Virginia Planter He lay with his head on her lap, his eyes closed. He could feel the smooth, soft material of her skirt, covering her warm flesh. The continual pressure of the throbbing behind his eyes and the vice clamp of pain across his head radiated outward, sucking his energy, making him feel ill, lethargic, unhappy. She gently moved her legs, his head pressing on the nerve that made tingling sensations travel to her feet. Her warm hand lay at the nape of his neck, caressing it. �Poor baby,� she cooed, �poor child. Poor poor child.� Her poor child was 33 years of age. In another part of the sprawling house a baby crawled around somewhere, about to cry. The woman sat here with him, trying to alleviate the headache that never quite left him these days. Her hand absently caressed his neck, making it�s intimate way through the locks of his red hair, her fingers like tendrils of comfort curling over his skull, gently surrounding it, trying to massage the agony from his eyes. He cried out softly and moved to leave her, returning moments later, haggard, his face colorless. She moved herself into a more comfortable position, rubbed her knees. His head had been heavy there; her knees ached from sitting so long in one position. She got up from the couch, placed a pillow where she had been sitting. She eased him against it, he closed his eyes. He tried to relax, to block out the things around him, which clearly aggravated his headache. He lay quietly, hoping he would feel better, soon. She looked around to a chair and found a blanket and covered him, kneeling beside him, letting her hand curl across his forehead, rest lovingly above his eyes. Her soft voice carried to him. �You better get well, soon. Your country needs you.� �I know.� She pushed back his hair, let her hand lay on his forehead. �Is there no relief, my dear?� she asked gently, �you do look so weary.� She touched his hand, let her fingers curl familiarly into his still ones. He did not move to push her away. �I feel ill,� he said, not opening his light eyes, �but perhaps there is some relief. Three days I�ve already had this headache.� He held her small hand in his larger one, sweat forming between them in the hot, heavy heat that hovered over them in the early evening. �I must go get the baby,� she said, caressing his sweating forehead, breaking the congenial compatibility that fell between them. �She is waking. She will want feeding.� �No,� breathed the anguished Virginia planter, �please don�t leave me.� �I must if only for a short time,� she responded, catching the plaintive quality to his voice, �I will bring your daughter here if she will be quiet. Would you like me to bring her to you?� �Of course.� He felt her hand on his head, the sensation blended into it�s sick, throbbing agony. As if to add emphasis to her words, a cry summoned her from his side. She got up, made her way across the hard, wooden floor and into another room. She knelt down and picked up the crying little girl. The girl put her small arms out to her mother. Her mother was tired, weary. The days were hot and the work never ended, and her husband lay crushed by his debilitating headache. No callers had shown up at their door. The post had come today. He had letters. He was unable to read them. What has God brought me, she said to the child, preparing to nurse her, �colonies in crisis and a small daughter, a husband whose head rules him in a physical way on occasion. It is a curious lot. She sat down with her child, suckled her. The child slept after a while and she carried her back to the room. Her husband lay quietly, his head pressed into the pillow against the side of the couch; his eyes closed hard against pain that worsened, it seemed, with the passage of the hours. �Martha,� his voice was weary, �please take this off me. It is making me uncomfortable.� She came silently to him gently took away the blanket. �I am sorry my dearest, I should have known. It is warm this evening. Please forgive me.� The oppressive heat caused sweat to glisten on his head where she touched it. He winced at the tightening of the vice across his skull. �Can you put out the light?� he implored, �just put it out.� �Yes, of course I can. Will that help?� �I don�t know. Most likely not.� �I�ll put it out anyway.� She moved across the floor in her long skirts, sweating, wishing only to remove the clothing that oppressed her. She moved to the kerosene lamp, put it out. The room went suddenly dark. Suddenly across the air, in an eerie piercing tinkling overwhelming crash, a sound grating and harsh came to them, died away, the crash of falling dishes clattering, shattering, subsiding like ocean waves losing energy, the clashing dying down, followed by a plaintive wail. Martha cringed, her hands clutching at the baby she still held, her nerves gone raw with weariness. The ripples of sound crashed against her husband�s head, exploding into tentacles of pain, shooting across his skull, around his eyes. His hands went across his head as if to quell it�s throbbing protest. He whimpered and tensed, burying his head deeper in the pillows. He bit his lip, cursing under his breath. If he had thought it would help, he might have cried from the sheer escalation of discomfort, but her hands slowly eased it and he retreated into uneasy silence. �The servants,� she apologized when the sudden explosions of pain had returned to something more bearable, �they�ve broken the china.� �It�s only British china,� he whispered hoarsely, �only British china.� Through the pulsing pain he suddenly wondered if the new set of china had yet been paid for. The thought vanished as suddenly as it came, lost in a rising swell of nausea. The house grew quiet again; no running feet came to summon the Virginia planter�s wife. She wondered if she should go and investigate the accident. They would expect her to at least inquire as to the nature of the crashing which had violated the hot, heavy silence. She decided to sit this one out. She arranged her skirts about her and curled next to him on the floor. The child had stirred in her sleep, disturbed by the crashing glass, and now she comforted her against her breast, easing the baby back to sleep. She reached up and laid her cool hand against her husband�s cheek, letting it rest there, gently stroking it with her fingers. Somewhere next to them a knitting basket lay untouched. The quiet reasserted itself in the hot, Virginia evening. The gentle strains of an artfully played harpsichord wafted to them on the hot, sultry air. The future writer of the Declaration of Independence sighed, the wearying headache slowly placated in the silence and lack of light, leaving him spent and unsettled. He got to his feet carefully, standing to his full six foot two inch height, waiting to see if the headache, which now lurked ominously would return or abate. Martha came to his side, and took him by the hand, leading him quickly to the door of the room. �Hurry quickly and do what you must. You look kind of sick.� She touched his hand affectionately. �We�ll wait here.� His vision cleared slightly and he quickly left her. She heard his dying footsteps across the rocky ground. The silence lengthened as somewhere the sounds of voices carried to her on the heavy air. She leaned against the door, holding her youngest child, her weight pressing for security into Martha's chest. �I wonder what this will all come to,� she crooned to the child, �my bright intelligent mild-mannered husband gifted with a pen and felled by such headaches in the midst of crises with all our colonies. We will see, won�t we, little girl.� She nodded, hearing the footsteps approaching them. She looked up, saw him striding easily toward the house as if it were some beacon of hope. Silently he came to her and she took him by the hand. In the darkness of the room, she saw that his eyes seemed slightly relieved of their misery. �You wish to retire to the bedroom? Perhaps you�ll feel better there,� she offered him this relief. �Maybe. The headache is relieved for the moment, perhaps till morning.� He was tired, his eyes gaunt, the lines around them deep. She came to him and did not touch him. She waited for him to signify his wish. �I will go to bed. You will come?� �Yes. I will put the baby down.� �Here, give her to me.� The man took his child in his arms, saying nothing. Her head rested against his chest, he felt it�s small, trusting weight, relishing the relief from the pain, which sometimes afflicted him. He stood for a moment, awkwardly holding the child. Affection did not come easily to him. The warm bundle of flesh rapped securely seemed inordinately heavy. He handed her back to his wife. �You will learn to love your daughter,� she said wisely, �perhaps someday when I am gone and you are both older.� �Gone? Please do not say such things. I am already in great distress. Don�t say anything so unhappy.� But he would remember her words even in the midst of greater things, when he brought new territory into the country and she was not there to see it. Slowly his discomfort eased and cautiously he made his way to retirement for the rest of the hot night. She followed him. �You have letters,� she informed him, �they�re in the desk.� �I�ll get to them.� Silence passed between them. �You should see what broke in the kitchen,� he suggested, wondering if the temporary cessation of his headache would become permanent. �I am too tired to care,� she confessed. �I shouldn�t be so inattentive, but today was long and hot, and I just don�t care. But I will go find out. They knew you were ill, I suppose it is why someone didn�t come to find me.� �Tomorrow you can find out. Here. Rest now my dearest wife. You are a comfort to me. Come.� The morning brought with it a renewal of the enervating headache along with an oppressive, sultry heat that stifled activity and settled a malaise over the Jefferson household. Martha sent the child out with the nurse and read quietly in a room. She had gone to investigate the China incident. Indeed, it had been messy. There had been many tears. �We are sorry,� said the woman in charge of preparing the food. �We should have found you yesterday.� �I am not worried about that,� said the Virginia planter�s amiable wife, �we did not investigate only because of Mr. Jefferson�s ill health. The only trouble is that�there is no other China?� �There is.� �Then we shall just use it,� said the woman who knew nothing of financial affairs, though she would remember to ask her husband, if he would tell her. Sometimes he would. Sometimes, most of the time, he wouldn�t tell her. Not that she really wanted to know most of the time, but this time she wanted to know. The kitchen help was disconsolate. �It was truly an accident. Someone stacked it just so and�� �We will work it all out,� said Martha Jefferson, �it will be resolved. Now don�t worry your head about it, only prepare our lunch. I will see how he is.� Eyes locked on hers. There was reprieve and there was sincere interest. �I will tell him you inquire after him. Now where is Patsy and the nurse, and Maria. Here she is. Come, go play with Auntie, I must go to him.� Then there was a visitor, who apprised of the situation; inquired as to Jefferson�s health and said he would leave immediately. �I can ask him. Perhaps you can stay. You will at least stay for dinner I would hope.� �I will do that,� said the man, �I will do that. I must needs confer with your husband if at all possible.� �I don�t think it�s possible,� Martha Jefferson ventured her opinion, �but it is for him to decide. I will ask him.� The woman entered the room where he lay with his head covered. One single cover provided him with dignity. The heat lingered, a cool breeze only once in a while made it�s presence known in the room. She came to him and picked up a cool rag she had procured from the kitchen, and dipped in cool water. She silently came and began to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He stirred slightly, unwilling to aggravate his illness. He tried to smile. �I am sorry to disturb you,� she said almost too meekly, �it�s that Madison is here to see you. I thought I should ask if you should like to see him. He said it was very important.� �Is it?� �You would know these things. I would imagine it�s about some such Continental matter. He said if you couldn�t see him.� �No,� interrupted the Virginia member of the House of Burgesses, �it is most likely important.� He did not move to change positions or decline his wife�s request. He breathed in, sighed, as if preparing himself for an unwanted confrontation. The confrontation wouldn�t be with the man, only with his protesting head. He knew from past experience that the headache could effectively prevent the success of the visit, but perhaps if he gave himself some time, perhaps if he sat up now and prepared for company he would be able to manage the short meeting which he knew at some point must occur. He sat up slowly now, pain crashing like yesterday�s broken china in his head. Martha stood by him and moved to aid him as he suddenly regretted this move. She quickly took the rag and helped him, watching his dejected misery as she pulled the sheet off him. �We�ll replace this. I am sorry.� He rubbed his eyes, put his hand across his head, as if to contain a sudden violent eruption of agony. He sat paralyzed for a moment, waiting for the pressure to subside. He returned his hands to their position on the coverlet. �I will tell him no, then. It is not possible today,� she said, turning to go. �No,� he suddenly said with insistence, stopping her movements toward the door, �I�ll be alright. Just give me a minute. He did come this way and I will talk to him. But not like this.� He positioned himself on his side so that when his visitor came he could see him. Mercifully the room lacked light and his sudden illness had somehow relieved the pressure in his head, though somehow it would be temporary. �Tell him to come in but not long. He�ll get to the point.� She rubbed his head, bent to kiss him. �I am sorry,� she said, smoothing back his hair, �I will bring him to you. Oh the kitchen help asks after you, Mr. Jefferson. What shall I tell them?� �By no means what you just witnessed,� he tried to lighten the implications with a half smile, �tell them my gratitude is sent to them.� �Of course, dearest. Of course. I�ll bring him in now.� He sat propped up, his head resting on pillows, the pain nagging, throbbing, sometimes coming in waves now. His friend came in, approached him, took a chair next to him. �Hello, Jefferson. It�s a fair day today. Very nice.� �Yes, I am sure it is.� Madison looked a little peeked himself, perhaps he always did. The two sat looking at each other. Jefferson closed his eyes. �You won�t mind, I hope. My eyes are weary and my head doesn�t agree with them.� �No, why should that matter? Martha said to keep it short.� �Yes, that will help. Are you staying, of course?� �Only till tomorrow. I have business and I don�t want to put any undue strain on you already. Your house is welcoming, but mine calls, too. I just dropped by because I have news.� �The Committee?� �Yes. They want you to draft the document declaring our independence from Britain.� �Yes?� He sat back, put his hand across his eyes and winced. Thinking of a pen at the moment did nothing to ease his discomfort. �When you can, of course. Will you do it?� Jefferson sat silent for a moment. Somewhere some voices carried to them. There was a changing wind now. They heard a jingle, a laugh, a happy babble of voices. �More guests?� Madison inquired. �I think probably so. I�ll let Martha handle them. Maybe it�s the cousins. Now as to the document, I will do it, but you�ll have to tell them to wait till my headache has ended. I can�t do it now, I can barely carry on my duties around the plantation if at all. I don�t know how long this will last; perhaps several weeks.� �Yes, I see that.� Jefferson had enough. He moved so that he lay back and put his head on the pillows, burying his face in them, cutting out the relieved look on his friend�s face. �You know there�s no one else who can do it,� Madison said to the back of his friend�s head, �we will have drafters, but you know you�ll be the one who is remembered for writing it.� There was no response. He saw his friend reach out for something, the cool rag and Madison put it into his hand and watched him put it over his eyes. He stepped away from him, almost sighed in huge relief. �There will be no mistaking our intensions,� he said to his ailing friend, �no mistaking them at all.� He reached out and took his friend�s hand, touching it in a social gesture of agreement, as if signing some compact between them. �Oh, Jefferson,� he said, turning away to leave him, �there are some who fear for us, they say we haven�t done enough, but you heard Patrick�s outcry. You will do it justice.� He turned and left him, Jefferson�s headache for one moment blocking out the separation that would eventually compel a new nation to make it�s own way in the world.
Copyright © 2008 Shelley J Alongi |