California(62)

He thought it would make him happy that Frida was finally seeing the truth about Micah, but he was surprised by how much it unsettled him. Her optimism was fraying. She had always believed people, especially her family, were good, that the world would only allow so much suffering. In the past, some of that delusion (because wasn’t it delusional, to carry on with such thoughts, after all they’d seen?) must have rubbed off on him. He hadn’t realized how much more palatable she’d made their days. If she suspected something of Micah, Cal could barely stomach the thought of him.

Cal wanted to know what Micah thought about her pregnancy. Did the prospect of new life, of a new family member, soften him? Probably not. Did it do just the opposite? Cal waited for Frida to tell him, but to these questions all she’d said was “August will be coming back soon.” As if this were news, as if she’d done useful detective work. She wouldn’t be giving Micah the baster, she said. “He doesn’t need it,” she said. When Cal asked her when she’d told August about her brother, she said she couldn’t remember. “I guess it just slipped.” So much for their agreement to keep the past a secret.

From the shower, Cal heard someone squawking like a rooster at dawn, and then the crunch of dirt traversed by wheels. If he didn’t know any better, he would have imagined a truck passing just out of sight, imagined the weight of its body and the heave of its motor as it pulled up to the barn. Because it was just lame nostalgia, he would never admit it to Frida, or to anyone, really, but sometimes he missed the sounds of large, gas-guzzling engines: idling and accelerating, their gruffness and soot. Childhood sounds.

He didn’t go to investigate the sound because the water from the old plastic jug was almost out, and he wanted all of it. It felt great. They’d been on the Land for almost a week now, and he deserved this shower: Morning Labor had been kicking his ass. They had finally started on the outdoor oven. He and the others had carried the bricks to the lot behind the Hotel and then dug out the area where the oven would be built. His neck and arms were sunburned, and his hands were chapped as badly as they’d been when he and Frida had first found the shed, when there’d been so much to build and do outdoors. At least back then, she’d kiss his hands every night before bed, blow her cool breath on his open cuts. Now she didn’t offer, and it felt pathetic to ask.

Morning Labor wasn’t as trying as the discussion of it; there was a strict protocol to follow with any new project, and the members on his team were nervous about taking a wrong step. He didn’t want to use that word, team, but everyone else did, and it had seeped into his vocabulary when he wasn’t looking. A woman named Sheryl had forced them to measure and remeasure the spot planned for the oven, to ensure it was the one decreed. Decreed was Cal’s word—his team had assured him it’d been a group decision, but he didn’t believe them. Cal had seen Micah and Peter talking in front of the Church. It was a meeting, Cal realized, by the way their voices dropped low, their faces no longer playful. They were the ones making the decisions.

Cal could ask August about it himself. That sound must be him arriving, wasn’t it? Cal realized it as soon as the water trickled to a drop, and another drop, then nothing. He hurried out of the stall and shook himself dry before throwing on his pants and Sailor’s T-shirt. Cal had been told he could grab anything from the line that fit, but he refused. He knew he was being petulant—even Fatima had used that word to describe him to his face, smiling as she did so—but he couldn’t help himself. He didn’t want to leave his own pants for a stranger. The longer he stayed on the Land, the more possessive he became.

By the time he reached the barn, his still-wet skin had stained his clothing dark, and his pants were making his legs itch. He should have used one of the drying rags, old tablecloths and bolts of linen that the Land used as towels, but he’d refused that as well. He was petulant, wasn’t he? He was stubborn as a two-year-old. If Frida saw him, she’d laugh, ask him if he’d peed his pants. But she’d gone foraging and wouldn’t return for a while.

She was out making friends, volunteering for extra work. Tomorrow morning, an hour before Labor began, she was meeting Anika, her team leader, to discuss bread making. If she was suspicious about Micah, she didn’t seem to carry those feelings to the people she cooked with, at least not outwardly. Cal tried to be happy about this; his wife hadn’t become someone else entirely.

August’s mare, Sue, had already been led into the barn, but otherwise, everything else was as Cal expected it. August looked as he always did, standing there next to his buggy: same gray sweatsuit and combat boots, same wraparound sunglasses, same beanie covering his head. Cal held up his hand as a greeting, and August simply nodded, as if this were an everyday occurrence. This, too, Cal had expected: August’s capacity to remain unfazed, no matter what.

People were gathered around him like eager children, and Sailor had climbed onto the edge of the buggy, leaning in to get a better look at what had been collected. This did surprise Cal: someone else besides August was allowed to touch the cart.

Micah stood off to the side, and Cal saw that he was watching him. Had he taken note of Cal’s brief moment of shock? Cal hoped not. He pulled at his wet T-shirt, fiddled with the scratchy waist of his pants, and kept walking.

“So he’s back,” he said as he reached Micah. “It’s quite a welcome.”