California(64)

“You’re not allowed to stay?” Cal said. Damn, a question. He couldn’t help himself.

“Sure he is,” Micah replied. “Have a seat, Popeye.”

Sailor hesitated, but when August and Peter said nothing, he sat in the pew behind Cal.

“So, California,” Micah began. He was swinging his legs, hitting the side of the stage with the backs of his heels. The wood was scuffed there; maybe this was where they conducted their morning meetings.

“So.”

Micah stopped swinging his legs, as if this were a habit he were trying to break himself of. “August only let himself in.”

“Theft,” August said. “He used the word theft. He thinks I stole from him.”

“Ah yes, he only stole your property because we knew you’d need more stuff. August returned from his original route only hours after you arrived. I told him to turn around and get things he thought you might want. Otherwise, I’m sure you’d convince Frida to go back home with you, if only temporarily.”

“Why would that be a problem?”

“Because this isn’t a place you can just visit,” Sailor said.

“Sailor…,” Peter said.

“It isn’t?” Cal said. “Frida and I are stuck here?”

“Of course not,” Micah said. “But it’s dangerous to have you coming back and forth. Not many know I’m alive, and it has to stay that way. We can’t attract attention with people waltzing in and out as they please and giving away our location. If you want to leave, it would be for good.”

“I see.” Cal imagined telling this to Frida; she would not take it well. “But August is always traveling the route, isn’t he?”

“August isn’t you,” Peter said.

“What he means,” Micah said, “is that August is the best candidate to trade with the few settlers nearby and to perform a regular security sweep.”

“I don’t know about ‘the best,’” August said, “but when I tell people I’m a loner, they believe me. Or they assume it right off. I get special treatment.” He brought an index finger to his cheek and tapped twice.

“Wait—why?” Cal said. “Because you’re black? That’s ridiculous.”

“What the f*ck are you talking about?”

“I only meant—”

August winked. “I’m just messing with you. Come on, Calvin—that’s your full name, isn’t it? I know you thought I was some kind of recovered addict. I put you on edge.”

Peter, who was sitting in the pew across from Cal and August’s, shifted his body so that his legs blocked the aisle. “We do things for a reason.”

“I’m the last black man on earth—or at least around here.”

“They should make an action movie about you,” Cal replied.

This time, everyone laughed.

“There’s more to it than that,” Peter said. “People treat August special not just because of how he looks but because of who he is. He’s very talented at getting people to open up to him.”

“Amen to that,” Micah said.

August shook his head, but Cal could tell he was pleased.

“I still don’t like that you were in my house.”

“Yours? That house used to belong to Sandy and Bo,” August said.

“They’re dead. I’m not.”

Micah sighed. “We had to make sure no one else had been there since you and Frida left. And, besides, we were curious.”

“You never invited me inside,” August added.

That was true. Why hadn’t they?

Micah pushed himself off the stage. “Cal, we’re happy you’re here. I mean, it’s crazy.”

“It’s unprecedented,” Sailor said.

“No other outsiders have been allowed in for a long time, you understand?” Peter said. “Sailor’s right, it is unprecedented.”

Sailor smiled.

“Do you think the others will want us to stay?” Cal said.

“I’ve taken it upon myself to, you know, ask around.” Micah paused. “Everyone’s supportive, but I’m considering delaying the Vote until everyone has had a chance to get to know you. I want everyone certain.”

“What if we don’t want to stay?”

Micah raised an eyebrow. “What if you don’t want to, you mean?”

“You can’t expect me to just accept this place blindly.”

“I know you have a lot of questions,” Micah said. “We’ll answer them in due time.”

No one spoke for a moment.

“We’d like you to come to our meetings,” Peter said.

August and Sailor were silent.

“Why?”

“Because you’re really smart,” Micah replied. “Plus”—his voice grew soft—“you’re my brother-in-law.”

Cal looked back at his duffel bag. The handles were scrunched narrow where August, and then Sailor, and then Peter, had carried it.

“I don’t know.”

“There’s time,” Peter said.

“Nothing but time out here,” August said.

“What about Frida?” Cal asked.