by Edan Lepucki
“You don’t have to say it,” Frida whispered.
“I didn’t see anything. I have nothing to tell you. They took the women into one of the half-collapsing houses, and the rest of us waited, guns to our heads.”
Anika was looking at her, as if waiting for her to say something, but Frida didn’t know what. Nothing would be sufficient. The smell of the clafoutis had started to fill the room: sweet and warm, a comfort if there was still such a thing.
“Later we tore down that house,” Anika said finally. “We didn’t do it completely, we left pieces of it up. As a reminder, I guess, that we had survived. The brick wall that Cal’s team is dismantling? That’s it.” She stopped. “We tried to give the Pirates all of our vegetables. We didn’t care if we starved, we just wanted them to leave. But the man in charge—he had long hair, and eczema or psoriasis all over his arms, he was scaly like a snake—he took only half of what we had. He would be back. He said he needed us alive to grow more.
“The men wore red. Bandannas on their heads, red shirts if they had them. And their hands, their fingernails, they seemed stained with it. Bloody.” Anika turned to her, condescension spreading across her face. “You see, Frida, red became the color of violence.” She spoke as if she were a teacher, reciting to a particularly dense student a lesson she had been explaining for days. “Every time the Pirates were coming, they’d warn us with something red, usually a piece of fabric, but once it was a red-handled shovel. Another time, red paint splashed across the side of the Church. They wanted to get inside our heads. You’d think the warnings would help us prepare, defend ourselves, but they just got under our skin and made things worse. That’s exactly what they wanted.
“Once we tried to make a plan. As soon as we were warned by a red object, the four women hid in one of the smaller houses—there was a crawl space that was hidden well. We knew they couldn’t handle seeing those men again, they wouldn’t survive, and so we made them as safe as we could. The rest of us hid in the Church. We figured we’d be enough for those monsters—as a group we’d distract them. We barricaded the doors, waited with our last scythe, the one they’d left us to garden with. We heard them outside, tying up their horses, laughing, calling commands at one another. They banged on the door, but didn’t try to get inside.”
“They didn’t? They just left?”
Anika shook her head. “They were waiting us out, and it worked. By the fifth day, we unlocked the doors. One of our men was very sick, he needed water, and all of us were starving. We needed food. We’d been shitting in buckets. If one of those Pirates wanted to shoot me, I would have welcomed it. I really thought they were going to, too. But they just burned down the barn we’d recently built and took off with our reserves of grain.”
“They didn’t hurt anyone?”
“Not anyone in the Church.”
“The women,” Frida said. She wanted to reach out to touch Anika, but she was afraid Anika would flinch.
“Once the Pirates had left,” Anika said, “we went to the crawl space. It was busted wide open. The women were gone. We’d assumed they wouldn’t be found there, that they’d remain hidden. They had felt almost safe, tucked away like that, but they weren’t. We’d been so stupid to hide them there, alone. When we found the crawl space empty, we thought they’d been kidnapped, but two days later, we found their bodies in the woods.”
“Oh, Anika.”
“You want to know why we didn’t leave. You think we were asking for it.”
“I don’t.”
“Where would we go?” She sighed. “The point is it didn’t take long for the color to turn my stomach. As stupid as it might sound, red scared all of us. Even something left out by accident—if it was red, we panicked.”
“It doesn’t sound stupid at all.”
Anika grunted. “Finally, when Pilar had a breakdown at the creek, sobbing as she tried to wash a red dress, we decided to destroy everything that color. Just rid ourselves of it completely.” Anika smiled, but it was woeful. “Believe it or not, it made me feel better, temporarily at least.”
“I bet.” It sounded so dumb, but she didn’t know what else to say. Frida remembered the way Anika had looked away from her cut. She hadn’t described later attacks—and there had to have been more. Had she seen a Pirate’s hands up close? Had they touched her?
“I’ve tried to shake the red thing,” Anika continued, “but it’s hard. Sandy once said it was like rejecting religion. We did that, long ago, it was partly what united us. But she said it was like turning your back on God and then catching yourself praying every now and again.”
“That sounds like something she might say.”
“Anyway,” Anika said, and moved to the table. She began putting the lids back on the jars and returning them to the crate. “It’s over. The Pirates are gone.”
“But how? How did you get rid of them?”
Anika had the cocoa tin in her hand, and she raised it like a judge’s mallet. “Your brother, Frida. He’s the one who helped us. When Micah and the others arrived, we were able to keep the Pirates away. He protected us.” She put the cocoa into the crate.
“Did he fight them off?”
She sighed. “He came with guns, and more men, strong ones, who wouldn’t be intimidated. He taught us how to protect our land.”
“And then he came to live with you guys here. I guess it was a smooth transition.”
“We owed him,” she said, “for what he did for us.”
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.
14
Word 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 perso
n 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.
