Incident At Monticello

‘The not good, the bad, and the ugly.’ 

  My morning ritual complete, and my Monticello-ware packed, it’s time.  At altitude, it was an amazingly perfect Virginia day. It was not Colorado Altitude. But in this region it was high in the sky.  That sky was a bluish white. Only few clouds were high and rather diminutive. The temperature I guessed to be in the low fifties.  With a light parka in hand, I headed east. My intent was to circle as much of the five thousand acres as time allowed. Circling clock-wise, I planned a path that would get me back at ten o’clock. In time to meet Rojer.

  Walking at a steady but not hurried pace I came upon the Braintree.  Braintree is a majestic old Oak. As big as I ever remember seeing. Perhaps though, that might be the way I’ve chosen to remember.  Braintree is named after Jefferson’s friend John Adams. Named? I’ve never heard anyone call it that. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever called it that. Braintree is mine.

  Are you wondering why I’ve named it Braintree?  Wonder on! Historians know; the rest of you should solve the question. 

  At its base, Braintree is as big as a large tractor tire. Reported by people who report such things, it is several centuries old.  Braintree is located about two hundred yards east of the main house.  Braintree is the first of the landmarks that I wish to visit on this morning’s excursion.

  Approaching the Oak I notice something I had not yesterday when I visited on an abbreviated walk; Braintree was budding. Some of these buds were beginning to crack open.  It caught me as early for February.  I stared to firm a memory. It was there; tickling my thought; would this be the last time.

  I continued on my journey and fell deeper into reminiscing of Monticello. Monticello is located high atop a 987 foot mountain.  The top had been leveled off by Jefferson’s slaves.  That task had taken over two years to complete. This Icon is located in Charlottesville.  The original design of the main house constituted of eight rooms.  When Jefferson returned from his ambassadorship in France, the construction was still unfinished.  Jefferson upon his arrival at Monticello had been greatly influenced by French architecture.  This, and his grandiose knowledge of Washington’s Mount Vernon, was his cause for redesigning the building.  The new, grander, Monticello, would have twenty-one rooms. It would now present a grandiose façade complete with columns. Lastly, it would now support a magnificent Dome.  The same building we see today.

  Monticello is full of an eclectic collection of art, furnishings, and furniture.  While abroad, Jefferson personally collected items of art and grand design. Eighty six crates in all were shipped from France back to Monticello.

  One of my favorite pieces is a huge and splendid clock.  It is a wonderful combing of craftsmanship, art, and engineering. The magnificent time-piece uses cannon balls as weights. The number of these weights seeable, identifies the day of the week.

  Unique, in Jefferson’s Study, are two items that I find of great time relevance.  The first is a carousel of his own design.  This unique 18th century ingenuity, allowed him to have readable access to five books at once.  The other is a machine called The Polygraph.  This Polygraph is a reproduction machine. This machine allowed Jefferson to produce copies of the thousands of letters and documents that he wrote.

  The farm’s main crops were tobacco and corn.  However, there was also a two acre kitchen garden. This for-in-house-use garden grew 170 varieties of fruits and 330 varieties of vegetables and herbs.  Seeds from this garden were used in the Obama Whitehouse garden.

  Not knowing when or if I will ever get back to this hallowed place, I still photograph all. Every breath, I taste. Every sound is pitch perfect. A babe; all is first time. All is emotional.

  Unknowingly, grasping for retention had slowed my pace.  On this circling, at this time, I was farther from Rojer than I should have been. I needed to quicken pace and lengthen stride.

  Approaching Rojer’s home, it is 10:08.  I could see some of the gathered in the front of the main house. Mostly I could hear the sounds of that gathering.  Most relative to me at this moment, I could see Rojer waiting for me.  I was sure his impatience was passed simmering.  As I closed on him he exaggerated a tapping of his wrist watch. The international symbol for I’d screwed up.  I tried to defend myself. “Yeah! Yeah! You do know that it is right over there right.” My head pointed to the house.  Rojer held glare. “Just give me a minute.”

  “We don’t have a minute.”

  “A second!” I pushed by him. “Just need my stuff. I want to put it in the car.”  I didn’t plan on needing a quick get away, but you never know.

  I entered the slave house with Rojer shadowing. Rojer played the part of me to Pami. “It’s time to go!”  Included with these words is the prison guard follow. I threw on my Traveling Hat. My traveling hat is a blue and red ‘84’ Chicago Cubs hat.  It was old, it had Mervin puppy teeth marks, it had been through the dishwasher dozens of times, it was treasured.

  To complete my pseudo Tom Cruise disguise, I donned cheap mirrored Aviator sunglasses.  They were not my normal pair. I’d left mine in the Rockies and picked these up at a Charlottesville ‘7-11’.  ‘Oh thank heaven!’

  In my mind, the size of which has been well documented, I was sure that I would not be recognized. Thus ensuring that I would not have to speak with anyone.  Upon reflection this seemed a vain worry. Was anyone really going to recognize me. And recognize me as what.

  Bag in hand, hat on, glasses in place, Rojer stared at me.  Shaking his head, he flatly said; “Let’s go.”  With a chuckle and a smile I followed out the door.

  Following a step behind at best pace, we headed towards the parking lot and his ride. Rojer’s intended path was to circumvent the circus that was in town. The jamboree was quickly growing.  Profiling? No. I’ll call it first recognition. There were five news trucks, thirty or so journalists of different media, and approximately twice as many observers.  “Quite a group Rojer.”  He left me hanging.

  The parking lot was maxed out. News trucks were set up on the Deadpan.  “Have you ever seen the parking lot this full?”  I thought I toned it rhetorical.

  “I don’t think I have,” he answered anyways. “There certainly are a lot of people here to see Doctor Daniel Rengaw.”  He paused slight and then finished his thought. “The man that wrote two Non-Fiction Historical Best Sellers with a Business Degree.” He enjoyed himself with a chuckle and a smile.

  Even with his sarcasm Rojer was noticeably tight. I understood but I’d noticed that I wasn’t. While he was opening the trunk I asked him: “Are you alright Rojer?”

  “Yeah. This is just such a joke.”

  “It’s okay Rojer. This should be good publicity. Good for the foundation and Monticello.” He closed the trunk, turned to me and forced a smile. Good enough. But there did seem to be something beyond the crazy-ness of the past twenty four hours that was bothering him.  “Come on Rojer let’s go do this.” I tapped my watch with exaggeration. “It’s almost time.” Nothing!

  Rojer yielded right-of-way and let me lead. This caught me for a second then I took it. I determined that a spot center-back would be the most comfortable.  Avoiding individuals that all were in conversations of snobby affluence, we weaved in and out. The trick was avoiding the over animated elbows, and the hands holding clear plastic cups with a red liquid in them.  Besides the type of conversations taking place, I had flash-backs of the many concerts that Rojer and I had attended. Okay… so that was a very loose metaphor.

  My eyes lazily surveyed. The red brick of a house as the back-drop; the stage centered with the porch; the sun a soft glow just above the dome; painted the scene a shade of historically inspiring. Then there; barely noticeable and overwhelming, the reason wall this had reason. It seemed that it had already been granted monument status. Standing square in front of a podium, three cherry stained easels. Each easel was providence gifted with a framed document. The Document.

  Di
gital cameras were flashing and making fake reflex camera sounds. The Bell of the Ball was forever being digitally captured.  As soon as my eyes wandered from the flashes, something caught them. Someone. Someone one thousand eight hundred and sixty three miles from home.

  Speaking to no one in particular, but hoping Rojer would hear I said; “What the hell… why is he here?”  Rojer looked to me and then snapped to where I was looking. He was searching the stage area.

  “Who? Who’s here?”  I pointed towards the stage, the podium, the five chairs, and The Document.  Rojer’s phone signaled an inbound text. He read it.

  With adrenaline driven anger I snapped; “Rojer pay attention!  Do you see Peter standing by the podium?  Rojer look!”  I pointed again.

  He looked away from his cell and towards the house.  “Where?  Oh yeah I see Peter.  What’s the problem?” 

  Speckles of spit flew with my question; “The… the problem?  The problem is that man to Peter’s right. That’s Greg!”  He looked at me still not understanding.  I looked at Rojer as if he was the stupidest person ever.  Again I pointed and said; “That’s Greg Tillman! Why is Greg Tillman here?” 

  Rojer asked; “Greg Tillman?”

  I answered; “Rojer that’s Greg from the CBI. The CBI. Greg!”

  “Oh okay,” he said. I glared at Rojer. “Danny I didn’t know. How the hell am I supposed to know what he looks like? I don’t know why he’s here?”  I was hard on his poker face.  “I swear Danny I didn’t know he was going to be here.  I swear.  Danny Peter hasn’t told me anything.”

  Perhaps it was my actions out of Norm; Peter’s vision lit. A large Buck stepping from the forest’s edge, the hunter spotted the prey.  It must have been Rojer that Peter spotted. I was after all in Tom Cuisse camouflage.  Rojer asked me; I think it was me he was asking. His question was smothered by thought. “Why would a guy from the Colorado Bureau of Investigation be here?  Danny they’re coming over.”

  Go with that quick getaway. The brave hidden in my mind shut that down. Deer in headlights. I thought of escape once more. Too late. I could feel sarcasm. I was going to get to speak with my buddy.

  “Rojer. Daniel. Daniel I believe you know Director Tillman.” Peter said it so snotty that he had to have a cold.

  “Good to see you Daniel.” Greg sinned. He lied. I knew it and he didn’t care. That’s a day in purgatory Greg.

  Peter continued; “Did you know that Greg and I roomed together our first two years of college?” I did not. I did not reply. My mind was busy answering past questions.  Peter continued; “The Director was kind enough to come here and be part of today’s press conference.”  Peter emphasized: ‘be part of’.  My disdain for Mr. Henderson was growing.

  Henderson, having pierced me with his barbed arrow, chose to finish with a twisting.  “Glad you could at least attend Mr. Rengaw. I think you will find it most interesting.  Now please excuse us. We need to get started.” He nodded slightly toward Rojer. “Rojer.”

  Peter turned and headed towards his stage of glory. I’m sure he thought it soon would be such. Greg did not follow. My look was of questioning. Greg’s look at me was of contempt floating gently upon a streaming enjoyment. With movement that I thought would turn him to the stage as well, he smoothly stepped to me. Leaning to my right ear, he defiantly whispered; “I’m going to get my fifteen minutes.”

  I pushed sharply a chuckle and bitch-slapped his delusion of a lifetime. “Fifteen minutes.  This is it?  This is your Field of Dreams? Your living legacy?  How sad of a man you must be Greg.” I chortled. “No wonder you are number 15 on the phone directory.”

  He pulled back from my personal space. His face lost all tone.  He looked at me fumbling with the moment. I’m sure my face was pure devious. With his John Wilkes Booth moment over, he exited stage left.

  Rojer’s face was aglow fired by excitement. He tried to harness his energy but wasn’t very successful. “Perfect Danny. That was awesome!  I can’t believe you said that.  Damn that was beautiful.  What did he whisper to you?”

  “I hate that son-of-a-bitch.”

  Rojer looked confused and asked; “I understand him not liking you, but did he really call you that?” 

  “No. No. Never mind.”

  Rojer quickly accepted my wanting out and lifted his phone to me. He exclaimed proudly; “That text was from my Chemist lady friend. She is going to watch the press conference. I guess it is being televised on a local channel.”  Wondering why he chose to tell me that at this moment, I gave him a glance that asked this. Even with my well rendered retort, Greg had gotten to me. Feeling that… that feeling. The surge of spoiled blood. The chest suddenly too small for the pumping hard heart. The warm flushing. All the baggage that anger carries.

  The stage activities were gathering steam. It really wasn’t a stage, more it a setting. The three easels were prominent in the forefront. Behind the Holy Grails was the podium. Five wooden chairs were the third wave. The theatrical historical set was backwashed by the beauty of brick, columns, and dome.  The sun’s halo glowed it all so surreal. So surreal, it shivered sentiment. Too real, it was photo-op perfect.

  Curious to see who was going to occupy the five seats, I watched attentively.  Assuming it was headed for Agent Lewis, I heard Rojer’s fingers tapping out a text.  Or should I call her Kaitlin; as Rojer was starting to.

  The Dance of the Like Minded was curtain up.  Peter took to the podium and surveyed the setting. A Director checking to see if the participants were on their marks.

  FBI Special Agent Whiten took a seat to the far right. Mr. Fifteen Minutes sat to her right.  The chair behind Peter was empty. I took it to be his.  Standing in front of the chair next to Peter’s was a man that I did not know.  On queue he sat.  A chair not clarified, the last remaining one sat empty. I did not see a Loitering waiting to fill it.

  Peter performed the mandatory banging of the microphone. This did build the attention of his invited guests.  “Please…” Pause for affect. “Please if you would we’d like to get started.  Thank you.”  Caesar-like he raised his right hand asking for calm in the Senate.  I wondered if Brutas might be lurking about.

  “Thank you and I would like to welcome you all to Monticello on this splendid February morning.”  The unclarified remained that way. Of course instantly I knew there was a story there. Was Peter going to develop a story line? Just as instantly it got dark on me. Was I going to be one of his characters?

  Although I did not see the purpose, he again paused for affect. Sensing that his pause was causing an awkward affect on his listeners, the Great Orator picked up again. “For those of you that do not know me, my name is Peter Henderson.  I have had the honor and the privilege over the past six years of being the Chairman of The Foundation.”  At this there was brief clapping. “Thank you.” Again with the hand. “The Foundation is dedicated in the preservation of this great American landmark. And it will be for the coming decades.  The financial help that has been bestowed by the great people of Virginia, and this wonderful nation, has been overwhelming and greatly appreciated.  I am certain that the foundation will be blessed with all of your generosity well into the future.”

  “At this time I would like to introduce my invited friends and guests.”  The inflection of his sentence was uncomfortable in my ears. “I’m happy to present my long-time friend Greg Tillman.  Director Tillman is the Division Head of the Colorado Bureau of Investigation’s Forensic Investigation Department.”  Uninspired clapping. “Seated next to the Director is Special Agent Whiten of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.  Agent Whiten is a Team Lead within the FBI’s Special Investigation Division.” Louder and sustained applause.  Virginian’s are very proud of their FBI.  “In just a few moments Agent Whiten will be leading the technical part of this briefing.” I wondered how Greg’s fifteen minutes was going.

  “Al
so here today is the Managing Editor of the Richmond Times Dispatch.  The Dispatch has had the exclusive on this story since its onset.  The Dispatch will continue to cover any and all new developments.  Thank you for joining us today Mr. Dan Sheridan.”  Mr. Sheridan nods. 

  “You’re welcome Chairman Henderson.”  Polite applause.

  Peter’s visual attention is placed back on the faces in the crowd. Then definitively he turns to the fifth chair. He speaks to the empty seat; “As many of you expected…”  Quick-turning back to the media and the givers of funds, Peter finishes his sentence; “Doctor Daniel Rengaw was reported by the media to be with us here today.  However, situations have dictated that he cannot join us up here today.  As probably are you, I am most disappointed with his absence.”  I chose to analyze his verbal reprimand later. I was focusing on the proceedings and did not want my thoughts otherwise occupied.

  Peter took another long pause. It was noticeably Public Speaking 101.  Rod, a Toastmaster friend of mine would be tearing up.

  Pausing, studying, he looked like he was going to announce a cure for Alzheimer’s.  With moment at hand, he began his sell. “Monticello, The Foundation, and Virginians, were fortunate to receive a historical reminder of our place in the evolution of America.  A reminder from Monticello’s first owner and only true resident.  The discussion we are about to embrace, is the relevance and origin of these magnificent documents here before me.  We proudly offer them for your study and for all to observe.”  Flash bulbs pop and are spit to the ground.  “Our question must be; are they a direct offering from Thomas Jefferson, or an indirect offering of his thoughts?” Peter lets the crowd rustle. “This question matters certainly. However, surely what matters most, is their relevance.  Relevance; I guess we will have to let scholars debate.  And debate this they will! Long into the new millennium.”

  Rojer leans to me and whispers; “He’s selling it.”

  All that were gathered here and listening, most of them seeking a reason to believe, were embracing his words.  I had to admit, he’d grabbed them.

  The Chairman continued over our observations. “Four days before Thanksgiving, the curator here at Monticello found these hand written pages.” His hand opened palm to The Document.  “This article is signed by Thomas Jefferson; America’s greatest President.”  An in the moment dwell.  “This document is dated November 22nd 2009.”  Looking into the crowd’s eyes he waited for excited murmuring. A couple of camera clicks and repositioning news crews was all the moment was. His disappointed heart missed a beat.

  “With the help of the FBI and the CBI we have completed extensive analysis of this document.  Along with this analysis, Doctor Rengaw and I have had numerous discussions on the authenticity of this document.” My heart missed a beat. “As most of you are aware, Doctor Rengaw has written several books on our Founding Fathers. He is considered one of America’s leading experts on the writings of Thomas Jefferson.” That was crap. I was flattered, but crap. “If he was up here today, I am sure he would tell you of its striking similarities to Jefferson’s past writings.”

  I leaned and subdued to Rojer; “Expert?  Discussed similarities?  Where does he get off?”

  “Suit his ass Danny!” Not so subdued. Apparently I was now stressed and Rojer was now not. The textbooks of comedy call this Timing. Perfect!  The laugh I couldn’t contain was too loud. There were furrowed glances and judgmental murmurs. I was fine with both.  I was always fine with Perfect.

  I’m sure that I missed some of his words, but I regained Peter.  “Let me now yield the podium with one final thought.  The Foundation is glad to have these three pages available for their premiere viewing.  Starting tomorrow they will be on permanent display for the entire world to witness.  We will proudly display them in the same study that they were drafted.  We invite all to view and appreciate this amazing piece of Jeffersonian literature.”  There it is! The hook! ‘ABC’.  You could hear him smoothly building to a close.  I have no problem with his promoting. That is if it is going to help The Foundation.  I hoped it wouldn’t personally benefit Peter. However, I’m not sure the two can be mutually exclusive.

  His Pitch had to have been anticipated by the gathered. Peter finished, it brought about a polite Golf Clap.  Peter smiled like a proud new Grandfather.  I am sure that his desired response was more of raucous jubilation.  For now burying his disappointment, he felt that his speech had delivered the wished for attention.

  “Thank you.”  He nods to the crowd. “Thank you.” He nods. “Thank you.” He… Well, you get it. Politician 101.

  “Please…” Hand up. “At this time I would like to bring to the podium my good friend Greg Tillman.”  Again with the friend; the good friend.  Peter turns to find Greg.  With the exuberance afforded a conquering hero, Peter exclaims; “Director Tillman!”  Peter claps as the Director ascends to the podium.  I am not sure if Press Conference Etiquette calls for clapping at this time, but there was only sparse indulgence from the crowd.

  There was much merriment throughout the kingdom. Backs were slapped, hugs were hugged, and hands shook. Greg watched and waited for his good friend to take his seat. Mr. Tillman turned and poised for his fifteen. Director, don’t screw the pooch.

  Greg settled in and waited for the less than enthusiastic applause to cease.  “Thank you Chairman Henderson.  I would like to thank you for your invite here today.  I am glad to help where the FBI could not.”  Greg gave a boisterous laugh that quickly faded when he realized he was alone in jocularity.  Tar began heating and feathered geese scurrying.

  Blood a lotted for his brain was pooling in his feet. But he continued; “The Foundation and Monticello are near and dear to my heart.”  Nice cliché. “I am delighted to be here and to have the opportunity to present you with my expert opinion.”

  “Leave it.” Rojer’s advice was instant.

  “Approximately three weeks ago, the document in question was indirectly presented to me from my friend Doctor Daniel Rengaw.” I felt Rojer’s eyes snap to me.  My thought; that’s going to bite me in the ass.  “The three page document was analyzed by my team.  Using all of the technology and expert opinion available to the Colorado Bureau of Investigation, we were able to determine that the Penmanship and Script Style Analysis gave us a 72.6% probability that the document was in fact written by Thomas Jefferson.”  Murmurs, stirring, and camera flashes.

  I’d rewound and was playing through the same analysis report. Expecting and waiting for Greg to continue, it would be a forever wait. “Thank you.” A confused crowd. A gradual awkward applause. “That’s it?” I think I said it aloud.

  Greg had brought to the podium a handful of papers. He now gathered them up.  “He couldn’t memorize six sentences!” I know I said that aloud. Rojer bumped me. Are you with me? Do I need to say it?  Come on we’ll say it together. “Idiot!”

  Tillman took his seat only telling one fourth of the story; one fourth of the Analysis Report.  Greg’s departure brought open conversation in the group. Staring at Rojer he only lazy shook his face.

  I wasn’t sure what Rojer thought I was going to do. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. But as I turned back to the podium Rojer firmly grabbed my left forearm. He insisted; “Danny let it go. No not now. Later!”  I… Rojer kept my emotions in check. Or at least the expression of those emotions.

  Some of the Peacocks standing closest us began preening. Our comments had begun to dirty their feathers of this most regal occasion. Stealth mode is where I needed to return. Sensing I’d controlled, Rojer set me loose. However, I knew I was getting an affirming glare. The curtain lifted for act two.

  Peter, playing the cheerleader, returned to the microphone and exuberantly said; “Thank you Director.  Please make sure to thank your team for their expert analysis.”

  With Greg accepting thanks and looking like a Bobble Head, Peter continued.  “At this time I
would like to bring up Special Agent Whiten.  Agent Whiten will brief us on additional analysis performed by the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  After the obligatory photo-op smoozing, Agent Whiten stepped to the microphone. She politely thanked Chairman Henderson and settled in.  Instantly profiling, her stage presence was uncommonly docile. The swagger, that FBI bravado, was suppressed.  The Agent was noticeably uncomfortable. This confident woman wanted to be anywhere else. Still, the stoic soldier forcibly began her briefing.

  She was delivering the briefing professionally. It was organized and without fluff. It was much like what I had seen from her previously. But it was missing… I’ll call it ‘It’.

  She covered the age of the paper and the chemical analysis of the ink. It was abridged, but it was the same report that Agent Lewis had courted Rojer with.  It was all factual and objective.

  She finished with the chemical analysis of the ink. Which included its use in the 18th century. Before she finished the last vowel Peter sprang to his feet. In an instant he was at the podium. She leaned hard aside as Peter pushed to the microphone. “Incidentally, the chemical make-up of this ink is the same as ink believed to be used frequently by Thomas Jefferson.”  Rojer looked at me questioning. I shrugged. This was the first I had heard of that.

  Rojer wanted more. “Is that true Danny?”

  “I don’t know.  They didn’t say that did they?”  Lazily he shook his head.

  I didn’t want Rojer’s questions. I was locked on the Agent. Rojer’s cell sounds an incoming text. Agent Whiten was initially surprised by Peter’s interjection. Then she was confused by this information that she did not have.  Hoping she hadn’t left something out, she rifled through her papers.  After several uncomfortable seconds that turned into minutes in her mind, she knew she had to move on.

  Rojer bumps me. “He’s lying.”  Rojer looks up from his phone.  “He’s lying.  Kaitlin says Peter’s lying.” Rojer’s proclamation wasn’t hushed.

  Agent Whiten seemed to be finished with the analysis of the Ink. Her composure gathered, she looked up to the small crowd and said; “This concludes my report. Thank you for your time.”  Agent Whiten wasn’t convinced that she’d concluded. But she was indeed thankful that her time was ended.

  She gathered her now confused documents. Peter rose quickly and stepped to her side.  Dropping one of her papers she retrieved it. Raising up and passing by the microphone she added; “Have a nice day.” If it hadn’t been so excruciating to watch, it would have been comical.

  Peter took to the podium.  “Thank you Agent Whiten.”  Rojer made a grumbling noise. If I’d heard it before, I didn’t remember it. He was warring Peter out with a glare.

  Not softly at all Rojer said; “That’s it!” He jerked to my face. “How can that be it?  What about… what about Plasma? And the two seconds? What the…” People that didn’t want us to know that they were looking at us, looked at us.  His questioning got louder. “What about 1776 and 1776 and 1776? One twenty. What about one twenty? Everything? Danny what about everything else? Oh hell no that can’t be it I’ve got questions get her back!”  The lookers were now questioning Rojer. They’d also begun questioning his questions.

  I didn’t think Peter could hear Rojer. But I also didn’t hear Peter anymore. A crowd was now blocking my view of the stage. I got a bad feeling. “Easy big guy.” I had his arm. “Rojer take it easy.”

  No longer caring if we knew, a rather large group was now watching Rojer.  Because this group was homogeneously socialites, and wanna-be socialites, this was as much excitement as many had seen in months.

  All were studying Rojer; all were trying to solve his questions. With this inquisitive group growing in size, and slowly surrounding us, I heard Peter again.  “Please… Please if I may at this time I would like to introduce our last speaker. Please welcome Dan-” 

  Peter had not finished introducing Mr. Sheridan when I heard; “Doctor Rengaw?”  The inquiry came from behind and to my right.  A reflex; I halted to a flinch.  “Doctor Rengaw is that you?  It is you!”

  There were several, then more; eyes that left Rojer in search of me. Each trying to undo my disguise.  Cameras joined in the hunt. Both Reflex and Video. All were searching for the point of inquired interest.  Rojer turned passed and behind me. His eyes listened for the voice of my introduction.

  It was at this point that I knew two things. First; Maverick was in trouble. I’d been out’d and I needed a save from Goose. Also; the press conference was shifting location.  A shift I neither wanted nor anticipated.

  I turned to Rojer to see where he was looking. “Doctor Rengaw I knew it was you.”  The voice was loud enough for most to hear. I swallowed hard. This voice I’d heard before. Peter’s voice was no longer emanating from the amplified speakers.

  Standing next to a news camera, a camera that was pointed directly at me, stood a young man. High in the sky he’d been.

  With questioning inquisition I asked; “Ben?”

  Rojer; “Ben who?”  Both of our questions were left hanging in the Virginia morning. Cameras moved in jostling for clear shots. Beautiful people pushed forward with extended microphones. Invited faces were painted with expectation. From all directions questions began to pop. I looked towards several but answered none.

  A short young woman, attractive with poof’d Final Net hair, won the battle to the inner circle.  She had a Kindergarten Teacher’s voice and a microphone. “Are you Doctor Daniel Rengaw?”  Trying to take-in Sound-bites, other microphones waggled in.

  The Tubes in my cranium glowed red. “Be careful Daniel.” It was the tiny Pamila on my shoulder.  Rojer chose fear with flight mode. “Danny let’s go.”  Goose the bodyguard held the small of my back and tried to steer me to a safe haven.  Not knowing what haven he intended, I did not respond to Rojer’s physical request.  I dug in. I don’t know what told me so, but retreat seemed the wrong move. Now entrenched I had to decide if I was going to confirm or confuse. 

  “Yes this is Doctor Rengaw.”  Ben chose confirm.

  Questions stepped atop others. I looked at each step but did not ascend a single one. Out of the cluttered voices came a definitive one. “Doctor Rengaw I am glad you are here can you please answer a few questions?”

  “I can answer a few-”

  “What do you think of the document and do you think it was written by Thomas Jefferson?”  I thought about going back to Chef-ing. Tiny Pamila: ‘Danny I love our home.’

  Setting free a ridiculous smile, one that I hope won’t be on any front page, or any page, I pretend to look at all those circled. Not focusing on anyone, I develop these smooth words; “Well… we all know that Thomas Jefferson is dead. He has been for some time now.”  I write for a living.

  Rojer still wanting to protect, grabbed and tugged my arm. Not forcibly, but his intent was clear. A male poof’d spoke; “Doctor Rengaw please tells us. The letter. Did Jefferson write it?” It got very lonely quiet. “Yes or no?” I stared into the eyes of the man that might end my career. “Doctor Rengaw?’ His volume was inside-voice.

  “Come on Danny let’s go!”  He jerked me with much more intent. Let’s do that Rojer; this is what my eyes said as I turned to him. Rojer’s look understand that it was indeed time to go.

  Breaking my brain-lock; “It’s okay Rojer I’m good.”  I instantly questioned my faith in my words. It was a scared questioning that I had to answer. I turned back. I had this. A usable opening and hopefully an effective close. Rojer loosened the leash. With just this I had the magnificent power of attentiveness.

  Stoic, I went for stoic. “I have indeed studied the document in great detail.” Pause for affect. “I believe that the document has certain characteristics that reflect the writings of Thomas Jefferson.  However, there are certain aspects that do not match anything ever written by Jefferson.  And let’s
face the facts people; Thomas Jefferson died in 1826.  If he wrote a document in 2009… there’s your story.”

  Curiosity… no, concern caused me to look to the stage. The press conference as intended was over.  I knew that I now was the press conference. I also knew that this was not good.  With Peter’s thunder unintentionally stifled, he was going to have a large thorn in his paw. Chairman Henderson was gonna be one pissed off pussycat.

  Feeling like I successfully had turned into the skid, thus avoiding a crash, I felt safe in continuing. “Look everybody, you will have to ask the scientific experts for more details.  There are more details. Just ask them.  Ask them about videos. Ask them about times.  Ask them to show you the complete Analysis Reports. That’s your job now.”

  I had this. I was done. Just like that I was beating feet toward the parking lot. Questions continued to pass me by. “I’m sorry but I have a plane to catch. Thanks all.” I repeated this at least three times too many. Retrieving and rewinding these words back in my mind, I was embarrassed. It was an embarrassment noticed only by me. I was one of those never answering politicians that smothered everything in manure. What I despised, I was. Briefly; I rationalized it as being only briefly.

  Playing out in a dream where you are desperately trying to get somewhere, but never do, the questions continued. Journalist one; “What details?”

  Journalist two; “What videos?”

  Journalist three; “Is that all you are going to say?” 

  Journalist… I don’t know… thirteen; “Why won’t you speak with us?”  Amongst their pelting questions I continued in my dream to anywhere. Anywhere different.

  A question that flew through my ears and landed in the nest of my mind; “How did you sleep last night Daniel?”  It was a voice that I knew. I halted now! No one told my leg muscles to freeze, but here I stood in a shiver.  Before I could decide if I should, I did; I searched and found that same familiar face. If I have done my job, if you are deeply enveloped in this tale, you’d probably guess that it was Ben’s face. I’ve done my job.

  His bright green eyes clasped all that is me. I knew what he was going to say, but it wasn’t possible. “I know that you slept… spent the night here at Monticello.” I wasn’t aware of them, but cameras again had me framed. I accepted.

  “Ben?”

  “Daniel did you sleep well at Monticello?” His head tilted slight. “Did you dream?”  My thoughts ran all over each other. Dream?  I am now!  Flirting with delusion.  An unanswerable question. An irrational answer. Pelting. Two seconds.

  Ben’s green, mine blue, they were mixed into a single thought color. He held comfortable in silence. He knew. I knew. Both these he understood.

  “He slept fine no more questions,” Rojer interjected and attempted a third rescue. My arm in his hand and one degree of pain more than tight, Rojer demanded; “Daniel! Now!”  He pulled. I couldn’t break visual lock with Ben.  Ben smiled a friendly knowing smile.

  “Wait a minute Rojer.”  Ben was anticipating my words. “Ben will you please walk with me.” There were no words but he and I were both swimming in the same thought pool. “Get-em Rojer. No more microphones. Keep all of them away.”  Ben stepped to me and I started towards the Falcon. Rojer started stepping towards them.

  “Alright you guys we’re done here.  Leave us alone now.”  Rojer seemed seven feet tall.  Their microphones dropped limp. Their cameras fell from viewing and stopped clicking. The relentless herding Lemmings ended their sea surge plunge. Rojer stood firmly defiant; scanning for any that may have broken from the heard. Satisfied that we were heading off unfettered, Rojer fell in distant behind.

  As we gained some separation, a demanding voice divided itself from all others. “Rojer!  Rojer wait a minute!”  I hadn’t chosen another meeting with whom I knew I was about to. Choices; they usually are not. Bad was about to be. I turned.

  Rojer was back to me. He was face to the hurrying Peter. He was firmly square to Peter. Bad was about to be. As if the streetlight had suddenly turned yellow, Peter stumbled to a stop. He was personal-space close to Rojer. In his adrenaline driven pace, this closeness was what he’d planned. Confidence drained from Peter’s face. In Rojer’s firmly square, it was now closer than Peter was comfortable with.

  What it was I couldn’t see. But Peter definitely saw Rojer’s face. Rojer’s fists briefly clenched and then eased. Bad was about to be. Again, in planning, I’m sure Peter’s words were going to be delivered in a cool steady tone. They weren’t that. “Rojer… I just thought I’d let you know that when your contract is over… well… I, the Foundation, won’t be extending it.”

  Rojer stepped and leaned to Peter. Peter steeped back. “Mister Chairman! Peter! I decided that last night.”

  Again, thunder stolen, paw, thorn, all that; Mister Chairman turned and headed away.  “Yes!” I may have said that. Meeting my eyes Rojer’s face was a Master’s palette mixed with all the colours of every emotion.

  I’m busting a Father’s smile at a child’s graduation. Glancing a questioning look at me Rojer passes towards the parking lot.

  While the three of us were making our way to the car, I caught a glimpse of a green and white taxi pulling into the parking lot.  It was one of those I noticed that just because I noticed that. We all were muted by thought. Holding to silence, Ben, Rojer, and I reached the car.

  I wasn’t sure if I was repressing our anticipated conversation, but I seemed unwilling to seek from Ben. Seek whatever it was that might unfold.  Moreover the unknown whatever. Rojer’s look to me said that it was my turn. Ben’s look said that he was ready. I took a breath and opened the unknown. “Ben what did you mean… why did you ask about my sleep?  Why did you ask if I dreamt?”  There was something queer about the way Ben first glanced at Rojer and then archaeologically explored my face. I didn’t know what it was he asking from us. The neuro-physical Ben not still among us, his lips moved as if reading. Plying inspiration from another plane, Ben was asking for himself.

  A bit of awkward waiting. Voiced differently; distinction-ally of a generation that preceded his, Ben began orating. “Daniel.” The difference winced my mind. “Daniel my friend. I hold knowledge.  My knowledge is much of you.” His pause was slight. “I am aware of the antemeridian one-twenty, and how its broad shoulders are yoked tight to another one-twenty. There is the whiting and the whiting around you. Willingly not being blasphemous, I know all things completed. I know of it all Daniel.  What of it do you hold to Daniel?  What is it of it that you sense?  Inside of you. What blood is it that heart pumps? What air is that lungs cleanse. It is not possible for you to be without doubt. So you question. A dream?” He smiles broadly. “You know it not. Philosophically you cannot internalize that to be the true course. The tangible is not only what you can touch. You will soon enough, but now you can’t see that. There is so much more. What is that slight of this more that you need embrace? Embrace and release it. Daniel you need to share.  Through seeking knowledge, you have always walked headlong towards enlightenment. Your walk in now near its end. You now have what so few do. You have come to it in a way that still fewer have. Now, it is yours to let spoil. Waste it, or not. Think Daniel. Choose my friend. It is said that the only difference between wise men and dullards is that the dull ware and the wise share.”

  Ben’s timbre was unwavering. Sullen is perhaps not the proper word. Perhaps, running the edge of sullen and definitely serious, would best describe his façade.

  As quickly as it had gone, it was back. He again was a college student. “Well guys I see that my ride is here. Gotta go!” His smile was hugely infectious and I caught it with one of my own. His energy was electric. An unconsumed youth again sparked anyone that he may touch.

  Extending his hand first to Rojer and then to me, he said brief goodbyes and headed off to the waiting taxi.  As he reached
the cab it hit me hard that I had one more question.  “Ben!”  Hand on the handle he turned for me to continue.  “Ben. I’m embarrassed to say that I don’t know your whole name.”  He again wore the same smile.

  “Benjamin. My name is Benjamin. Benjamin Rush.”  His smile eased to one of understanding. With a quick wave Benjamin Rush slid into the taxi and was gone. I assumed gone forever. Again.

  My attention drifted to the warming air and the wisps of clouds hanging high above Monticello. To the heavens I asked; “Young Benjamin Rush. A medical student from Philadelphia. Benjamin Rush who doesn’t drive. Here at Monticello. Again.”

  Surprising myself but mostly Rojer, I Jackie Gleason hopped and quick stepped to the passenger side of the Falcon.  “Come on Rojer we gotta go get in let’s go.” 

  Rojer opening his door; “Take it easy Danny it’s not even eleven thirty. Your plane doesn’t leave for over three hours.” He paused and asked calmly; “Danny, what did you mean just then about Benjamin?”  Rojer slides the keys in and fires up the Ford.

  “Rojer we’re not going to the terminal yet. We’ve got a stop to make.” It already was much so to Rojer, but now it was quite noticeable to me that I was fired up as well.  “Back up let’s go.”  Rojer pulls the shifter into reverse and clears the adjoined cars. 

  “Would it be inconvenient for you to tell me where we are stopping?  I wouldn’t mind a bite to eat.”

  “Drive Rojer. Just go down The Hill okay.”

  “Where the hell are we going Danny?”

  “We’re going to the seventh month, the fourth day, and the sixth year of Sunny Dell Way.”

  Rojer; “What-”

  “We’re going to see a man about a thing.”