California(63)


Micah nodded. “Always is. August comes bearing news and gifts. And Sue’s our mascot, if not one or two men’s soul mate.”

Micah held up a hand, gesturing for August to join them. “Plus, he’s got your stuff.”

“Ha,” Cal said, but as he did, Sailor lifted a large duffel bag out of the cart. It was the purple bag with the teal straps, the one Cal and Frida kept on the highest kitchen shelf. It was now stuffed as full as it had been when they’d left L.A., long and heavy as a dead body, a mafioso joke too obvious to make.

August yelled at Sailor to put the bag down, and Sailor complied immediately. Dave pulled him off the buggy, yelling, “Come on, you nosy motherf*cker!” They were laughing.

Pulling off his hat, August jogged over to Cal and Micah. His head was bald and shiny with sweat, but Cal thought he could make out a vague shadow of hair growth—a receding hairline. August would probably go to the Bath soon, take care of that right quick. Someone would probably volunteer to shave it for him.

“Cal,” August said, and shook his hand.

“You broke into my house.”

“This guy,” Micah said, looking at Cal, “has no time for niceties.” He put a hand on Cal’s shoulder and gave it a friendly shake.

“Let’s go talk,” Micah said. “I’ll get Peter.”

“Sounds like a fine idea,” August said, and put his cap back on.

“Which one of you okayed the theft of my property?” Cal asked.

“Your property?” Micah said.

August shook his head and pulled off his sunglasses. Cal sucked in his breath.

But they were just eyes. Dark brown eyes. August looked less intimidating without the sunglasses. He must have known it, and that was why he had removed them.

“Come on, Cal,” he said, blinking in the sunlight. “Give us a break. You gotta know, we’re not out to get you.”

“You need clothes, don’t you?” Micah asked.

“I had an extra shirt and a pair of jeans when I arrived,” Cal said. “Sailor returned my flashlight and sleeping bag, but he didn’t know what happened to the clothes. Said I should holler if I see someone wearing my stuff.” It was almost too absurd to make Cal angry anymore.

August took in Cal’s too-small, soaked shirt. “Cal. You’re a man.” He paused. “Sailor, he’s…I don’t know. A boy? A kid. You can’t be wearing that, it doesn’t fit.”

August started to laugh, and so did Micah. Cal waited.

“Sailor, get the bag!” Micah yelled, once he’d caught his breath. To August and Cal he said, “Follow me.”

They did as he asked.



They walked to the Church. On the way, August asked Sailor to go find Peter as soon as he’d dropped off the bag. Sailor nodded urgently and said the bag wasn’t that heavy, that he could do both in one trip.

“He loves to take orders,” Micah said once Sailor had taken off, duffel slapping at his side. “He’s the only one who actually likes Morning Labor.”

Cal had been about to make his own snide remark. He wanted to ask Micah why he didn’t participate in Morning Labor, but he didn’t because Micah would most likely reply with something cutesy, something like, We work, too, just with our heads. A sad disregard for manual labor, though that would be strange, considering what they’d learned at Plank: the field and the book, a symbiotic relationship. Perhaps Micah, in his grab for power, had disregarded half the skills that had led him here.

Cal told himself he wouldn’t give his brother-in-law the satisfaction of clever answers. He would withhold all questions. Perhaps if he seemed uninterested, they’d be more willing to explain how everything worked.

Wasn’t that, in the end, what he wanted? To discover how this place worked—not just its outward system of organization but its inward, private one as well? Its secret machinations, the strings that gestured the puppet. Who was the puppet, though? Maybe it wasn’t all that sinister. Frida was probably right; he was descending into paranoia. Maybe it was more like a car: just lift the hood, and you’ll see how everything works.

The Church was cool inside, the empty pews gathering dust in the sunlight. The studio lights, tall and spindly as prehistoric insects, waited nearby, disturbing but, for the time being, powerless.

Cal wanted to go to the second floor. He didn’t realize this until Micah hoisted himself to the edge of the stage, and August slid into the first row of pews. There was no way this was where they conducted their meetings each morning. There was a war room upstairs; there had to be.

A few moments later, Peter and Sailor walked in. Peter was holding the bag now, and when he caught Cal’s eyes, he lifted his chin, beckoning him to come retrieve his possessions. Instead, Cal sat down next to August in the pew.

“I’m working on the goddamned traps,” Peter said. “I was about to tell poor Sail to f*ck off, when he said Gus was back. He was dragging this along the ground.” Peter hefted the bag onto the second-row pew.

“I think I hurt my back,” Sailor said.

“Too much * inspecting,” Micah replied, and August laughed.

“I wish,” Sailor said.

Cal laughed, but no one else did.

“I guess I’ll see you guys later,” Sailor said then.

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