“Insane, right? First semester ends right before my due date.”
Charmaine froze, nearly spilling her coffee. There was no breath left in her body.
“Mom didn’t tell you?” Dara asked. “Mrs. Z, I’m sorry—I didn’t—”
“It’s fine. I’m thrilled for you.”
“You know I’d never—”
“Dara, please. We’re good. That’s a blessing—it should be celebrated,” Charmaine said, blinking over and over, kicking herself for not seeing it coming. Like any parent who’s buried a child, Charmaine had become a connoisseur at avoiding subjects she knew would slice her in the underbelly. Staring out at the squirrel who was still munching away, she felt the knife continue to twist.
“I appreciate you saying that, Mrs. Z. You and Mr. Z, you were always— Anyhoo, tell me how I can help. Something with SuperStars, my mom said. That place was therapy fuel for my entire adolescence.”
It didn’t take long to explain the rest: the old video of Maggie crying, and that from the looks of the tape, she was clearly crying to someone who couldn’t be seen onscreen. “Dara, if you know who that might be—if you have any ideas, I’d owe you forever.”
There was a pause, but not a long one. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Z, I really am,” Dara said. “But the honest truth is, if Maggie was crying in the studio . . . or even her being at the studio . . . I’ve got no memory of it.”
52
“When you say ‘end of the world’ . . . ?”
“I mean the actual end of the world. Or at least the end when it came to the Cold War,” O.J. began, still sitting on the front edge of his desk, motioning Zig to take a seat.
Zig waved him off, preferring to stand.
If it annoyed the colonel, he wasn’t showing it. He was too busy glancing to his left, at his window.
Zig followed his gaze outside, realizing O.J.’s office overlooked the small lot on the side of the building that Dover used as a side entrance to help the families of victims who needed a bit more privacy. O.J.’s glance lingered a second too long, and now Zig couldn’t tell if the colonel was trying to make sure they were alone, or looking for someone who was coming.
“You were saying about the Cold War?” Zig asked.
“I was saying this was back in the 1950s, when, well . . .” He turned back to Zig. “Guess what America was building faster than anyone back then?”
“Why do you keep asking questions I can’t possibly know the answer to?”
“Humor me, Mr. Zigarowski. It’s 1954. President Eisenhower is at the top of his game—and is rightfully convinced that Russia is building an arsenal of missiles that they’re determined to bomb us with. So what do we start building in return?”
“More missiles to bomb them.”
“Correct. But here’s the rub: Eisenhower’s a military man. He knows we need a good offense, but he’s also savvy enough to know we need—”
“A good defense. That’s a wonderful history lesson, but what’s this have to do with Nola or Grandma’s Pan—？”
“This is the context,” O.J. said, stealing another quick glance outside. Side entrance still clear. “In 1949, six years after the Pentagon first opened, they realized that a surprise Russian attack could easily take out all of Washington, D.C.—so military higher-ups decided that their top priority was to build a backup command center somewhere outside D.C. in case they needed to keep the government running.
“It started in Adams County, just over the Pennsylvania line from Maryland, where Uncle Sam quietly started buying land like they were Walt Disney himself. From there, they started digging. And on June 30, 1953, seven months after Eisenhower was elected, the government opened—”