by Frank Kale
Chapter Five
Somerville, Davis Square: Zachary and Jasmine had decided to forego the coffee and get drinks instead. Intellectually, Zachary knew the term two-beer-queer was disparaging, as it equated an inability to be manly when drinking (and not be drunk after only two beers) to the gay lifestyle, thereby associating gays with a lack of manliness, but he also knew that it fit him quite accurately and so he tried to drink no more than two beers as he waited for Jasmine to arrive.
A few minutes later, Jasmine approached the table with a friendly wave. They shook hands and sat at opposite sides of the booth.
“I was going to order you a drink, but then I realized that I don’t know what you drink,” said Zachary.
“Oh, that is okay. You wouldn’t have been able to guess,” said Jasmine.
“That sounds like a challenge,” said Zachary.
“Perhaps, but guess wisely, for in trying to judge what I drink by judging me – I may then become offended by how you have judged me, and because this is just the start of our date, you might, in your effort to bedazzle me by promenading your highly developed psychological abilities, end our date quite quickly,” said Jasmine, turning up her nose in a playful show of snobbery.
“Huh, I didn’t view it like that at all. But I’m thinking that it is safer if I just let you go ahead and order,” said Zachary, while observing that Jasmine’s joking threat was quite similar to the sort of statement that Samantha might have made during their first date a decade earlier.
Why is it that every time I fall for a woman she seems to be the sort who becomes almost insufferably contented when showboating a superior knowledge of all matters relating to romance?
Or is that my Samantha baggage speaking?
“It is not going to be that easy Mr. PHD, because now if you do not guess I will think that you are not a risk taker, and though studies have shown that woman prefer men who are not risk takers, or at least excessive risk takers as a relationship advances, during the initial dating stage women, on average, prefer risk takers because they are looking for a little adventure,” said Jasmine, smiling.
Definitely reminiscent of Samantha…
Although the date was only a minute or two old, Zachary sensed that he was already expected to perform.
Actually a few beers might have loosened me up a bit. But I really had no idea she was going to come out firing…
“What studies have you been reading?” Zachary asked.
“Changing the subject is not going to work,” said Jasmine.
“Drinks?” said the waitress, who had just arrived, and now stood waiting while batting her eyelashes.
“You order for me darling,” said Jasmine, leaning back.
“Yes, certainly: my friend here has challenged me to order for her,” said Zachary, motioning to Jasmine. The waitress laughed. Zachary continued, “But I sense a trap. I’m not going to order her a beer because that is boring and she told me she was looking for an adventurous night. I’m not going to order her wine because we don’t know each other that well yet and I don’t want to be implying anything. Therefore I’m going to order her a mixed drink. However, I’m not going to try to guess what she likes because everyone has a favorite mixed drink and there are too many to even bother guessing. So what I am going to do is to order her my favorite mixed drink and see if she likes it.”
“Which is?” the waitress asked, her eager expression implying a sincere interest in the first-date game playing out before her. Zachary whispered into the waitress’s ear. She laughed, checked Jasmine’s ID, and strutted away.
“I’ll just get a soda anyway,” said Jasmine.
“Very funny, so I know that you work in radio, but what was all that talk about the studies?” said Zachary.
“I read a lot. I minored in African American studies and majored in Broadcast Journalism. And I spend a lot of my time studying social issues, mostly the criminal justice industrial complex, and I got the chance to have my own radio show, so I took it, and turned it into a blog too. But sometimes the social issues I study are the fun ones, like dating,” said Jasmine.
Is this Samantha all over again?
“So your blog…” said Zachary.
“Ah, yes. I figured that would come up. I read your response by the way. It makes sense. And you are right I should have asked you about the connection to eugenics during the show. Honestly, that column wasn’t even my idea. A friend made the connection and I did some research and it seemed to make sense. At the least I should have called you first. But I get 30,000 unique visitors to my blog a day. It is more than paying for my rent. So sometimes I try to entertain as much as I try to inform. But like I said, I should have called you and gotten a quote,” said Jasmine.
“It is okay. So what is new with you since I saw you last?” Zachary asked, as the waitress returned, placing down two fruity drinks.
“Second place, Northeast Orienteering Meet,” said Jasmine.
“You are an orienteer?” said Zachary, laughing.
“Hey, don’t knock orienteering until you have tried it,” said Jasmine.
“I’m not even exactly sure what orienteering is. You just don’t look like the sort. Isn’t that where you go into the woods with a map and a compass and try and find stuff?” said Zachary.
“There is a little more to it than that, but basically, yeah,” said Jasmine, handing Zachary a piece of paper, her orienteering award.
“So you are pretty good at it?” said Zachary.
“It’s one of my talents,” said Jasmine.
“What are your other talents,” said Zachary.
I hope that didn’t sound creepily sexual.
“I don’t know if I want to tell you. You already laughed at the fact that I am an orienteer,” said Jasmine.
“I promise I won’t laugh,” said Zachary.
“That is an impossibility, laughing is something that just happens,” said Jasmine.
“Then I will suppress it,” said Zachary.
“Then you will just be suppressing your laughter,” said Jasmine.
“I promise that I will take your talents seriously,” said Zachary.
“Six years ago, when I was still competing, I just missed a slot on the Archery Olympic team,” said Jasmine.
“Really?” Zachary asked.
“Yes, but I’m sorry I didn’t bring any of my trophies with me – just my orienteering certificate,” said Jasmine.
“Now why would I laugh at that, that is pretty amazing,” said Zachary.
“So that means orienteering isn’t?” Jasmine asked.
“I’m sorry there is just something reflexively funny about you and orienteering and I don’t even know why. But you’ll have to tell me more about orienteering some day. So those are your talents? Well, besides your career of course, archery and orienteering? That is pretty cool,” said Zachary.
“Well, there is one more, though I guess this one isn’t so much a talent as just an interest. I am a long range hiker. Every year I do a little bit of the Appalachian Trail. I am ¾ of the way finished,” said Jasmine.
“Okay.”
“Yup, so you know all about my talents and interests now. Well, some of them: what about you?” Jasmine asked.
Time to perform again…
“You probably aren’t going to like my answer, but I’m not nearly as well-rounded. I am sort of all-in on the psychology thing. It really doesn’t give me time to have other pursuits,” said Zachary.
“That’s boring,” said Jasmine.
“Yes, but admittedly, my life pretty much is – nothing too interesting ever happens to me,” said Zachary.
“Well, you were just a major news story,” Jasmine noted.
“That was an unfortunate aberration,” said Zachary.
“So how is that all going for you?” Jasmine asked.
“I’ve just go
tten a private job, an odd one, but it seems that it will pay well,” said Zachary.
“Why is it odd?” Jasmine asked.
“Sorry, it is confidential,” said Zachary.
“That is a coincidence,” said Jasmine.
“What?” Zachary asked.
“I have a confidential matter that I wanted to speak to you about to,” said Jasmine.
“I have become a keeper of secrets,” said Zachary, ceremoniously.
“So you are going to keep it confidential?” said Jasmine.
“What is it relating too?” Zachary asked.
I hope she is not going to tell me that she wants to eat people too…
“Trait Theory,” said Jasmine.
Oh, here we go…
“So, you think you might have acquired some traits from your parents?” Zachary asked.
“No, I became intrigued when you started to explain the exception to traits dying out – that traits can skip many generations and then reappear with a roaring intensity,” said Jasmine.
“So, then you have historical knowledge of an ancestor? Perhaps lore passed down through the generations and you think that you are similar to that ancestor?” Zachary guessed.
“I have better than that. It’s what I told you about at the end of your interview. I have a narrative that my ancestor wrote about herself,” said Jasmine.
“Really? How long past are we talking?” Zachary asked.
“This narrative, a slave narrative, was written over one hundred and fifty years ago,” said Jasmine.
“Very interesting, and what trait is in the narrative that you think that you might have?” Zachary asked.
“I think it would be better if you just read it,” said Jasmine.
“Do you have the document?” Zachary asked.
“Yes, though there are actually two. But one is a list and therefore pointless to read. The narrative probably won’t take you too long to read if you would like to read it now,” said Jasmine.
“It might be easier if I just take it with me and read it later,” said Zachary.
“That’s the thing. I can’t let this out of my hands,” said Jasmine.
“Why not?” Zachary asked.
“It has never been published and it says some, I don’t know, rather inflammatory things. You’ll understand why my family has never published it once you read it,” said Jasmine.
“Okay, I’ll take a look at it now,” said Zachary, having become curious.
Jasmine handed Zachary a manila folder and he removed the document:
A Humble Narrative of a Slave Named Pennyworth Stillwater
Told completely and fully in her own words by the author herself, Pennyworth Stillwater
Intended and purposed to be read only by the progeny of Pennyworth Stillwater
Dedicated to the most loving and beloved Lord Jesus Christ and all free Christian Nations
Written this autumn 1855:
Oh, to be born into the cruel cold bosom of slavery is surely the worst fate that can befall man or woman! Yet, my first seven years passed in relative harmony and bliss for I remained ignorant of my position as human chattel. During those years I played with Mr. Reed’s children in the same manner that white children play together, though I am a mulatto. But childhood is a dream that must be woken from for both black and white. My childhood came to an end when I was first put to work gathering fallen wood for the fire. Later, I would learn that Mr. Reed owned a great many slaves, 300 on his five farms in the state of Mississippi.
From the first, my mother told me of our African matriarchal nation and the women warriors who protected our borders. For as far as the eye could see from horizon to horizon we were the only matriarchal nation known within those lush African lands. My mother professed that she had been one of the greatest warriors. In secret and as soon as my mind was able, she taught me the throw of the spear, the thrust of the dagger, and the ways of the warrior. My mind was lit aflame before I slunk to sleep by tales of her ancestors. But with the morning bell came the ominous rise to work for all those within the slave’s quarters and I left my dreams of glory and commenced my daily drudgery.
Though drudgery it was it was not drudgery loathed because my mother was a favorite of Mr. Reed. In short, we had it easy on the manor farm, the central farm of Mr. Reed’s estate. True, from that central location he commenced all punishment for major offences, usually by means of the whipping post, and a state of perpetual unease existed among the manner-house slaves, though a state of unease is as natural as breathing for most slaves and so we did not think it unnatural to our position, a position much abhorred. Mr. Reed was a man to be feared. No slave dared look him in the eye. Worse, he was a drunkard and had been dissipating for years, and when he was rum drunk the snap of the cowhide was often heard against some poor folk’s back. Mr. Reed even occasionally whipped his white workers. None were safe from his wrath, none but my mother. Although, he often bared the shoulders and the backs of the females on the plantation and gave them lashes for the slightest offence, this barbarity had never fallen upon my mother. True, her beauty was greatest of any colored woman, or white woman for that matter, that I have ever seen. Did he love her? Can a spider love a fly? Can a wolf love a sheep? No, dear progeny, it was only cold lust that ran through Mr. Reed’s veins for my mother’s body and soul.
By the time I was ten, I heard hinted that Mr. Reed was my father and that he was the father of a great many more on his five farms. His bastards abounded in a half-naked, half starved state to be put to work as any common slave, less loved by him than his cruel bloodhounds. His bastards were a truth that could not be spoken of without receiving the severest punishment. Once a hard working, peaceable slave named Mark Thompson had taken a wife from among the slaves. Their first child had a shiny white-brown complexion and he spoke of the matter one day under his breath. Alas, the breath was heard and Mr. Reed had him stripped naked and tied to the whipping post where he received 500 lashes, bleeding till he died.
However, the cruelty of Mr. Reed and his gang of overseers was a sunny day in comparison to the malevolence and cunning of Mrs. Reed. She carried always five lashes and two clubs, and for sport blindfolded, whipped, and beat unfortunate slaves till they could accurately identify each instrument. Her belief was that slaves should be beaten for all future offences, offences that had not yet occurred so as to keep them in line. Yet Mr. Reed let it be known to Mrs. Reed that she was never to perform her nefarious duties upon my mother. Mrs. Reed’s wrinkled face held two blue eyes like the blue fires of hell, and she seemed in a constant state of motion, moving about to order slaves to perform this or that duty and then beating them at random. When she roamed the paths of the plantation slaves jumped into painful briars to hide from her purposeless tribulations. Yet of all slaves, those she targeted most perniciously were the poor bastard children of that old lecher Mr. Reed. She looked at them as a personal affront, a constant reminder of her husband’s infidelity. How dare they breathe air? How dare they run around the farm in their shoeless state, like animals of nature? Worse, how dare they laugh? How dare they smile? How dare they not continually beg forgiveness for being born in such a godless manner? For these poor bastard children, she implemented, for no reason at all, special cruelties, such as thumb-screws, iron-jaws, and small coffins. Mothers cried for mercy, never able to use the name of Mr. Reed as bartering material, for if they hinted at the paternity surely they would be beaten till they died. And Mr. Reed overlooked these savageries as if they were not imposed upon his own kin, as if he were no more related to his bastard children than the steak he had just consumed for dinner. All the bastard children were beaten and brutalized in a most terrifying manner, a manner only befitting the circles of hell, all except me, for I was the daughter of the favorite. And as Mrs. Reed plucked away the bastards to my le
ft and my right, she placed her evil stare straight into my eyes, though did me no violence.
There were times when I believed that Mr. Reed turned a kind look to me, though I may be mistaken, and I did not pine for it, for I considered him no more father than he considered me daughter. As an adult I learned the way of Christ and I know that God is my father and Mr. Reed is no more my kin than Lucifer himself. Oh, harsh words for harsh times! Slavery is an evil that turns man against man, woman against woman, man against woman, and woman against man. Dear progeny, please do not judge too harshly what I will soon expound in this tale of blood and wrath, for I am a baptized Christian now and I know my heart to be pure before the face of God, as I hope your heart to be pure before the face of God as well. Yet there are things you must know about your past if you are to live with righteousness and glory in your present and that is my reasoning for imparting the tragic words contained within my narrative.
My years advanced and my dear mother taught me all she knew of her warrior ways. In scraps with the boys I easily pinned them, and lived without fear until my teenage years. For like my mother I too was blessed and cursed with the glowing rapture of feminine beauty. For the free white women beauty is as sacrosanct as their painted masterpieces hung in the museums of New York City. For the enslaved, beauty is a scourge. The overseers daily pursued me and whispered uncivilized entreaties into my ears. They told me I would be well taken care of if I obeyed them in all matters. They hinted I would be beaten if I did not follow their wishes. I believe it was only the cruel Mr. Reed who saved my purity. He would not allow them to whisk me off, as they had whisked off many other young slaves for their ill-purposes. Yet my position was not certain. Mrs. Reed also took a special dislike to slaves endowed with beauty; those slaves her husband bedded most often. She seemed to believe, as her icy eyes told the story, that it did not matter I was his daughter. That he planned to bed me too! I did not believe this possible. However, as I grew to resemble my mother more in body, my mother grew alarmed by the same belief. I saw cold words pass between Mr. Reed and my mother. Then one day, near my 15th birthday, a boundary was crossed when Mr. Reed whispered in my ear in the same manner as the overseers. Right away I told my mother the incident’s details. I do not mean to dramatize this narrative by quoting words, but these words of my mother were forever seared upon my heart and must be quoted here, “Daughter I have killed many men, but always for purpose. When warriors kill we kill with calm. Calmness loosens the body and allows it to fight with elasticity. The fear and rigidity of our opponents is our greatest asset. Daughter I will die today, but you will not. I have no more to teach you, except by your memory of me. Do not take up the spear or the axe in my defense today. My cause is you. I die so you will live. Daughter some day you too, warrior you are, will die for a cause. You must choose that cause carefully, as I have carefully chosen mine today. When I have passed shed no tears. I die with the glory of blood. Be always fearful of the guiles of the white man, but fear no white man, for their blood is spilled just as easily as the Africans’. Today, I will kill Mr. Reed. Then, immediately after, I will kill Mrs. Reed. They both must die for certain. Then I will kill as many of the overseers as possible. There are too many overseers, so I will not succeed in killing them all. I can seek no compatriots among the slaves because then I may be betrayed, and all will be lost if Mr. Reed and Mrs. Reed do not die. Therefore, I choose to die in the blood of battle, for the noblest of all causes, the future of my daughter. I choose your future so that you can choose a future for another. Be brave and remember always my teachings…”
I implored my mother to choose another path. I begged and I cried, but it was to no avail. I asked her why we could not run away like so many others had done. She explained to me, as she had explained to me many times before, that there are paths worse than death, and though she did not fault slaves for running to the North that was not her chosen path. Her path was the path of blood.
From the shed she took a hatchet, from the barn, an ax, and from the woods she turned large branches into spears. Ashes adorned her face in a most fearsome manner, and she stripped almost naked, as warriors from our tribe are apt to do. As the sun began to set, she would not allow me to leave the shack until all had ended, telling me that I would likely take up arms and die myself were I to watch her fight. So I obeyed her wishes, though with a heavy heart, fearing that my mother was lost forever. Her prophecy came true and she did die that day at the hands of an overseer, death by a single bullet to the head, which, considering the suffering of many slaves who died by the whip, the club, or the stake, was a peaceful death indeed, and I praised the Lord that she was not taken alive and subjected to such torture. Days later, when all had calmed, and we slaves were reunited and put up for auction, I would hear from a friend the details of her rampage.
First she entered the manor home where Mr. and Mrs. Reed were feasting. The servant slaves screamed at her sight, thinking her a ghost, and ran from the house. Mr. Reed stood and attempted to flee, but my mother ran a spear through his neck, at the killing spot she had shown me many times, the spot where blood bursts forth like a fountain from even a small incision and he expired swiftly. Then Mrs. Reed started screaming and my mother jumped on the table and decapitated her with one swift chop of the ax, her head landing near the turkey and ham on the long oak table. The screaming of the servants had alerted the overseers to the turmoil and two of them galloped on horseback towards the manor house. Theirs was to be an ill fate indeed. Surprised at the sight of a half-naked woman charging, they began to slow from a gallop to a trot. My mother held a spear in each hand, one tipped with the fresh blood of Mr. Reed. The overseers held long whips in their hands, instruments that had always been sufficient to oppress the plantation’s slaves. As she neared, they raised their whips, but before the whips had fallen, my mother simultaneously threw both spears and pierced their chests, taking them off their horses. The horses fled, and the overseers lay on the ground, writhing in pain. Before the first had a chance to stand he was beheaded by ax. His friend screamed at the sight and begged for mercy, as he had no weapon with which to resist. His head came off a second later.
By this time word of an insurrection had spread, and the overseers armed themselves more heavily. Two more emerged, and not knowing who the enemy might be, began firing at all slaves outdoors. Three slaves were killed before they had a chance to find cover. Sensing the disorder, my mother climbed a tree, and when an overseer passed under, she sprang from the branches, threw him from his horse, and ended his life on the ground by use of the hatchet. Thereupon she took his rifle. Quickly she fiddled with the instrument of death, but could not conjure its magic, and when a fourth overseer approached on his horse she hid behind a barn. When he found her and aimed his rifle at her head, she too aimed her rifle at him. But not knowing how to work the flint, his gun was the only one that fired, and a bullet passed through her head, which as I mentioned was a fortunate end for my most glorious mother and your highly accomplished ancestor.
Later that week I was sent to Georgia to be sold, and as I stood on the auction block with horses and mules, little did I know the horrors, the agony, and the terrible circumstances in which fate would soon place me. My new master, Mr. Williston, lived on an island off the coast of Georgia, called Dear Island. His family owned one quarter of the large island where they had razed most of the forests and created a massive plantation with 500 slaves. There were four quadrants on the island. Mr. Williston lived on the East quadrant where the soil was most fertile and eight other families lived on the other three quadrants. There was much trade between the families and I grew to know them all, the Halls, Hoopers, Smiths, Shaws, Wards, Greens, Kings, and the Wrights. Before I fled the island each of these families had been slaughtered by my hand.
Cotton was the major crop, but again I was
placed in the manor home, given my previous work, sewing, cooking, and nursing. I was placed at the disposal of Mrs. Williston to care for her new born daughter, Lily. This fortuitous placement, as opposed to the backbreaking work in the fields, had most likely occurred because the slave traders, not wanting to risk devaluation, had offered no information to Mr. Williston about the details of my mother’s fate, and so he suspected that I was docile and fit for domestic work in the manor home.
The Willistons were no less brutal than the Reeds and here I had no mother to protect me. Soon my back learned the sting of the lash. One day I was handling a pretty supper plate before placing it upon the table and it slipped from my hands and smashed upon the floor. I ran to the mistress, fearing she would beat me, but remembering my mother’s words to have no fear, I told the mistress what had occurred. She screamed that I had broken the plate to arouse her anger, and that she would break me and teach me my place in the household. She commanded that I strip naked. It is true that at that moment I could have killed her quite easily. The broken shards of the plate still lay scattered on the floor, and had I wished it I could have grabbed the largest among them and plunged it into her belly, in the killing spot there, or countless other killing spots that my mother had shown me. But this was not the cause for which I was willing to die. Thereupon, I presented her with my naked and as yet unblemished skin. She tied my hands above the door, so that I was quite helpless, and so that my feet could only just touch the ground. There she left me for hour upon hour. I had fixed myself with the idea of giving her no satisfaction of begging to be released. But soon the ropes tore at my wrists with such ferocity that it seemed my arms would be ripped asunder from my shoulders, and I screamed from the unbearable pain. At this moment she tore into the room and began to whip my body, head to toe, in a most savage manner. Up to this point I had wished no death upon anyone in the Williston home, but after my brutalization I swore that if I were to engage in a bloody rampage as my mother had done, she would be the first to die.
The years passed and the horrors mounted. There would be no enlightenment for you, dear progeny, in my recounting them all here. You would only grow more horrified and pity me for my wretched state. Yet that is the last thing that I would wish! For each injustice only increased my inner fortifications for the inevitable wrath I would one day unleash. Even the beatings became part of my plan as I learned to use my mother’s teachings for lessening the impact of a blow. As the slave owners’ insane delusions grew, I became stronger and more cunning. Each year I seemed more docile than the last, so that the year before my rampage I was speaking in a whisper and walking like a ghost.
However, a cause had not yet presented itself. True, I suffered and the slaves around me suffered. Yet suffering, no matter how ubiquitous, I did not think sufficient cause to risk ending my days. And so I was patient. I became the ideal slave. Household slaves were placed under my management. Mrs. Williston even charged me with beating them, which I found most unpleasant when the occasion occurred. Yet I fulfilled my duties because I knew those duties would eventually lead me to a final remedy. Furthermore, I became entrusted with delivering packages and parcels throughout the island. From these deliveries I met the heads and overseers of each household. Many times these other families offered to buy me from Mr. Williston, offering lavish prices. It was obvious that they would have used me for their own ill intents. Therefore, I was much relieved when Mr. Williston refused to sell my person, stating that I was too important to the organization of his household.
By conversing with slaves from the eight plantations, I learned which masters were cruel and which were kind. For Mr. Green gave me food and drink each time I arrived at his porch with a parcel and I thought him a fine man indeed. His slaves seconded this opinion and informed me that they were never beaten. For Mr. Hooper once gave me new shoes when he saw that mine were with holes, something that I had never thought possible until that day, a gift from a white master to a slave. And his slaves informed me that he had built them a small chapel where they could worship the Lord during their own time. For Mr. King had driven me to my plantation on the top of his carriage once when I had to walk a long distance. His slaves told me that he fed them well, and that they were given a small stipend of alcohol on Mondays. For Mr. Shaw read me scriptures, something I hardly ever had the chance to hear, and showed me his statues of Jesus. His slaves informed me that he taught them to read, so that they could all benefit from the word of the Lord. The other masters, Mr. Smith, Mr. Hall, Mr. Ward, and Mr. Wright, were a miserable lot, no better than Mr. Reed or Mr. Williston and about these other masters I heard many outrages, outrages which I committed to memory in case the presentation of a cause should lead me to a final reckoning. Yet, as I have mentioned, fate would order all their deaths.
And now I shall recount the first set of events that led to the extermination of the slave owners on Dear Island: it came to pass that each Sunday the masters of the island gathered in the tea room of the Williston’s grand house. This meeting place was chosen because Mr. Williston’s tea room had a table large enough to seat the 9 masters of the island. By this time I was managing most of the household slaves and I chose who would remain in the room during the meetings. Eventually, I realized that these conversations concerned matters of importance, such as slave management, and chose to position myself inside the tea room. The gathered slave owners had named their Sunday group, The Jeffersonian Elites, after Thomas Jefferson their declared hero. From this group I learned that Thomas Jefferson had been a president in America; that he had owned over 500 slaves; that he had freed only 5 in his will and 2 during his life – actions of which the Jeffersonian Elites approved. It was also widely rumored that Jefferson had a very many sexual relations with his slaves, and fathered many children with them – which meant that he had enslaved his children -- further actions of which The Jeffersonian Elites approved. I will now recount the events that sealed the doom of The Jeffersonian Elites:
Mr. Smith said, “The slaves should be ordered to leave. That which will be discussed should be discussed in private.”
Mr. Williston said, “Look at them. What they hear means little to them for they do not understand the meaning of the sounds they hear. For us a comparable action would be listening to the clattering of cooking pans. Yes, they follow instructions; that it true, for they are by nature a subservient species. They desire only sensations. They will soon forget.”
Mr. Green said, “Remember that Thomas Jefferson himself said that concerning matters of the mind the Negro has a memory equal to that of the white man. It is in his reasoning that he is deficient, and also in his ability to create art or literature, especially poetry.”
Mr. Williston said, “Very well they will remember our words but not understand them. Here, a demonstration to extract the doubt from your worrisome thoughts Mr. Green.”
Then Mr. Williston turned to me and said, “What have we been discussing?”
I kept my head bowed. I said shamefaced, “Forgive me master, for I do not understand.”
Mr. Williston said, “Affirmed! Let the record show, I propose a vote to continue with the first order of business.”
The secretary, Mr. Hooper, said, “It has been recorded.”
Mr. Williston said, “A1l in favor of continuation?”
There were nine ayes. The meeting continued, which as I have foreboded was a deadly decision on the part of The Jeffersonian Elites.
Mr. Williston said, “Let the record show, I propose that we produce the miscegenation document.”
Mr. Hooper said, “It has been recorded.”
There were nine ayes.
Mr. Ward placed a leather satchel on the table. He unfastened the satchel and removed a document, holding it above his head. He sai
d, “Let the record show that this is the miscegenation document of one Thomas Jefferson, third president of our beloved country, author of the Declaration of Independence, and inspiration for our committee, The Jeffersonian Elites.”
Mr. Hooper said, “It has been recorded.”
Mr. Ward said, “Let the record show that I propose that we vote to affirm the authenticity of said miscegenation document.”
Mr. Hooper said, “It has been recorded.”
There were nine ayes.
Mr. Williston said, “Let the record show that I propose that we remove from God’s lands, and bury into the dirt, the bastard descendents of Thomas Jefferson. It has previously been discussed here in committee that Thomas Jefferson often spoke of the dangers that miscegenation poses for the white race. Unfortunately, he did not have the resolve to extinguish his own bastard kin of the Negro species, but we can fulfill the act, for he was President of our beloved country and the unfortunate event of black Thomas Jeffersons running amok and populating our fertile lands is an event that brings much sully to our beloved country. Therefore, I propose that we remove said bastard descendants identified in the said miscegenation document from God’s fertile lands and bury them in the dirt and away from all good Christians and in a deep pit from which they will be heard from no more, and from which they can no longer indemnify our founding father Thomas Jefferson and by extension our good and beloved country.”
Mr. Hooper said, “It has been recorded.”
On this matter there was much discussion. However, after approximately two fillings of their tea cups, the proposal to kill all black kin of Thomas Jefferson was put to a vote. Nine ayes were spoken.
My deeds were gory deeds and they took place in the dead of the night. I knew how to move about the island. From delivering parcels, I knew where each master’s bedroom was within his household. I knew how to keep their bloodhounds quiet with salted meat stolen from Mr. Williston’s storeroom. I crept from house to house and killed each master, and I killed each wife. The last wife, the wife of Mr. Hooper I did not kill, for there were no more husbands to kill, and no more reasons to keep the wives quiet, for I was prepared to die and to trade my blood for their blood. However, fortune allowed my escape, and I will now recount the details of how I escaped from Deer Island:
First, I started a most gruesome slave rebellion. Following the example of my mother, I had not attempted to gather allies. With no allies gathered there was no possibility of betrayal. But now that the deeds had been finished I ran through the plantations and cried out for the slaves to rise up and take arms, shouting, “Your master’s are dead! Death to all!”
We burned houses. We burned barns. We killed. We rampaged. We plundered and fled the island by boat. Most of us could not swim. There were rifle shots and confusion. There was death on every side. There was much smoke billowing in the air. I made my way back to my master’s home and stole the miscegenation document from his desk. Finally, I found a canoe and fled that doomed island.
I will now recount limited details of my life beyond my slave years: I have lived out my years beyond the Canadian borders where I have been married to a Negro tradesman, a bricklayer and plasterer, with the name Thomas. He has treated me well. He has treated me kindly. And there has been no more death by my hand. Saving the family of Jefferson had been my cause.
Descendants, I write to you so that you may know of your warrior ilk and of the warrior blood that runs through your veins. However, I warn you: do not share this story. Those slave owners needed to die it is true, but I fear their descendants would seek revenge, for as our family is noble and true, so were their families loathsome and putrid, and so I foresee that their descendants could very well be loathsome and putrid also…
While Zachary read the narrative he could sense his astonishment growing. “This is unbelievable! And you are related to the author? Where did you discover it?”
“Yes, Pennyworth Stillwater is my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother. This document has been kept in a family bank vault and passed down through the generations. Eventually it found its way to me,” said Jasmine.
“This is amazing! Is this a hoax or is this real?”
“I wondered the same. So I consulted a professor of black history at Tufts. In his judgment it is real. He based his judgment on historical style, accuracy of events, and other non-technical details. Approximately 100 slave narratives were written before the Civil War and 6000 slave narratives written after the war. This document is dated pre-civil war, and up to the 1950’s many slave narrative were brought out of their dusty corners and published. But it is rather obvious why this one never was -- it probably never seemed safe to do so,” said Jasmine.
“I must say that this has introduced the element of surprise into our meeting for drinks for sure,” said Zachary, who had been taught by Samantha to never refer to a first date as a date.
“Like I said, I like a little adventure. And because of what we spoke about during your interview I figured that you would be able to appreciate it,” said Jasmine.
“Why have you blacked out some lines?” asked Zachary.
“I didn’t want the names in a copy. I have the original in the safety deposit box,” said Jasmine,
“And why did you cross out Sally Hemings’s descendants’ names?” Zachary asked.
“I didn’t. The conspiracy must have done that. I think because they didn’t want to make themselves known. So I think it was the conspiracy’s plan to leave that line of the tree alone. And, I don’t know if it is a coincidence but there are lots of Hemings’s who were descended from Jefferson who are still alive today – and conversely that is not the case for the other descendants,” said Jasmine.
“This is unbelievable Jasmine! If accurate this could completely rewrite history! What about the part about the Jeffersonian Elites styling themselves after Thomas Jefferson. Was he really a racist? My American history is dusty,” said Zachary.
Jasmine replied, “The founding fathers had a difficult relationship with slavery. They would not have been able to unite the union if they had abolished slavery right away. Still, the founding fathers recognized that there was a contradiction between fighting a revolution based on principles of freedom and owning slaves. However, all the founding fathers owned slaves except for John Adams. But Jefferson was the worst. Benjamin Franklin freed all his slaves during his lifetime and later became president of the Pennsylvania Abolition Society. George Washington freed all of his slaves in his will, and he was reluctant to trade his slaves as you would ‘cattle at a market’ as he put it, because he did not want to break up families. And although Madison took a slave with him to serve him at the White House, he later freed his slaves. But Jefferson had no qualms about breaking up families, and as an over-spender sometimes sold his slaves to help pay for his lavish lifestyle. Notes on the State of Virginia, published after his death, contains very negative and racist views on African Americans, such as that they smell bad, cannot reason, do not have feelings, and experience lust but not love. These published words may actually have been the beginning of scientific racism. Interestingly, recent DNA evidence has determined that Jefferson, in all likelihood, coupled with his slave Sally Hemmings and had at least one child with her. But my narrative obviously suggests that there may have been many more couplings with other slaves, and that his plantation, Monticello, was a harem more than anything else.”
“And wasn’t it Thomas Jefferson who wrote the Declaration of Independence, saying that all men are created equal?” Zachary asked.
Jasmine replied, “ ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men
are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness’…Yes he wrote that. It is arguably the most famous line in American history. But he may have meant white men, that all white men are created equal…many of his contemporaries were much more forward thinking on racial issues…Yes, I have studied all this quite a bit.”
“So to you Thomas Jefferson must be the evil founding father, the wolf in sheep’s clothing,” said Zachary.
“I admire some of the other founding fathers such as Benjamin Franklin much more, but I wouldn’t go quite as far as what you have just said. No, in actuality, the more I read about Jefferson the more divided my opinions become, meaning that I do not completely condemn the man: while his views and actions concerning African Americans were atrocious, he was a champion of many issues that have a lasting impact on our freedoms today. America was the first ever experiment in self government and Jefferson understood how high the stakes were; he sacrificed a lot personally to see his ideas through. Also, I think had he lived in our time, he would not have been racist. But he was born a gentleman planter, and he was never able to shake off slavery because he needed it to live the way that he wanted to live, which is to say surrounded by beautiful things. That does not make his actions concerning African Americans excusable. And given his position of power, even if his many couplings with his slaves did not occur with overt force, it still wasn’t right, and some historians do consider that he raped Sally Hemings whether it was forced or not..”
“So although it does appear that Jefferson was a racist, you think these so-called Jeffersonian Elites took him as their namesake without completely understanding him?” Zachary asked.
“Yes, I think Jefferson would have been horrified if he had been told that after his death a group of people would name themselves after him and engage in the sole object of killing all his mixed-race progeny,” said Jasmine.
“This is remarkable Jasmine, and quite controversial. People are not going to take kindly to the idea that Jefferson fathered more children with many of his slaves,” said Zachary.
“Well, people aren’t going to know,” said Jasmine.
“What do you mean? You aren’t going to publish?” Zachary asked.
“No, certainly not,” said Jasmine.
“Why not? The founding fathers were merely men – men with great ideas, but they had human faults. The world needs to know. And scholars need the opportunity to discover the truth, and to get at whether the documents are genuine,” said Zachary.
“No, I’m not worried about sullying the reputation of one of the most revered of the founding fathers. I’m worried about the warnings at the end of the narrative. What if the slave narrative is correct and the descendants of the slaveholding ancestors are as despicable as the original slaveholders? They could seek out my family and do them harm,” Jasmine reasoned.
“That’s highly unlikely. From what I know about Trait Theory at this point, I would have to posit that after so many generations that it is highly likely that familial traits would have morphed significantly,” said Zachary.
“Are you sure about that? What you just said?” Jasmine asked.
“Well according to Trait Theory Theory of Exceptions, if a trait is not continuously passed on then the exception only happens 1/1000 times. Why do you ask?” said Zachary.
“I took miscegenation lists to a hereditary firm in Boston. I wanted to know what happened to Jefferson’s African-American progeny. I wanted to know where they were living now and what they were doing,” said Jasmine.
“Okay and what happened?” Zachary asked.
“Excepting the Hemings line which I mentioned is quite robust, the others are all dead,” said Jasmine.
“Family lines die out all the time. That is a fact of life,” said Zachary.
“Yes, but these lines were strange. The causes of death were strange. The ages at which the people died were strange,” said Jasmine.
“Why were the ages strange?” Zachary asked.
“They died young – usually around 18 to 20 – just when people would be at their healthiest points,” said Jasmine.
“So what are you thinking?” Zachary asked.
“That perhaps the Jeffersonian Elites survived in some form – and that perhaps there were copies of the miscegenation documents and that they carried out their original plans,” said Jasmine.
“I think that is another reason to publish. If these Jeffersonian Elites are still around people need to know about it,” said Zachary.
“No, don’t you see? Even if they did survive and were involved in killing the African American offspring of Jefferson, the killings ended 20 years ago. They have already accomplished their objective. There is no one left for them to kill and therefore there is no one left to protect,” said Jasmine.
“Interesting point: so you think that publishing the documents could do harm to your family and you don’t want to risk it?” Zachary asked.
“Yes,” said Jasmine.
“I can respect that,” said Zachary.
“But here is the strange part. I know that logically I should never publish these documents. Yet there is a part of me that does want to publish them. And I think the reason that this part of me wants to publish them is because if any of the members of the group who were the Jeffersonian Elites 20 years ago are still alive, I want to make myself a target. And I want to make myself a target so that they will come after me, and when they do I will capture them and bring them to justice. That is my fantasy anyway,” said Jasmine, laughing.
“So this is where Trait Theory comes in,” said Zachary.
“Exactly! What if I am one of the exceptions, where the trait skips many generations and comes back with a roaring intensity? What if I want to seek out people who do other people harm and kill them like my ancestors did?” Jasmine asked.
“You mean could the trait – and let’s call it the Righteous Murder Trait– Could that trait have skipped generations?” Zachary summarized.
“Preciously,” said Jasmine.
“Theoretically it is certainly possible. But the odds are 1/1000 that it would have skipped to you and you would need a very stressful event in order to bring the trait to the surface. So don’t worry, I’d say the chances of you walking out this door and then chopping off someone’s head are slim to none,” said Zachary, laughing.
“Mostly, I brought the documents as a lark and because I thought they would make our date interesting --.”
“It has done that for sure,” interrupted Zachary, gulping his beer.
She called it a date – good sign…
“But, this is also something that I had considered from time to time before I had even heard of Trait Theory. I really do have frequent fantasies about bringing these people to justice,” said Jasmine.
“And I’m sure that is perfectly normal. What likely occurred was a phenomenon that psychologists refer to as Recent Bias. You had recently read an account about an ancestor who did such things and so you identified with the ancestor and felt that you could do the same. But experiencing identificat
ion and actually having the trait, a trait which would likely lead to an overpowering urge, are two separate situations Furthermore, like you said, you daydream about bringing them to justice – which is to say having them arrested and having their day in court. I think that it is safe to say from the descriptions that your ancestor has provided that a person with the Righteous Murder Trait would not be satisfied with court justice; instead a person with RMT would not be satisfied unless he or she had personally allocated justice, that is had murdered the perpetrator or perpetrators,” said Zachary.
Jasmine squirmed on her seat a little, and then she said, “At the risk of appearing perhaps completely unfeminine and therefore unattractive --.”
“That would be impossible,” Zachary interrupted.
Jasmine laughed, “Well, when I said brought to justice that was a euphemism. In my fantasies I don’t see the police say arresting these Jeffersonian Elites: I see myself killing them. And I think I even enjoy it.”
“Again that is part of the narrative so I am sure that it is completely natural for you to envision yourself in your ancestor’s shoes. But the odds of actually having the trait: very slim. Is this something you are really concerned with? Or rather: if you could choose would you choose to have the trait??” Zachary asked.
“I would choose not to have it. Even if justified, I don’t want to kill people. I like my life the way it is, normal. Killers don’t have normal lives. And they can’t really have relationships with people. Would you be on a date with me right now if you tested me for RMT and I tested positive?” Jasmine asked.
“Sure, the trait in all likelihood would be dormant and just because you had the trait that wouldn’t mean that you would kill anyone,” said Zachary.
“Okay sure, but wouldn’t it concern you knowing that there is always the risk that if I observed some stressful injustice -- stressful enough that it brought the trait out in me -- that I could fly off the handle and decapitate someone with an ax?” Jasmine asked, laughing (Zachary hoped) at the absurdity of the question.
Zachary thought the image of Jasmine wielding an ax even more humorous than the image of Jasmine as an orienteer and tried to contain his laughter as he replied, “If it was the first time we had ever hung out sure. But if we had a real relationship, a deep relationship, I think I could handle it.”
“Really? I don’t think I believe you,” said Jasmine.
“Why?” Zachary asked, laughing again.
“Because I know what men are like and you run away from commitment and towards the high hills at the first sign of trouble, and a trait like RMT is a big sign of trouble,” said Jasmine, now looking serious.
Zachary sensed that although Jasmine had presented this matter as a joke, nevertheless it did somewhat concern her, and he said, “Tell you what: when I get some free time – which I might not have for a little while if end up taking this job, I will design an assessment to determine if you possess a dormant RMT, and you won’t have to worry about this anymore. You will be able to put it to rest.”
“You would do that for me?” Jasmine asked, perking up.
“Yes, and I promise that if you test positive for RMT that I will still be your friend. For one thing, aside from the killing part it is a pretty nifty trait. Your ancestors cared deeply about justice. And they cared so much that took it into their own hands,” said Zachary.
“You know I’m kind of disappointed because you still haven’t pointed out the other obvious connection of RMT to my life. And I haven’t said anything yet because I expected you to notice it on your own, Mr. PHD,” said Jasmine.
Zachary had not been engaging in that line of thinking, except when he had laughed at the image of Jasmine wielding an ax.
“Right! You radio show is called Blinded Justice. And you just told me that a big passion of yours is researching the criminal justice industrial complex. That is all about justice. Interesting, maybe just maybe there is something to your suspicion that you have RMT – but I wouldn’t count on it – you are simply too, I don’t know, sweet.”
“Awww, thank you. But to take this line of reasoning just a little further. My show Blinded Justice and my interest in researching the criminal justice industrial complex all revolves around the fact that African Americans do not get equal access to justice in this country. Don’t get me started because I could rant on about this all night but the War on Crime has essentially been a war on African Americans. And we have a multitude of policies in place that on the surface appear to be race neutral but are actually quite racist – and have had the end result of imprisoning an absurd amount of African American males.”
“No, I’ve heard you on your show and your arguments are quite convincing, and eloquently put,” said Zachary.
“So couldn’t that be another connection? My ancestors fought for the rights of African Americans as well,” said Jasmine.
“You do make a good argument that perhaps -- just perhaps so don’t get carried away -- that your efforts to fight the injustice still mounted against African Americans in this country is a sublimation of your dormant RMT. However, without testing this is all wild speculation,” said Zachary.
“But you are going to test me?” Jasmine asked.
“Yes, but it may be a little while. If I take this job, and I am hoping that my associates agree to it, it will completely consume all my time until it is finished. But perhaps after I could give you an assessment…Actually this is quite interesting and a trait that I’ve never even thought of. Sometimes it boggles my mind how many human traits there are. Before Trait Theory I was often researching a bunch of subjects at once – but now having stumbled upon Trait Theory I think for the remainder of my days it is going to be my life’s work,” said Zachary.
“That must be enthralling, to be that passionate about something that you have actually discovered. It must keep you up at night,” said Jasmine.
“Yes, certainly: I’m sure it sounds nerdy but once when analyzing my Trait Theory mouse data I was awake for three days straight. But I bet that you are so easily able to empathize with me because you have passions of your own. I think it is quite noble that you have made the whole criminal justice industrial complex your sworn enemy,” said Zachary.
“We are two people who have goals and work hard at them it is true. But sometimes I need to take a break from it all. That’s why I like orienteering and backpacking. I like to briefly escape from my life goals and just exist on a totally different plane – do you know what I mean?” Jasmine asked.
It had been years since Zachary had taken more than three days off in a row, and though he had resigned from his teaching post, given the Capobianco situation, his time off had felt more stressful than anything else, and he said, “No, not really, but I don’t think that is a good thing.”
“No it isn’t! When is the last time that you have taken a week off and traveled?” Jasmine asked.
“I don’t even remember,” said Zachary, shocked that he could not bring to mind his last vacation.
“Typical American – we Americans don’t take time off and just unwind. But that is so important for your spirit. Given the almost unspeakably sorry state of the justice system in this country I would be insufferably gloomy if I did not take time off to unwind --.”
“I’ve got it!” Zachary exclaimed, finally having remembered his last vacation. “I took a research vacation to Thailand 7 years ago. That is where I developed Trait Theory. So I guess you could say that that vacation did affect my thinking!”
“I’m glad traveling had that result, but I hardly think that a research vacation qualifies. I’m talking about a vacation where you get away from research, not where you engage in it,” said Jasmine.
“Wow, I really have no idea,” said Zachary.
“Someday we are going to have to change that. Someday I am going to take you with me somewhere and you are going to get that chance to just unwind and escape from your passions and escape from the world,” said Jasmine.
“That’s probably a good idea,” said Zachary, smiling.
“It is a good idea! And I’m going to see to it. What if you told your colleagues at Dunbar and Associates that tomorrow you were taking a vacation for a week and going camping, or something?” Jasmine asked.
Zachary paused as he considered this hypothetical. “Yeah, they would be almost as surprised as I would be – shocked even.”
“Why don’t you? It is fun to shock the world from time to time. Why don’t you call them right now and tell them that you are taking a week off and traveling to -- I don’t know -- the Caribbean?” Jasmine asked.
“Are you coming with me?” Zachary asked, wondering if she was serious about all this.
“No, I have to work. But that doesn’t mean you couldn’t go. I just went to that orienteering competition all alone and I made tons of friends,” said Jasmine.
“Well, yes, but look at you, you are young, pretty, and outgoing. I’m getting older; I’m boring; I’m introverted. If I tried to talk to a stranger on a vacation they would probably call the police,” said Zachary.
“That is the thinking of a man who is not a risk-taker,” said Jasmine.
How is it that women always manage to bring things back to where they started?
Zachary laughed, “I guess so. You have me pegged. But seriously, I know we pretty much just met, but in the name of risk, allow me to say that if you ever decided to go off gallivanting somewhere, keep me updated, it just may do me some good to fly the coop.”
“How about when you finish this job? I don’t know if I will be able to go with you because honestly we have no idea where this is going – but why don’t you plan to take a vacation when you finish this job whether you have someone to travel with or not?” Jasmine asked.
“Where would I go?” Zachary asked, already feeling lost.
“Anywhere! The place is not the point. It is the going,” said Jasmine.
“You know I just might do that. Well, I had no idea you were such a good provider of advice,” said Zachary.
“That is one of my traits,” said Jasmine, laughing.
Phone Conversation: Omar and Zachary: When Omar discovered that Samantha and Zachary had had a falling out, he immediately contacted Zachary by phone.
“What happened?” Omar asked, an open-ended inquiry that got Zachary’s blood pumping.
Does he know?
“She’s not happy with my choice of current work,” said Zachary.
“Yeah she told me all about Windsor. He sounds like he ran away from the loony-bin. But he also sounds like he is going to pay pretty well,” said Omar.
“So you wouldn’t mind if we worked for a declared racist and wanna-be serial killer?” said Zachary.
“Obviously, I’d rather not. But we don’t exactly have people knocking down our door right now to hire us. Besides from what I understand he gets counseling for his racist tendencies and he hasn’t killed anyone,” said Omar.
“Apparently, but honestly Omar I don’t know how reliable this man’s information has been. It sounds too far-fetched. Did Samantha tell you about the woman that he claimed to have abducted?” Zachary asked.
“Yes, she did. That part troubled me considerably. Why you don’t believe it?” Omar asked.
“I’m going to follow up on it. I’m going to pay her a visit in about an hour. I’ve set up an interview with her,” said Zachary, checking his watch.
“Perhaps I should go as well. I know Samantha isn’t keen on this job. But let me gather some information too. Besides, you two have conflicting views as psychologists as to the merits of working this job, so let me throw my hat into the ring,” said Omar.
“Sure, that sounds like a good idea. Do you want me to pick you up, or do you want to meet me there?” Zachary asked, hoping he would decide to take his own car.
“If you could pick me up that would be great. My Toyota has just recently started with this weird rattling, which I am hoping is not a death rattle, and I haven’t had a chance to take it to the mechanic…”
Car ride: Somerville to Quincy: Zachary noted that Omar seemed like he had something on his mind, and he finally said, “Zachary there has been something that I have wanted to talk to you about.”
“Oh?” said Zachary, feeling a beat-beat in his chest.
“Zachary I want to be frank with you. When I first moved here I didn’t have many friends. The years have passed and I still don’t have many friends in the Boston area. I can count them on one hand. Zachary I count you among my friends. You were there for me when…”
As Omar recounted all his fond memories, Zachary thought: this could turn bad…
“…and that is why I think it makes sense for me to turn to you for advice. When I thought of all my friends that I could talk to about this you seemed like the best bet,” said Omar.
“What is the issue?” Zachary asked.
“Well, you know how Samantha often puts her work before everything else. Normally it doesn’t bother me. But when she tries to impose her work onto our relationship it drives me crazy. I know she is an expert on love, but that doesn’t mean she has to ram it down my throat. Here is the issue: Sam has been all about displacement theory lately: the theory that people choose a substitute for whom they really love. She thinks that she can improve our relationship if she persists in calling me by another name…I love her so much, but I said to her, ‘No, you cannot call me by another name.”
“What name?” Zachary asked, nervous that it would be his own.
“The name is Teddy,” said Omar.
“Who is Teddy?” Zachary asked.
“Teddy is the alter-ego that she has created for me. If she has a relationship with Teddy then she will really desire me. But since she is really with me, she will have confounded the reality of displacement theory, or that is how she puts it,” said Omar.
“That is ridiculous,” said Zachary. “Stick to your guns on this one. We can’t always let females have their way.”
Omar laughed. “I don’t think that is possible. Well, thanks for the advice anyway. Hey, I’ve got some big news.”
Zachary nodded.
“That’s a lie…”
What?
“…the truth is that Samantha has some really big news, but she is pissed at you so I’m the go-between,” said Omar as Zachary brea
thed easier. “A producer from PBS called, they are considered doing a documentary on Dunbar and Associates.”
“What?”
“Yes, as I said he spoke to Samantha about it, but they are really interested.”
“How did this come about?” Zachary asked.
“I have no idea. You’ll have to talk to Samantha about that, well when you can. But she was conciliatory enough to give me this,” said Omar, holding out a business card. “I guess he wants to talk to you to.”
Zachary took one hand off the steering wheel and grabbed the business card:
Tony Blanchette
PBS
978-555-9056
Email: [email protected]
“Can you imagine?” said Zachary.
“It would be huge. We couldn’t buy publicity like that.”
“What are you talking about Omar? The state this company is in, we can’t but a paperclip right now.”
Omar laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to Samantha and get her on board for this job, even if I have to sleep on the couch for a week to do it…”
Newton, MA: If there was one thing that Ralph could count on, it was that his father was a predictable man. He seemed to do nothing outside his ordinary scheduling of affairs. His demeanor was predictable too. Ralph had never been yelled at by his father. In fact, he had never heard him yell. Once Ralph asked him how he stayed so composed. He said, “There are times when I get frustrated like everyone else. But normally a person is frustrated for one of two reasons (a) you have failed the world or (b) the world has failed you. Therefore, I take a quick inventory and decide where to place the blame. Then I look for a solution. Huffing and puffing helps no one.”
Therefore, Ralph knew his punishment would not consist of any harsh words. His father could be firm, but he always managed to stay calm. Ralph imagined that he would probably be grounded for at least a week, though as of yet, he had heard nothing.
Quincy, MA: Zachary wondered why he felt more confident by bringing Omar to this meeting.
Is it because he is black and Shanice is black and I think that they will relate?
Was I worried that she would not trust me, as a white man?
Zachary noted that Shanice looked nervous. She appeared to be in her seventies, which would make her similar in age to Windsor. For a minute the talk was the weather. Everyone agreed that it was a remarkably dreary day.
Suddenly Shanice took the initiative, “I have to ask. Is it all coming to an end?”
“Sorry, what do you mean?” Zachary asked.
“The payments, am I no longer to receive the payments?” Shanice asked, the tea cup rattling in her hand.
“Let’s start at the beginning,” said Zachary, noting that Windsor obviously had not told her the purpose of the meeting. “I am doing a job for Windsor. In my capacity of doing this job he started to tell me some of the history of his life. I say some of the history because he is a very private man. However, Shanice, he did tell me of his relationship with you. I see you look nervous. I signed a non-disclosure form so this matter will stay between us if you want it to. But that is actually why I am here. Windsor is getting old and I just wanted to check up on the facts of his story before I commit to doing any sort of work for him. Would you mind telling me of the nature of your relationship with Windsor?”
“That is a very difficult question,” said Shanice.
“You don’t have to answer any questions that you don’t want to answer,” said Omar, smiling at Shanice. “We are just here to try to learn about a strange old man, and to decide if we want to work for him.”
“I don’t know how to describe the nature of my relationship with Windsor,” said Shanice.
“Okay, let me tell you what he told us and then you can tell us if it is true or not,” said Zachary, who then related Windsor’s description of her imprisonment.
“That is absurd,” said Shanice. “However, that absurdity is also why I have not had to work a day in my life ever since I met Windsor. In fact, no one in my immediate family has.”
“Please explain,” said Zachary.
“It all started when I answered an advertisement in the paper for a black actress. I wasn’t even an actress, but obviously I’m black, so I decided to give it a shot. I went to a casting company and read some lines. Then, to my surprise, I was called about a week later at my home and told I was hired for the job. I was given an address to report to. I was not told what the job would be and in my excitement at being hired as an actress I didn’t even bother to ask. It didn’t occur to me until I got into a cab that I had no idea what type of job I had been hired for. Was it a play? Was it a movie? Was it a television commercial? I had no idea. I thought myself pretty silly for not having asked --.”
“So what happened?” Omar interrupted.
I wanted to interrupt her there too. But I did not. Am I overly sensitive to our white-black dynamic?
“Well, I reported to the address, a marvelous house, and Windsor met me on the porch, introduced himself, and brought me inside to a study. He told me his wife was out shopping but that he wanted to hire me for a private job,” said Shanice, sipping her tea.
“So he didn’t kidnap you?” Zachary asked.
“Only if answering an advertisement in the paper can be construed as kidnapping.”
“So then what?” Omar asked.
“He explained the details of the job offer. He wanted me to pretend that I had been a kidnapping victim by staying in a jail cell that he had built in his cellar. He would pay me quite a hefty daily sum, and I could return home each night. My hours were 7 to 7, which was a long time to spend in a jail cell, but the money was good enough that I decided to commit to it,” said Shanice.
“So he let you out every day?” Omar asked. “Was it locked?”
“Yes, it was locked. But he gave me a key and I just let myself out each night, called a cab, and went home,” said Shanice.
“So what happened while you were in there?” Zachary asked.
“Not much – he gave me a television and magazines to read. I just had to put them away when he came downstairs. That is when I had to go into acting mode. That is when I had to pretend that I had really been kidnapped and I had to beg him to release me,” said Shanice. “But he never wanted to have sex with me or anything like that. He never made any advances.”
“Did you ever wonder why he was doing that?” Zachary asked.
“I assumed that he was acting out some sick fantasy. But he had the money to pay for it, and so I played along. The whole thing seemed harmless really,” said Shanice.
“What about his wife? What was her role?” Omar asked.
“I never saw her. He would bring me in through the back. We never ran into each other. He obviously wanted to keep the whole thing from his wife,” said Shanice.
“So why do you think that he told me that he kidnapped you?” Zachary asked.
“Because I think that he believes that he did. He eventually convinced himself that he had kidnapped me. I say this because half way through the sixth month of the job, he started telling me that he regretted his decision to kidnap me, and that he no longer wanted to follow through on his plans,” said Shanice.
“Did you ever feel that you were in any real danger?” Zachary asked.
“No,” said Shanice.
“Why not?” Zachary asked.
“I don�
��t know. He just didn’t seem like the sort. I thought if anything he might try to have sex with me. But as I said that never happened,” said Shanice.
She doesn’t realize how lucky she might have been…
“So if he had convinced himself that he really had kidnapped you, then how did he release you without your telling the police?” Zachary asked.
“This is the part that really worked in my favor. He told me that he would pay off everyone in my family to prove to me that he did not intend to do me any harm. He said that once I was released he would pay me too, not much, but enough to get by, so that I wouldn’t have to work another day in my life,” said Shanice.
“Does he do it?” Zachary asked.
“Wait a minute. I believe I have an unopened check for this week on my counter,” said Shanice who then left the room.
Zachary and Omar exchanged looks. Shanice shortly returned and handed Zachary an envelope, saying, “Here it is, postmarked three days ago.”
Zachary examined the envelope. It was an ordinary white envelope addressed to Shanice. The return address read:
Hearthstone Corporation.
772 Muddy Drive
Berryheart, Montana
09876
“May I open it?” Zachary asked. Shanice nodded and Zachary opened the envelope. It was a check for $740.
“Do you ever feel like you are taking advantage of him?” Omar asked.
“For a while I did. But I have reconciled myself with that guilt. Paying me allows him to keep the fantasy going. If he did not pay me I think that the fantasy would collapse,” said Shanice. “So I am not actually getting paid to do nothing. I get paid each week for having been his victim.”
“That is a good analysis,” said Zachary. “Have you ever thought about going into psychology?”
“I took two semesters of it at Bunker Hill. At one time I did think about becoming a psychologist. But then this gig came along and I’ve never had to work again. The checks even increase by 3% each year, to adjust for inflation,” said Shanice, sighing lightly. “It was the strangest six months of my life. But it has also led to most of my subsequent good-fortune. I count my lucky stars every day for having landed that job…”
Omar and Zachary discussed Shanice on the ride back home. Zachary told Omar that he had decided to take the job.
“But Windsor was obviously lying to you,” said Omar.
“Yes, but this is only one more indication of Windsor’s capacity for self-deception. This actually lends more credence to the veracity of his stories…”
Later at home Zachary attempted to further research the Thurmond family on the internet, but his computer would not boot up. Considering his options, he noticed a computer repair flyer on his counter and called the number. A man with a squeaky voice said he could make a house call in twenty minutes.
He showed up in less than that and fixed the computer by practically just glancing at it.
“Was I pressing a wrong button or something?” Zachary asked.
“Computers are like women, they need tender love and affection,” said the repairman, who had earlier introduced himself as Conrad. Zachary looked Conrad over and wondered if he had ever experienced tender love and affection: small limbed, pot bellied, buck toothed and with a face that had never really recovered from adolescence, he seemed type cast for the part of an IT man.
But don’t they all? It may not be right to stereotype African-Americans but for some reason it just seems right to stereotype IT men.
“Well, thank you,” said Zachary, as he handed him a check.
“Next time just don’t be so rough with her. I don’t want to come here again,” said Conrad, straight-faced.
Zachary laughed, thinking that Conrad was joking. Apparently he wasn’t and left with a strained nod. Then a moment later he popped back in the door. “Here, take my card. You never know when you’ll need it.”
Zachary put Conrad’s business card in his wallet and as he did so he noticed the business card from the Tony Blanchette, the PBS producer. After eating a snack (potato chips and refried beans) he called.
“Tony Blanchette speaking.”
“Tony, this is Zachary Dunbar from Dunbar and Associates.”
“Zachary, Zachary, Zachary, you are the man of the hour, and just the man I wanted to talk to.”
The flattery felt good and Zachary chuckled. “If you say so Tony, so what’s up?”
Tony pitched Zachary with dramatic, long winded statements that could be boiled down to:
The American economy is falling apart! Bankers are being exposed as gambler and crooks! The American people have been swindled of their tax dollars.
Tony continued, “I want to start a show that features each week, a company of principles, a company of the future, and a company that does good things for the economy at large – not these vampire companies that are sucking the blood from America.”
“And you think Dunbar and Associates is one such company?” Zachary asked.
“Zachary don’t be modest.”
If only this probably liberal PBS producer knew that I was about to accept a job from an admitted cannibalistic murderous racist, I wonder how fast this conversation would end?
“So let me ask you this Tony, how are you familiar with my company?”
“Through a friend, I discovered the work that you did for IBM,” said Tony.
“That was confidential,” said Zachary, sighing.
Why are professional ethics so hard to uphold?
“Yes, I know, and that’s why I can’t mention his name. But I can say that he was a high-ranking executive, who was very impressed with the way that you vetted the applicants through your individualized personality testing. Zachary I believe that everyone can do a certain job, and I believe that you, through your testing processes can figure that out – matching people to what they are best suited for, that could really turn this economy around,” said Tony.
What is this, Soviet Russia? Well he is probably a liberal and most liberals are into communism I suppose…
“That is all well and good Tony, but that is not the purpose of Dunbar and Associates.”
“I know, I know. I’m just saying I see the potential.”
“And you want to do a documentary?”
“And I want to do a documentary, yes.”
“Tony I have to admit that this sounds very appealing. But almost all the work I do is confidential.”
“No names, just situations.”
“So we can find a way around that?”
“Of course…”
“I’ll have to talk to my associates, but if they say yes I’m in,” said Zachary.
“Great! When will you know?”
That’s a good question…
The next morning Zachary checked his email. Hidden amid the junk mail were emails from Windsor and Omar:
CC: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Dear Zachary Dunbar,
I am happy to announce that your airline tickets have been sent to your fax. And I want to wish you all the best as you begin your trip. If you have any questions about anything don’t hesitate to call me, and remember that my resources will always be at your disposal should you need them.
Sincerely,
Windsor Thurmond.
Zachary sighed.
So it begins.
He sent a quick reply and then opened the second email:
CC: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Zach, all is well. Samantha is onboard for the documentary. She’s pissed at you still
lol and she wanted me to make that clear – but the documentary is a go…
Thinking it selfish to again make Omar the messenger Zachary replied simply, “That’s good news. Thanks.”