Last Fourth of July, my husband and I were on the road, headed home from Colonial Williamsburg with our nine-year-old granddaughter. We saw the sign for Jefferson’s Monticello and decided to take the tour. The home itself had always fascinated me, but somehow, we’d never been this close or had the time to stop. 

This time, we were- and we did!

We stopped for a quick snap together, and then we queued up for our group tour of the home.

I was especially eager to see Jefferson’s amazing invention, the clever liftable bed between his bedroom and office that I’d learned about when I was a kid. As usual, I edged toward the front of the group to hear the tour guide and ask questions.

The tour started slowly. The entry hall, while filled with many Jeffersonian artifacts and memorabilia, was much less grand than I expected, and the library was unimpressive, as Jefferson had sold his collection to pay off debt. 

As I stood wrinkling my nose, I noticed a young woman with long hair inching away from a man who was surely in his upper forties. She didn’t smile, nor did she look at him or the house. Her posture yawned, “Boring.”

Hmmm…I wondered if she were the man’s daughter. Maybe she’d been dragged on a tour today, of all days, just because it was July 4, Independence Day and the day of Jefferson’s death, fifty years after the signing of the famous document. Well, that was one of the reasons we’d stopped!

I thought I recognized the bored-out-of-my-gourd look from my own kids’ childhood. 

Perhaps I stared too long, because the man sidled closer, put his arm around her waist, and steered her to the back of our group as the docent rambled on. My gut roiled. Kind of dad-creepy, I thought.

As we were herded into the “cabinet” room where the liftable bed was featured, I jockeyed for position to see better. The design was clever, but the bed itself was short, not likely one that would produce a restful night’s sleep for such a tall man as Jefferson.

I looked around for the couple I’d noticed before. But they were gone.

That seemed odd. Who would pay for a tour and then just leave? Was something else going on? I leaned over and asked my husband if he’d seen the couple and where they went, but he hadn’t noticed either.

Something didn’t seem quite right.

When we were invited to explore the rest of the home and grounds on our own, I turned to another woman in the group. “Did you see the older guy with the young woman?” I asked. She nodded. “Did anything seem odd to you?”

She nodded again. “He seemed awfully old for her.”

“I wonder if she’s okay. If there’s something we should do…or say.”

“It’s hard to know, isn’t it?” she agreed. 

I kept wondering. Was she there against her will? Was she underage? Or were they just an unlikely-looking couple?

We both shrugged and went on with our exploration of the grounds.

By the time I got to the gift shop, the young woman was still on my mind. I mentioned her to the cashier, and she nodded too. “Is there something we should do or report?” I asked again.

She, too, simply shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said and rang up my purchase.

By this time, Gramps and our girl were ready to leave. The tour had been long and the day had been longer. We all stepped out of the gift shop and headed toward the parking area.

Just as we stepped into the lined asphalt lot, a motorcycle roared past. It was the older man. Perched behind him was the young woman with a helmet on her head, her long hair flying behind her from underneath.

Once again, the feeling that I should do or say something rumbled my guts. But what? 

My husband unlocked the car and my granddaughter climbed in to get situated for the long drive home.

I kicked myself. Why hadn’t I taken down a license plate, or a description of the motorcycle to call the police? But then, what would I say? “Hi, I’m calling to report an older man with a young woman who didn’t look happy at Monticello!” 

Not very convincing evidence of a crime or even to initiate an investigation.

Ironic, I thought, that this should happen here, in a place where inappropriate relationships between older men with power and young women without it allegedly took place for many years without anyone making objections that stuck. And the facts of the situation still haven’t been conclusively verified!

Since then, I’ve learned more about human trafficking: information that will help make me a more responsible citizen if I find myself in such a position again. Even if my suspicions are wrong. 

I’m vowing to be more aware, more observant, this year.

I’ve even put the phone number for the National Human Trafficking Hotline in my contact list. Now there won’t be any reason not to make a call.

Btw, it’s 1-888-373-7888.

That’s my birthday gift to America this year! What’s yours?