The Hunter

“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.

Four