California: A Novel

by Edan Lepucki

  A shelf ran along the length of the room, directly below the windows: it was smooth, and when Frida shined the candle she saw it was made of wood. Different candles lined this shelf, some of them burned almost to nothing, others long and tapered. None of them were lit, but Frida imagined that when they were, they transformed the room. It’d be like standing in an elegant little restaurant: spare, honey lit. All it lacked was a hostess stand, some skinny cute woman with a handful of menus, ready to show you to your table.

  Against one wall was a single sleeping pallet, empty, and in the center of the room a stove huffed. It was warm in here. Micah must have left recently.

  Frida was stunned by the anger she felt. Or maybe it was envy. The house’s exterior was nothing special, but it was welcoming inside, almost beautiful. Someone had renovated this carefully, but if you saw it from the outside, you’d never have any idea. Everyone knew Micah lived here, but how many were invited inside?

  She stepped to the window and for a moment felt like she’d found herself in a charming country home. That didn’t seem like Micah, though: he’d want to wake up to see the Land’s dangerous and unique border. Maybe when the sun rose, it revealed a line of sharp Spikes in the distance.

  Frida pushed away from the window, the glass solid and smooth against her hands, and rounded the stove. Behind it was a table, low to the ground, and beneath it, a pile of clothes, a few folded neatly, others flung carelessly aside. Frida picked up a blue T-shirt and held it to her face. There it was, her brother’s smell, as if he were still fourteen years old, showering every morning for three minutes, timed, like he was training for the military. Frida knew she was caught in a fantasy, but she didn’t care. She breathed in deeper.

  On the table were a few odds and ends: a fingernail clipper, a brush for Micah’s long hair, and a bandage, the kind you’d roll onto a sprained ankle.

  And then she saw the toy.

  They had called it the Bee, even though someone, Dada maybe, eventually realized it was a butterfly. By then, it was too late, the Bee was the Bee.

  It was a plastic butterfly with clear blue wings and a big smiling face. From its head protruded a ring that opened and closed; Hilda used to hook it onto their stroller or onto one of their car seats. Not that Frida remembered any of that; when they were older, the toy used to sit on the mantel like a vase, and Hilda would sometimes talk about it. When Frida and Micah were babies, she said, the Bee had the miraculous power to turn their distress into something more palatable. It had saved the family on many crosstown car trips.

  Frida picked it up and rubbed her hand over the ridges of the wings, across its smile, its big orange eyes. Its body was striped, black and white, but now the white paint had peeled off, revealing a sad gray color beneath. The Bee.

  Her brother had taken this toy from their home. He must have wanted a souvenir before he left L.A. for good, and he knew it wouldn’t be missed. Frida had forgotten all about it.

  There was no way Micah saw this now and didn’t think of their family, of their mother’s stories. He might not want children on the Land, but it wasn’t because he was evil. He had to have a reason; it had to be an act of compassion.

  Maybe her brother would give this to her, pass it on to his niece or nephew. He loved her, and he loved his family. Frida remembered what he’d said to her in the tree house. He thought she’d go to the encampment with their parents. He’d wanted her to be safe, too. Her little brother was mixed up, but she could forgive him for that.

  * * *

  As Frida walked into the kitchen, Anika said, “I thought we’d try breadsticks today.”

  The kitchen was dark, the candle between them throwing shadows across Anika’s face.

  “Those were my brother’s favorite, growing up,” Frida said.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “He loved stale, store-bought ones. He loved how crunchy they were.” Frida laughed. “It was kind of weird, actually. But also funny.”

  “Sounds about right,” she said.

  As they worked, Frida said, “The kids had to leave when Micah got here, right? That was a condition of his help?”

  Anika nodded, but she didn’t look up. “It was practical.”

  “I thought so,” Frida said.

  “August had access to a Community. At first, we didn’t know which one.”

  “And you didn’t know it was Pines until August brought the objects for the Forms?”

  Anika didn’t answer.

  “Anika?”

  “Back then, the Communities had everything figured out except one thing: children. What if someone couldn’t conceive, even after IVF and all that? What then? It didn’t happen often, but occasionally, there was one unlucky couple on the block.”

  Frida remembered what Toni had told her: that in Communities, childless couples were frowned upon.

  “August took the youngest children there,” Anika said. “To live.”

  “Adoption?”

  “They wanted babies.”

  “What about the older kids?” Frida asked.

  “Bo and Sandy took Jane to live off the Land. They were the only ones. A handful of others were going to do the same, but right before the Millers left, another family lost their child. Melissa—our oldest. I told you she had that fever when the Pirates came? Well, she died of it.”

  “My God.”

  “It frightened us, the thought of being out there alone, vulnerable to something like that happening. Micah told us we were right to worry. I’m not sure if his goal was to scare us into keeping close, but it worked. Melissa’s parents are still here.” Anika didn’t say their names, and Frida didn’t ask. She’d let them be themselves, not their tragedy.

  “I assume Pines was able to take care of the children?” Frida asked. “They wouldn’t die of fever there. But I bet it’s terrible sometimes being without Ogden.”

  Anika nodded. “It is. But I’m glad he was young enough to be adopted. Micah said he’d go to a family immediately, a well-off one. The older kids didn’t have it as easy.”

  “They weren’t adopted?”

  “No. They were sent to a place called C.A.P., the Center at Pines. That’s where children too old to be adopted are educated and trained for jobs. Micah said they’ll be well fed and safe. He showed us pamphlets. It looks like a nice boarding school, with classrooms and a cafeteria. Once they’re old enough, they receive apprenticeships. The kids who grow up at C.A.P. are guaranteed jobs upon turning eighteen. It’s manual-labor stuff. They’ll only be eligible for certain jobs, but they won’t die of fever or starvation, and their lives will be easier there.” She paused. “Micah said it was the best thing for them. Didn’t we want a better life for our children?”

  “But to give them up—” Frida stopped herself midsentence. She wished she could take it back.

  “I’ll never forget it. All the kids left together on the school bus, dressed in clothes August had provided for them. Crisp, clean dresses for the girls and pants and button-down shirts for the boys. Even tiny outfits for the little ones. Ogden had a smile on his face when they put him into his carrier, like he was proud of how he looked, like he was excited for the ride. We could almost pretend it was normal, our babies’ first day of school. We waved until the taillights disappeared.”

  Frida remembered the bus, parked in that meadow like something out of a children’s book. Frida imagined Anika giving her baby away. He would be covered in a light blue blanket, to protect against the chill of the early morning, his tiny clenched fists hidden beneath it. Had Anika run her index finger over Ogden’s gums one last time, to feel the teeth cutting through? Did she cry out as Ogden’s familiar weight left her arms? Or did she remain stoic? As something dark pressed at the edges of her chest, did she press back? This was best for Ogden, she must have told herself. Wasn’t it?

  The day they found out Micah was dead, Hilda said she could still feel the top of his baby head beneath her nose, against her mouth. She said she remembered the way sh
e’d comb her fingers through the fuzz of his hair as she nursed.

  Anika gestured for Frida to step aside so she could roll out the dough.

  “You can’t think too hard about this, Frida. We all had to make sacrifices. I suppose that includes your brother as well.”

  “Micah is sweeter than he lets on,” Frida said with a smile. “You know he kept this toy? We loved it when we were kids. It’s a little bee, well, it’s a butterfly. But my brother has it in his room.”

  “The Bee?” Anika said.

  “You know it?”

  “He gave that to Ogden, before they left.” She put both hands on the table before her, to settle herself. “He took it back?”

  “I’m sure there’s an explanation…” Frida didn’t know what else she could say. Her brother had given the toy to a baby, and then he’d taken it away. It was petty at best. At worst—she couldn’t go there.

  She wondered what other cruel things Micah was capable of. She tried to imagine Randy hanging the Pirate’s head from the top of the tallest Spike. He was probably crying, and her brother would have remained calm, as if instructing the boy how to decorate a Christmas tree.

  “What about Randy?” Frida asked.

  “He’s at C.A.P. now, too.”

  “Deborah let him go?”

  “It was the only way,” Anika said.

  They didn’t speak for a moment, and then Anika placed both her hands flat on the table and said, “Frida, let me tell you about your brother.”

  “I know my brother.”

  “You don’t,” she said.

  Frida waited.

  “The first year Micah was here, I was very difficult to live with. Losing my baby was harder on me than the others, I don’t know why. I wasn’t very cooperative, I talked back, I didn’t want to help with the Forms, or anything, really.”

  Frida wished she could stop listening; she knew something bad was coming. If only there was a door to slam, a bridge to jump off. But she let Anika keep talking.

  “On a particularly dark day,” Anika said, “I refused to show up to the Church’s meeting. I lay in bed all day, crying. I thought I’d be reprimanded publicly, but it was worse.” Anika stopped.

  “What is it? Just tell me.”

  “Micah came to my room when the others were outside working. He told me that if I didn’t get in line, there would be no place for me on the Land. He said it would be worse than I could ever imagine. He was whispering. He said the Pirates were still out there, beyond the Forms we were building, and that they’d kill me if they ever got the chance.”

  Frida didn’t say anything.

  “I didn’t talk back, I just wanted him to leave my room. But he didn’t. Instead he leaned close and whispered, ‘Ogden was yours, right?’ He began to describe my son: the color of his eyes, the birthmark on his left arm, the shirt he was wearing when August carried him onto the bus. I started to cry—how dare Micah threaten me like that? I’d already given him everything.”

  Anika was crying now. She wiped her eyes with the back of her arms. “Then he turned and walked away. I had my eyes on his back. That’s when I saw the red peeking out of the back pocket of his jeans. It was just the edge of a bandanna, grazing the hem of his shirt, but as soon as I saw it, I felt that same jolt of fear, and I had to shut my eyes. I should have screamed. I don’t know why I didn’t. Micah had put the bandanna there, so I’d see it, I’m sure of it. He must have heard me gasp because he turned around once more. He actually smiled at me.

  “He said Ogden would be safe. All I had to do was attend the meetings and get along with everyone else. With him.”

  “And so you did?”

  “First I tried to tell Peter what had happened. He said I was overreacting, that Micah was just trying to get me to cooperate. Peter didn’t understand. He said he missed Ogden but had always been afraid for him. Now he wasn’t. He thought I was mistaken about the red bandanna, but I wasn’t, I just couldn’t prove it. And then Micah announced to everyone that I’d be moving to a bedroom with a door and that I’d get to take over the kitchen. He was giving me special privileges like a bribe for good behavior.”

  “That’s one way to look at it,” Frida said. “Or maybe he was just trying to apologize and make things right after he scared you so badly.”

  Anika pushed the heels of her hands against her eyes. When she removed them, her eyes were pink, her face drawn and tired. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe Micah was being smart, and he knew it wouldn’t take much to bribe me into submission.” She shook her head. “Your brother, he swept in, over us all, and we couldn’t stop him.”

  As they finished baking, Frida kept replaying Anika’s story about her brother and the children in her mind. There was no way Cal had any idea what Micah had done; if he had, he would have told her. He’d be too afraid for their own unborn child not to.

  At dinner last night, Frida had noticed again how young Sailor looked. Dave, too. And Burke. And the guy she’d waved to on the way back from the shower, Doug. These men were barely out of childhood. The mothers on the Land must have sensed this and welcomed them happily.

  Frida was probably the youngest woman on the Land. Fatima had to be in her midforties; Sheryl, too. Pregnancies could happen, but accidents wouldn’t be likely. Kids had been removed from the future.

  Perhaps Anika had done the right thing and given Ogden a safe upbringing inside of Pines. And maybe it was easy to give up parenthood for the life Micah offered them. A life of regular meals, warm showers, leisurely afternoons, and a bed. Cookies when they behaved. Maybe the one thing that every parent wants is to be a child again, to be taken care of.

  Micah had planned everything, Frida realized. He had foreseen every motivation.

  She imagined her own child, small as a fig. He would be good. He would be necessary. Her brother would see that, and he would accept him.

  He had to. If not, then what?

  Frida wanted to believe that her brother had sent those kids to Pines because he thought they’d be better off. But there had to be more to it. Micah wasn’t selfless. He had to benefit in some way.

  Frida was at the trough rinsing the baking sheets when she heard someone whisper hello at the front of the kitchen.

  There was Fatima, waving. Anika turned to Frida with a tight smile.

  “Good morning, ladies,” Fatima said. “Micah said I could join your baking lessons. He thought you might need some help.”

  18

  Sailor and Dave sometimes missed the meeting the morning after a patrol, and they told Cal he could sleep through it today, too. August had left, and only Peter and Micah remained. But once Cal got into bed, he was restless, and he couldn’t even close his eyes. He was thinking about Frida, about what he’d tell her about the night. He wanted to describe how the Forms shined in the moonlight, how magical they were, and how it felt to see the Land from way up high in the Towers. He thought, maybe, she might understand. She’d said it herself: she wanted to stay on the Land; there was no other choice. Maybe they weren’t fighting after all.

  He couldn’t interrupt her in the kitchen, though, not without causing a scene. The last thing he and Frida needed was to draw attention to themselves. He might as well do as he normally did. He got out of bed and put his boots back on.

  Inside the Church, Micah lay curled into a pew, his arms crossed, his chin to chest. He didn’t move when Cal walked in; he was asleep. Goose bumps had spread across Micah’s arms, and his legs looked tense, as if they were trying to kick off the cold.

  “Micah,” Cal said, and he jerked awake.

  He saw Cal and let out a little laugh, then sat up and yawned. His hair hung stringy across his shoulders.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Cal said.

  “I was dreaming.”

  “You sleep here?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Without a blanket?”

  Micah shrugged. “A lesson in fortitude.” He stood up and stretched. “Fuck, it’s cold. Goo
d thing you made it out of the Forms. Dave is still impressed. So is Sailor, but, come on, he’s like a toddler at the aquarium. You’re his jellyfish.”

  “Micah, they’ve told me some things.”

  “I know.”

  “These past few days, I’ve been thinking.”

  “I noticed.” He raised an eyebrow. “You really want to know how this place works, don’t you?”

  “I have to. We can’t be in the dark anymore.”

  “‘We’? I told you, what you learn in the meetings is secret.”

  “I was on security; it wasn’t a meeting.”

  “It’s still sensitive information.”

  “Is it? We talked mostly about Plank, which, we all know, only Plankers care to hear about. Dave and Sailor told me Toni was probably a bad recruiter.”

  Micah smiled. “They’re right. She fell in love with me that weekend we met, and everything went downhill from there.” He blew on his hands before rubbing them together for warmth. “Though she did enjoy being the only woman in a sea of men.”

  “More like a pond of boys.”

  “More like pond scum.”

  Cal laughed. “And you liked that she chose you.”

  “Are you kidding? I loved it. It’s probably why I got so involved. I’d been singled out, made to feel like I was destined, like the Sun King.” He paused. “And it’s probably why I was so devoted to her. At first.”

  “‘At first’? You always said you were totally faithful, that she was crazy for being so jealous.”

  “She was, but that doesn’t mean she was wrong. I did have a wandering eye. She simply couldn’t hold my attention.”

  “You’re a dick.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Micah said.

  “Where’s Toni now?” Cal asked.

  “She’s not in the Group anymore, you knew that.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  Micah stood up and stretched. Cal waited for him to finish.