California: A Novel

by Edan Lepucki

  Who was waiting behind the door? What was on the second floor?

  A few people ventured to the front of the room to see Micah. One asked about something called Morning Labor, and another came to apologize for drinking the milk Micah had requested. “You never came for it. It was on its way to curd,” the man said, and laughed, trying to catch Cal’s eye and, when that didn’t work, Frida’s.

  Micah sent away all of these visitors with a curt nod or a subtle shake of the head.

  When he put his arm across Frida’s front and said to a visitor, “We’ll begin the meeting shortly,” Cal realized there was no one behind the stage door. The meeting would start when Micah started it. He was the televangelist here.

  And just like that, the voices in the pews behind them faded away. Cal heard someone close the front doors, and a man’s baritone groan about the heat that would descend soon enough. The doors were reopened, and someone else, a woman, complained about the bugs that would soon be in the Church, attracted to the brightness. No one listened to her. Micah hoisted himself to standing.

  He walked up the two steps leading to the stage and stood behind the pulpit. There had once been a microphone up there, no doubt, but now whoever wanted to keep the congregation’s attention simply had to project. But it wasn’t a problem, Micah’s voice was so loud, Cal leaned back.

  “Peter was supposed to run tonight’s meeting, but it looks like you’re stuck with me.”

  Cal had expected a more eloquent welcome from his brother-in-law, some comment on the evening, the day’s momentous events, but Micah acted as if nothing new had happened that day, as if he hadn’t in fact come back to life for his own sister. The lack of preamble should have eradicated Micah’s charm, but the people’s silence proved that they respected him, were magnetized by his presence alone.

  Or maybe this was just normal. Perhaps the Land didn’t require niceties, fancy speeches. They’d stripped away the fake and dangerous veneer of modern culture, the one Cal himself had been eager to leave, in order to live freely. Micah was just being himself up there, and people were listening, not in the name of etiquette, but because it didn’t occur to them not to.

  “I know we need to discuss Morning Labor and the issue with people missing their shifts, but…” Here Micah smiled, and a few people at the back of the Church laughed. Cal thought he heard someone stamping their feet.

  “You all learned today that I have a sister and that she’s been just a few miles off for the past two years.” He paused. “As you probably already know, she’s here now. She’s come to the Land.”

  Frida was leaning forward in the pew, her hands shaped into a steeple like the one above them. She reminded Cal of a high school basketball player, watching the game from the bench, hoping to be called in. Micah said her name, and her hands fell. She turned around to take in the crowd. Cal kept his eyes on Micah.

  “Frida’s with an old friend of mine. His name is Cal. Short for Calvin, but call him Cal. Everyone does.”

  So Cal wasn’t Frida’s husband, or even her partner, or her boyfriend. He was Micah’s pal.

  “Frida and Cal,” Micah said, lowering his voice to address them. “Stand up, so that everyone can see you.”

  Frida was on her feet before Cal could even compute the request. She pulled him up to join her, and Cal finally took in the congregation. The Church was crowded with people, more than just the ones he’d seen earlier, probably fifty or sixty. They were sitting in the pews or standing by the open door. Those sitting by the lights were already soaked in sweat; Cal himself could feel the wetness under his arms and at his forehead.

  Some of the people were grinning at him; others were nodding solemnly. He caught Fatima’s eye, and she raised both eyebrows in a goofy way. When he tried to make eye contact with Peter, he just looked through him. Cal shrugged and looked away.

  No one was elderly. No one was very young.

  It hit him all at once. There were no children. Not one.

  “Where are the kids?” he whispered to Frida.

  She sat down as if she hadn’t heard him.

  “I know this situation isn’t to be taken lightly,” Micah said. “I don’t expect any favors.” He rubbed his hands together. “We will bring their presence here to a vote. Believe me, we will.”

  If the Land voted against their presence, Cal wondered, would he and Frida cease to exist?

  “But, in the meantime,” Micah continued, “I’d like to have them stay here, just until a decision is reached.”

  Now that Cal had already seen the crowd, he couldn’t help but turn around to witness their reactions to Micah’s request. He half expected someone, Dave, maybe, or Peter, to stand up with a pitchfork and demand the outsiders leave. It would make sense; Frida and Cal’s presence expanded a community that wanted to remain the same size.

  He wanted to stand up and say, Do what you want. We’re happy to leave. He wouldn’t, of course. And, anyway, Frida didn’t agree with him.

  “Is that all right with everyone?” Micah said.

  Cal had to grab on to the back of the pew when the women sitting behind him held up their fists in response to Micah’s questions. They moved them back and forth, as if their hands were hinged, as if they were knocking on invisible doors.

  Just like at Plank. The way they’d expressed approval, whether they were cleaning horse stalls or discussing Roland Barthes in seminar. Why was the Land mimicking that knock? Micah had clearly taught them that signal of approval; or had some of them already known it?

  He began feverishly looking around the room at the other men’s faces. Did he recognize anyone? Except for Micah, he hadn’t seen any of his classmates since the day he’d left Plank. What if they were here, and he could talk to them again? What did that mean? A ghost town that lived up to its name.

  But he didn’t see any Plankers. Strangers stared back at him, and his new startling hope flew, startled, out of him.

  A couple of people weren’t knocking, he realized. They held up their index and middle fingers—Plank’s signal for disagreement. He turned back to Micah.

  “Please come speak to me individually afterward if you don’t agree,” he said.

  To Cal’s surprise, none of the dissenters stood up to protest. This was a civilized bunch. That, or Micah had power over them. Maybe here on the Land, democracy was merely dress up, merely a dance. They had the stage lights for it.

  “I promise,” Micah said, “we’ll vote on this very soon.” He smiled. “Until then, I urge you to get to know Frida and Cal. I’ll be putting them on the Labor schedule. They’ve been living on their own out here, so they’re strong, and resourceful.”

  Cal realized Micah was serious. They’d been welcomed, albeit temporarily, to this place, just as Frida had hoped, and he had feared. They’d be put to work, which was clearly important here; Micah was already discussing the Morning Labor controversy. Cal and Frida would become part of this world. Frida would be pleased. Cal wasn’t sure what he felt. They had squash back home that would soon need picking and a bed more comfortable than the sack of straw Micah had given them and a house that fit the two of them, a third when the time came. If Frida ate enough, their baby would be healthy. August could bring them special goods, if needed. Clearly, the Land had access.

  Maybe that’s what troubled him. This wasn’t a ghost town at the edge of the world. They were connected to something larger.

  After the meeting, they ate more of the same bean soup in the dining room with about thirty others. The Land dined in two shifts, Micah explained, and some, if they were too hungry to wait, prepared simpler meals in their own houses. The room was lit with candles and a single solar lamp, far brighter than the ones Cal and Frida used.

  Once they were seated, Cal asked Micah, “So does everyone here know about Plank?”

  Micah shrugged. “About as many as in the real world. Which is to say not many.”

  “But the fist knocking…”

  “You noticed?”
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br />   Micah’s pretend ignorance made Cal throw down his spoon. “Don’t act like you don’t owe us answers,” he said.

  Micah took another mouthful of soup. His eyes shot left and right as he did so, and Cal could tell he was trying to gauge the tension, the interest, in the room. He didn’t want the visitors to cause a scene. Cal was willing to do a lot more, if it got Micah talking.

  “Mikey?” Cal said. “Tell us what the hell is going on here.”

  Micah didn’t answer, just sat there, silent. Cal made to stand up, but then Frida’s hand was on his.

  “Later,” she said. She nodded to her bowl of soup, and to his. “Let’s wait, okay?”

  “Yes, she’s right,” Micah said. “It’s dinner, and we should just enjoy it.”

  Frida brought her spoon to her mouth and ate. He hated how content she seemed, that happiness she couldn’t conceal.

  The next morning, when they were alone, Frida changing into the clothes Fatima had dropped off for her the night before, Cal tried to talk about the turkey baster.

  “Why didn’t you tell me we had that?”

  She shrugged, but he waited. She couldn’t play mute for good.

  “Tell me. Frida?”

  “It was fun to have a secret,” she said. “And I didn’t want you to take it from me.”

  “Why would I take it from you?”

  “To use.”

  “I don’t mind if you give it to Micah,” he replied.

  “Don’t be jealous.”

  He grunted. “I’ll try not to be.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Just think about it, babe. These people have batteries and razors—sharp ones. Last night Sailor was carrying one of those glow sticks they used to use at raves, lighting his way. They’re not desperate for things, not like we are.”

  “I’m glad you can finally admit it. We’re desperate.”

  “You think the baster will impress him, but it won’t.”

  She looked at him like he was the lowest human being.

  “I’m not interested in impressing him.”

  She straightened her shirt, which fit her loosely. He was reminded of the first time she’d worn Sandy’s clothes. He’d never told her how much it upset him.

  “Did you hear what I said last night? In the Church?”

  She looked up, waiting.

  “There aren’t any kids here. No babies, either.”

  She didn’t answer, but her face said: Don’t ruin this for me.

  “It’s not as if they were in day care, Frida.”

  “What do you want me to say? You think we’re in one of those fantasy novels you read when you were little because you didn’t have any friends?”

  “No, Frida, please. I’m not talking about some impossible future world. I mean something perfectly logical…”

  “Like what? That the tribe can’t get pregnant? Like the world is seriously ending? Please.”

  “It just worries me.”

  “Stop worrying, okay? Just for a while.”

  He didn’t reply.

  In the next moment, Micah was calling their names from the hallway.

  Freeeeda. Californeeea.

  “Your leader is calling,” Cal said, and stepped aside so she could pass.

  11

  Morning Labor wasn’t as bad as Frida had expected. The name itself had scared her, but in reality, it was just a list of chores that the Land members had to complete before noon. These positions were assigned by a committee, and they rotated monthly unless someone was particularly skilled at a task and wished to continue doing it permanently. She and Cal were supposed to choose from a number of assignments: kitchen, garden, construction, butchery, security, animals, laundry, or housekeeping. Per regulation, they were told they could not pick the same job. Couples separated before noon to encourage socialization and independence.

  When Sailor had explained the system to them after dinner the night before, she’d thought immediately of Plank. Of the jobs Micah had complained about in his letters, and of Cal’s stories, told in such detail that she could trick herself into believing that she’d gone to the school herself. The Plankers, she knew, had alternated positions in the same way they did on the Land, and they took them just as seriously.

  As Sailor continued, Cal had leaned over and whispered to her, “This is exactly like—”

  “I know,” Frida said. It would have been unkind to pretend she didn’t notice the similarities.

  Now, their first morning here, Micah stood with Sailor in the hallway. They were both wearing thick sweaters, and Micah had on a beanie.

  “Good morning,” her brother said.

  “Labor’s about to begin,” Sailor said. “You should get there early.”

  “Have you chosen an assignment yet?” Micah asked.

  Frida picked kitchen because of her baking experience. “And Cal…”

  He was just stepping out of the bedroom, not even trying to hide his scowl.

  “What’ll it be?” Micah asked him.

  “Whatever,” Cal said. And then, after a moment, he added, “Security.”

  Micah shook his head. “You aren’t familiar enough with the Land for that position.”

  “How about construction?” Sailor asked, looking to Micah. Her brother nodded.

  Cal shrugged. “Whatever,” he said again.

  Micah smiled, as if he didn’t notice the attitude. “Perfect. I’ll have Sailor lead you guys to your assignments.”

  He nodded once more to Sailor and, without even a wave, left them to it.

  Frida walked into the kitchen and realized she’d been imagining the one at Canter’s, which could serve two hundred diners if needed. They’d certainly baked that much bread and pastry each day. This kitchen, still dank in the gray morning light, was much smaller, and of course it wasn’t outfitted with industrial ovens and dishwashers. For washing dishes, there was a rusty trough next to a back door; the trough was presumably filled with water from outside, and the buckets waited on the floor nearby for such a task. Across the kitchen, a large woodburning stove stunk up the room. Pots and pans hung from the ceiling, and in the center of the room ran a long banquet table; for chopping and prepping the food, Frida guessed. One end was crowded with cooking tools: cutting boards, large mixing bowls, knives, slotted spoons.

  As Frida walked in, a middle-aged woman with a gray streak in her hair was ascending from what had to be the root cellar. In one hand she held a basket of onions, and with her other hand she closed the two wooden doors that stuck open, vertical, from the floor.

  She saw Frida and smiled. She was missing a front tooth, and the ones she did have were yellow and uneven.

  The woman put the onions on the table. “I’m Anika.”

  “Frida.”

  “I know your name,” Anika said. She glanced out the window. She was checking the light, Frida realized. “You’re early. The others will be here soon.”

  Frida nodded, unsure of herself. She remembered what Micah had said about her and Cal during the Church meeting: that they were strong and resourceful. She would have to live up to that promise.

  Before she could ask if Anika wanted her to start on anything, the others on the shift arrived. There were seven of them in all, including Fatima, who was wearing the same outfit she’d worn since Frida’s arrival. It looked like she’d slept in the boxers.

  To Frida’s surprise, Fatima came over and gave her a kiss on each cheek.

  “Oh…hi,” Frida said.

  “Don’t look so starstruck,” Fatima said. “It’s how I greet all of my friends.”

  “That’s the thing,” Frida said with a laugh. “I haven’t had a friend in a while.”

  Anika began her instructions. She wanted them to cut onions, she said, and peel carrots and slice potatoes so thin they were see-through.

  “And I mean thin,” Anika said, “like skin.”

  Frida quickly learned that Anika was on permanent duty, and thus in charge.


  She was the team leader, Fatima said.

  Most of the group was female, except for two guys who were as young as Sailor. They didn’t seem quite as naïve or dewy as he was, though if they’d told her they played in the same band, Frida would have believed them: they were scruffy enough, skinny enough. One had a tattoo of a feather on his thumb and asked Frida if she could handle cutting onions. The other went right for the potatoes as if Anika’s instruction had inspired him.

  When one of the women saw how slowly the boy was working through the first potato, she said, “It’s not easy to cut them as thin as we want them.” The woman had told Frida her name was Betty. Her hair was a cloud of dark ringlets, and her large brown eyes reminded Frida of a doll’s. “We need a mandoline,” Betty added.

  “Noted,” Anika replied from the washing trough.

  The boy shot Betty a fierce look, and both of them glanced at Frida. She immediately went back to her onions, which were making her nose run, her eyes water.

  Eventually, she stopped resisting and just let the onions do what they would do. Her eyes were stinging so much they seemed to spasm, and the tears ran down her face. But she didn’t stop dicing. This knife was sharper than any she and Cal used, and she liked its weight.

  Time slipped by. When she finished with the onions, Anika complimented her technique and handed her bulbs of garlic to mince. The guy with the feather tattoo had the same job, and they stood side by side, in silence, pushing the cloves with the flats of their knives so that the skins cracked open. Frida’s back began to hurt, the way it used to when she’d been baking all morning, but she didn’t even stop to roll her shoulders or hang her neck forward for a little relief, though she saw others doing so, even Anika.

  Someone started humming a song. A lullaby. Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop. After the first phrase, a couple of others joined in, including feather-tattoo man, which made his friend shake his head and snort like a pent-up animal.