For a minute he thinks she’s going to turn it down, but then she grins. “Not getting you pineapple,” she says. “ ’S disgusting.”
“You’ll get whatever I say,” Cal says, disproportionately relieved. “Make it two cans, just for that. Now git, before you smell of vinegar so bad that Noreen won’t let your stinky self in her store.”
—
Trey goes all out on the toppings, which relieves Cal’s mind a little bit: a kid who comes home with pepperoni, sausage, and two kinds of ham, as well as peppers, tomatoes, onions, and his pineapple, can’t have restrained her expectations too thoroughly. She loads stuff onto her pizza like she hasn’t eaten in weeks. The dough appears to have turned out OK, although their stretching game is weak and the pizzas aren’t shaped like anything Cal’s ever seen.
Lena is curled on the sofa at her ease, reading Trey’s report card, with the four dogs dozing and twitching in a pile on the floor beside her. Lena doesn’t do much cooking. She’ll bake bread and make jam, because she likes those made her way, but she says she cooked a good meal from scratch every night of her marriage, and now if she wants to live mainly off toasted sandwiches and ready meals, she has the right. Cal takes pleasure in making her the best he can come up with, for variety. He wasn’t in the habit of doing much cooking himself, when he first got here, but he can’t feed the kid nothing but bacon and eggs.
“ ‘Meticulous,’ ” Lena says. “That’s what you are, according to this Wood Technology fella. Fair play to you. And to him. That’s a great word; it doesn’t get out enough.”
“What is it?” Trey asks, considering her pizza and adding more pepperoni.
“Means you do things right,” Lena says. Trey acknowledges the justice of this with a nod.
“What’ll you have?” Cal asks Lena.
“Peppers and a bitta that sausage. And tomatoes.”
“Read what the Science teacher said,” Cal tells her. “ ‘An intelligent inquirer with all the necessary determination and method to find answers to her inquiries.’ ”
“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.