The Searcher(92)

Mart shakes his head. He can’t talk. He’s laughing so hard that he doubles over, banging his crook on the ground.

“Trey’s a fucking boy’s name.”

Cal’s outrage sends Mart into a fresh gale of giggles. “Short for Theresa,” he manages to explain, through them. “The face on you.”

“How the hell was I supposed to know that?”

“Holy God,” Mart says, straightening up and wiping his eyes with a knuckle, still giggling. Apparently this is the funniest thing that’s happened to him in weeks. “That explains it. Here was me wondering what the bloody hell you were at, letting a young girl hang around you, and all the time you hadn’t a notion she was a girl at all. Doesn’t that beat Banagher?”

“The kid looks like a boy. The clothes. The fucking haircut.”

“I’d say she might be a lesbian,” Mart says, considering this possibility. “She picked the right time to be one, anyway, if she is. She can get married and all, these days.”

“Yeah,” Cal says. “Good for her.”

“I voted for that,” Mart informs him. “The priest in town was bulling at mass, swearing he’d excommunicate anyone that voted yes, but I didn’t pay him any heed. I wanted to see what would happen.”

“Right,” Cal says, easing his voice. “What did happen?” Now that the initial shock is past, he doesn’t feel like letting Mart know just how pissed off he is with Trey. In fact, he’s not sure why he’s so pissed off, given that Trey never claimed to be a boy, but he is.

“Not a lot,” Mart admits, with some regret. “Not around here, anyway. Maybe up in Dublin the gays are all marrying the bejaysus out of each other, but I haven’t heard of any in these parts.”

“Well look at that,” Cal says. He’s only half-hearing Mart. “You went and pissed off the priest for nothing.”

“Fuck him. He’s only an aul’ blow; too used to getting his own way. I never liked him, big Jabba the Hutt head on him. It’s healthier for men to live with men, anyway. They don’t be wrecking each other’s heads. They might as well get married while they’re at it, have a day out.”

“Can’t hurt,” Cal says. He bangs the ice tray on the counter and throws cubes into the Ziploc.

Mart watches him. “If Trey Reddy’s not robbing you,” he says, “then what does she want out of you? Them Reddys, they’re always looking for something.”

“Learn a little carpentry,” Cal says. “He didn’t ask for pay—she. I was thinking about throwing her a few bucks, but I’m not sure if she’d take it right. What do you think?”

“A Reddy’ll always take money,” Mart says. “Mind yourself, but. You don’t want her thinking you’re a soft touch. Are you going to let her keep coming round, now you know she’s a young one?”

There is no way on God’s green earth that Cal would have let a little girl hang around his yard, never mind come inside his house. “Haven’t had time to think about that,” he says.

“Why would you want her about the place? Don’t be telling me you need the help with that bloody desk.”

“She’s handy enough. And I’ve been enjoying the company.”

“Sure, what kind of company is that child, at all? You’d get more chat out of that aul’ chair. Do you ever get two words out of her?”

“Kid’s not much of a talker, all right,” Cal says. “She lets me know she’s hungry, now and again.”

“Send her packing,” Mart says. There’s a finality to his voice that makes Cal look at him. “Give her the few bob, tell her you won’t be needing her no more.”

Cal opens his kill bag and scoops up a couple of perch. “I might do that,” he says. “How many would Malachy eat? He got a family?”

Mart hits the door with his crook, making a raw whack that echoes startlingly loudly in the half-bare room. “Listen to me, man. I’m looking out for you. If this place finds out Theresa Reddy’s hanging round here, people’ll talk. I’ll tell them you’re a sound man, and I’ll tell them you thought she was a young fella, but there’s only so far they’ll listen to me. I don’t want to see you bet up, or burned out of it.”

Cal says, “You told me I didn’t need to worry my head about crime round here.”

“You don’t. Not unless you go asking for it.”

“You afraid you’re gonna lose your twenty bucks?” Cal asks, but Mart doesn’t smile.

“What about the child? D’you want the townland talking about her the way they’ll be talking if they find out?”

This had not occurred to Cal. “She’s a kid learning to be handy,” he says, keeping his voice even. “Is all. If a few dumb fucks would rather she was out on the streets making trouble—”

“She’ll be on the streets all right, if you don’t get sense. They’ll have her hunted out of here by Christmas. Where d’you think she’ll go?”

“For fixing a desk and frying a rabbit? What the hell—”

“You’ll give me blood pressure, so you will,” Mart says. “Honest to God. Or palpitations. Would ye Yanks not learn to listen once in a while, so everyone around ye can have some fuckin’ peace of mind?”