“‘Daddy’s home, Daddy’s home,’” I sang an old sixties tune as I peeked into the upstairs bedrooms. “Shep and the Limelites,” I muttered.
Nobody was around to care that I was singing old rock and roll tunes and trying to lighten the mood. The Capitol and the Library of Congress were within walking distance, and I knew Nana liked to take the kids there sometimes. Maybe that’s where they were?
I sighed and wondered once again whether it was time for me to get the hell out of police work. There was one catch: I was still passionate about the work. Even though I’d failed on the West Coast, I usually got some kind of results. I had saved some lives in the past few years. The FBI brought me in on some of their toughest cases. I figured this was my bruised ego talking, so I stopped the internal bullshit, cut it right off.
I took a hot shower, then I changed into a Men’s March T-shirt and jeans, flip-flops. I felt a lot more comfortable, like I was back in my own skin. I could almost make myself believe that the lurid vampire killers were gone from my life for good. I think that’s what I wanted to happen. Just let them crawl back into their hole.
I went down to the kitchen and grabbed a Coke from the fridge. Nana had taped a couple of the kids’ masterpieces to the door. “Inner Galactic Encounter” by Damon, and “Marina Scurry Saves the Day—Again” by Janelle.
A book was laid out on the kitchen table. 10 Bad Choices That Ruin Black Women’s Lives. Nana was doing a little light reading again. I peeked inside to see if I was one of the ten bad choices.
I wandered out to the sunporch. Rosie the Cat was asleep on Nana’s rocker. She yawned when she saw me but didn’t get up to rub against my legs. I had been away too long.
“Traitor,” I said to Rosie. I went over and scratched her neck, and she was okay with it.
I heard footsteps on the front porch. I walked to the foyer and opened the front door. Light of my life.
Jannie and Damon looked at me and screeched, “Who are you? What are you doing in our house?”
“Very funny,” I said. “Come give your daddy a big hug. Hurry, hurry.”
They ran into my arms, and it felt so good. I was home, and there was no place like it. And then I had a thought I didn’t want to have: Did the Mastermind know that I was here? Was our house safe anymore?
Chapter 37
AT ITS best, life can be so simple and good. As it should be. On Saturday morning, Nana and I packed up the kids and we headed over to their favorite place in all of Washington, the huge and wonderful and occasionally elevating Smithsonian complex. We were all in agreement that the Smithsonian, or “Smitty,” as Jannie has called it since she was a very little girl, was where we wanted to be today.
The only issue was where to go once we got there.
Since Nana would be there for only a few hours with little Alex, we let her pick the day’s first stop.
“Let me guess,” Jannie said, and rolled her eyes. “The Museum of African Art?”
Nana Mama shook a finger at Jannie. “No, Ms. Wisenheimer. Actually, I’d like to go to the Arts and Industries Building. That’s my choice for today, young lady. Surprised? Shocked that Nana isn’t the creature of habit you thought she was?”
Damon piped up. “Nana wants to see the history of black photographers. I heard about it at our school. They got cool black cowboy pictures. Isn’t that right, Nana?”
“And much, much more,” said Nana. “You’ll see, Damon. You’ll be proud and amazed, and maybe stimulated to take a few more photographs than you do. You too, Jannie. And Alex as well. Nobody takes pictures in this family except me.”
So we went to the Arts and Industries Building first, and it was very good, as it always is. Inside, the dull roar of air-conditioning and the cries of a gospel album mixed nicely. We saw the black cowboys, and also a lot of exceptional photos from the Harlem Renaissance.
We stood in front of a twelve-foot photo of ambitious-looking black men in suits, ties, and top hats taken from a bird’s-eye view. A stunning shot that would be hard to forget.
“If I saw that scene on the street,” Jannie said, “I would definitely take the picture.”
After Arts and Industries we appeased Jannie and went to the Einstein Planetarium, where we watched “And a Star to Steer Her By” for the fourth or fifth time, or maybe the sixth or seventh time, but who’s counting? Nana took little Alex home for his nap then, and we trekked around the rest of the Air and Space Museum. This was the portion of our journey that Jannie called “Damon’s macho planes-and-trains trip.”
But even Jannie enjoyed Air and Space. The Wright brothers’ plane floated high above us, suspended by long wires, and it was magnificent. Light spruce beams and stretched white sheets of canvas. To its right, the Breitling Orbiter 3, another important page from aeronautic history—the first nonstop balloon flight around the world. And then—“One small step for man”—the thirteen-thousand-pound Apollo 11 command module. You can be cynical about all this—or go with it. I choose to go with it. Makes life a lot easier and more rewarding.
After we had studied several of the aeronautic miracles, Damon insisted we catch Mission to Mir on the IMAX screen at the Langley Theater.
“I’m going to outer space one day,” he announced.
“I have news,” Jannie said. “You’re already there.”
In honor of Nana, we stopped at the Museum of African Art, and the kids got a kick out of the masks and ceremonial clothes, but especially the old currency exhibit—cowrie shells, bracelets, and rings. It was incredibly quiet inside, spacious, colorful, cool as could be. The last stop of the day was to see the Dinosaur Hall at the Museum of Natural History. But then both Jannie and Damon said we had to see the tarantula feeding at the Orkin Insect Zoo. There was a sign we read on walls painted to resemble a rain forest: “Insects won’t inherit the earth—they own it now.”
“You’re in luck,” Jannie teased her brother. “Your kind rules.”