One Drop of Me

By Harry Kraus

The accidental drowning of her young son shattered Lisa Griffin’s perfect life. She finds her own breath again as she writes the gripping narrative of slave
Sally Hemings’ relationship with her white master and eventual president, Thomas Jefferson. As she gives Sally the voice she never had, Lisa finds her own way to freedom from an oppressive marriage to an older African American surgeon.

A contemporary rich, white doctor’s wife.
A black colonial slave.
Separated by time, race, and money.
United by betrayal. Bonded by tragedy. One in their search for freedom.

This controversial novel dares to explore the complex relationship between Thomas Jefferson and his slave, Sally Hemings. Granted, he was "progressive" for his time and advocated abolition of slavery, but he never granted his long time lover, Sally Hemings, her freedom and the children he bore with her, although 7/8th caucasian, were nevertheless, his property. "One Drop of Me" refers to the fact that it only took one drop of black blood to make a person a slave.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harry Kraus
• Release date: Jul 28, 2015

Book preview

1

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November 2014

Lisa Griffin’s perfect life ended on August 16, 2014 at 6:27 p.m.

Three months later, she began to breathe.

She looked at the blank page in front of her and thought about all the things that separated her from her protagonist. Time. Race. Class.

Though their differences seemed a great chasm, other commonalities bridged the rift and bound them tighter than the system that enslaved her heroine: womanhood, motherhood and something else. Something ethereal, yet grounded. Exquisite, but also earthy. Spiritual, but something Lisa gripped with the desperation of a drowning sailor.

Fate.

For Lisa, it was palpable. Pulsing across time as sure as the heart beating beneath her breast.

She nodded at the page, but in the reality that was her writer’s mind, she stared into the beautiful face of Sally, and tipped her head, cueing the beginning of her heroine’s soliloquy, and Lisa’s own first step out of hell.

The first time President Thomas Jefferson called me nigger," I didn’t really mind. I’d been called worse.

"Looking back, his language was mild compared to the names used to describe me in the years since my first days at Monticello.

Slut!

Whore!

Or the combinations. Nigger-slut, Nigger-whore, or Nigger-tramp.

"But when Master Jefferson called me ‘nigger,’ his voice was softer, and I noticed that he glanced my way and his eyes lingered over my maturing body for just a moment longer than he needed. He’d couple the word in such a way that I felt special when he used it. ‘She’s my nigger,’ he said to Mr. Hamilton. I liked that. He called me, ‘my nigger.’

Years later, after my master expanded the stakes of his tent to include my bed, he’d whisper the phrase into my hair when he positioned himself over me. My nigger, he’d say, but his voice transformed into a soft growl, animalistic, and untamed. He drew out the last syllable in a whisper that became a vibration. My nigerrrrrr."

In the beginning, that first time he called me nigger, I looked away from his gaze and tried not to smile. And so, even though a slave, I allowed myself to dream, and I pulled the Master’s words around me like Mama’s old worn out shawl that she’d tried to throw away, but I rescued from the back of the house near the woodpile. It felt comfortable. It smelled of the familiar. Sweat. Tears.

Maybe even blood.

Lord knows I’ve shed all three over my dealings with that man.

Sally walks back into the set behind her, stepping into the fireplace room at Monticello. She allows her hand to drift across the back of a leather chair. The room is opulent, but cozy, Thomas Jefferson’s private study, richly paneled, and smelling faintly of smoke from the fire she’d built a few moments before. She drifts to her right until she stands center stage, where for a moment of silence, she bows her head.

She is fifty-three and lovely, her long black hair framing a face that is a mixture of race. Full lips, from her mother, her nose, wide, soft, and perfect, not flat, but straight like her white slave-owner father. Her complexion is fair, a delicious caramel, and though beaten down by the life of a slave, her posture is upright, her ample breasts shoved forward in defiance.

Before she speaks, she lifts her head, and her eyes are unfocused, gazing just above the audience, as if she sees into the future.

And of course, she does.

Lisa looked up from her laptop through the windows of her morning room. Her gaze drifted across the leaf-strewn lawn towards the dock and the James River beyond. Some sort of low-pressure weather cell had settled ominously off the shore of Virginia three days ago and threatened to take up residence. The gray sky drizzled and spit, the sky looming, but never worked up the courage to just empty. At this point, Lisa thought, a real rain would have felt cleansing. As it was, the weather just limped along, foreboding skies portending a coming storm, but bringing only an oppressive, damp chill.

She stood and walked out onto a screened porch, her mind still on her story, but interrupted by a distinctive smell, salty and wet, a marshy odor heavier today because of the damp weather. The James had swelled and its choppy surface splashed over the dock and lapped at the edges of a wooden swing set, evil fingers reaching for more.

The River challenged her sanity. She stared it down, daring it to rise higher, willing herself to look at it, wondering if she’d ever forgive the damned water for stealing her perfect life.

After an unflinching gaze, she turned away. The River had won; she’d blinked first.

But at least she’d looked. She couldn’t have done that a week ago. She plodded back inside and checked the antique clock above the stone fireplace. Four. T.J. had called. Actually, he’d had his secretary do it. The surgeon, T.J. Griffin, was running late; an emergency at the hospital detained him.

Again.

It was her husband’s way of dealing, or more specifically, not dealing with tragedy: work.

Lisa had fared no better after their tragic loss. For two weeks she’d curled onto the leather couch in the den, rising only to feed their daughter. Later, she progressed to cooking shows, watching one after the other, a train of culinary delights that goaded her from the couch into the kitchen where she baked, simmered, seared, fried, grilled, and ate her way from a svelte one hundred eighteen to a soft one hundred forty-four.

Mama!

Lisa looked up to see Chloe, her four-year-old daughter, walking from the stairwell.

Icky.

She ran her fingers through her daughter’s hair. Blonde like mine. You’re supposed to let me know when you have to poop.

Little Chloe was nearly potty-trained before the catastrophe that had launched each one of them into a painful orbit around their sorrow. The surgeon worked, Lisa ate, and her daughter regressed, each one on a lonely trajectory of emotional isolation.

Chloe stood silently staring at her mom. Her mouth hung open, accentuating her flattened facial profile with her eyes unblinking (her surgeon husband said that Chloe had upslanting palpebral fissures, a typical eye feature of Down syndrome).

Lisa guided her daughter toward the stairs. Come on girl, let’s get you cleaned up.

A few minutes later, Lisa faced her reflection in the mirror. She lifted a tube of lipstick, Guerlain Gracy Rouge G, and inhaled the familiar scent before applying it. As a surgeon’s wife, Lisa hadn’t gone crazy with expensive clothing, and she certainly wasn’t old enough to fit in with the plastic surgery crowd, but high-end lipstick was one of her indulgences.

She rolled the cool metal tube in her fingers. She couldn’t remember if she’d worn it since Tommy’s funeral.

She looked back at her reflection and whispered. What would Sally do? She lifted the sweatshirt and frowned.

No wonder my husband has lost interest in me.

I’ve lost interest in me.

T.J. Griffin, M.D. smoothed the lapels of his white lab coat and headed to the waiting room to find the wife of his patient. He found her, sitting alone, typing something into a smart phone.

Mrs. Robinson? He held out his hand.

She looked up, her face anxious.

Everything’s fine. I just finished the operation. Your husband is on the way to the recovery room now.

Mrs. Robinson stood and threw her arms around the surgeon and gushed. Oh, thank you, Dr. Griffin, thank you!

T.J. accepted the hug from the large woman, careful to resist a little when she pulled him towards her generous breasts.

Did you get there in time? Was it busted?

T.J. straightened his coat again and shook his head. No. The appendix was inflamed, but not yet ruptured. He should be able to go home tomorrow.

The woman smiled. She lowered her voice, as she appeared to scan the empty waiting room. You know, Dr. Griffin, maybe I shouldn’t say it, but I took comfort in knowing you were a brother. She blushed. I mean, out of all these doctors, and we got you. She halted. It means a lot.

You mean because I’m black?

Is that bad of me?

He smiled. No.

We just, well, we just felt that you could understand us a little better. She took his hand. You’re such an inspiration for our young men. They need to see that they can succeed just like you have.

He nodded. Of course.

He left the woman texting again, undoubtedly telling her friends about his greatness.

He changed, quickened his pace towards his Mercedes, and called his realtor.

Tanya? It’s T.J.

The good doctor! I was hoping you’d be free on time. Can you meet me? I want to show you a house in Kings Mill.

Sure. Lisa won’t expect me for some time.

Why don’t you stop by my office? We can drive in together.

Meet you in ten.

T.J. inhaled the smell of the leather interior of his C350 Mercedes Coupe, but failed to comfort his soul.

He adjusted the rearview mirror, twisting it first so that he could check his tie, and then back again to look at the hospital parking lot.

He sighed. Lisa won’t care. And this is only business for Tanya.

He pushed back a twinge of guilt over his attraction to the young Tanya. Twenty years my junior.

Just like Lisa.

He shook his head as he drove. It’s just a professional appointment.

I need to get out of that house.

It’s too full of memories.

He tried to concentrate on thoughts of his wife, how fun and interesting she used to be when they first met. She was a nurse’s aide. White. Young. Vibrant and so innocent. She didn’t realize how powerfully sexy that was to him. He was older. Black. Still vigorous, and intellectual. Lisa had seemed so taken with him.

Then.

But that was before…

He pulled into a space in front of the realty office. Tanya, thirty, slender, a black professional. She was motivated, going somewhere.

So different from Lisa, who carried a cloud of inertia around her since the tragedy.

He got out and she offered a polite hug. On your own again, I see. Their eyes met. Let’s take my car.

She drove a 2013 Camaro. A muscle car. It was part of her persona, an odd contrast to the weakness he’d sensed when they’d first met. Lisa had reached out to Tanya during Tanya’s nasty split with an abusive husband. Lisa had been a friend and had fed, talked, and prayed Tanya back onto solid ground. He knew Tanya had a history of depression and some other mental struggles; Lisa had implied as much without giving any details that would have betrayed a friend’s confidence.

He studied her as she drove. Nothing to suggest mental instability now. Tanya seemed the picture of health and confidence.

You’re going to like this one, she said.

You said that about the last six.

This one’s been updated. It was built in the nineties, but the kitchen and master bath were just redone last year.

Tell me it’s not on the River.

She reached over and squeezed his hand. I may be pretty, but I’m not stupid.

Her hand lingered on his for a moment longer until he slowly retrieved his hand to touch his collar. It’s suddenly so warm in here.

Ten minutes later, they pulled into the bricked driveway of an expansive home.

Have you shown this one before?

Nope. I’ve seen the pictures, though. I think you’re in for a treat.

For the next twenty minutes they oohed and aahed their way around the house, discovering large closets, multiple fireplaces, a richly paneled study with a secret room with an entrance through the bookshelf, and a basement recreation room as large as T.J.’s first house.

Tanya ran ahead and giggled with excitement.

Oh, T.J. she called from the bedroom, you’ve got to see this.

He walked into the master bedroom and covered his mouth. At least a dozen soft pillows decorated the king-sized bed.

Tanya sat with her legs crossed, her brown skin exposed to mid-thigh. She glanced upward and he followed her gaze to a large mirror mounted on the ceiling. She smiled. Not sure how I missed this in the photos.

Whoa. T.J. fancied himself a southern gentleman, but the décor reminded him that he was first, still a red-blooded man.

He took a step forward and halted. What am I doing?

Tanya spoke softly. The owners won’t be back for another hour.

He cleared his throat. His mouth seemed a desert. He froze, and then took his first step.

Away.

He took a deep breath and turned towards the door. I want to check out the garage.

2

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August 16, 2014, 6:20 pm., seven minutes before hell.

Lisa Griffin looked across the lawn at her husband standing at the grill. Yes, he was fifty-three to her thirty-three, but he still had that hard-to-define air about him that took her breath away. He was more than distinguished; he was proud, but rightly so. Surgeon. First black surgeon to be the president of the Virginia Surgical Society. She smiled, enjoying the way the sun highlighted the gray at his temples. He’s not perfect. What man is?

They’d been together eight years. If there had been a struggle, it was in his old-fashioned ideas about her role. She dreamed of being a playwright, of studying eloquent prose. He insisted she stay at home and care for their children. He seemed to love parading her around at the medical society’s parties. What man wouldn’t want a young, buxom blonde on his arm? My life has been full, she reminded herself. Dr. Griffin had lifted her from the trailer park to Governor’s Landing. He’d taken her from nurse’s aide to surgeon’s wife. He’d changed her station in life; she’d ornamented his.

Today was a happy day, nearing the end of a near-perfect summer of Little League baseball for Tommy, golf at the country club, dinners at the Fat Canary, and so much progress for her little Chloe who had worked hard with her speech therapists. They’d decided to throw one last summer party and watch the sun set over the James River. It was a mixed group of millionaire neighbors, her friend, Tanya Spaulding, and two doctor couples from T.J.’s practice.

Their eight-year old son, Tommy, was obsessed with everything baseball. His room was decorated with posters of his baseball idol, Jason Heyward. The summer had been full of Little League for Tommy and although Lisa had been to every single game and T.J. to only one, little Tommy remained his father’s son. Tommy pushed a catcher’s mitt into his father’s gut. Let’s throw. I want to show you my new fastball.

The delight in his father’s eyes couldn’t have been brighter.

And that made the contrast of how he looked at his daughter even more evident.

He hadn’t spoken it, but Lisa always felt his judgment over their daughter’s disability. He blames me for her condition. It was on the day after her birth that she’d overheard his conversation with Chloe’s pediatrician. So it was Lisa’s chromosome 21 that didn’t separate?

But T.J. adored his son. He read to him, fished with him, and liked to hear him repeat the big words he’d taught him: cholecystectomy. Pancreatitis.

But their love of baseball had been the glue that, in spite of T.J.’s crazy schedule, bonded them beyond their blood.

T.J. looked down at Tommy. Hey, All-star, someone has to cook these steaks. Why don’t you ask Tanya? He pointed with a meat fork towards the edge of the water where Tanya stood with Chloe. She played softball in college. She’ll throw with you.

Tommy stomped off with a sigh.

T.J. laughed at his antics.

Lisa watched as her husband stared in the direction of the beautiful, young, Tanya, kneeling to talk to Chloe.

A moment later, she watched as Tanya shook her head and Tommy trudged away, the cuffs of his too-long blue jeans dragging across the grass. Lisa wouldn’t scold him for soiling them; she’d insisted he wear something warmer than shorts because the day had promised to be unseasonably cool.

Here, Tommy, she called. I’ll catch your pitches.

He looked at her as if sizing up the offer. He twisted his little mouth as if trying to decide if eating turnips was acceptable if you were really starving. Finally, he shrugged and threw the catcher’s mitt at her feet. Alright, he said, stepping off sixty feet away. There, the almost-blond curls of his afro caught the sunshine as he performed his perfected windup. A moment later the ball snapped into the center of Lisa’s mitt.

Ouch! she cried, shaking her hand with an exaggerated gesture.

Tommy beamed.

She tossed it back and endured another dozen pitches. Tommy judged each one: three balls and nine strikes. On the close ones, he just mumbled, outside corner.

The sound of a splash caught her attention.

It was a sound that would haunt her dreams for months, a sound turned heinous, the spitting of a dark monster inside her grief.

It was the sound of a mother’s worst nightmare. Suddenly, Lisa just knew that the James had taken a strike at her family.

Chloe? she called, rising from her catcher’s stance. She looked over by Tanya who stood calmly at the edge of the pier, her face raised to accept the sun.

No Chloe!

Chloe! she yelled, this time urgently.

Now T.J. was jogging towards the pier, carrying a meat fork.

Other adults ceased their polite party conversations. Even T.J.’s partner, the young doctor Newcomb, put down the beer he’d been nursing.

Lisa scanned the water.

Nothing. No disturbance other than the gentle lapping waves tasting the shore.

Chloe! This time her voice was shrill.

T.J. started stripping off his shirt. Everybody search! He jumped into the water off the pier.

In a frenzy, male guests stripped off stuffy shirts and jumped in, flailing about in the murky water that had swallowed a child.

Lisa waded into the cool water from the edge of the lawn near its junction with the marsh. Visibility was zero. She pulled her wet jeans through the water, feeling the sandy ground with her feet.

She lost a shoe.

She fell forward in an uncoordinated attempt, making wide circles with her arms to feel.

Tanya screamed. Here, here she is!

Tanya lifted the lifeless form from the devil’s grasp. T.J. pulled himself onto the dock and immediately received his daughter. He gave her chest a quick downward thrust with his hand and Lisa watched as a small fountain sputtered from her daughter’s lips.

Chloe coughed violently, her small frame racked with spasms.

Take a breath, honey, T.J. coached.

Lisa gathered her daughter into her arms, patting her on the back as Lisa turned to face Tanya. Thank you, thank you, thank you, she said.

Someone draped her shoulders with a large, soft beach towel. Lisa folded it around her daughter. She dried Chloe’s face and wiped the snot from beneath her nose.

Then, in the flood of relief that follows the high tension of danger, Lisa felt her knees begin to buckle. T.J. seemed to sense the need of the moment and was there, immediately as she collapsed to the ground. There, she began to cry, and whispered over and over into her daughter’s wet hair. Mommy’s here, baby, Mommy’s here.

T.J. kissed the top of Chloe’s head. I’m going to check the steaks. I’ve probably ruined the meat.

No, Lisa whispered. Everything’s alright isn’t it, baby? she whispered to Chloe.

Nervous laughter punctuated the conversation as beer-bellied men rung out wet shirts over the lawn. The women gathered around Lisa.

Tanya, looking too much like the winner of a Spring Break wet T-shirt contest, gave T.J. a victory hug.

It wasn’t until the beers had been hoisted again and Ms. Wet T-shirt accepted a beach towel from T.J. that Lisa’s gut signaled her again.

Tommy?

She laid her daughter on the lawn, swaddled in the towel. She scanned the yard.

And then the river.

That’s when she saw the back of a blond afro floating just under the surface at the edge of the marsh, the only evidence of a brother who had heeded his father’s command to search. Only Tommy could barely swim.

A shrill, horrific scream filled her ears.

Was it her own?

It was her last clear memory of a picnic from hell.

3

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Words failed Lisa as she tried to describe her feelings and move forward in the days after Tommy’s death. Everything was unreal, as if life blurred, and she trudged along as if she herself was trapped underwater, her surroundings dark, thick, and cold. Her grief muffled every sound, dulled every color, and hindered every breath.

Her world, once spinning happily and centered, had tilted. Now askew, the very footing of her life seemed to pitch her forward; the ground was uneven, daring her to find her footing again.

The day of the drowning came back to her in memory islands surrounded by an ocean of grief. Images of T.J. working to resuscitate a lifeless body, her guests huddled together in a pale mass, hands lifted in an attempt to cover their gaping mouths, the paramedics counting, counting, counting.

That damned counting.

In the nights that followed, her sleep came in rare moments of exhaustion, only to be interrupted by the insufferable cadence of CPR, echoing inside of her.

Eventually, the counting voices faded, but only after she imagined that there was some external hand compressing her own chest, urging her to live, counting out the rhythm, causing her life to continue.

She wasn’t sure it was even life anymore. Somewhere on that day, her life had ended too, trailing off into another world with her son. She’d been left with a shell. A beating heart. But no soul.

Existence without life.

She suffered through a memorial. Polite people talking softly, as if she were fragile. She didn’t bother to offer plastic smiles. She listened as they gathered and talked together as if the world was still spinning. Fall baseball was coming. Someone was having a party. The principal’s fifteen year-old daughter was pregnant.

Lisa wanted to scream. It’s unnatural to lose a child. How can you talk of baseball when nothing in my world will ever be in focus again?

Two days after the memorial service, T.J. was up early, dressed for work. Lisa had spent the night on the couch, curled in a fetal position inside the womb of her sorrow.

T.J. paused briefly in front of her on his way out. Chloe needs changing, he muttered. With that, he was gone.

Lisa rose, changed her daughter, allowed her to have a Pop Tart for breakfast, and turned on the Cartoon Network. Then, she resumed her position on the couch.

When the light streaming in the wall of windows became too much, she retreated to her bedroom and closed the blinds.

She couldn’t sleep and rose to take the Ativan prescribed by Dr. Samuels, her family physician. Two pills and thirty minutes later, she fell into a fitful sleep.

When she awoke, her first thought was that she’d failed to get Tommy up for school on time. She threw back the covers and rushed to his bedroom, calling his name, Tommy, get up. We’ve overslept.

A wrinkleless bed greeted her. No Tommy.

A new wave of grief hit the shore.

He’s gone.

Chloe skipped into the bedroom where Lisa stood clutching a stuffed animal, a moose Tommy had called Morsel. Lisa had told him that morsel wasn’t really a name, but Tommy insisted. He loved the word and wanted his moose to have it.

Chloe looked up. Tommy?

Lisa lifted her daughter and hugged her to her breast. No baby. Tommy’s gone. Mommy didn’t mean to confuse you. Tommy’s gone, she repeated, choking back tears again.

T.J. finished two gallbladders and an operation for gastroesophageal reflux by two o’clock. As he straightened his tie in the doctor’s locker room, he couldn’t face going home to Lisa.

Instead, he called Lisa’s good friend, Tanya Spaulding.

Hello. Her voice was silk.

Tanya, it’s T.J. He hesitated.

He listened to her sigh, her breath heavy into the phone. How are you holding up?

Oh, you know, back at work. Need something to keep my mind busy.

You have something in mind?

I want to look for a new house. I just can’t see staying where I am. I can’t even stand to look at the water. I used to love it, but now… his voice closed off and he brought his hand to his lips to prevent a sob.

You’re talking to the right lady, she said, her voice suddenly cheerful. I think I know just the place. Something that just came on the market. Shall I schedule a time with the listing agent to view it?

I was hoping I could just come over to your office. Maybe we can look on-line or if something is empty, we could just go by.

OK, she said slowly, as if weighing what he’d said. I think Lisa will like this one.

About that, he said, Let’s just keep this between us for now, okay? Lisa isn’t interested in doing anything at the moment.

Of course. Why don’t you come on over? I don’t have another appointment.

He smiled. This was perfect.

It was suppertime and Lisa didn’t have the energy or will to cook. Chloe was hungry. Lisa looked at her watch. Maybe she could talk T.J. into bringing home something. Maybe Mexican. Or Chinese. She didn’t really care. She wasn’t hungry, but just wanted something on hand for her little family.

She called his cell.

It went to voicemail.

It always did when he was in the operating room.

He has his little kingdom for his escape.

I’ve got nothing but this big house on the banks of a monster.

She made Chloe a grilled cheese sandwich and sat down at the table with her little daughter.

Chloe smiled. Gwilled chee! She paused and folded her hands. Mama pway.

Lisa didn’t feel like praying. She wasn’t even sure about God anymore. A God who looked the other way when little boys