Along Came a Spider

Detective Cross.” I picked up a British accent. The
National Star
was an American tabloid based in Miami.
    “What does this have to do with anything that’s happened?” I said to the Brit. I was fingering Jezzie’s silver comb in my pocket. “This is private. This isn’t news. This isn’t anybody else’s business.”
    “That’s our job to decide,” he said. “I don’t know, though, mate. Major communications breakthrough between the D.C. police and the Secret Service. Secret talks, and
whatever
.”
    The woman was already knocking at the motel door. Her voice was as loud as the metallic rapping. “This is the
National Star
!” she announced.
    “Don’t come out,” I shouted to Jezzie.
    The door opened, and Jezzie stood there fully dressed. She stared at the frizzy-haired woman and didn’t bother to conceal her contempt.
    “This must be a really proud moment,” she said to the reporter. “This is probably as close as you’ll ever get to a Pulitzer.”
    “Nah.” The reporter had a comeback. “I know Roxanne Pulitzer. And now I know you two.”

CHAPTER 65

    I PLAYED A MEDLEY of Keith Sweat, Bell Biv Devoe, Hammer, and Public Enemy pop songs on the piano. I stayed out on the porch entertaining Damon and Janelle until about eight that morning. It was Wednesday of the week Jezzie and I had gotten our little lurid surprise in Arlington.
    Nana was in the kitchen reading a hot copy of the
National Star
, which I’d bought for her at Acme. I waited for her to call me inside.
    When she didn’t, I got up from my pumping piano and went to face her music. I told Damon and Janelle to stay put. “Stay just the way you are. Don’t ever change.”
    Just like on any other morning, Nana was sipping tea. The remains of her poached egg and toast were still in evidence. The tabloid was casually folded over on the kitchen table. Read? Unread? I couldn’t tell from her face, or the condition of the newspaper.
    “You read the story?” I had to ask.
    “Well, I read enough to get the gist of it. Saw your picture on the front page, too,” she said to me. “I believe that’s how people read that kind of paper. I always used to be surprised, people buying a paper like that on Sunday morning after church.”
    I sat down across from her at the breakfast table. A wave of powerful old feelings and memories came rushing over me. I recalled so many talks like this one in our collective past.
    Nana took up a little crust of toast. She dipped it in marmalade. If birds could eat like humans, they would eat like Nana Mama. She is quite a piece of work.
    “She’s a beautiful and I’m sure a very interesting white woman. You’re a very handsome black man, sometimes with a good head on your shoulders. A lot of people don’t like that idea, that picture. You’re not too surprised, are you?”
    “How about
you
, Nana? Do you like it?” I asked her.
    Nana Mama sighed very softly. She put down her teacup with a clink. “Tell you what, now. I don’t know the clinical terms for these things, Alex, but you never seemed to get over losing your mother. I saw that when you were a little boy. I think I still see it sometimes.”
    “It’s called post-traumatic stress syndrome,” I said to Nana. “If you’re interested in the name.”
    Nana smiled at my retreat into jargon. She’d seen that act before. “I would never make any judgments about what happened to you, but it’s affected you since you arrived here in Washington. I also noticed that you didn’t always fit in with the crowd. Not the way some kids do. You played sports, and you shoplifted with your friend Sampson, and you were always tough. But you read books, and you were moderately sensitive. You follow me? Maybe you got tough on the outside, but not on the inside.”
    I didn’t always buy into Nana’s conclusions anymore, but her raw observations were still pretty good. I hadn’t exactly fit in as a boy in Southeast D.C., but I knew I’d gotten a lot better at it. I was accepted okay now. Detective/Doctor Cross.
    “I didn’t want to hurt you, or disappoint you with
this
.” I returned to the subject of the tabloid story.
    “I’m not disappointed in you,” my grandmother said to me. “You are my pride, Alex. You bring me tremendous happiness almost every day of my life. When I see you with the kids, and see the work you do here in this neighborhood, and know that you still care enough to humor an old woman—”
    “That last one
is
a chore,”