04 July 2001. 09:45 HOURS
“Jinny, do you see Mama up ahead?”
“No. she’s gone, Papa.” Saddled on Caleb’s shoulders, the five-year-old jockeyed for a position at the rail, squoze her legs against her father’s neck, and anxiously waited for the pedestrian light on the far side of Pennsylvania Avenue to glow green. A horn beep-beeped. “Stay. Wo horse.” Jinny watched the air-conditioned tour bus accelerate from a no-loading zone and spew exhaust though a vertical pipe into the humid D.C. air. She pinched her nose and mumbled, “I sure mith Kanthis.” No one heard her yammer, but the bus gasped, cars brakes squeaked, and trucks of all shapes and sizes got everyone’s attention as they noisily downshifted and rolled to a stop. The pedestrian light glowed green. Go-go-go.
Caleb whinnied, checked to his left, right, and then hoofed off the curb. “Tuddly-hump-tee-dump. Tuddly-hump-tee-dump.” Jinny’s brunette pony-tail bounced behind as they and cantered across Constitution Avenue in pursuit of Gemma.
“Faster Papa. Go faster.” Fat chance. Jockey and steed were boxed in by sixty well-fed islanders—each fully engaged in the race, each decked in colorful aloha attire, and wearing a red-white-and-blue striped lanyard. The minute hand circled twice, the horse and jockey fell behind, and Caleb’s knees wobbled and knocked when they topped the thirty-ninth chiseled step. They pulled up and gazed at the magnificent Corinthian columns and thirty-seven-foot-tall bronze doors glorifying the entrance. But the entrance to what?
“Awesome, huh, Jinny? Now, wouldn’t these doors look good on our barn?” he quipped. Jinny strained to hear over the din. Somewhat unnerved by the jostling, she grasped Caleb’s ears and slowly reined him in until the leather-necks ahead began merging into a chute, stalling both thoroughbred and jockey at half a furlong behind Gemma. “Easy on the ears, gal. I’m not a horse, you’re not a drover, and these folks aren’t a herd of bawling bovine . . . Oh, good, there’s Mama. Wave.”
“What’s a bovine, Papa?”
Caleb was tired of the cattle-drive metaphor, but he loved sports, and so he grinned when Gemma enthusiastically cycled one arm like a third-base coach. Come on home. Come on home. It wasn’t going to happen. All the brightly colored floral motifs—every flowered shirt and every palm-treed muumuu—fancied being first to score. But Jinny rested her chin on her Papa’s pate. “Are we going to ride on or what?”
Her question went unheard. Caleb called time by pulling a wrinkled neckerchief from his collar, wiping his forehead, and signaling his wife. Message received. Crowded from behind, Gemma executed a brisk about-face, moseyed up the three steps leading to the roped-off entrance, and read aloud: PLEASE WAIT TO BE ADMITTED—POR FAVOR, ESPERE A SER ADMITIDOS. But the sign said nothing about music.
Without invitation—or provocation—consorting ukuleles ganged up on a David Chung melody and bounced it off the walls of the annex and domed National Archives Rotunda—and interrupted the cowboy metaphor. Jinny didn’t like it, but branded Islanders’ hips swayed back and forth like bamboo palms being coaxed by an erotic off-shore breeze.
“TURN, let’s all turn to the right.
TURN, let’s all turn to the left.
Your eyes, your hands, your body express love.”
An unexpected shove from behind bucked Gemma into the crimson ropes and stanchions. Over they toppled like an uprooted, stomped, corral fence. The stampede was on.
“MAMA!”
Jinny’s eyes saucered as Gemma—clutching her purse, camera, and trying to maintain a modicum of dignity—was swept into the domed Rotunda like a chuckwagon without wheels. Cellphones flashed and reflected off Gemma’s bifocals, messaging her bewildered look as far away as Laie, while Caleb pushed on through the crowd to the rescue of his subdued, teary-eyed companion. She was still on her feet. Jinny patted Gemma on the head, jabbered something unintelligible to anybody but a mother, and stroked her mama’s mane.
BANG. A door handle cratered the wall and dislodged a chunk of plaster the shape of a horseshoe. The crowd cowered before a fuming, lone figure who filled the Security Office doorway. Taller than Caleb, the steely-eyed docent pinched his Cary Grant chin and lasered a poison stare at Gemma. Lady-you-got-a-lot-a-nerve. She peaked from behind her husband while the giant surveilled the downed barricade—his coal-black eyes blinking like camera shutters methodically documenting the damage—until Jinny broke his concentration. The five-year-old leaned forward in the saddle and with unharnessed aplomb declared, “Papa, I think we’re going to jail.”
The broad-shouldered docent condescendingly unzipped his lips, rolled a nod in Jinny’s direction, and then smiled. His upper incisors sported a gap large enough to accommodate a straw through which he could slurp a milk-shake with his teeth clenched, but to Jinny he didn’t look thirsty. Not at all. The man exuded the confidence of one who had hosted—if not hoisted—many a tourist, and yet after many years still valued the gravity of his calling. He was outfitted in a pressed white dress-shirt, black tie, pleated tan slacks, and shiny black boots; his gold badge, lettered in black, read Colin. His appearance would have impressed any five-year-old, even without the holstered handcuffs, canister of pepper spray, and cowboy boots.
Colin’s smile-lines contorted when he spotted and hailed a stoop-shouldered middle-easterner, nervously standing alone near an exit. “You there, hold your horses. I’m coming over.” Jinny turned in the saddle and, in tandem with sixty-two sets of eyes profiled the sallow-complected foreigner. He stiffened, apparently undecided about whether to stand his ground or flee the roundup.
Colin strode toward him and without taking his eyes off the loner announced: “Ladies and gentlemen, you are still three minutes early for the tour; but anticipating the first question you will likely ask, I answer—no, National Treasure was not filmed here in the Rotunda. Hold the rest of your questions and please stand in place. Better yet, take a minute and assist this lady in righting the ropes and stanchions . . . Ma’am.” He passed by Jinny, Caleb, and Gemma, and dipped his head as politely as if he’d been wearing a Stetson. Gemma blushed and looked at the shiny marble floor to escape the docent’s gaze.
The salty sea of colorful shirts and muumuus rippled apart to let him pass—as if in deference to the arrival of King Kamehameha. Otherwise, the Hawaiians just gawked, as inert as popcorn over low heat. Perhaps they hoped Colin would invoke his prowess at taekwondo and chop down the suspicious foreigner. Seeing no one lift a finger to help the O’Dwyers, the tall docent spoke as if from atop Hawaii’s volcanic Mauna Kea, “HELP HER. NOW, PEOPLE.”
Instead of accosting the stranger, Colin linked arms with him, turned toward the tour group, and waited until the barricade had been restored to order. He asked, “How many of you hail from American Samoa?”
No hands.
“Hawaii?” All but three raised a hand, as if expecting a freebie.
The wrestless loaner leaned over and unsuccessfully attempted to whisper, “Coloho, coming today was a bad idea. I can’t breathe in here.” He made a feeble attempt to disconnect from his friend, who then whispered in his ear and guided him through the murmuring multitude to the Charters of Freedom—under glass and on permanent display between American Flags. A stunning sight. Even to a five-year-old from Abilene. Colin held up his hands and waited for the string of islanders to lap around him like a lazy tide. Even the air-conditioner fell quiet.
Jinny stretched forward far enough to look into Caleb’s left eye. “Papa, is it time for ice cream yet?”
“It is hot in here,” Caleb whispered back.
“You’ve got that right, Mister,” interrupted an over-exposed, middle-aged tourist, who topped out at five-feet-four-inches. He wore sandals, chinos, and an unbuttoned blue and white hibiscus print, soaked with sweat. His forearm was inked with a Confederate flag, and a twisted name tag covered his belly-button. He wasn’t Hawaiian. As if sauntering to the mound for a confab with the pitcher, Mr. “X” removed his Falcons souvenir cap and brushed back a few strands of greasy hair. He cupped the cap over his mouth and slurred to Caleb, “Mister, do you see the bulge under that A-rab’s shirt? That bearded dude is carrying. Better get your kid outta here.”
Jinny plugged her nose. “Pee-hew. What smells?”
Bristling, Mr. “X” looked up, shook a finger at Jinny, and glared through blood-shot eyes. “Mister, somebody forgot to teach your little haole some manners.” Caleb nonchalantly tipped his head from side to the side, shrugged his shoulders, and betrayed no emotion. But Gemma reacted as if she’d been slapped by a sapling. Her nostrils flared, and she was ready to go ten rounds. Clenching her fists, she growled, “Mister, I think you’d best be moving on.”
“What’s the matter, Red? Got a bee in your bonnet?”
Gemma felt Caleb’s firm hand on her shoulder. “Easy dear. Easy does it; don’t puncture; pollinate.” She wrenched free and stepped toward the interloper.
Realizing he’d aroused the queen bee—stinger and all—Mr. “X” waggled the same finger at the O’Dwyers. “Wo, wo, wo, wo.” He turned clumsily around and staggered sideways to the left, and then sideways to the right, his voice trailing behind. “Just remember, I warned you. I warned you.” Half-amused, Jinny watched the drunk change course three or four times, mis-triangulate, spiral out of control, and flop to the floor beneath one of two large murals displayed on the Rotunda wall.
Immortalized in muted majesty and very sober, Thomas Jefferson held the Declaration of Independence in outstretched hands; Jinny counted his companions using her fingers. “. . . Twenty-six, twenty-seven. Did I get it?”
“Yes, Jinny, and so did they—every man.” Gemma retracted her stinger, relaxed her brow, and smiled. “Happy Independence Day and happy birthday, Jinny. Are you excited about seeing fireworks at the Mall tonight?”
“At the mall?”
After Gemma’s explanation, Caleb chimed in, “We love the Fourth of July, don’t we Jinny?”
She yawned. A few moments later her reply terminated a pensive silence. “Papa, I want down. I’m thirsty.”
“Ready to dismount? Dis–mount.” His imitation of John Wayne’s voice needed practice.
Jinny chuted to earth while Gemma retrieved a sippy cup from her purse. Jinny looked askance at the plastic yellow duck’s shiny blue eyes with white dots, orange bill, and tummy half-full of apple juice. After pressing it between her lips, she paused and looked up. “I am five today, you know.”
Gemma kissed her second-born and attempted to straighten the hair-tie around her shiny, dark brunette pony-tail, but the rubber band broke, zinged, and—like a horsefly—stung a hairy-legged Hawaiian on the hiney. Jinny feared a stampede and cried, “Up, please.” Gemma lifted. Colin spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this Rotunda is permanent home of the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution of the United States, and the Bill of Rights—three documents known collectively as the Charters of Freedom. Together they have secured the rights of the American people for nearly two-and-a-quarter centuries and have forever altered the course of human history.” Colin, his arm still linked with his self-conscious friend, snugged close and continued, “Before inviting you come forward and view or photograph these treasures for yourselves, I want to introduce my life-long friend, Babak Nishapura. He is one of my heroes, having laid his life on the line to keep Americans free and independent.”
Babak nudged Colin in the ribs. “Enough, Coloho. You’re embarrassing me.”
“Babak is—another nudge—is not enjoying this occasion.” Colin grinned. Babak remained as stone-faced as George Washington at Mount Rushmore. “Major Nishapura is a decorated Special Forces veteran, having served in both Iraq and Afghanistan.” Babak tried to pull free. Colin held fast and upped the speed of his delivery. “We went through school together, but Babuk went through hell without me.” That disclosure riveted all eyes on Babak—except for the eyes of the downed drunk, which were closed.
“That’s enough and goodbye.” Babak jerked free. Limping, he pushed his way through the crowd and brushed by the O’Dwyers. He failed to see Jinny, who had pressed a hand to her heart and continued watching until, dwarfed by the bronze doors, he exited the building.
The docile docent finished his monologue, answered a few questions, and then stepped aside to watch most of the tour group, including Gemma, hightail it out of the Rotunda into the annex gift shops to buy stuff, or skip down the steel-lipped basement steps to the vending machines. Caleb, and Jinny lingered, long since accustomed to being left in Gemma’s dust. Caleb took Jinny by the hand and passed from one document to the next, gently touching his fingers to the glass.
“Papa, up please. I can’t see the pictures.”
Back in the saddle again, Jinny repositioned her hands-on Caleb’s face, leaned around and kissed his cheek. This time it was salty wet. His attempt to communicate in old Irish brogue failed, but his sentiments were genuine. “Jinny, me wee one, are ye still up thar?”
“Yes, Papa, you know I am,” she giggled. “You sound like a pirate. Speak American.”
“What you see here under the glass is, I must tell you, sacred. See these signatures?” He gestured first at the documents and then at the grand mural ahead and to their left. “These names belong to those twenty-seven men . . . some of the best of their generation—noble patriots. And like them, your great Grandpa Llewellyn pledged his life, his fortune, and his sacred honor . . . so you and I could grow up free in this wonderful Promised Land.”
“Is Abilene the Promised Land, Papa?”
Caleb choked out an answer. It was heard. Father and daughter moved on, but the memory stayed put—Jinny’s memory being just a few bytes shy of photographic.