California(42)

He would look at her, at least.

She was bobbing her head like a pigeon, taking in the sights, and smiling with her mouth closed. She was trying to appear kindly, he realized. She wanted these strangers to like her. As far as he could tell, they would. Most of the men seemed around their age, or younger, like Sailor, and none of them walked with the defensive stance he’d expect from a culture that did not allow outsiders.

The women were more hesitant, hanging back, and maybe a little older on average: in their forties or early fifties. One of them wore her hair in a thin braid down her back like a second spine.

Frida put her hands to her lower belly as she walked. She was thinking of their child. He could see she already felt safe, protected, that she was fly-casting them into a future in this world. She was being na?ve. Again. They would have to talk, and soon.

Dave had left their little posse. Maybe he’d been pulled back to the lookout tower to finish his shift, but Peter and Sailor led the way through the crowd, which parted to let them pass, just as Cal had imagined it would. The people, up close, were so varied: heavy browed or not, ugly or cute, plain or strange and uneven looking, long or pert nosed, fair or olive skinned.

There was a woman with a stripe of gray in her curly black hair, thick red suspenders holding up baggy corduroys. She had a rag in her hand, and when she smiled, she was missing a front tooth. Cal reared back. He couldn’t help it. No doubt this woman had lived out here for a long time.

Cal accidentally brushed past a heavyset man, about his own age, who stepped back with a sneer. That was the only rudeness he encountered, and Cal couldn’t hold a grudge: he and Frida had invaded their space.

A guy with dreads so blond they were almost colorless muttered to his friend, “Would you look at that.” He pointed to Cal’s chest.

Peter turned around and began walking backward. “You do a lot of mushroom hunting, Cal?” he asked.

“I guess.”

“Your shirt,” he said.

“You knew the Millers?”

Peter frowned. “Who?” He spun back around and kept walking.

People had begun to come up to him and Sailor. They were asking the same question— Who? Who are they?—and pointing at Frida and Cal.

A woman stepped into Sailor’s path and asked, “Who let them in?”

“You’ll see, Pilar,” Sailor said. He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Someone get Mikey!” The woman in the suspenders took off running down the path.

“Who’s Mikey?” Cal asked. “Do you mean August?”

Peter stopped walking and turned back to Cal. “You better hold her.”

“Me?” Frida said. “Are you about to sacrifice me or something?”

Peter kept his face serious. “Relax, okay?”

At the end of the path loomed the other large building, not as wide as the church but taller if you didn’t take the steeple into account. Like the other original buildings, it was built of wooden planks, but it looked somehow sturdier than its counterparts. Still, the windows on the upper floors were empty holes, most of them covered with cloth. A wide front porch stretched on either side of its entrance, and a slanted awning offered shade and a place to rest; turned-over crates acted as chairs, as did a weight-lifting bench. No one had added on to this building, and from this distance it didn’t look too decrepit. Fetched from another era, it had probably once been a general store, the town’s unofficial beating heart. It most likely still was.

A man stepped out of the building. They weren’t so close that they could make him out, but Cal could tell it wasn’t August: this guy was white and burlier. Long brown hair stuck out from his large-brimmed straw hat. His beard reached his chest. If it weren’t for his jeans and green Polo shirt, he could’ve passed for Amish or a hippie.

“Is that Mikey?” Cal whispered to Frida.

She stopped walking. Her arms hung tense by her sides, and Cal saw that she was clenching and unclenching her hands into fists. But the fists, they were weak, not fierce. She began to shake.

“Hey,” Cal whispered.

She took fast steps toward the end of the path. She stopped again. She was craning her neck forward, as if to get her eyes closer to the sight before her. Cal looked back at the man, to try to see what she was seeing.

“No, no, no, no,” she began. Her voice squeaked out of her in little high-pitched bursts.

“What is it, babe?” Cal asked.

Peter was by their side. “Relax now,” he said to Frida. “It’s okay.”

Sailor was bouncing in place, his eyes wide and glistening.

“What’s going on?” Cal asked. He felt his whole body go cold. But why?

An inhuman sound emerged from Frida, full of sorrow and giddiness. It was as if she had moved beyond words. She staggered forward, and Cal tried to follow her, but his body wouldn’t move. He felt trapped; all he could do was watch. He didn’t understand. What was wrong?

“Is it?” Her voice came out as breath. “Is, is…”

The man at the porch was standing steady, just waiting for Frida to meet him. He wouldn’t meet her halfway. He opened his arms wide.

Cal’s heart beat in his eardrums. Mikey.

No, not Mikey. And not Mike E.

Mic. E, as in Micah, as in Micah Ellis.

Micah.