California: A Novel (22 page)

The sun was rising. Morning Labor would begin soon, the crew arriving any second now, yawning, rubbing their hands together for warmth.

Frida took the rag Anika had been using and dragged it across the table. But then Anika’s hand was atop her own, as if to stop her from cleaning.

“Little Janie,” Anika said. This time, she whispered.

Frida looked up. Anika’s eyes revealed nothing.

“Jane? Jane Miller? You knew her?”

“By the time you met her, did she talk okay?”

“You mean you—”

“Good morning, sweet ladies.” It was Burke.

Anika stepped away from Frida. “Burke, leave the kitchen and come back in with a more appropriate greeting.”

Without complaint, Burke turned and left the room. Frida squeezed the rag in her fist.

“You knew Sandy’s kids?” Frida whispered. “Were they born here?”

“‘They’?”
Anika said. She looked horrified.

“Anika? What’s wrong?”

But already the rest of the crew had entered the kitchen, and the two women were separated as currents in a wave.

W
ord of Frida’s baking traveled as fast as gossip. Just an hour into Morning Labor, and already three people had told Cal about Frida’s “sweet pancake,” which sounded to him like the name of an unfortunate and sparsely attended burlesque act. Everyone had urged him to run over to the kitchen to try the cake before it was gone, but he didn’t. He had work to do.

Of course everyone was smitten with Frida and her talents. Cal could understand it, but that didn’t make him feel better. It had been years since Frida had baked anything; in fact, he was sure the last time had been for his twenty-fourth birthday. By necessity, and because they lacked funds, she’d baked him a vegan sugar-free cake, sans icing. It looked like a waterlogged block of wood, and Frida had cried as they ate it. It had tasted okay.

Now, the only thing that comforted Cal was that Frida hadn’t gotten to bake bread this morning. She was probably wrestling with the disappointment, and though that saddened him, made him feel vaguely protective of her, just as he’d felt when she served him that birthday cake so long ago, the feeling didn’t overshadow the pettiness in his heart.

The thing was, Cal had woken up happy. There was no longer a knot of secrets between him and Frida. Micah knew the situation, and the choice to stay on the Land was out of their hands. Frida’s body would begin changing soon, and there would be something to look forward to, no matter what happened here. Cal knew he was being naïve, stupid even. But he didn’t care. All his life he’d been careful, hesitant. Now he’d have what he wanted, and what he wanted was a family.

He’d caught himself whistling on the way to Morning Labor. He hadn’t gone to the Church for the private meeting; he figured the invitation had been rescinded since he’d revealed Frida’s pregnancy. Besides, he had an interest in the work he’d been doing with his team. The outdoor oven was nearly done, and looking at it, he felt a surge of pride. It was well made, almost elegant. He didn’t even chastise himself for feeling in tune with his comrades, for thinking of them as comrades, for using phrases like
in tune.
It wasn’t until he heard about Frida’s baking that his day had turned south.

He finally forced himself to forget about it and try to focus on the oven. There was still work to do, and he’d do it well. It amazed him how much satisfaction there could be in that.

Once he’d settled into a rhythm, his back aching, the paste for the brick mortar clinging to his skin, Peter showed up.

“Can you come look at the garden irrigation system with me?” He spoke quietly, his gaze straight ahead, as though they were two undercover agents. “Your brother-in-law says you’re a gardening genius, that you have professional experience.”

Cal held up his hands, as if to say,
Hey, sorry, man, I’m busy.

Peter took a rag out of his back pocket and offered it to Cal.

“It wipes off easily,” he said, and waited as Cal cleaned his hands.

It was strange how none of his comrades said anything as Cal left with Peter, not even Sheryl, who was normally such a pill about the rules. In fact, no one looked up as the two men walked away. Maybe he and Peter were undercover after all.

As they headed in the direction of the garden in silence, Cal felt as though he was in trouble and was being led to the gallows. Would Frida be there, too? He pictured Micah holding two ropes and the requisite black hoods. No pillowcases here. Cal wasn’t about to underestimate what the Land had access to.

He was being dramatic. If Micah had told Peter about Cal’s experience running gardens back in L.A., it meant they needed that kind of expertise, that they needed Cal. He wasn’t beholden to them; he had something to offer, too.

When they passed the garden, Peter not even slowing down, the dread that had been collecting at the bottom of Cal’s spine spilled down his legs.

“I thought we were going to the garden,” Cal said.

“Later,” Peter replied walking more briskly now. He was heading toward the woods, and Cal could do nothing but follow.

“Where are we going, then?”

“Micah wants to see you.”

“And you do his bidding?”

Peter didn’t respond. He couldn’t be goaded into anything, Cal realized. Peter was too mature to be embarrassed, too powerful to worry about what the new guy thought of him. He’d probably exuded this since childhood; he was a natural leader.

“Micah and I both want to talk to you,” Peter said, and that was it.

He led Cal into untamed forest at the northern edge of the Land. Cal and Frida had come from the west, and they hadn’t had a chance to explore the rest of the borders. Cal had seen this section of woods from afar and wondered about them. The Spikes rose on either side, waiting like armed guards, and he imagined there was a whole maze of them deeper in the forest.

“Can I take a look at the Forms sometime?” Cal asked.

“I suppose so,” Peter said, and pushed aside a mass of thorny branches. He gestured for Cal to walk ahead. “You’d probably be good at security. I can tell you’ve got that kind of mind: you’re the paranoid sort. Always assuming danger.”

Cal followed Peter’s lead and stepped over a rotting log. There was a path here, but it was tricky. “I want to know how the Forms are really a threat to outsiders,” he said. “I mean, come on.”

“They scared you, didn’t they?”

Peter kept walking, going around another rotted log and pushing aside tree branches. He stepped over what looked like a dead bird, covered in flies. “Watch out,” he called back, and Cal stepped over it, too, holding his breath.

Finally, Peter stopped at the trunk of an Oregon oak. He put his palm against it.

“Where are we?”

Peter pointed up, and Cal saw that there was a wooden platform built into it.

“A tree house? How quaint.”

A big laugh sounded from above. Micah. “Come on up!” he called.

“Go ahead,” Peter said when Cal looked at him.

Cal shinnied up the trunk without using the footholds. There’d been a plane tree on his father’s farm, great for climbing, and as a boy Cal had loved to hang upside down from its highest branch until he felt the skin of his face turn purple.

“Look at you, Tom Sawyer,” Micah said when Cal pulled himself onto the platform. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, hands loose on his knees, as if he’d been meditating.

“You’re in a good mood,” Cal said. Peter was coming up behind him.

Even though there were two camping chairs at the edge of the platform, Cal sat on the floor in front of Micah. Peter did the same.

“Does this mean I’m still in the cabal?” Cal said.

“‘Cabal’?”

“He means the meetings,” Peter said.

“I know what he means, Peter.” Micah had his eyes on Cal. “Do you see August here? Or even little itty-bitty Sailor?”

“Why pull me away from Morning Labor, then? We’re putting the finishing touches on the outdoor oven. I should be there.”

“Already so committed,” Peter said. To Micah he added, “I told you.”

“Told him what?”

“Jeez, Cal,” Micah said. “Take the venom out of your voice.”

Peter nodded. “All I said was that you’re good for this place.”

“Am I?” Cal flung his legs in front of him. “Are you ready to be an uncle, Micah?”

Cal wasn’t sure why he was being so cavalier.

“That’s why you’re here,” Micah said icily. “To discuss the matter.”

“I guess I’ve given you a lot to think about,” Cal said.

Micah leaned back on his hands and hung his head back so that all Cal could see of his face was his beard. A few crumbs were stuck there like flies in a spider’s web.

“Do you like the tree house as much as Frida did?” Micah asked.

“She’s been up here?”

Cal immediately wished he hadn’t said it. This was where she must have talked to Micah. Why had she left out that detail? His face felt hot; he might as well have been hanging upside down from one of the tree branches. Damn it, Frida. He thought they were done with secrets. Soon everyone would think he didn’t know his wife. Maybe they’d be right.

Micah lifted his head up. He was smiling. “My sister sure is secretive, isn’t she?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Guys, knock it off.”

“Knock off what?” Micah said. “I guess your news has stayed with me, California.”

“As I suspected.”

“For one, how are you sure that Frida’s
with child?
”

“You know how the female body works,” Cal said. “She’s late.”

“That doesn’t confirm a pregnancy,” Micah said. “Not these days.”

“She might have missed it for a number of reasons,” Peter said. “Poor nutrition, for one. Micah says she used to be heavier.”

“She’s lost some weight over the years, yeah,” Cal said. “The grocery stores in L.A. weren’t exactly well stocked by the end. And out here, just the two of us, it’s not easy.”

“There’s also early menopause,” Peter said. “It’s been known to happen.”

“Stop it,” Cal said. “Look, guys, Frida says she’s pregnant. She says she’s sure, okay?”

Micah laughed. “Fuck me! Frida, feeling the pull of the moon? We can’t be talking about the same person here, Cal. My sister used to throw out a pair of panties every month because her period always, as she put it,
surprised
her.”

“Jesus Christ, Micah.” Cal didn’t know what was worse: Micah talking about Frida’s body, or that he was right. When she and Cal had first started dating, Frida had to buy new underwear on a regular basis. “Oops,” she’d like to say, coming out of the bathroom.

Later, when the department stores went out of business, and they lost their Internet connection for good, and they had hardly a dollar to spare, especially on clothing, Frida committed herself to being a little more “organized.” That’s when she realized she had a perfectly predictable cycle. “I’m textbook,” she’d cried, delighted.

Before then, Frida’s relationship to her own body had puzzled Cal. It was funny, even charming, how ignorant she was of it. But from another angle, it seemed pitiful. Or just weird: how could she not be obsessed with a body like hers? In the beginning, Cal had thought of it all the time. He remembered one time at work in L.A., planting tomatoes and thinking of Frida’s smooth back and her pillowy ass, which he loved to spread apart.

Peter cleared his throat, and Cal realized no one had said anything for a moment.

“Micah,” Peter said, “that really is repugnant.”

“What?”

“I had a sister.”

Past tense, Cal noted.

“And I stayed far away from her, and her…period. It’s weird to talk about it.”

“Don’t be a child, Peter. You misunderstand me. You both do.” He turned to Cal. “I bet all these years, you thought Frida was just being absentminded about her body.”

Cal didn’t reply.

“You’re wrong. It has nothing to do with her period, or her womanhood, or some shit like that. It’s time she doesn’t get. If Frida doesn’t keep track of time passing, then it can’t pass. Then nothing changes.”

“Well, she keeps track now.”

A gust of wind picked up, and from miles away, a scrub jay cried out. The platform creaked beneath them, and Cal imagined the whole thing toppling to the ground. No one said anything. The tree swayed.

Peter stood, maybe to break the mood. He leaned against the railing. “Let’s stay on topic, guys. Cal, has Frida been exhibiting any symptoms?”

Micah laughed again. “‘Exhibiting.’ Nice one, doctor.”

Peter shot Cal a look that meant
Don’t mind him, he’s just showing off.
Cal couldn’t help but feel relieved; here was an ally.

“Is she nauseated?” Peter asked. “Tired?”

Cal shook his head. “Not that I know of. But it could be too early.”

“There you have it,” Micah said. “There’s nothing definitive.”

“But—”

Peter held up a hand. “You know he’s right, Cal. And if he is, then things are a lot less complicated.”

“I realize her pregnancy is a complication for you,” Cal said. “But not for me.”

“We both know that’s not true,” Micah said. “Frida wants to stay, and I think you do, too, if you’d just allow yourself to admit it.” He’d moved to a kneeling position and was fiddling with a nail in one of the wood planks. He would not look at Cal. “Tell you what. Let’s keep this supposed pregnancy quiet.”

Peter was nodding.

“What about the Vote? It’s supposed to happen next week.”

“Since nothing is conclusive,” Micah said, “we want to keep it out of the decision.”

“But what happens if it is conclusive? What if she’s pregnant?”

Peter said nothing.

Micah continued to fiddle with the nail, his fingers poised clawlike, and he bit his lower lip in concentration.

“Micah? I asked you a question.”

He looked up. “There are options.”

“What does that mean? Do you guys have an abortion clinic set up here? Or do you send women to a Community to take care of it?”

Peter sighed. “Most Communities don’t allow abortions. Didn’t you know that? Those fucking Christians.”

“So what if Frida’s pregnant? What then? Will you guys just bring out the wire hangers?”

“Stop it,” Peter said. “You’re being paranoid, once again.”

“
Options
is a generic term,” Micah said. “Your response is a bit of a Rorschach test, no?”

“Fuck off, Micah. Why don’t you just tell me the whole story? Why aren’t kids allowed here? Sailor told me the party line about containment. But that doesn’t really explain it.”

“It doesn’t?” Micah said. “It seems perfectly logical to me.”

“It’s a long story,” Peter said.

“So tell it. Where else do I have to be?”

“The Land has to stay contained, Cal,” Micah said, “so that word of this outpost doesn’t grow. I’m supposed to be dead, remember?”

“Forget about that,” Peter said. “Have you ever thought about how hard it would be to raise a kid out here?”

Cal heard something sorrowful in Peter’s voice, and he thought of Jane and Garrett. Burying them. He stood, and his knees cracked. It sounded like a branch breaking.

“Listen, Cal,” Peter said. “This is in your best interest. We want you to work with us. And if Frida is pregnant, then we’ll discuss it when the time comes. I’m just not convinced she is.”