I’d been
thinking about him so much in the last few months, had even developed a genuine
affection for him that surprised me, and truth be told, I didn’t really want to
travel alone. So, since I was en route to his house anyway, and there was an empty
seat beside me, I decided to conjure him up. I closed my eyes and asked him to
come sit with me a spell.
And then … there
he was, in all his magnificence, smooshed into a coach seat between me and a
young traveler who looked equally befuddled, but kept her reactions to herself,
and perhaps her 1472 non-believing Facebook friends. He looked down at his
knees, his long muscular legs rammed into the seat in front of him, and he
shifted his riding boots slightly. He looked at me. I was agog. He looked
remarkably well for the 214 years that had passed since he died an agonizing
death. Really – remarkable. His hair was still clean and well-powdered and
pulled back into a relatively tidy braid that I knew made my wild traveling
tresses look like I might be a zombie. His suit was well-tended right down to
the shiny brass buttons. Also quite shiny was the sword dangling from his hip,
that I was pretty sure the flight attendant would consider a sharp implement.
His mouth was shut tight. I tried to recover from my dorktitude. “Hi,” I said.
“High. Yes, by
God, I see we are,” he replied in a soft sort of sexy voice, his gorgeous blues
fixed on the window beside me where cumulus clouds wafted by. “Is this conveyance
how we ascend to heaven then?”
“Oh, well, no,
well yes and no,” I stammered like a fool. “We are flying through the sky, but
we are not going to heaven. I’m sorry. We’re going to Baltimore.”
“Baltimore!” he
bellowed. “Why the devil would that be? For what cause have I been summoned so? I demand a coherent
explanation for this extreme trickery.”
He was upset
and I felt bad. While trying to shush him, I said “I’m sorry General. You’re just
visiting me in the future. This is the year 2013. We fly around in these
airplanes rather routinely now.”
“Air – planes?”
he repeated staring hard at me. Then lifting and looking at his big hand,
added, “I am an apparition.”
“Yes sir. I just
really needed to meet you. You see, I’m writing a book, a work of fiction based
on historical facts, that is to say, I’m writing about you. I’m on my way to Mount
Vernon now to learn more about your life.”
His countenance
changed as if he’d been slapped. His jowls slackened, and his furrowed brow and
eyelids lowered. The great bulk of his shoulders caved inward a bit much to the
delight of the girl in the aisle seat. “Mount Vernon,” he repeated softly.
“Yes,” I said
gaily. “It was saved and preserved as a museum.”
“You’re taking me
there – home – to my farm?”
“Wasn’t planning
on it Sir. I think there is too much on the ground that would be distressing to
you.”
“Well, young
lady,” he said politely, covering for both my age and his impatience, “You
speak in vexing circles. I must suggest it would benefit us both if you stated your
objective forthrightly.”
I, of course,
resumed my signature stammering dorktitude. “I guess I just wanted to see
you, hear your voice, maybe get your blessing for my work.”
“Desist with
guessing. Stand tall with your convictions. If you are being called to write something
then do so. If you apply all of the honesty and integrity to your work that you
can muster you will be able to withstand any criticism that follows, I assure
you. To encourage literature and the study of history is a duty to which every
good citizen owes his country.”
“Thanks, I am being honest in my work. I cannot tell a
lie,” I teased.
He looked
unamused. I got serious.
“I’m writing
about you as a slave owner.”
“I see,” he said
seriously. “There is plenty of honesty in that. I was a slave owner from the tender age of eleven years until my death, though I provided for my people’s freedom
in my will. I knew it to be a withering institution and could foresee it’s
undoing in short time.”
Suddenly, I
saddened. I didn’t want him to know the truth. I didn’t want to tell him what
happened after, though I want to tell everyone else. Children, no matter how
old they are, never want to disappoint their fathers. Cannot bear to see the
look of failure in their father’s face, reflected back upon us in his eyes.
Averting his
gaze, I took his right hand in both of mine. Borrowing his wife’s term of
endearment for him, I said, “Yes, Old Man, thank you.”
With his
legendary intuitive intelligence, he said just before disintegrating, “Whatever
has yet to be done, charge on.”
“Yes sir,” I said
to his departing particles, “We will.”
