Leaning on the front corner of his desk, Colonel Whatley stared down at his staple remover, closing it in slow motion. “Mr. Zigarowski—”
“Call me Zig.”
“Mr. Zigarowski, do you really even know Nola Brown?”
“Why do I feel like you’re about to make a speech?”
“She grew up in your hometown, didn’t she? I also saw she was in the same Girl Scout troop as your daughter—that’s some real history you share.”
“She saved my life.”
“I read about that. But back when Nola first joined the military, do you truly know what she was like? Or to put it more succinctly, when no one’s looking, do you know what she’s capable of?”
“I know about Grandma’s Pantry.”
“No. You don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t be here sniffing around.”
“Then tell me about it,” Zig demanded.
“You keep acting like this is a negotiation. You have no idea what—”
“In World War II, your unit did specialized investigations. Is that what this’s about? Some old investigation that Nola found out about?”
O.J. rolled his eyes, his thumb rubbing at a wedding band that was no longer there. “Lord Almighty, do you even realize what a pain in the rear you are, Mr. Zigarowski? Stop thinking you’re in a position to make demands.”
“Then stop thinking you’re getting my help. Because last I checked, you’re the one who needs the favor from me,” Zig said, standing from his seat and heading for the door.
“Where’re you going?” O.J. asked.
Zig kept walking, picking up speed.
“Mr. Zigarowski, if you don’t sit down—”
“You keep acting like this is a negotiation. Have fun solving this yourself,” he said as he was about to leave.
“It’s for the end of the world,” O.J. said.
“The what?” Zig asked, stopping at the threshold.
“Grandma’s Pantry. That’s what it was designed for,” O.J. said, stealing a glance at the ceiling tile, at the calming photo of the Hawaiian ocean palms, the purple lei, and the coconut drink. “It’s where the government prepares for the end of the world.”
51
Fair Winds, Pennsylvania
“Ohhh, Mrs. Z, it’s been . . . How are you!?”
“Well. Really well,” Charmaine replied, saying it twice as if that’d help her believe it. Her phone was flat on her kitchen table, on speaker so she could nurse her morning coffee. Outside, she eyed the bird feeder that Warren put in all his model homes, filled with safflower seeds, since squirrels tended to hate them. Yet there was a squirrel, feasting on them anyway.
“When my mom said you’d call—” Dara stopped herself, overcome with excitement. “Ohhh, Mrs. Z—”
“Charmaine. You can call me Charmaine.”
“I can’t . . . I’d never . . . How long’s it been?” Dara asked, her intonation rising at the end of her sentences. Uptalk. Older generations label it as flakiness or an insecurity, but as Charmaine knew, language is supposed to change. It’s no different than fashion: Why do people wear skinny jeans? It signals you’re part of a group. Kids don’t listen to the same music as their parents, or wear their hair the same way. Like it or not, it’s a good sign—proof that, as a culture, we’re moving forward. And as people, we’re getting older.
“Your mom said you’re starting your last year of law school. That’s wonderful,” Charmaine added, feeling a twist in her belly that reminded her of those first years after Maggie died, when she’d go to supermarkets two towns over to avoid seeing anyone she knew.