California: A Novel

by Edan Lepucki

  Bombs. He wanted to plant bombs, simple ones, ones that had the capacity to maim anyone within fifty feet of their explosions. They would kill anyone closer. He’d been building them for a few months. “That’s when Sailor and Dave were brought into the plan,” he said. “They have experience with explosives from their Group training, and I guess Dave was somewhat of a pyro at Plank, worse than I was. And I knew they’d follow me. They still believe in what’s right.”

  Getting the stuff into Pines would be risky, Micah admitted. “But Toni’s not fucking around. She wouldn’t do anything stupid to get us caught. And there’s a guy with her now. I corresponded with him back when we were students at Plank, actually. Toni said he could get us in places.” It took a moment for Cal to understand that the “us” meant the bombs, and Micah meant to plant them. “Not only at company headquarters,” Micah said, “and the head citizen office, that kind of thing. But also less-rarefied locations. There’s a market about a mile from the checkpoint we use.” Micah shook his head. “They hardly eat real food there, did you know? It’s mostly weird energy bars, supplements, powdery drinks. It’s why our lettuce is so beloved there.” He smiled. “At their markets, they’ve got this spot, where people pick up their carts. It’d be perfect.”

  Cal didn’t answer. What Micah was saying scared him, but it also sounded silly, a boy’s plan, straight out of a comic book. And yet, boys were capable of terrible things.

  It would take a long time, Micah continued, to get the plan in place. And once the bombs were built and delivered to Pines, they could not be set off immediately, either. Being careful was a kind of grace, he said. “We need to hurt them, shake them up.”

  “You want them to feel unsafe?” Cal asked.

  “Not just feel it—be it.”

  “Micah. Listen to yourself. If Pines is rendered unsafe, wouldn’t that kill your trade agreements? Won’t they get more paranoid and further secure their borders?”

  “We’re counting on that,” he said. “That’s when those of us inside will act.”

  “It sounds like Toni will have already played her role.”

  Micah shook his head. “You know there’s a whole underclass at Pines? Not just Pines, but most Communities. Someone has to scrape gum off the park benches, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be some executive’s son. Most workers have been raised within the Community, bred to do service at a place called C.A.P., Center at Pines. The kids who grow up there are called Hats, sometimes Hatters. The Communities think it’s safer than letting in temporary laborers from the outside who might bring in disease and troubles of their own. The Hatters live okay, but they don’t have rights, not really. They’re safe as long as they shut their mouths and do their work.”

  “Sounds like a coup waiting to happen.”

  “Maybe, but you wouldn’t believe how happy most of the Hatters are. They might sort through garbage for a living, but they’re eating regularly, they’ve got access to health care, and they’re given a small apartment with electricity and running water. It’s more than you can say for life here.” He smiled. “But not everyone there will remain content.”

  “Are you talking about the kids you gave up? You sent them to Pines to be part of an uprising?”

  Micah held up his hand, as if Cal weren’t listening, or not properly. “One of the kids, Randy, will be sixteen this year. He’s bright, and strong.”

  “What’s he going to do for you?”

  “For now, he’s just listening to conversations, gathering information. He’s training as a security guard, so he has access. He reminds me of August in some ways. I think he can lead his peers.”

  “This is a long game, then, I take it.”

  “Toni keeps reminding me to be patient. If we do it right, Pines will fall apart: bombings, civil unrest, the whole nine yards. And once there’s utter chaos behind its walls, Pines will be more vulnerable to attacks from the outside. That’s a bonus. The Pirates will have a ball terrorizing those borders again.”

  “I thought you got rid of the Pirates.”

  “I told you,” Micah said, “nothing is permanent. Once the bombings happen and the Pirate threat returns, those rich bastards will really be in trouble.” He smiled. “It’ll be just like any old American city.”

  “But if that happens,” Cal said, “everything around here will fall apart, too. You need Pines, Micah.”

  “Not forever, I don’t,” he said. “You think I want to stay on the Land until I die? We do this, and the Group realizes I won’t be put out to pasture.”

  “I thought you were in charge.”

  He nearly snarled. “I was inside the inner circle—or I thought I was. When the suicide-bombing plan was devised, I saw it as an important step in the Group’s mission to change the status quo.”

  “And because you wanted to be deified.”

  He raised an eyebrow. He shook his head. “I wanted to inspire our members and make people afraid of what we could do. And I wanted to be independent, see what needed to be done outside of the Group’s reach.”

  “But the other leaders wanted you out,” Cal said.

  “I didn’t see it until it was too late, when I was quote-unquote ‘dead,’ and the relationship between the Communities and the Group became clear to me.”

  Micah’s posture was so straight, he looked like a kid about to get measured at the doctor’s. He seemed pathetic, and that shocked Cal. This was a first.

  “Don’t pity me,” Micah said suddenly, as if he could read it on Cal’s face. “Only a select few were in on my little stunt and know I’m alive. Most people in the Group are still committed to what matters, as I am.” He smiled. “We’ll take back the cause. We can go back to L.A. and reclaim the Echo Park encampment. Or we can settle somewhere else until we’re able to infiltrate another Community. Being a colonist is surprisingly easy, let me tell you.”

  “And Peter’s in on this plan of yours?”

  “Peter’s from the Land, so his loyalties are muddled. But he’s starting to get it. Especially when August, Sailor, and Dave are on my side, too.”

  “What about me and Frida? What about our baby?”

  Micah sighed, his head in his hands. “I need you for debate, California.”

  “This isn’t the academic decathlon. I don’t want to talk you through your terrorist fantasies. Which probably won’t work, and if they do, well, then, we’re fucked. My kid is fucked.”

  “So what do you want?”

  “I want to stay here. With my family. I’ll gladly be a shill.”

  Micah said nothing, and Cal noted there was no sign of surprise on his face. Of course he knew what Cal wanted.

  “Promise me,” Cal said.

  “Promise you what?”

  “That my child will be okay. That you’ll protect him and that you’ll look out for your sister.”

  Micah said nothing at first, and then, “In some ways, Frida is all I have left.”

  Cal waited. He needed more.

  “You know I’ll keep her safe,” Micah said finally.

  It was enough of a promise for Cal. For now.

  Cal nodded to the bookcase. “I want to take the Kant to my bedroom. I’ll smuggle it under my shirt if I have to.”

  Micah laughed in his face. “Hell, no.”

  Cal laughed, too. He could picture the title page, a mimeograph of the original. He could smell the book’s interior: like almonds and wood chips, the glue sweet as warm milk. He closed his eyes for a moment and imagined that scent. And then he thought of the Forms in the dark, how he’d understood them, how he had anticipated each one before he passed it, as if he’d known them all his life. He would need to keep himself here. He would need to help Micah, but not the way Micah wanted him to.

  “Let’s figure out another plan, okay?” Cal said.

  He wouldn’t tell Frida any of this, at least not until the plan had been perfected, and maybe not even then, not if keeping it a secret meant she would sleep soundly at night. Sh
e needed to rest for the baby. She would be happier not knowing, as long as he had her best interests in mind. As long as he kept demanding information from Micah and was being smart, she’d be satisfied. She could trust him to make decisions for their family.

  Cal sat down on the couch again. “There’s got to be another way to return the Group to its pure beginning, to cause problems for the Communities.” Even as he said these words, their cheesy call to arms, their rah-rah-rah cheerleading, he felt their power. He did want to find a better way.

  “I’m listening,” Micah said.

  “I have no idea what that is yet. But there has to be something. There’s always another way to approach the text, isn’t there?”

  “Oh, baby, talk nerdy to me,” Micah replied, but he was listening.

  “There has to be a better plan,” Cal said.

  Before they left the room, Micah went to the bookcase and pulled out the Kant.

  “Stuff it into your jacket, and don’t let anyone see it. And I mean it, Cal, not anyone, not even Frida. If you do, I swear I will cut off your balls with a paring knife.”

  Cal took the book, nodding. It was his victory, and both of them knew it.

  19

  Frida couldn’t tell if she’d overslept because it was always dark these days when she woke up. She’d fallen asleep to the sound of rain, imagining the Land turning soggy and slippery as she remained safe and dry inside the Hotel, but all was quiet now. It must have stopped. Good. Cal had spent the last few nights on security, and Frida didn’t want him getting soaked and sick.

  Now that the boards had been nailed to their bedroom window, it was night all the time. The darkness and damp and the smell of people sleeping reminded Frida of the Millers’ house. On the coldest days, she and Cal used to crawl into bed, into that corner where the mattress fit perfectly, and force themselves to sleep as long as they could.

  “We’re hibernating,” Cal would say, and reach for her.

  She’d been so bored with that one-room house and the woods surrounding it. That grimy outdoor cooking pit of theirs, it would never get hot enough until it got too hot, and that same door to look at when she woke every morning. Sometimes even the sound of Cal’s voice, his stiff walk, how he held his mouth when he was being serious, had bugged her. She’d been so sick of their isolation. And now look at her, she was imagining that old life with something bordering on longing. Dada had always called her capricious. Maybe this was what he was talking about.

  The first time they were alone after they argued in the Bath, he’d said, “I’m doing what you asked.” He had pulled her to him, and kissed her.

  Whatever he meant by that, Frida felt comforted. She wanted it to be enough. It had to be. Cal was offering her the only solace available, and she took it because it helped push the gruesome images of her brother out of her mind: Micah using a large knife to behead the Pirate; threatening Anika with that bandanna; taking the Bee from Ogden. Did the baby wail out for the toy, refusing to let go, or was he asleep, and Micah nimble as a thief so as not to wake him?

  “I found out what happened to the children,” Frida had said.

  “So did I.”

  “Micah told you?”

  He nodded. “We have to remember that not everyone on the Land had children. And those who did knew they were giving their kids a better life. It wasn’t cruel, Frida. You see that, right?”

  “What about the older children?” Frida asked. “They weren’t adopted. Did you find out about that?”

  Cal didn’t say anything.

  “Cal?”

  “He won’t touch our baby,” he whispered. “Micah needs us here. He won’t let us be exiled.”

  “You really think Micah will protect us?”

  “You’re his sister. And he needs my help.”

  “But don’t you think some people will be upset about the pregnancy?”

  “I don’t know, Frida. We need to wait and keep watching. With a little more time, I think we can win them over. Micah will make them see that it’s for the best. He’s good at that.”

  “That’s true,” she said.

  Frida let him kiss her again. He’d said he was doing what she’d asked, and she decided that meant he was looking out for her. Since their fight, he’d been attentive and gentle, actively seeking her out after Morning Labor, seeing if she needed anything. He was paying attention to her again. He hadn’t gotten lost in the dark.

  Frida got out of bed and got ready to head downstairs to the kitchen. She was just pulling on a sweatshirt when Cal entered with a flashlight. He was wearing a raincoat, but it looked dry.

  “You’re still in here,” he said, surprised. The flashlight’s beam bounced across her and then paused on the unlit candle by their bed. “I didn’t see any light coming from under the door, so I assumed you’d left for the kitchen already.”

  “I can get dressed without a candle,” she whispered.

  He kissed her and put down the flashlight so that its light spread across the ceiling.

  “But why?” he said, heading to the candle. “Let’s splurge.”

  The flame flickered and rose, and Cal turned off the flashlight.

  “I’m going to the campfire tonight to talk to Anika,” she said.

  She’d decided that she would be up front with Cal, show him she could gather information, too.

  “I’m going to hang out here,” he said, “if that’s okay.”

  “Of course it is,” she said. “I think I’ll have a better chance of talking to her there. I haven’t been able to since Fatima started baking with us.”

  “I thought Anika already told you everything.”

  “She did.”

  “You haven’t said anything about the baby, have you?”

  “You know I haven’t,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “I guess I still feel unsettled,” she said. “Like, I need to see that this place is good, despite all that’s happened.”

  “It is,” Cal said. “It will be.”

  He was sitting on the bed now, and she stood before him. She placed her hands on his shoulders, her eyes on the far wall. She imagined herself on the deck of a majestic ship. She would just have to keep reminding Cal that they’d come here together, and that, if necessary, they’d leave that way, too.

  “I love being married to you,” she said.

  Cal smiled. “I could live off those words,” he said, and pulled her toward him.

  * * *

  There were at least fifteen people sitting around the campfire, talking loudly over one another as if drunk, passing a cup of something hot, poured from an ancient metal thermos. Frida thought she could smell mint tea, but that had to be her imagination because the air was so smoky she’d started breathing through her mouth. The scene reminded her of the beach, cooking oysters in sand pits with her parents on a trip to Northern California when she was thirteen, before they’d had to sell their second car. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting of this campfire, but it wasn’t this. This was a party.

  Anika looked up at Frida when she arrived but didn’t wave her over or even nod. Peter was there, too, plucking at a guitar in a rickety lawn chair, trying to recall a song. He hadn’t seen her. Frida tucked herself behind Anika on the shower curtain where she was sitting. The perfect waterproof picnic blanket.

  Anika hadn’t told Frida anything since Fatima had joined them in the kitchen; no doubt, that had been Fatima’s goal. Someone had asked her to intrude on their privacy, and she had complied. How many times had Frida wanted to tell Anika she was pregnant? Just to lean away from Fatima and whisper the news. Anika might be upset at first, but not when the reality of Frida’s pregnancy settled in. There would be a child on the Land again. Anika could be Frida’s guide. She could be the child’s aunt.

  Frida had so much to say to her. She wanted to know about Ogden’s birth, for one, and ask her about diapers and clothing. She wanted to tell Anika that she was certain she was having a girl
. A daughter.

  Frida looked around and realized with the noise from the fire and singing and guitar, they could talk fairly openly without being overheard.

  “Fatima’s in the way,” Frida whispered finally.

  “Fatima’s a bitch,” Anika said. “She came a few weeks after Micah, you know, with the rest of his settlers. She was real close with August.”

  “Were they a couple?”

  “They claimed to be just friends. Not long after she arrived, she became Peter’s girl.”

  There was reproach in her voice, and Frida realized that Anika really did hate Fatima. For taking Peter. For simply having a partner. Or for treating herself as chattel, passed from one man to the next. Or for joining their morning sessions without asking first, for babysitting them.

  Babysitting. The baby. It always came back to that. She had to keep it a secret until Micah thought it was the right time. Definitely not before the Vote.

  Maybe Cal was right: he and Frida could help make the Land into the place they needed it to be. She wanted to ask Anika if such a dream was possible.

  Betty came over and sat down next to Frida, who had scooted over to make room on the shower curtain.

  Betty rubbed her hands together, her face to the sky.

  “Cassiopeia,” she said, to no one in particular.

  Frida looked up but saw only white clouds.

  “In theory,” Betty said, and laughed.

  Lupe and Sheryl came over and sat next to Anika. Frida liked Lupe, but Sheryl—what had Cal called her?

  A stick-in-the-mud. That was a nice way of putting it.

  But now, looking at their backs, Lupe’s slumped, Sheryl’s straight, Frida saw a closeness between the two women that she’d never caught on to before, and it made her happy. It was the casual intimacy of old friends; they had shared beds, swapped shoes, probably undressed in front of each other dozens of times, kept talking as one of them peed. If they had looked anything alike, they might be mistaken for sisters.

  Frida watched as Anika, without speaking, passed first the cup and then the thermos to Lupe, their fingers briefly touching, and she realized all three women must have started the Land together. With Sandy Miller, too. They probably had known Jane. They remembered Ogden; maybe they had advised Anika on what to do. Or they had given away children, too. They probably still avoided red and certain stories. They had accepted Micah and his way of doing business. Maybe Anika didn’t trust Micah, but Lupe and Sheryl probably believed things were better with him around. Maybe Sheryl wasn’t that bad; maybe she was just prickly like Anika.