Author's Note: So, I know Peter Jefferson was a good guy and a good father, but for the sake of this fanfiction, I had to make him a little mean. XD So, instead of dying when Thomas was 14, he left instead. :/ It's all for the plot, so please forgive this major historical inaccuracy. XD
Now, on to the first part of "If I Could Be Enough, That Would Be Enough."
"Six thousand and seven hundred?" Alexander exclaimed, clearly astonished.
"Yes," Thomas replied proudly.
"Who has that many books in their personal library?"
"I do."
"Thomas, that was a rhetorical question."
"I know. I just couldn't help answering it."
Thomas Jefferson had bragged earlier that day to Alexander Hamilton about his extensive personal library at Monticello. Even now, as they sat in the parlor of Jefferson's New York residence, Hamilton had a hard time letting go of the subject. Just the thought of that many books enthralled him.
"I would love to see it sometime," Alexander said as he took a sip out of his wine glass. "Your library, I mean."
"And I would love to show it to you, if you ever decide to make your way down south."
"Still..." Alexander mused. "Sixty-seven hundred books... I've never even seen that many books at one time."
"What can I say? I cannot live without books," Thomas said.
"You can say that again," Alexander said with a laugh.
"I cannot live without books."
"That was rhetorical, Thomas."
"I know. I enjoy answering rhetorical questions; it's a guilty pleasure of mine. I do it to James all the time."
It was a calm and peaceful night. Crickets could be heard singing outside, and the evening wind gently caressed the sides of the house.
Thomas had invited Alexander over for an evening of friendly discussion and a glass of wine, which Alexander readily accepted. Since becoming friends, the two Secretaries found they had many things to talk about that did not involve politics. It was strange, but they also found that they actually enjoyed each other's company.
"So, was that Shakespeare I heard you quoting today at work?" Thomas inquired.
"Oh, you caught onto that?"
"Of course. What is your favorite of his works?"
"Well, I—" Alexander stopped when one of Thomas' servants entered the room.
"What is it, Edward?" Thomas asked the man.
"There is a Mr. Peter Jefferson here to see you, sir," Edward replied.
Thomas' face blanched and he sat bolt upright. "What?"
"A relative of yours?" Alexander inquired curiously. Then, concerned by his friend's sudden reaction, he said, "Thomas, are you all right?"
Thomas didn't respond or even acknowledge that he was being addressed; a faraway look appeared in his eyes. Alexander waved a hand in front of his friend's face. "Hello? Thomas? Thomas Jefferson, are you okay?"
"What?" Thomas replied, snapping out of his reverie. "Yes, yes, I'm all right... perfectly fine..."
"Sir, what shall I tell the man at the door?" Edward inquired.
"Uh... tell him I'll meet with him in the library," Thomas responded. "Sorry, Alexander, I'll... I'll be right back."
"Okay... I'll be here," Alexander said, a mix of worry and curiosity etched on his face.
Thomas slowly rose from his chair and followed Edward out of the room. Alexander thought he looked as though he was being led to the hangman's noose.
Thomas entered the library and gingerly shut the door behind him. Then, he turned to face the man standing in the middle of the room. He was a tall, stiff man, taller than Thomas, with dark hair, hard eyes, and ridged shoulders.
"Thomas," he said by way of greeting.
"Father," Thomas returned. "What are you doing here?"
"Does a man need an excuse to visit his own son?" Peter Jefferson asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.
"No, sir," Thomas replied passively, hoping he would eventually find out what brought his father up to New York. "Won't you sit down?"
"No, I think I'll stand."
"Okay..." Thomas said, adding to the thick tension in the room.
"I hear that you are the Secretary of State," Peter remarked.
"That's right," Thomas confirmed with a touch of pride in his voice.
"How did that come about?"
"President Washington invited me to be Secretary of State when I arrive home from France," Thomas explained. "I had initially intended on returning to France, but the president insisted that I come and be a part of his Cabinet."
"He insisted?" Peter questioned condescendingly.
"Well, he—"
"So, he did not think the Cabinet would be complete without you?"
"I don't know, but—"
"He knew you were the only man for the job?"
"I don't know what he thought, I only—"
"He—"
"Enough! Why are you asking me all these questions? You're changing my words. I only used the word 'insisted' because he did insist. You don't have to make a big deal out of it."
"I was only probing in order to get a grasp on just how important the president thinks you are."
"Why does that matter? I'm Secretary of State: It's a job, and a good one too. I'm not trying to be Washington's favorite, or anything like that: that's Alexander. I personally don't really care. What I really care about is this: What do you think about me being President George Washington's Secretary of State?" Thomas said the title with as much confidence and grandeur as he could muster.
"I don't think you tried hard enough," Peter said after a moment of thoughtful silence.
"What?"
"If you had tried harder, you would be the president right now."
"We both know that is not true. Washington is the only person fit for the presidency. You're talking as if I've given up on life. I'm trying as hard as I can to be the best I can be, and right now that means being the Secretary of State. Isn't that good enough for you?"
"Frankly, no." Peter wore an unamused expression on his face. "How many times have I told you not to settle for good enough when you can have great?"
"I know, I know, but I kind of hoped you would be a little bit more impressed," Thomas mumbled.
"Thomas, speak up, I can't hear you."
"I said, I thought you'd be impressed!" Thomas shouted.
"Impressed?" Peter scoffed and lowered his eyes. "Please, you're not even the vice president. Did you think that Secretary of State was something to be proud of?"
"I..." Thomas noticed the look of disapproval and sighed, giving in as he had done so many times before. "... No, sir, I didn't."
"I'm glad you have finally acknowledged that I am right, as always," Peter said and Thomas bowed his head. "Which brings me to why I have come."
"I was wondering about that," Thomas muttered.
"I am here to stay to make certain you try harder to achieve higher and greater things in life."
Thomas' head snapped up and his eyes grew wide. "You're not serious."
"I am perfectly serious. I don't make jokes when it comes to the future of my firstborn son," Peter said.
"But I am doing perfectly fine on my own. I don't need your help, really. Thank you for caring," this was said somewhat sarcastically, "however, the last thing I need right now is someone taking over my life."
"Obviously, you're not doing good enough if you have only reached the status of Secretary of State. There is so much more you can achieve, Thomas, and I am not going to sit idle while you throw away your future."
"Father, I'm an adult. I know what I'm doing."
"This subject is not up for debate, young man. Now, allow me to retrieve my luggage from the foyer while you get back to your company. What kind of a host are you? Letting your guest sit alone in the parlor," Peter clicked his tongue in disapproval as he patted Thomas on the shoulder before exiting the room.
Thomas was furious. The last thing he wanted was for his father to stay in his house and run his life.
Why can't I ever be good enough for him? Thomas thought, anger and frustration bubbling up inside him. Why can't he ever be satisfied with anything I do?
In a fit of helpless frustration, Thomas picked up a vase of flowers and threw it against the wall, smashing it into a million pieces, spilling water all over the floor.
I'll worry about the mess later, he thought as he made his way back to the parlor. When he entered, Alexander was engrossed in Jefferson's copy of the Federalist Papers.
"Are you reading your own work?" Thomas inquired, trying to act like nothing had happened.
"Thomas!" Alexander exclaimed when he noticed his friend's presence. "Sorry, I didn't hear you come in."
"That's fine," Thomas said, flashing a plastic smile as he sat back down in his chair.
"So, how did your meeting go?"
"My... meeting? Oh! My father has come up to New York for a visit. He'll be staying here for a while," Thomas replied nonchalantly. Then, he downed the wine in his glass in one gulp. "Where did I put the wine flask?"
"On that side table over there," Alexander provided.
Thomas poured himself another glass, downing that one as well. "So, what were we talking about? Shakespeare?"
"Yeah..." Alexander eyed Thomas suspiciously. Jefferson had always been good at putting on a show, which made it hard for even his closest friends to see through his facade and find the pain hiding behind it. "However, I wanted to ask you about all these initials written in the contents pages of the Federalist Papers."
"Oh, those," Thomas chuckled. "When Eliza gave me that copy, I wrote down which of you three had written each essay. James did the same, but a few of our guesses don't match up. We can't agree on a few of the essays you wrote. Care to enlighten me?"
"Nope," Alexander laughed. "As long as I have the upper hand, it's going to stay that way. No one may ever know exactly which ones I wrote."
"I thought you might say that," Thomas replied as he poured his fifth glass.
"Thomas, I think maybe you should cool it with the wine. You weren't downing glasses this fast when we first sat down," Alexander said, taking the flask out of Thomas' hands.
"I'm fine, don't worry."
"But I am worrying. I think a man consuming three full glasses of wine in under three minutes is a cause for concern. Now, drink that glass slowly," Alexander stressed.
"You can't tell me what to do," Thomas snapped. "No one can!" He spitefully downed his glass in ten seconds.
"I'm not telling you what to do, I'm just trying to save you from a hangover tomorrow."
Thomas stared at Alexander for a second before sighing. "I'm sorry, Alexander. I shouldn't have snapped at you... I know you're only trying to help. I don't know what came over me."
"Is there anything you want to talk about?" Alexander asked quietly.
"Yeah," Thomas replied as he plastered his plastic smile back on his face, "Shakespeare. You never told me your favorite play."
Thomas and Alexander talked late into the night, and Thomas' cares faded away for those precious few hours. However, like all things, the visit had to end, despite Thomas' efforts to prolong it as long as possible.
"Next time, I'll invite you over. Eliza will be happy to see you again," Alexander said as Thomas walked with him to the door.
"Oh, would you? That would be great," Thomas sighed, relief evident in his voice. "How about tomorrow night?"
"I have plans for tomorrow night, sorry," Alexander apologized. "I was thinking, maybe, next week?"
"Next week?" His disappointment was evident in his voice. "Oh, all right. I wonder if James is doing anything tomorrow," he thought aloud. It seemed to Alexander that Thomas was a little too eager to get away from his house.
"Thank you for the wonderful evening. I'll see you tomorrow!" Alexander called as he strolled off into the night.
"See ya..." Thomas closed the door and sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. He knew that his father was most likely sleeping at this late hour, or at least, Thomas hoped he was. He could not bear another confrontation that evening; he was emotionally drained.
Dragging himself to bed, Thomas thought, There has to be something I can do to make him proud of me... there must be! Whatever it is, I am determined to do it, no matter what the cost.
Thomas awoke early the next morning, before the rest of the household had risen. Quietly, he got ready for work, collected his things, and hastily made for the Presidential House.
If Hamilton can get into work early, so can I, he told himself. He knew it was cowardly of him, but he desperately wanted to avoid another confrontation with his father. He needed time to think; to wrap his head around his current situation. His head hurt from all the alcohol he had consumed the previous evening and he just wanted to sit down in his office and have a moment of peace... alone.
When he reached the house, he was dismayed to find the doors locked. Okay, now how does Alexander always manage to get in?
Suddenly, Thomas heard a soft rustling of branches coming from the side of the mansion. Warily, he followed the sound, only to come face to face with... nothing. Just when he was about to turn back, a branch fell and hit him on the head.
"Hey!" He exclaimed to no one in particular. He began rubbing his head as he glanced up. "Alexander? What are you doing up in that tree?"
"Just enjoying the view," the emerald clad Secretary replied evasively.
"Wait a minute, are you trying to... to sneak into the building?" Thomas inquired with a sudden realization.
"If I was trying to sneak in, why didn't I just use the front door?" Alexander countered.
"Because they're locked."
"Correct, however, you would not know that unless you were also trying to get in."
Thomas scowled. "Look, I'm just trying to get to work early. You do it all the time, so why can't I?"
"Thomas, it's four o'clock in the morning. You never come to work this early."
"Let's just say I'm trying something new," Thomas replied. "Now, are you going to tell me how you always get in or not?"
Alexander shrugged and pointed to the highest window. "See that window up there?"
"All the way up there?"
"Yes. No one ever locks that window. All you have to do is scale this tree and climb through," Alexander said and continued his climb.
"That's it? What if you fall and break your neck?" Thomas worried.
"Don't worry, I'm an old pro at this."
"Yeah, but I'm not. What if I fall and break my neck?"
"You don't have to do it if you don't want to."
"Are there any other ways to get in?"
"None that I know of. Well, are you coming?"
Thomas thought for a moment. He could just wait until the doors got unlocked, or he could follow Alexander up the tree. Those were his options because he definitely did not want to return home. "Yeah. I'm coming. But, how will I get my briefcase up there?"
"Carry it."
"And climb? Are you sure that's safe?"
"None of this is safe, I thought you would have figured that out already," Alexander replied easily. "Want me to come down and give you a boost?"
"No, no, I'm fine." Thomas prayed he would not fall, and hoped no one he knew would stroll past, before he pulled himself up onto the first branch.
"This is crazy," Thomas commented as he considered how ridiculous they must look.
"No, it's genius."
"What if someone sees us?"
"No one we know would be out this early. Quit worrying," Alexander reassured.
Thomas continued to climb against his better judgement. Once, he dropped his briefcase and had to climb back down to retrieve it. He almost fell twice and nearly tore his coat three times. Despite all this, he managed to finally reach the window. He tossed his case to Alexander, who was already inside, before climbing into the building.
"That was horrible. I am never doing that again," Thomas said and examined his hand. "I think I got a few splinters."
When he looked up, he found that they were in a large, dark, and dusty room. "Wait a minute. Where are we?"
"This is the attic. No one ever goes in here. Come to think of it, I believe I am the only one who is aware of its existence, besides yourself now," Alexander replied.
"Well, how do we get to the main level?"
"Just follow me, and watch out for cobwebs and missing floorboards."
"Missing what? I didn't sign up for this," Thomas muttered and followed his colleague.
Groping his way through the semi-darkness, and trying to keep up with Alexander, Thomas found himself stumbling and tripping over almost every little knick knack on the floor, which stirred up clouds of dust. Before they reached the end, Thomas had gotten his foot caught in a hole, causing him to trip and fall to the floor.
"Are you all right, Thomas?"
"I'm right behind you," Thomas said through clenched teeth as he pulled himself off the floor. "Just keep going."
Now limping because of a twisted ankle, Thomas shuffled behind Alexander. His only goal was to get to his office, lock the door, and relax in the quiet.
After what seemed like hours to Thomas, they finally reached the main floor.
"See?" Alexander said brightly. "That wasn't so hard. Just don't forget to take the twigs and cobwebs out of your hair, and brush the dust off your suit. I always have to do that."
"Thanks for helping me get in, Alexander, but I will never be doing that again," Thomas replied and they parted ways, each heading their own office.
Only after Thomas had closed the door and sat down at his desk did he truly feel relaxed and at ease, a feeling he knew he would not experience at home for some time.
I'll just close my eyes for a moment, then I will begin to work, Thomas told himself and folded his arms on his desk before resting his head on top of them. Pretty soon, darkness enveloped Thomas. The last thing he remembered thinking before drifting off to sleep was, I will never wake up this early again...
"No! Come back!" Thomas cried as he raced after his father through the halls of the Shadwell Plantation. "Why are you leaving me?"
"I can't stand even being around you until you do something to make me proud of you," came the harsh words, striking Thomas' core.
"But I have tried so hard! What must I do to earn your affection?" Thomas cried.
"Forget it, Thomas, you will never be good enough, you're not even worthy of the Jefferson name." His father's words seemed to echo around the desperate young man and through the corridors of the plantation.
"I can be good enough for you, just give me more time to prove it!"
"You've had fourteen years to prove it to me, Thomas. I am resigned to the fact that you cannot do anything worthwhile."
"I can! I can! I can be good enough! I can make you proud. Just give me another chance," Thomas pleaded as his father walked off into the fog. "Please, I can be good enough... why am I not good enough... why...?"
"Thomas!" James Madison called as he shook his friend's shoulder.
"I can be good enough... just give me time..." Thomas mumbled.
"What are you talking about? Wake up, Thomas, you're dreaming."
"I can... I can.. I can..."
"Thomas!" James shouted and Thomas finally lifted his head.
"What? What is it? What happened?" Thomas exclaimed.
"You fell asleep on your desk. Do you even know what time it is?"
"Three o'clock?" Thomas guessed.
"No, it's nine-thirty!" James said.
"Nine-thirty? Why didn't you wake me up sooner?" Thomas cried and stood up, only to fall back down in his chair when pain shot through his leg.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, I just twisted my ankle, that's all."
"You look terrible."
"Thanks a lot."
"What happened to you? What'd you do, fall out of the tree you were climbing?"
"How... how did you find out about that?"
"When I was out this morning around three o'clock—don't ask why—I passed by the Presidential House and saw you and Hamilton climbing up the tree on the side of the house."
"Why didn't you stop me? Maybe you could've knocked some sense into me."
"I thought you knew what you were doing."
"Yeah, I thought I did, too."
"Anyway, the president has called a Cabinet meeting, so you might want to take the twigs and cobwebs out of your hair, and brush the dust off of your clothes," James suggested, showering Thomas with a strange sense of deja vu.
"I'll be right in, I just need time to collect my thoughts," Thomas said as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.
"All right, then," James said and made his exit.
Thomas stood and carefully tested out his ankle. He still had a slight limp, but his walking stick would hide that.
Grabbing his stick, he took a deep breath in order to clear his head before making his way to the main meeting room.
Upon arriving, he took his usual seat and prepared himself for the debate.
As the members of the cabinet awaited Washington's arrival, Thomas was confused by all the odd stares he was receiving. He tried his best to ignore them until he could stand it no longer.
He leaned over to Madison and asked, "Why does everyone keep staring at me?"
"You still have twigs in your hair," James whispered.
"What? Why didn't you tell me?"
"I thought you knew."
"No, James! That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard! I just forgot to brush them out! Stop assuming that I know everything there is to know! I'm going to get enough of that at home so I don't need it from you!" Thomas hissed before taking leave of the room in order to clean himself up. He returned just as the president entered. Avoiding contact with the staring, judgmental eyes, Thomas again took his seat.
The cabinet meeting—or battle, as Alexander preferred to call it—went by uneventfully and ended with Washington taking Hamilton's side, which happened most of the time. However, it didn't get on Thomas' nerves today as he had other issues in his life to stress about besides Washington's obvious favoritism.
As the day went on, Thomas found himself brightening up inside; all thoughts of home and his father vanishing from his mind. After the meeting, he didn't have a chance to see Madison until the end of the work day.
Just as Thomas was heading out, James fell into step with him and questioned, "What did you mean by that comment you made earlier during the cabinet meeting?"
"Which one?"
"When I said, 'I thought you knew,' you responded by saying, 'I'm going to get enough of that at home and I don't need it from you.' What did you mean by that?" James asked, curiosity and concern lacing his features.
"I wouldn't dig too deep into it," Thomas replied coolly, "I was just flustered, that's all."
James gave him a skeptical look. "Come on, Thomas, I'm your best friend. You can tell me anything; isn't that what friends are for? What's wrong?"
Thomas shrugged and said, "Nothing really, it's just... my father has moved in."
"Again?" James asked softly.
"Yeah. He says he's staying indefinitely to 'make certain I try harder to achieve higher and greater things in life,'" Thomas explained.
"Why don't you just tell him you don't need his help; that you're doing fine on your own?"
"I tried, but you know how he is when it comes to my success."
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know," Thomas said in exasperation. "He arrived last night and I haven't really had time to think that far ahead. All I know is that I have to try to convince him that I don't need his 'help.' He's waiting for me to do something great, but I don't know what that means for him. I've tried everything, but he never seems to be satisfied."
"Would you like to come over to my house for dinner so we can chat further?" James invited.
Relief flooded through Thomas. "That would be wonderful. Honestly, I was hoping you would invite me over. Alexander is busy tonight and I have been trying to avoid another confrontation with my father. I know it's inevitable, but I'd like to try to put it off for as long as I possibly can. You know how anxious confrontations make me."
"I know, why do you think I invited you?" James replied with a knowing, but somewhat sad, smile.
His evening at James' house had been wonderful and relaxing, but all good things have to come to an end, as Thomas was more than well aware by now. Now, as he entered his house, he crept quietly through the halls in hopes of retreating to his beloved library undetected.
He reached the library, closed the door, and breathed a sigh of relief.
"I see you're taking all measures to make my stay as un-enjoyable as possible."
The all-too-familiar voice startled Thomas and he spun around only to come face to face with his father, who was sitting in a chair with an open book on his lap.
"You startled me," Thomas said, lamely stating the obvious.
"Where have you been all day?"
"At work," Thomas replied, trying his hardest not to start an argument.
"I didn't think the president would make his employees come in as early as three o'clock."
"I wanted to get an early start on things," Thomas replied as he sat down in his favorite chair. "Now, if you don't mind, I would like to sit down and read for a few minutes before I retire for the evening."
Fifteen minutes crawled by in uncomfortable silence and the tension in the room was almost unbearable for Thomas.
"Where were you tonight?" Peter asked, not bothering to look up from his book.
"James Madison invited me over for dinner," Thomas replied, his face hidden by his copy of Macbeth.
"Did you enjoy yourself?"
"Yes, thank you." The conversation was polite, though devoid of any warmth or affection.
"Tell me about your work day," Peter requested and Thomas knew he was probing for feats of greatness.
"There's not much to tell, I had a pretty average day. We had a cabinet meeting."
"Did you put up a good argument?"
"I'd like to think so, but Washington sided with Hamilton anyway."
"Why is that? Was your argument not good enough?"
"It was, however, Alexander's was better, I guess."
"You guess? Thomas, you must not have tried hard enough, or the president would have sided with you."
"But I did try. There you go, picking out all my faults again. I came in here to relax and de-stress, not to start a fight."
"Are you implying that I cause you stress?" Peter asked indignantly.
Thomas slammed his book shut. "Frankly, yes. I have been stressing all day at just the thought of having to come home."
"I can't say that I'm sorry, as I am only trying to look out for your welfare."
"My welfare? You have been trying to control my life for as long I can remember, and I am tired of it!" Thomas didn't realize that his voice had begun to rise. "You keep hounding me to do something you can be proud of, but you are completely oblivious to everything I have already accomplished. I am the very first Secretary of State of our new nation! I was the Ambassador to France! I wrote the blasted Declaration of Independence—"
"Drafted."
"What?"
"You drafted the Declaration of Independence. There is a difference."
"See? This is what I'm talking about. You take all my accomplishments and make them seem like they're less than they are. What will it take to satisfy you? What do I have to do to make you proud of me? Please, tell me because I ran out of ideas long ago."
Peter did not reply, he simply started hard at Thomas.
"What does it take for a man to be proud of—and love—his own son?" Thomas exclaimed and shot up out of his chair.
"Don't raise your voice to me young man, and don't think for a moment that I don't love you."
"You love me?" Thomas let out a mirthless laugh. "Really? Well, you have a horrible way of showing it."
"Now, wait just a minute," Peter said as he rose from his chair, but Thomas kept going. The floodgates that held back his emotions had opened and there was no stopping the tidal wave that followed.
"If you truly loved me, we wouldn't be having this argument and I wouldn't dread being in the same room with you. You're trying to put me up on a pedestal that is far too high for me to reach, and it gets higher still with each passing year. What do you expect from me? Do you want me to be like you? Well, you know what? I don't want to be like you. I never want to be like you! If this is your way of showing love, I don't want it! I don't love you and I don't want your love!" Thomas was silenced by a resounding slap to his face.
Shocked and surprised, he looked back at his father and said in a soft voice, "And you wonder why I find it hard to love you." Then, he retreated to his room, leaving his father alone with his own tormented thoughts.
Thomas slammed his door and locked it before throwing the first object he could find against the wall in anger. He was horrified to find that the object he had thrown blindly was none other than a miniature portrait of him and his parents, which had been painted and framed when he was only ten years old.
Thomas fell to his knees beside the picture and regretfully fingered the broken shards of glass. Tears welled in his eyes as he gazed at the happy faces in the painting.
Why can't you love me? Why can't I be enough? Thomas thought in agony. Despite his harsh words in the library, Thomas secretly longed for his father's unconditional love, something he had never before received. Once begun, the tears did not cease to fall for a long time.
"If making him proud of me is what it takes to earn his love," Thomas whispered with determination, "then I will do whatever it takes... even if it's the last thing I do."
"Look what I made, father!" Four year old Thomas exclaimed as he skipped up to Peter, who was sitting in a chair with a book on his lap.
Peter eyed the creation, a small wooden boat, with skeptic eyes. Though, unbeknownst to young Thomas, a hint of pride shown through the skepticism.
"That is nice, however, it would be even better if you tied the sail like this," he said and adjusted his son's project to his own liking.
"Okay, now I—"
"And, if you made a few changes here and there."
"Don't you like it how it is?"
"I do, I'm just showing you how you can make it even better."
"I think it's perfect just the way I built it."
"Stop it, Peter," Jane Jefferson said. "He's only a child."
"Exactly. And it is at this young age that he needs to learn to put his all into everything he does."
"But I did put my all into it," Thomas whispered. He knew his father did not like his creation; he was always fixing the things Thomas made and making them better, but he did not know why.
"Thomas!"
Why was his father suddenly yelling at him?
"Thomas!"
"Here! Fix it how you want! I don't care!" Thomas cried, smashing the wooden boat to smithereens on the floor.
"Thomas!"
"I told you, I don't care!"
"Thomas! Thomas Jefferson, wake up!"
Now, someone was shaking his shoulder. Why couldn't everyone just leave him alone?
"I don't care... leave me alone..." Thomas murmured.
"Thomas! Come on!" The familiar shouted.
Thomas was about to reply when a surge of pain shot through his skull and he shot up, now fully awake.
"Hey!" As Thomas' vision cleared, Alexander Hamilton came into focus. "Alexander? What are you doing here? Did you... did you just pull my hair?"
"I tried shaking you, but you didn't wake up. Desperate times call for desperate measures, besides, I've always wanted to do that."
"You're so weird. But what do you mean by 'desperate times?' And what are you doing in my house?"
"This isn't your house," Alexander replied, eyeing Thomas curiously. "This is your office. Don't you remember? You fell asleep on your desk."
"Again?" Thomas sighed and buried his head in his hands.
"Again?" Alexander was puzzled. "What do you mean, 'again?'"
"Oh, this happened yesterday as well. I think three o'clock in the morning is too early for me."
"Then why do you keep coming if it's too early for you? You never used to come this early," Alexander pointed out.
"I wanted to try to get some extra work done," Thomas lied.
"Why the sudden rush to finish work so early?"
"Look, it's too early to talk about this," Thomas said with a hint of irritation in his voice. "What time is it, anyway?"
"Nine-thirty."
Thomas started. "Oh, please tell me you're just kidding around."
"I don't kid around about time, Thomas."
"Ugh! I don't understand it!" Thomas lamented. "When did my life start falling apart?"
"It probably started when—"
"That was a rhetorical question, Alexander."
"Fine," Alexander shrugged and told Thomas what he had initially come in to tell him. "Washington sent me in to retrieve the paperwork you were supposed to deliver to his office this morning."
"What paperwork?"
"Man, you really don't have it together, do you?"
"Thank you for finally noticing. Now, what paperwork?"
"I don't know. He just told me to ask you for the paperwork you were working on. He said you would know what he meant."
"Okay, hold on... let me think..." Thomas racked his tired brain until it finally dawned on him. "Oh! Now I know what he's talking about!" Thomas pulled a stack of papers out of his desk and handed them to Alexander.
"Took you long enough to remember. Thomas," Alexander surveyed his friend, "you need to get more sleep. Stop forcing yourself to wake up so early."
"I could say the same thing to you, you tree hugger."
"Hey, you climbed the tree, too, and you must have climbed it today as well. How else would you have gotten in?" Alexander said as he strolled towards the door. "What I'm trying to say is: take care of yourself, Thomas."
"You too, Alexander," Thomas returned as Alexander quit the room.
Time went by, and everyday Thomas would come to work just a little earlier and stay a little later than the previous day, until it became apparent to everyone that Thomas was wearing himself down. Finding the State Secretary asleep on his desk in the morning became a normal occurrence for most of the president's staff. To James Madison, the situation was sickeningly familiar: Thomas was doing everything in his power to spend as few hours at home as the possibility could in order to avoid confrontation with his overbearing father. One day, President Washington himself decided to address the situation.
Washington entered the State Secretary's office and observed the young man at the desk. Though he was asleep, Thomas' brows were furrowed and a grimace was plastered on his face.
"Jefferson," Washington said gently, but firmly, as he shook the sleeping secretary's shoulder. "Jefferson, wake up."
"Just give me another chance..." Thomas mumbled. "I can be good enough for you..."
"What are you talking about? Jefferson, wake up, we need to talk."
"Hmm?" Thomas murmured, finally opening his eyes. He was shocked to find the president staring back at him. "Mr. President! What are you doing here? Is there something you need done?"
"We need to talk, Jefferson."
"What about?"
"You."
"Me?" Thomas said quietly, withering under Washington's hard gaze.
"Or, more specifically, your health," Washington clarified.
"My health? What about my health?" Thomas inquired innocently, knowing all too well where this conversation was headed.
"I think you know what I'm talking about."
"I am afraid I don't."
"I know you have been coming in way too early and staying way too late. I don't know where this sudden behavior is coming from, but I cannot get any work accomplished if my cabinet members are always exhausted. I have half a mind to chop down that tree you and Alexander use to sneak into the building. I lock the doors for a reason, you know."
"Sir—!" Washington held up a silencing hand before continuing.
"Which is why I am giving you a week off."
"Oh, there's no need for you to do that, sir," Thomas said as panic began to set in.
"I think there is. You are obviously in great need of a break."
"But—"
"No buts about it. You are going to take a week off in order to rest. You can't keep sleeping on your desk; sleep in your bed for a change," Washington ordered. "That's an order from your president."
"I'm not sure the presidency works that way, sir." Washington gave Thomas a reprimanding stare. "Nevertheless, I'll take a week off, starting tomorrow."
"Good," Washington said. "I gave Alexander a week off as well. You both have been working yourselves far too hard."
I wish I could say you sound like my father, Thomas thought, like most men can.
Just the thought of having to spend a week at home with his father made Thomas physically ill. When Washington had left the room, Thomas buried his head in his hands and groaned.
Maybe it won't be so bad, he thought, trying to console himself. Who am I kidding? Every move I make is going to be scrutinized and rebuked. How am I to explain the reason for my week off? When did I lose control of my life?
To be continued...