Free The Homecoming by Dan Walsh

these big Roman soldier statues up on the walls, with shields guarding their privates—I expect your driver be somewhere in there, near the doors in the front or on the side to the right. That’s where all the cabbies come in. Folks mostly get picked up around there.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Well, make sure you stop and get your bags first.”
    “This brief bag here’s all I’ve got. I’m not staying overnight.” “Can I get that for you?”
    Shawn smiled. “No, you don’t have to do that. You’ve already been a great help.” As Shawn walked past, he shook the porter’s hand and gave him two dollars.
    The porter looked down at the money. “Sir, you don’t gotta pay me for answering a question. I give answers out for free.”
    “I insist,” Shawn said as he turned and headed down the aisle. An average tip ran more in the order of fifteen cents or a quarter, but after what Ezra Jeffries had done, saving his son’s life at Christmas, Shawn had resolved never to take a black man for granted again.
    Shawn stepped down from the train and followed the line of passengers heading into the terminal. He made his way past the first big room and then into the second. Immediately his eyes were drawn upward to the ceiling of the cavernous room. The porter had not exaggerated. It was one long massive series of stone arches, perhaps the most impressive ceiling he had ever seen. The white arches were trimmed in gold; between each, large octagons connected them together. The whole place reminded him of the elegance of Wanamaker’s department store in downtown Philly.
    Someone bumped into him from behind, almost knocking him down. “Sorry, soldier,” the middle-aged man said. “Not a good time for sightseeing.”
    He kept walking but looked up again at the life-sized Roman statues around the perimeter, where the walls and ceiling met. He smiled as he noticed their shields, remembering what the porter had said. It did appear they were naked below the waist, except for those shields. What kind of idiot would sculpt warriors without pants? Shawn thought. He looked to the right. The ceiling gave way to a smaller set of arches separated by a series of glass doors.
    “That looks like the place,” he mumbled to himself and threaded a pathway through the crowd in that general direction. As he neared, amongst the throng he noticed a young soldier wearing an overcoat standing against the flow of the crowd, holding a sign, waving in Shawn’s direction. As Shawn looked at the sign, he was surprised to see his name. “I guess you’re my driver,” Shawn said.
    The young man instantly converted his waving hand to a salute. “Corporal John Miller, sir. At your service. It’s an honor, Captain Collins. Can I take your bag?”
    “That’s all right,” Shawn said. The salute he expected, but why would anyone consider meeting him an honor? “Do you know me?”
    “Colonel Simmons showed me your picture and told me who you are. He was very emphatic, said if I was late or lost you, I’d be shot. I’ve got a car parked just outside. If you’ll follow me.”
    “This is quite a place,” Shawn said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
    “It really is, but wait till you see the rest.”
    “The rest?”
    “The colonel said I was to give you the grand tour before I take you back to the Pentagon. The Capitol Building, the Supreme Court, White House, and the Lincoln Memorial. Then we’ll grab some food at the Pentagon cafeteria. Pretty good chow.”
    Shawn followed Corporal Miller’s hurried pace. What was going on? He thought he was coming here for a quick meeting to find out his next assignment. But a private driver? A grand tour ordered by a colonel? And then on to the Pentagon? He had read about the Pentagon, a monstrous project finished just last year, supposed to be the biggest office building in the world. But he never dreamed he’d see it up close.
    “Where is the Pentagon?”
    “Across the Potomac a ways,” Miller