The Hunter

The next day is the same as the last, dew burning off quickly under a blue empty sky. Cal checks in with Lena, who reports that Trey is grand and eating everything in the house bar the dog food, and then spends the morning up in his back field, where he has a vegetable patch. Last year the vegetables more or less grew themselves; about all Cal had to do was keep the rooks, the slugs, and the rabbits off them, which he did with a combination of beer traps, chicken wire, Rip, and a scarecrow. The scarecrow went through various phases. Cal and Trey originally made it out of an old shirt and jeans of Cal’s. Then Lena dug out a bunch of old scarves to give it some extra flutter, but then Mart, Cal’s nearest neighbor, objected that it looked like it was doing the dance of the seven veils and it would distract all the old bachelors around, leading to crop failures and neglected sheep. He averted disaster by coming up with what looked like a genuine priest robe, which he put on the scarecrow. A couple of weeks later Cal got home from the store to find that someone, still unidentified, had given the priest inflatable armbands and a My Little Pony swim ring with a pink unicorn head. Regardless of costume changes, by the end of summer the rooks had cottoned on to the scarecrow, and made this clear by using it as a combined play structure and toilet. This spring, when the early lettuce started coming up, Cal and Trey got creative and rebuilt the scarecrow using a plastic zombie that Cal found online. It’s motion-activated; whenever anything comes close, its eyes flash red, its teeth chatter, and it waves its arms and makes growling noises. So far it scares the shit out of the rooks. Cal expects them to take a well-constructed and elaborate revenge when they finally figure it out.

This year the growing is different, with the heat. The plants need endless watering and a considerable amount more weeding, which is what Cal is doing this morning. The earth is different from last summer, too, less rich and restful; it pours between his fingers instead of sticking to them, and it has a harsher, almost feverish smell. Cal knows from the internet that this weather is going to mess with the flavor of his parsnips, but the tomatoes are thriving on it. Some of them are the size of cooking apples, and reddening already.

Rip, who has been snuffling along rabbit trails, suddenly lets out a bark that belongs on a St. Bernard. Rip has never come to terms with his size. In his mind, he’s something that chases down escaped prisoners and eats them whole.

“Whatcha got?” Cal asks, turning.

He’s expecting a fledgling or a field mouse, but Rip’s head is up. He’s pointing and quivering at a man strolling across the field.

“Stay,” Cal says. He straightens up and waits while the man comes towards them. The sun is overhead; his shadow is a small black thing puddling and flickering around his feet. The heat blurs his edges.

“That’s a beauty of a dog you’ve got there,” the man says, when he gets close enough.

“He’s a good dog,” Cal says. He knows this guy has to be around his own age, touching fifty, but he looks younger. He has a wistful, fine-boned face that makes him seem like something more than a hardscrabble guy from the back end of Ireland. In a movie, he’d be the wronged gentleman who deserves his title back and the prettiest girl to marry. Cal is startlingly, savagely glad that he looks nothing like Trey.

“Johnny Reddy,” the man says, offering Cal his hand.

Cal holds up his own palms, which are thick with dirt. “Cal Hooper,” he says.

Johnny grins. “I know, sure. You’re the biggest news in Ardnakelty since P.J. Fallon’s ewe dropped the lamb with two heads. How’s the place treating you?”

“Got no complaints,” Cal says.

“Ireland of the welcomes,” Johnny says, giving him a boyish smile. Cal doesn’t trust grown men with boyish smiles. “I hear I’ve to thank you. The missus says you’ve been awful good to our Theresa.”

“No thanks needed,” Cal says. “I wouldn’t’ve got this place fixed up half as quick without her help.”

“Ah, that’s great to hear. I wouldn’t want her being a nuisance to you.”

“She’s no trouble,” Cal says. “She’s turning into a pretty handy carpenter.”

“I saw that coffee table the two of ye made for the missus. Lovely delicate legs on it. I wouldn’t mind seeing legs that good on a young one.” Johnny’s grin widens.

“All the kid’s work,” Cal says. “I didn’t lay a finger on it.”

“I don’t know where she gets it from, at all,” Johnny says, switching tack nimbly when he doesn’t get the man-to-man guffaw he was angling for. “If I tried, I’d land myself in hospital. The last time I did any woodworking was back in school. All I got outa that was ten stitches.” He holds up a thumb to show Cal the scar. “And a slap across the head off the teacher, for bleeding on school property.”