California: A Novel (37 page)

She thought of Ogden. Every time she passed a herd of schoolchildren, she imagined him among them. Sometimes she even pictured him living on this street, riding the trolley with his adoptive mother, getting lunches at school. He was doing well; he had to be.

When Frida saw someone in the telltale navy-blue uniform, spraying vomit off the sidewalk or cleaning the public bathrooms, she thought of the older kids who had been brought from the Land. They were Hatters now, and one day they’d be wearing these uniforms, doing these jobs.

Frida had seen the Center at Pines just once. It was a big beige building on the south side of the Community, surrounded by well-manicured trees and a sloping lawn too radiant to be real, as unscathed and bereft of human commotion as a corporate office park. The newsletter sometimes did stories about the Center, about the services the Hatters were learning to keep Pines clean and running smoothly, and Frida kept waiting to see a group of them training with older workers. She hadn’t yet.

She hoped the kids from Pines were okay at the Center, happy even.

Again, Frida thought of Mrs. Doyle’s son. What was he eating now? His had to be a terrible exile, wherever it was. She pictured that skinny dog they’d passed on the ride here. She and Cal, they were lucky. Frida knew she was thinking only of her own family, that she had begun to see them as special: separate from the rest of the world with all its attendant suffering and corruption. Maybe it was wrong, but it was the choice she had made.

He emerged from the closet humming. He had the blue suit on, the least egregious of the bunch, and a red-and-blue-striped tie. The collar of his white button-down shirt was stiff, and too pointy, but even so, he looked handsome. His hair was cut short now.

They didn’t discuss his long hours. Or the talking-with-the-shower-running. Or how tightly he held her at night, arms straining to reach across her belly. On some days, there was a furtiveness to his movements, the way he looked left, then right, as he approached the house, the way, when one of Toni’s messengers came with new Correspondence, he let out an unnatural guffaw. “Well, here you are!” he’d say, like someone’s pathetic uncle. On other days, he acted so smooth and comfortable here that the world settled around them like water, filling the empty space. On the smooth days, it was as if they’d always lived this life.

If at other times, things felt a little off, so be it. If something seemed wrong, if it seemed like he had something up his sleeve, she could ignore it. Whatever her husband had agreed to do, he had the best interests of their family in mind.

Her job was not to ask any questions. She and the child, they would stay here.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he said now, coming toward her.

Julie stood up to kiss her husband. “Good morning, Gray,” she said.

I am indebted to the amazing Allie Sommer for her sharp and wise editorial guidance, and to everyone at Little, Brown for their support and enthusiasm. Thank you as well to Clare Smith and the whole team at Little, Brown UK.

My agent, Erin Hosier, is the queen of all agents. Thanks, E., for your honesty and humor, and for believing in me and my work way back when.

I would like to thank the Ucross Foundation, where I started this novel, and Hector Arias and Karla Escalante, who let me write portions of this book in their apartment while mine was taken over by a new baby. Thank you, too, to everyone who provided child care during that time. Your help meant (and means) the world to me.

Eternal gratitude to my wondrous and loving family: my father, Bob Lepucki; my mother, Margaret Guzik; my stepfather, Mitchell Guzik; my sisters, Lauren Lepucki Tatzko, Heidi Cascardo, and Sarah Guzik; my brother, Asher Guzik, whose assistance with all things plant related was enormously helpful as I revised this novel; my “stepmother” Keitha Lowrance; and my in-laws, the Browns. I am so lucky to have you all in my life.

I am grateful to the following people for their insightful feedback on this book: Madeline McDonnell, Mike Reynolds, Julia Whicker, Kristen Daniels, and Cecil Castellucci. Thanks also to Dan Chaon, Emma Straub, Rachel Fershleiser, Ben Fountain, and Shya Scanlon for reading the complete draft and offering their support.

Thank you to Deena Drewis at Nouvella and C. Max Magee at
The Millions.
Thank you to Oberlin College, the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, Book Soup, and Skylight Bookstore.

Thank you to Kiki Petrosino, whose poem “Valentine” inspired the Official Pussy Inspector T-shirt.

Thanks to my colleagues and students at Writing Workshops Los Angeles. I am especially grateful to my students who have shared their novels with me. I’ve valued our conversations immensely.

For their friendship, I’d also like to thank Diana Samardzic, Douglas Diesenhaus, Molly McDonald, Christine Frerichs, Kathleen Potthoff, Allison Hill, Stephanie Ford, Charlie White, Joshua Yocum, Laura Shields, Kirsten Reach, Paria Kooklan, Ryan Miller, Anna Solomon, Lisa Srisuro, and Michael Fusco.

Lastly, thank you to my boy, Dixon Bean Brown, and to my man, Patrick Brown.

Patty, thank you again and again. And again.

About the Author

EDAN LEPUCKI
is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and a staff writer for
The Millions.
Her short fiction has been published in
McSweeney’s
and
Narrative
magazine, among other publications, and she is the founder and director of Writing Workshops Los Angeles. This is her first novel.

@EdanL

edanlepucki.com

italicsmine.tumblr.com

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