“You’re here as my babysitter?” I asked, sitting on the bench beside him.
“I’m here as your pops,” he said.
Mom and Dennis were at work, and I was at home. Suspension did that to you. Sure, I caused a ruckus, but I didn’t say anything that was untrue.
“Do you want a brownie?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I’m not hungry.”
He nodded and went back to reading his newspaper.
I sat twisting my scrunchie on my wrist like I always did when I was anxious or excited.
“Aren’t you going to ask me about why I’m suspended from school? But I bet Mom and Dennis already told you, didn’t they?” I asked.
“They told me a version,” he said. “When you’re ready, you can tell me yours.”
“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t the truth.”
“Laura, are you truly afraid that there is going to be a nuclear war?” he asked.
“Who told you that?” I asked.
“Your parents—your mom and stepdad.”
I twisted the scrunchie around my wrist and nodded.
“And that’s why you painted the living room white?” he asked.
I nodded.
The day after Mom brought in five cases of canned green beans, four gallons of water, and sixteen bags of soil and stashed them in the storage shed in the backyard, I decided to dig out my old clothes and hunt for painting brushes in the garage. When you were inspired by the fear that your mother has by her desire to horde away supplies like a survivalist, you would be amazed by how much you can get done on your own. I painted the living room and dining room, and I was about to start on the kitchen when I ran out of antiflash white paint.
“It looks good,” he said, taking a big gulp of scalding hot coffee.
“You’re patronizing me,” I said.
“No, I wouldn’t do that.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You know you can come to me about anything. I’m not blood, but we are related,” he said.
I nodded but didn’t look at him. It was embarrassing.
“Get your coat; we’re going to McDonald’s.”
Suspension meant a Big Mac, fries, and a chocolate milkshake.
We sat in the corner booth and ate. Pops even dipped his fries in his milkshake. He liked them that way now.
We were mostly alone. The only other people were women with toddlers eating Happy Meals and pleading to go play outside on the playground.
“All they care about is being the first to get that damn mushroom cloud in the sky,” I said. “Ready. Set. Die.”
“The children?” he asked in his southern drawl.
“No, not the children.”
“Good, I was worried for a second there. That one with the puppy dog tails looks a little guilty,” he said with a chuckle.
“People say not to worry, that the government has this handled. That the government wouldn’t do anything like ignite a nuclear war,” I said. “It’s like Sesame Street and their weekly stories about how we’re all the same on the inside.”
“Laura, listen to me—”
“I know what you’re going to say, Pops. Write to my congressman—but we do, and they keep voting for missiles,” I said.
“No, that’s not what I was going to say. You should not trust the government. Look at me. The very first page of my life story is a warning sign that clearly states you should not trust the government. Don’t take everything they say at face value. I like your distrust of the government. It gives me hope for your and Terrence’s future. I don’t want to see my grandkids living in some Mad Max[68] wasteland.”
“You know Mad Max?” I asked.
“Your hip Pops knows Mad Max,” he said with a laugh. “I’ve been to the movies.”
I laughed too.
“Your dad mailed me this to give to you,” he said, pulling out an envelope from his back pocket.
Had everyone talked to my dad except for me?
“He was afraid you weren’t getting his letters,” he said. “But that’s between your mom and him.”
I stared at my name on the envelope: Ms. Laura Ratliff—so official. I was hoping for the best but expecting the worst.
“Go on,” Pop said.
I nodded but took my time tearing it open. I read it out loud, pausing over the black marks.
Ladybug,
I haven’t been the best dad lately. I hope to work on that in the future. If there is a future, I mean. What I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry. And I hope to say this in person one day. But for now, I can’t. And honestly, I don’t know if I ever will be able to. There’s been 
here. We’ve been on 
for weeks. 
going off. 
is routine. I’m afraid. I’m afraid for you. And I’m afraid for your mom. And I admit that was really hard to write. We screwed up everything—forever. Ladybug, I am sorry. Worst case scenario, 
, it will create 
throughout the area, and there will be 
. I may never see you again, and that scares me. You are my daughter, my Ladybug. 
may be . I’m sorry, Ladybug.
“Ladybug,” Pops said. “That’s a cute nickname.”
“It’s so redacted. What was the government so afraid of little ol’ me, a nobody, finding out?” I asked.
“Your dad wants to protect you because he loves you,” Pops said. “We all do.”
“I know.”
“I wonder what’s under the black marks,” Pops said.
“Pops, Granny said there were men in suits with gas masks near the house the last time I talked to her. Do you think there’s something wrong?”
“No, of course not. Your dad would let us know,” he said.
“Could he?” I asked, pointing at the redacted letter.
“We shouldn’t worry,” he said.
“Really?” I asked.
“Really. When I start to worry, I’ll let you know.”
“Can I tell you a secret?” I asked Pops.
“You can tell me anything,” he said.
“I don’t want to die.”
He nodded, scooted over in the booth, and wrapped me in his arms.
I cried. And he did too.
Then he bought me a box of Chocolaty Chip cookies to go. We had somewhere to be. The governor had never been to our town. Even when he was running for governor, he never made a campaign stop. I didn’t blame him. But today he was accompanied by two black cars in Griffin Flat. Hollywood was making its appearance, and now so was the governor. Governor Clinton would not be playing himself; that role went to DJ Crazy Bob from 95.6. He’d be playing Governor Holt from the fake state of Whatsitsname, where fictional Pikesville was located. Governor Holt would be the one to announce the end of the world war here.
We used to be happy before we knew the future.
The sidewalks were cluttered with actual citizens and people who didn’t live here but were pretending to live here in fictional Pikesville as extras.
And people were getting their picture taken with the governor. I did. I planned on having it framed.
“Don’t tell your mom and my son,” Pops said.
I locked my mouth and threw away the key.
Protestors showed up. They lined half the sidewalk in front of Dane’s Ice Cream Shoppe and Dewayne’s bookstore, which he probably loved, I said sarcastically.
68
There’s