“Well, we knew that already,” Lena says. “God help us all. Well done; that’s great stuff.”
“ ’S just Miss O’Dowd,” Trey says. “She’s nice to everyone. Long as they don’t set anything on fire.”
“You want some pizza on that pepperoni?” Cal asks her.
“Not of yours. Pineapple all over it. Dripping.”
“I’m gonna put chili flakes on it, too. Right on top of the pineapple. You wanna bite?” Trey makes a face like she’s gagging.
“Jesus,” Lena says. “Mr. Campbell’s still there? I thought he’d be dead by now. Is he still fluthered half the time?”
“Here I’m trying to teach the kid to respect her elders,” Cal says.
“With all due respect,” Lena says to Trey, “is he mostly fluthered?”
“Probably,” Trey says. “Sometimes he falls asleep. He doesn’t know any of our names ’cause he says we depress him.”
“He told us we were making his hair fall out,” Lena says.
“You did. He’s bald now.”
“Ha,” Lena says. “I’ll have to text Alison Maguire. She’ll take that as a personal victory. She hated him ’cause he said her voice gave him migraines.”
“Head on him like a golf ball,” Trey says. “A depressed golf ball.”
“You be mannerly to Mr. Campbell,” Cal tells Trey, sliding pizza off a cookie sheet onto the leftover floor tiles in the oven. “Regardless of his golf-ball head.”
Trey rolls her eyes. “I’m not gonna even see him. It’s summer.”
“And then it won’t be.”
“I’m mannerly.”
“Would I think you’re being mannerly?”
Lena is grinning at them. Lena claims that Trey, on certain words she’s picked up from Cal, has an American accent. “Yeah yeah yeah,” Cal tells her. “At least she knows the word. Even if she’s kinda shaky on the meaning.”
“He’s gonna shave his beard off,” Trey tells Lena, jerking a thumb at Cal.
“Sweet fuck,” Lena says. “Are you serious?”
“Hey!” Cal says, aiming a swipe at Trey with the oven glove. Trey dodges. “I only said I was thinking about it. What’re you doing snitching on me?”
“Thought she oughta be warned.”
“And I appreciate it,” Lena says. “I could’ve walked in here one day and seen your big naked face staring at me, right outa the blue.”
“I don’t appreciate the tone of this conversation,” Cal informs them. “What do you two think I’m hiding under here?”
“We don’t know,” Trey explains. “We’re scared to find out.”
“You’re getting fresh,” Cal tells her. “That report card’s gone to your head.”
“Probably you’re gorgeous,” Lena reassures him. “It’s just that there’s enough risks in life as it is.”
“I’m a hunk. I’m Brad Pitt’s good-looking brother.”
“You are, o’ course. And if you keep the beard, I won’t need to worry about finding out different.”
“Who’s Brad Pitt?” Trey wants to know.
“Proof that we’re getting old,” Lena says.
“Deadpool 2,” Cal says. “The invisible guy who gets electrocuted.”
Trey eyes Cal carefully. “Nah,” she says.
“I liked you better back when you didn’t talk,” Cal tells her.
“If you shave,” Trey points out, putting the last of the pepperoni in the fridge, “you’re gonna be two different colors. ’Cause of the tan.”
All three of them are tanned, this summer. Most people from around here, having evolved to suit Ireland’s unemphatic weather, tan to a startled reddish shade that looks mildly painful, but Trey and Lena are exceptions. Lena goes a blonde’s smooth caramel; Trey is practically hazelnut-colored, and she has light streaks running through her hair. Cal likes seeing her that way. She’s an outdoor creature. In winter, pale from school and short days, she looks unnatural, like he should be taking her to a doctor.
“You’ll look like you’re wearing a bandit mask,” Lena says. “Seán Óg’s would love that.”
“You’ve got a point,” Cal says. Him walking into the pub clean-shaven and two-toned would provide the regulars with months’ worth of material, and probably land him with an unfortunate and unshakable nickname. “Maybe I oughta do it just out of neighborliness. Spice up their summer a little bit.”
The words bring Johnny Reddy into his head. Johnny is spicing up this summer, all right. None of them has mentioned Johnny once, all evening.
“Fuck ’em,” Trey says. The flat, adamant note in her voice tightens Cal’s shoulders another notch. She has every right to it, but it seems to him that a kid her age shouldn’t have that cold finality in her armory. It feels unsafe.
“That’s some language out of a highflier like you,” Lena tells her. “You oughta say ‘Fuck ’em meticulously.’ ”
Trey grins, against her will. “So are you gonna leave the beard?” she demands.
“For now,” Cal says. “As long as you behave yourself. You give me any sass, and you’ll get an eyeful of my chin warts.”
“You don’t have chin warts,” Trey says, inspecting him.
“You wanna find out?”
“Nah.”
“Then behave.”
The rich smell of the baking pizza is starting to spread through the room. Trey finishes putting things away and drops down among the dogs. Lena gets up, picking her way so as not to disturb any of them, and sets the table. Cal wipes down the counters and opens the window to let out the heat from the oven. Outside, the sun has relaxed its savagery and is laying a fine golden glow over the green of the fields; off beyond Cal’s land, P.J. is moving his sheep from one field to another, leisurely, holding the gate for them and swishing his crook to guide them through. Trey murmurs to the dogs, rubbing their jowls, while they close their eyes in bliss.
The oven timer goes off, and Cal manages to coax the pizzas onto plates without burning himself. Lena takes the plates from him to put on the table. “Starving,” Trey says, pulling up her chair.
“Hands off,” Cal says. “The pineapple’s all mine.”
He’s thinking, out of nowhere, of his grandparents’ house in backwoods North Carolina where he spent much of his childhood, and of how, before dinner every night, his grandma would have the three of them join hands round the table and bow their heads while she said grace. He has a sudden urge to do the same thing. Not to say grace, or anything else; just to sit still for a minute, with his hands wrapped around theirs, and his head down.
When Trey gets home, her dad is rearranging the sitting room. She stands in the doorway and watches him. He’s cleared the clutter off the coffee table and brought in the kitchen chairs, and he’s humming to himself as he spins them into place, stands back to get a better look, springs forward to adjust them. Outside the window behind him, the sun is still on the bare yard, but it’s a loose, late sun, relaxing its grip. Liam and Alanna are taking turns throwing a rusty garden fork, trying to make it stick prongs-down in the dry ground.
Johnny never stops moving. He’s wearing a shirt, faded blue with fine white stripes, in some rough material that looks fancy. He’s had his hair cut, and not by Trey’s mam—it tapers smoothly at the neck and ears, and the boyish flop in front has been expertly shaped. He looks too good for the house.
“Amn’t I only gorgeous?” he says, sweeping a hand over his head, when he catches Trey looking. “I took a wee spin into town. If I’m having guests, I oughta be in a fit state to welcome them.”
Trey asks, “Who?”
“Ah, a few of the lads are calling in tonight. A few drinks, a few laughs, a bitta catching up. Bit of a chat about my idea.” He spreads his arms to the room. His eyes have the same lit-up, overexcited sparkle they had last night. He looks like he’s had a drink or two already, but Trey doesn’t think he has. “Would you look at this, now? Fit for kings. Who says it takes a woman to bring out the best in a place, hah?”
Trey wanted to tell Cal about her dad’s idea. She wanted to ask whether he reckoned it was a load of shite, or whether he thought it might actually come to something. But Cal never gave her an opening, and she couldn’t find a way to make her own. As the day went on, she stopped trying. It occurred to her that Cal might be deliberately avoiding the subject of her dad because he has no desire to get mixed up in her family’s mess. She doesn’t blame him. He did that once before, when she made him, and got the living shite bet out of him for it. In certain lights, when it’s cold, Trey can still see the scar on the bridge of his nose. She doesn’t regret it, but she has no right to make him do it again.
She says, “I wanta come.”
Her dad turns to look at her. “Tonight?”
“Yeah.”
His mouth has an amused curl like he’s about to laugh her out of it, but then he checks himself and looks at her differently.
“Well,” he says. “And why not, I suppose. You’re no baba, these days; you’re a big girl that might be able to give your daddy a hand. Can you do that?”
“Yeah,” Trey says. She has no idea what he wants from her.
“And can you keep quiet about what you hear? That’s important, now. I know Mr. Hooper’s been good to you, but what’s going on here tonight is Ardnakelty business. He’s got no part in it. Can you promise me you’ll say nothing to him?”
Trey looks at him. She can’t think of a single thing that he could beat Cal at. “Wasn’t gonna anyway,” she says.
“Ah, I know. But this is serious stuff, now; grown-up stuff. Promise me.”
“Yeah,” Trey says. “Promise.”
“Good girl yourself,” Johnny says. He props his arms on the back of a chair to give her his full attention. “These lads that are coming,” he says. “There’s Francie Gannon, Senan Maguire, Bobby Feeney, Mart Lavin, Dessie Duggan—I’d rather not have him on board, with the mouth on his missus, but there’s no way round it. Who else, now?” He considers. “P.J. Fallon. Sonny McHugh, and Con as well, if that missus of his’ll let him off the leash. That’s a fine bunch of hairy-arsed reprobates, amn’t I right?”
Trey shrugs.
“Have you had any dealings with any of them? Mended an aul’ window frame for them, built them a wee table or two?”
“Most of ’em,” Trey says. “Not Bobby.”
“Not Bobby, no? Has he got anything against you?”
“Nah. He just mends his own stuff.” He makes a pig’s arse of it. When Bobby helps out a neighbor, Cal and Trey get called in to repair the damage.
“Ah, sure, that’s grand,” Johnny says, dismissing Bobby with a sweep of his hand. “Bobby’ll do what Senan does, in the end. Now, here’s what you’ll do tonight. When this bunch of fine lads start arriving, you’ll answer the door. Bring them through to here, all lovely and polite”—he mimes ushering people into the room—“and make sure you ask how they got on with whatever bit of a job you did for them. If they’ve any complaints, you apologize and promise you’ll make it right.”
“They don’t have complaints,” Trey says flatly. She doesn’t like doing work for Ardnakelty people. It always has a taste of patronage about it, them patting themselves on the back for being noble enough to throw her the job. Cal says to do it anyway. Trey gives them the finger by making sure they can’t fault her work, no matter how hard they try.
Johnny reels back, laughing and holding up his hands in mock apology. “Ah, God, I take it back, don’t hurt me! No harm to your work—sure, haven’t I seen it myself, don’t I know you wouldn’t get finer anywhere in this country? Go on, we’ll say anywhere north of the equator. Is that better?”
Trey shrugs.
“Once they’re all here, you can sit yourself down over in that corner, out of the way. Get yourself a lemonade or something to drink. Say nothing unless I ask you a question—sure, that’ll be no bother to you, you’ve a talent for that.” He smiles at her, his eyes crinkling up. “And if I do, you just go on and agree with me. Don’t worry your head about why. Can you do that?”
“Yeah,” Trey says.
“Good girl yourself,” Johnny says. Trey thinks he’s going to pat her shoulder, but he changes his mind and winks at her instead. “Now let’s put a shine on this place. Them dollies in the corner, bring them into Alanna’s room, or Maeve’s, or whoever owns them. And whose runners are those under the chair?”
Trey picks up dolls’ clothes, toy cars, crisp packets and socks, and puts them away. The shadow of the mountain is starting to slide across the yard, towards the house. Liam and Alanna have got a bucket of water and are slopping it on the ground to soften it, so their garden fork will stick in better. Sheila shouts to them, from the kitchen, to come in for their baths. They ignore her.
Johnny buzzes around the room, setting out saucers for ashtrays with stylish flicks of his wrist, skimming dust off surfaces with a kitchen cloth, leaping backwards to admire his work and then forwards to fine-tune it, whistling through his teeth. The whistle has a tense jitter to it, and he never stops moving. It comes to Trey that her dad isn’t excited; he’s nervous, that this might not work out. More than that: he’s afraid.
Trey sets her mind to coming up with a polite way to ask how the McHughs are liking their new patio benches. She wants her dad to need her in on this. The other thing she was going to ask Cal, if he reckoned her dad’s plan might not be a load of shite, was how to scupper it.
The men fill up the room till it feels airless. It’s not just the size of them, broad backs and thick thighs that creak the chairs when they shift; it’s the heat off them, the smoke of their pipes and cigarettes, the smell of earth and sweat and animals from their clothes, the outdoors swell of their deep voices. Trey is crammed into a corner by the sofa, with her knees pulled up out of the way of sprawling feet. She’s left Banjo out in the kitchen, with her mam. He wouldn’t like this.
They arrived as the long summer evening was seeping away, slanting the mountain’s shadow far across the fields and filtering tangles of sunlight through the trees. They came separately, as if the gathering was accidental. Sonny and Con McHugh swept in on a wave of noise, arguing about a call the ref made in last weekend’s hurling match; Francie Gannon slouched in silently and took a chair in the corner. Dessie Duggan made a crack about not being able to tell whether Trey is a girl or a boy, which he thought was so funny that he repeated it all over again to Johnny, in the exact same words and with the exact same giggle. P.J. Fallon wiped his feet twice on the mat and asked after Banjo. Mart Lavin handed Trey his big straw hat and told her to keep it out of Senan Maguire’s reach. Senan took the opportunity to tell Trey, loudly, how she and Cal did a mighty job fixing the shambles Bobby Feeney had made of the Maguires’ rotted window frame, while at his shoulder Bobby puffed up with offense. Their faces have the pucker of constant low-level worry—all the farmers’ do, this summer—but tonight has brightened them: for a few hours, anyway, they can think about something other than the drought. Their cars, parked at angles that take no notice of each other, crowd the bare yard.