms a distinctly U-shaped smile between his heavy cheeks. “Welcome! Welcome! I am so happy to meet you!” He shakes Thomas Jefferson’s hand vigorously with both of his. “I’m Adams. John Adams.”
    Thomas Jefferson cannot speak. There is no person he has been more eager to meet than this very man still clutching his hand so forcefully.
    â€œI must confess to being a great admirer of your ‘Summary’ for the Virginia delegation,” says Adams. “I don’t think that anyone has argued our cause half so memorably and succinctly as you have. It is masterful work—absolutely masterful!”
    Thomas Jefferson can hardly believe that he has even met John Adams, let alone that he is hearing such praise. It is a long moment before he can bring himself to utter a quiet “Thank you.”
    â€œI think we would all be much enlightened if you were to honor uswith an address concerning your ideas.” At last Adams lets go of Thomas Jefferson’s hand. “Tomorrow afternoon perhaps?”
    A small noise comes out of Thomas Jefferson’s throat.
    â€œExcuse me?” says Adams.
    The younger man’s lips move, but still no words emerge. His face has gone paper