My Monticello by Jocelyn Nicole Johnson

Author:Jocelyn Nicole Johnson [Johnson, Jocelyn Nicole]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co.

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Mr. Byrd led us, angling another branch turned walking stick out before him, one knobby end pressing against the pathway. That path, broad and tree-lined, promised to deliver us to Thomas Jefferson’s plantation home, self-designed, well over two hundred years old, and largely built by his slaves. We’d set out from the museum end of the patio, topping a flight of steps where a life-size statue of Jefferson stood on a landing, glinting in metal, not far from where I used to check tourists’ bags. Our footfalls against the pale pebbles made a shushing sound.

Stray raindrops began to pelt our heads, but the leaves above us took the brunt of the first waves of rainfall. Mr. Byrd had traded his cranberry polo for a novelty T-shirt from the gift shop, made to mimic the scrawl of the Declaration of Independence. As he moved ahead of our group, Thomas Jefferson’s words undulated across his back: We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.

We carried a jumble of supplies. Ms. Edith had laced her arms with tote bags filled with food, and seeds, and tea. Carol and Ira carried one hen each along with Ira’s now bulging leather satchel. Ezra hefted a case of bottled waters, and KJ shadowed him, pulling his pea-green suitcase through the pebbles as if he imagined wheels. Knox carried his messenger bag, newly fattened with supplies. He helped me to support MaViolet, with him on one side and me on the other as we facilitated her slow shuffle. Above her tall stockings, I could see the bright naked caps of her knees with each step. Her senior year, she’d been lead majorette, marching across the field in high white boots and a uniform marked by golden epaulets. Back then, she could throw the baton high and always catch it, a result of relentless practice, she’d told me. Now she stumbled up that path, full of effort. It was steeper than I remembered, with gullies carved along the edge to capture runoff. Her house slippers kept filling with tiny rocks. Periodically, I helped her to empty them.

There had been, according to Mr. Byrd, at least one remaining shuttle cart down in the lot that we might have used to drive her up. But the batteries had been run down to nothing, with Mrs. Dandridge zipping herself around the property, directing the remaining workers to keep everything ready, to keep the generators running, as if this shining performance of normalcy would bring the world back.

From one section of the path we could see that empty stretch of road below where we’d driven the Jaunt in a few days earlier. We were already hustling to beat the full onset of rain, but when we saw the road and the hastily blocked entrance, we all picked up our pace. LaToya high-stepped in her foamy flip-flops. Ms. Edith huffed mightily, naming growing things between harsh breaths. Ira pushed his hand off a tree dividing the path, asking how much farther we had.

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