My Monticello(30)

Papa Yahya said, after fleeing violence in the Republic of Congo, he’d waited for years in a camp in Tanzania, surviving on almost nothing, not even enough clean drinking water; he’d waited so long, he’d begun to wonder which was better: to be brutalized all at once or to die slowly of attrition, of thirst? Mr. Byrd said that there were large collection pools for rain, designed by Jefferson himself, water that could be drawn up by pumps. Up at the house, he said, and I felt a throbbing at my temples. I did not think we should go back to town—not yet—but I did not want to go into that museum of a house on the hill either. I imagined we would stay at the welcome pavilion, for a few days, then something would happen, a signal to tell us what to do.

We all agreed we would protect one another. Knox wrote that down too.

No matter what, Devin called out.

No matter what, we echoed.

No matter what, we promised.

We decided that, for now, Mr. Byrd and I would hold keys. And Ms. Edith, along with Carol, would portion out a quantity of food for everybody, morning and evening. We would take turns and help as we were able. We’d keep working all together until we could go home again.

After we talked, Devin and Elijah, along with Mr. Byrd, parked Mr. Byrd’s Town Car below the broken gate, backed into woods and covered with brush, then blocked the entrance road above it using one of Monticello’s gas-strapped shuttles. We took this precaution even as we told ourselves that the armed men would not come out this far. They only wanted town, we said, recalling the way they’d stopped chasing us at the edge of it. We nearly convinced ourselves.

We all agreed we would use what we needed, but we would not destroy anything at Monticello for the sake of bitterness at all we’d lost and seemed to still be losing. Knox penned this in too, another article in our hasty constitution. In our words and shared intentions, things seemed to shift slightly between us. Ira bid good night to Ms. Edith in a gruff but crumbling voice, and Ms. Edith waved him off, but less harshly than before, briefly lifting her fingers from her new assortment of slick seed packs. Papa Yahya paraded his children, along with KJ, into the gift shop. He prompted each child to choose something special to take and hold—a large golden commemorative coin, a wooden toy cipher for coding and decoding, a soft plush animal that recalled a real one that had once roamed fierce and free in Virginia. Papa Yahya held fresh giftshop T-shirts up to each child’s pigeon-chest, judging the width of their shoulders. And I could not help but think of Momma, how she used to heap what little she had onto my back when I was their age. Bright clothes, decent shoes, my hair always done, my parts like little prayers, as if to say, as she sent me out into the world, Take care of this child, this child is loved.

Papa Yahya collected an armful of books from the children’s reading section, all of them about Thomas Jefferson’s long, remarkable life. They should know this man, I heard him say. A great and good man.



* * *



We woke to a change in weather. We woke to baleful winds whipping over our bodies, the open sky above Knox and me churning to a muddy gray. The winds knocked creaks from treetops and flattened blades of grass inches from my face. Propped up in her padded set of chairs, MaViolet opened her eyes. As I made my way to her, stray hairs levitated around her chamomile-colored face. She struggled to straighten one knee, then the other. Dropping pressure always flared up her arthritis. “Arthur,” she called it. I leaned in close.

You all right, MaVi?

Got to be, she said as I worked my arms around her to help her to stand.

I thought I would say something useful. I meant to say, Let’s get you inside, indicating the café or the museum. Instead, a long gust ballooned the fresh giftshop T-shirt I wore and filled MaViolet’s housecoat so that it flared like a sail behind her.

It’s time we go up to the house, I said.

Could be past time, Grandbaby.

I knew it then: We would go up. We were going.

Near the café patio, Carol was portioning out granola bars and chocolate and nuts. Ms. Edith directed Ezra to bring out a new crate of waters. Folks murmured about the wind as they chewed and peered out from under the eaves. Those earlier storms had made us all deeply suspicious of weather.

The house, I said, moving from one table to the next: I think we might need to go up to get out of the storm. Ira brushed crumbs from his mouth, and Mama Yahya smiled into the face of her cooing baby. Papa Yahya reshaped my query into a singsong declaration: We will go up to the house! Jobari and Imani sang it back to him. To the house!

Mr. Byrd peered up between the trees, his hair lifted in the wind like a bright storm cloud. When he told Georgie what we planned to do, the younger man began to rock. But Mrs. Dandridge said, Georgie began. This time, Mr. Byrd responded loud enough for all of us nearby to hear. Listen, Georgie, he said, I don’t give a rat’s ass what Mrs. Dandridge told us. Mrs. Dandridge drove off with her big-headed dogs, remember? We’re the ones still here.

We’re supposed to protect the house, Georgie answered, his tone pleading, but Mr. Byrd clasped Georgie’s slumping shoulders. Didn’t you hear what happened to these people? Don’t forget, Mrs. Dandridge handed me the keys. You’re a good man, George, but maybe the time has come that I release you—

Georgie’s chin dipped and I couldn’t quite hear the first thing he said. But I saw how his chest crumpled and his words, whatever they were, sounded choked. His reaction made me imagine that, apart from Monticello, Georgie led a solitary life. A cabin on the edge of someone else’s property, maybe. I felt for him—I wanted to tell him I knew something about loss.