California(9)

How close had the Millers been watching them? Close enough. They had seen Cal move off of her, just before he came. She and Cal liked to do it outside, if the weather was nice. Frida wanted to sew this strange woman’s mouth shut—or, better, her eyes.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Frida said.

Their birth control of choice was common back home. She didn’t know anyone who did it otherwise; it wasn’t foolproof, but no one she’d known had ever had an accident. And, thank God: Who wanted to bring children into this world? Who could find a doctor, who could afford condoms, let alone the Pill?

When Frida was in high school, she’d taken it to help ease her cramps. She’d loved the little pink clamshell they came in and the way the tiny tablets popped out of their plastic sheaths. But before her senior year began, Dada started having trouble finding work, and gas prices were rising every week, and the family began its Great Austerity Measures, as Hilda put it. Goodbye clamshell and a menstrual cycle Frida actually kept track of. Goodbye almost everything frivolous and easy.

By the time she and Cal had agreed to leave L.A., it seemed like no one had access to meds; only the deranged would buy a handful of drugs from a guy on the street corner. Was that really Xanax wrapped in tinfoil? Prescriptions, like doctors, were for the rich. The lucky ones, the people with money, had long fled L.A.

“I apologize if I’m embarrassing you,” Sandy said then. “I didn’t mean to see.”

“Don’t you believe in privacy?”

“Not really, I guess.”

Frida didn’t know what to do with Sandy’s candor. She finally asked: “Why are you showing me this?”

“Because it’s your responsibility. It’s everything,” Sandy said.

In the doorway, the sun caught the lightness of her hair, and it seemed for a moment as if she wore a halo.

“Don’t tell me you came out here to die.”

Frida was about to ask Sandy if she was nuts. She wanted to say it was too risky to have a kid, that it was selfish. What if they got sick? What if there wasn’t enough food? What if, what if. But Sandy was already turning around. She left Frida alone in the dark house.



Cal admitted he’d been wrong, that—after spending the afternoon at the Millers’ place—he trusted them. “They have small children,” he said that night, once they’d finally reached the shed, just before sunset, thank goodness. As if he hadn’t known about Jane and Garrett before he’d met them. As if people with small children couldn’t cause harm. Frida decided not to tell him what Sandy had said. They would be seeing the family fairly regularly, and as weird as they were, Frida was relieved they existed.

“But I do wonder where they get the salt to cure their meat,” Cal had added. Frida didn’t have an answer, and, anyway, it was the farthest thing from her mind, and she didn’t press Cal to go on. She couldn’t stop thinking about what Sandy had told her in the house. It changed things. Frida felt her perspective shifting, tilting the world, blurring the colors, brightening them.

The next time they had sex, when Cal said, “I’m close,” Frida held him to her, wouldn’t let him go. “Good,” she’d whispered into his ear.

They didn’t talk about what had happened, not at first. When they did, they both admitted it felt right. Having the Millers nearby, just the very idea of them, gave them both solace. The hopelessness lifted right off of Frida.

Three weeks later, the Millers arrived at the shed. Already Garrett looked older, taller, and someone had given Jane a bob.

“You look like a flapper,” Frida had told her that day. The girl frowned. Of course she had no idea what that was.

“It’s a kind of lady, from a long time ago.” Jane waited, as if expecting more, and Frida kept talking. “From like a hundred years ago…actually longer, maybe close to a hundred and thirty. A long time.” Frida paused. “She liked to dance.”

At this Jane beamed, but a moment later, as if startled by her own joy, she turned away from Frida, hiding her face in her mother’s thighs. Sandy said, “Sometimes Garrett bangs on the drum we have, and Janey dances.”

Frida laughed, and so did Sandy.

“Do you mind showing me the shed?” Sandy asked. “I’m curious to see what you’ve done with the place.” Frida agreed, and Sandy grabbed Jane’s hand. The three headed to the shed.

When they reached the open doorway, Sandy looked up, her eyes on the dark interior. Suddenly, she stepped back into the sunlight and pulled Jane’s hand so roughly her daughter crashed against her thigh. What was it? Cal’s bandanna wasn’t in sight, but then Frida saw it: her sleeping bag was a bright red.

“You okay?” Frida asked.

Sandy said nothing, only stepped farther away from the shed, dragging Jane with her.

“Sandy,” Frida called out, but Sandy was already halfway to the garden, where Bo, Garrett, and Cal were bending over something in the dirt.

Frida followed them. When Sandy saw Frida behind her, she forced a smile and said, “Oh! I almost forgot. We brought you some stuff.”

The Millers had come bearing gifts. A rabbit, already skinned and ready to roast. Also some chanterelles. “Sandy will show you how to find those,” Bo said to Frida. The subtext being: I hunt. You, Woman, shall gather.