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When Thomas first returned to New York City from Europe, he didn’t recognize him at all. He rushed right past that shriveled husk of man swallowed up by an oversized black coat until that lump of coat and sadness cried out, “Thomas!”
Thomas swirled around, tentatively calling out, “Who’s there?”
The coat blob removed shifted the coat slightly off its shoulders, revealing a disheveled James Madison.
Thomas gaped. “James, is that you? You look terrible!” Indeed, he did. James, who was already ridiculously short, looked like he had shrunk half a foot. His skin was sallow, his cheeks sunken, and the bags beneath his eyes more pronounced. The tips of his snow white hair were crusted with tiny icicles, as if the ice were trying – and succeeding – to eat him alive.
“Thomas,” James grumbled before succumbing to a massive coughing fit. Really, he appeared to be on the verge of tears.
A twinge of pity flared up in Thomas’s characteristically insensitive heart. “Long time no see, bro! We gotta catch up on everything! Come have dinner at my place!” And before James could refuse or argue, Thomas dragged him in the general direction of his living quarters.
Once they arrived at Thomas’s place and James curled up on the couch of the living room, Thomas told his butler James Hemings to prepare some European delicacies for dinner. Afterwards, Thomas returned to the couch, sitting on the side James wasn’t occupying.
“James! How are you doing?” he asked. As James opened his mouth to answer, Thomas placed his hand on James’s shoulder and said, “And don’t lie and say you’re fine.”
James’s usually stoic face fell, his skin sagging as if he were wearing a suit two sizes too large. “To be honest,” he began, “I hate New York. Especially in the winter.” James spoke more rapidly with each sentence, his cheeks flushing red in outrage. “It’s cold and dark all the time. I’m tired and sleepy all the time, and I hate hate hate getting up in the morning, yet I can’t even sleep at night just ‘cause it’s too cold. I’m even too tired to eat. I can’t remember the last time I had lunch. I’m grumpy and irritable all the time. I can barely focus on legislation in Congress. I accidentally voted for Hamilton’s dreadful bills – twice! I can’t believe I did that! His plans are nothing but government control!” By then, James was wheezing.
Before James could start foaming at the mouth over that arrogant loudmouth bother, Thomas leaned in and hugged his friend. They stayed like that, perfectly still. James hyperventilated more and more until his resolve disintegrated, and he began to sob.
“I miss Virginia,” James blubbered in between wails.
“I do, too” Thomas murmured as he caressed James’s back.
“It was warm back home.” James hiccupped between whimpers.
“It was.”
“Everyone back home was hospitable.”
“They were.”
“I miss Virginia ham and apple cider.”
“I miss sweet corn and green peas.”
By then, James’s crying had subsided, and he was speaking more coherently. “You know I’d lay down my life for America, but having to come up north in January to govern almost makes me want to give up on being a representative. The weather’s bad for my constitution.”
“Maybe we can just change the capital,” Thomas joked. They simultaneously burst out laughing at that ridiculous scenario.
Hemings, at that moment, entered the room. Thomas and James recoiled from each other, both feigning innocence. Hemings, ever the perfect butler and household manager, pretended he noticed nothing. “Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Madison, dinner is served.”
James turned to his friend and said, “It’s been nice to see you, but I’m not hungry and I must head back.”
Thomas shot him a nasty glare. “You are staying here, and you are eating.” James’s shoulders slumped in defeat.
They followed Hemings to the dining room and sat down at the sizable table only set for two. In front of each of them was a dish of macaroni and cheese.
James groaned. “Macaroni again? You’ve served macaroni the last five times I was here!”
Thomas shrugged and plunged his fork into the creamy pasta. “I just ordered twenty-five pounds of macaroni from Italy.” He ate a bite. “Besides,” Thomas added, waving his fork at James, the food stuffed into his cheek, “It’s good.”
James took a bite and grudgingly agreed.
They consumed macaroni in relative peace. Thomas chattered about his most recent trip to Europe while James listened. Thomas stole glances at James’s plate, relieved that his friend would eat properly, at least for this meal.
When they both finished their food, Hemings took their empty dishes and brought them dessert. Thomas immediately started to eat with gusto, methodically cutting the food into squares, but James stared at the confection quizzically. After scrutinizing the dessert for a minute, he asked, “What is this grid covered…bread?”
Thomas continued eating, talking between bites. “It’s a waffle. The Dutch make them by pouring some batter into a funny-shaped iron. I had them in Holland, and they were so good, I just had to buy four waffle irons.”
James mimicked Thomas’s way of eating the waffle, cutting it systematically and spearing a square of waffle with his fork. He tentatively ate it. A pleasant taste of butter, sugar, and powdered cinnamon danced on his palate. The treat’s crispy ridges and fluffy interior overwhelmed his senses. He eagerly ate the rest of the waffle.
After the meal ended, Thomas led James to the front door. James seemed much better now – he was standing taller, and his cheeks were ruddy. He looked more like a man in a winter coat than a winter coat that had latched onto a man.
“I’ll see you in Congress later?” Thomas asked just as James was departing.
James responded, “Of course.” He then turned around and said, “The weather’s been making me sad. Thanks for brightening my day.” He smiled bashfully at Thomas, and Thomas’s brain melted a little at that glorious, rare sight.
Thomas watched James leave until he could no longer see his silhouette on the horizon. He spent the rest of the day looking out a window and daydreaming.