by Cave, Hugh
Reaching into the hole then, he lifted out a metal box about the size of a chocolate box. On his knees Zackie opened it, and then turned so Peter could look down and see what was in it. What was in it was paper money—enough of it, Peter realized, to be really important. "For Kingston," Zackie said, looking up so his gaze met Peter's. "Now you know where me keep it. Just in case."
Peter nodded.
Zackie added his wild-pig money to the bills in the tin and returned the container to its hiding place. He carefully refilled the hole with the dirt he had scooped out, and then smoothed the floor so no one would ever suspect anything was buried there. "Okay?" he said, rising to his feet.
Peter knew he had just been shown something that Zackie Leonard had never shown to anyone else. It scared him a little, but made him feel proud. "Okay," he said, solemnly nodding.
"Good. Now mek we have some lunch."
Zackie went to a corner of the little shed and reached up to where the bamboo walls met the roof of old zinc. From a hidden niche there he took two tins of sardines and a plastic bag of bammies. Then to Peter's surprise he reached up again and produced two bottles of the Jamaican soda pop called Kola Champagne.
By this time Mongoose was jumping up and down, as if his back legs were pogo sticks, and making noise enough to shake the walls.
"It a little noisy in here, don't you would say?" Zackie remarked with a grin. "Mek we go outside to eat, huh?"
They sat outside the hut with their backs against one of its bamboo walls and ate the lunch Zackie had provided, sharing it with Mongoose. Every mouthful tasted good to Peter.
Zackie urged Peter to go back down then. "You will get too tired if you work any more at this," he warned. "Besides, if you don't quit, me must have to give you part of the money Mr. Campbell will pay me for the job." There was a sparkle in his eyes. "You would not want that to happen, would you, with me so poor me must have to hunt dangerous wild pigs for a living?"
Equally solemn, Peter said, "No, I would not want that to happen," and both boys grinned. Then Peter said goodbye and started back down to the house.
He stopped in field six, thinking his father might still be there, but Mr. Devon had left. "He left soon after you did," Mr. Campbell said. "He had to go to Morant Bay for the paybill money."
At the house Miss Lorrie asked Peter what he wanted for lunch and seemed surprised when he told her he had already eaten lunch with Zackie. "Where?" she asked. "In a shop somewhere?"
He hesitated. Most likely it would be all right to tell her he knew where Zackie's secret garden was—after all, she knew Zackie had such a garden—but then again, maybe he shouldn't. He couldn't say yes to her question, though, or she would ask him what shop and then he would have to tell still another lie and would probably get tangled up in them before she got through questioning him. "We worked together on the track," he said at last, "and he had some sardines."
"Sardines! That is not enough for a growing boy!"
"Zackie had some bammies, too, Miss Lorrie," he said. "I'm not hungry. Honest."
She frowned at him while making up her mind. "Well, all right. But if you get hungry, you say so. By the way, if you see Zackie again, you must warn him to be extra careful. Him daddy searching high and low for him."
"I'll see him again, Miss Lorrie. I'll warn him."
SIX
Mr. Devon returned from the Bay a little after four o'clock and put the paybill money into what he smilingly called his "safe." This was one of a row of books he had bought by mail since becoming the owner of Kilmarnie. They were all books about coffee—how it was first found in Africa, how it was grown and processed in other parts of the world now, and how it was marketed.
Mr. Devon had transformed one of the larger books into a secret hiding place by hollowing out its pages with a razor blade. When it was on the shelf with the others, no one would guess it was only a shell. That day, after putting the money into it, he turned to Peter and said with a touch of weariness, "I think I'll go to my room for a while, son. It was hot down there in the Bay and I'm a little tired. If I'm wanted for anything important, come and call me, will you?"
"Yes, Dad. Of course."
It wasn't the sea-level heat that had taken the starch out of him, Peter knew. The road to Morant Bay went by the cemetery where Mom and Mark were buried, and when Dad went there alone he never failed to walk in and stand by their graves for a few minutes. Then all the memories came back, and the loneliness took hold again, and for hours—even days, sometimes—he seemed old and tired again.
Peter watched his father walk slowly from the office and then went downstairs to the kitchen, where he knew Miss Lorrie would be putting away the groceries Dad had bought in the Bay supermarkets. Dad always did that because the villages of Rainy Ridge, Trinityville, and Seaforth, between Kilmarnie and the Bay, had only small shops. Mr. Devon had bought a bagful of Jamaican beef patties at a Morant Bay bakery, too, and Miss Lorrie asked Peter if he wanted one.
"You like them, don't you?" she said.
"You bet!" The patties were shaped like half moons and made of flaky pastry filled with a spicy meat mixture. One day last week Peter'd heard a worker complaining that they were too expensive now. "Them used to cost a shilling before the money changed from pounds to dollars. Now some of them cost a dollar, as if all of we did become rich of a sudden."
Peter was standing in the kitchen doorway, eating a patty Miss Lorrie had heated for him, when Mr. Campbell came from the direction of the garage.
"Hello, Peter," the headman said. "Is your father around?"
"Yes, Mr. Campbell. But he's resting. If it's important, though—"
"No, no, it's not important. I just wanted to show him—" The headman glanced back at the garage. "Why don't I show you, and you can tell him about it?"
"Sure."
Peter followed Mr. Campbell to the garage, expecting him to go inside. But the headman walked around the garage to the mule pen in back of it, where he kept the cantankerous riding mule he called Nasty. When he opened the gate, the mule stopped feeding and jerked his head up to stare at them as they went past him to the shelter in the far corner.
Under the shelter's galvanized roof the headman moved a bed of dry grass with his foot and said, "Look at this, Peter."
His foot had uncovered some empty crocus sacks. With them was a paper bag from which he took two tins of sardines, one of them empty, and three rock-hard bammies and some small, half-ripe bananas. "This is where your friend Zackie slept last night, Peter."
Peter nodded. "I know. He told me."
"He told you?"
"Yes, sir. He couldn't go home or to Miss Lorrie's house. His father was looking for him."
Mr. Campbell turned to peer at the mule, who was still standing there like a statue, gazing at them as if trying to make up his mind whether to charge them or not. "Nasty sleeps here in this shelter," he said. "Peter, have you any idea what would happen if you or I tried to share that animal's bed?"
"What would happen, Mr. Campbell?"
"Most likely we'd get our ribs kicked in. That mule will stay on his best behavior all day just to get a chance to kick you when you're not looking." The headman chuckled, and then frowned again. "I think your dad ought to know about this. I can appreciate why Zackie doesn't want to go home, but if he's planning on turning this into a second home for himself ... Well, he could get hurt, and I don't think we want that."
Peter nodded. "Just as soon as Dad wakes up, I'll tell him."
"Good." The headman let his hand rest on Peter's shoulder. "And see that Zackie gets something fit to eat, will you? He must be hungry."
Peter returned alone to the house and talked to Miss Lorrie in the kitchen. She agreed that something had to be done about where Zackie was sleeping. About his going hungry she was not so concerned. "Him have money," she said. "Him can buy things to eat and drink in any shop."
"He's saving his money to go to Kingston and find his mother."
"Me know th
at. But him can spare a little to keep alive." She put a hand to her face in that way she had when she was thinking. "Have you thought of asking you dad if Zackie can sleep here in the house?"
Peter nodded. "Yes, I have."
"Well?"
"I think he might say yes, but be unhappy about it. What I mean ... He lives all alone with his memories, Miss Lorrie. Like a hermit. And ... and ..."
"Me understand. Yes."
"Anyway, I don't know if this would be a good time to ask him, Miss Lorrie. He stopped at the cemetery today, I think."
"And did walk in and stand there talking to those two stones with the name Devon on them." The housekeeper sighed and shook her head. "No man should have to suffer like that, Peter. It not right. But taking in Zackie would be good for him, me do believe. So why you don't ask him, anyway?"
When Peter's father came from his room, it was nearly time for the evening meal. Peter was in the living room, reading. By the long, deep lines in Walter Devon's face, Peter knew that his father had not been sleeping. Probably he had not even been lying down, but only sitting in the silence of his room, tormented by his thoughts. When Mr. Devon sat down, Peter told him about Zackie Leonard's sleeping in the mule pen.
"Mr. Campbell says if any of us tried to share that mule's bed, we'd get our ribs kicked in, Dad."
"I'm sure we would."
"Dad. . .”
Mr. Devon looked up slowly, as though his head weighed a lot, and said, "Yes?"
"We've got an awful lot of rooms in this house that we don't use for anything. You suppose Zackie could have one of them to sleep in?"
Mr. Devon took his time about answering, then said with a frown, "You like this boy, don't you, Peter?"
"Yes, Dad."
Mr. Devon obviously was reluctant to have Zackie move in with them. His frown told Peter that much. After a silence he said, "What does Miss Lorrie say about it? I'm sure you've talked this over with her."
"It was her idea. I'd been thinking about it before she mentioned it, though."
"All right, then. I still don't think it will work out, mind you, but it looks as though I'm overruled." Mr. Devon, too, stood up. "You say he slept with Campbell's mule in the pen last night? It's almost dark out. Let's see if he's there now."
But Zackie was not in the mule pen, either then or half an hour later when they went out to look again just before Miss Lorrie put dinner on the table. The pen's only occupant was Winston Campbell's ill-tempered mule, who on their last visit was actually lying on Zackie's bed of grass under the zinc roof. Peter wondered whether Nasty was promising the Jamaican boy a rough time if he dared to come back or was protecting the bed for him.
After dinner Mr. Devon suggested they go out to the mule pen again. It was really dark now, and the diesel generator was softly chugging away in the garage to provide electricity for the house and for the headman's cottage. There would be no light in the mule pen, though, so Mr. Devon handed Peter a flashlight and carried one himself.
As they approached the pen this time, Peter heard something—not in the wire enclosure itself but in some guava bushes nearby. Swiftly turning on one foot, he drilled the bushes with his flashlight beam.
It was not Zackie who crouched there, but the boy's father. Blinking in the sudden glare, Merrick Leonard lurched to his feet with a drunken snarl, then lost his balance and almost fell before one hand grabbed a bush branch. His other hand clutched a length of thick bamboo, and when his eyes adjusted to the flashlight glare they seemed to Peter to be unnaturally small. Their whites were red.
With his heart thumping in his chest, Peter stopped short. But his father was not frightened. Walter Devon strode toward the intruder without hesitation, and the anger in his voice surprised Peter.
"I dislike prowlers, Mr. Leonard!"
"Me nuh prowlin'." The man's words were heavy and slurred. "Me come for me son."
"And hide yourself here with a club? What kind of man are you? Get out of here!"
"If me want to punish me own son for—"
"Out!"
The bamboo stick whistled at Mr. Devon's head as Leonard lurched forward. It struck home, too, and Peter realized that Dad must have felt something like an explosion behind his eyes. His eyes almost popped from their sockets, and Mr. Devon took in a quick, gasping breath.
But then a strange thing happened. Dad did not stagger backward from the blow, as Peter had expected. Instead, he seemed steady as a rock and filled with strength. Dropping his flashlight, he seized the bamboo stick and wrenched it from Leonard's grasp as if Leonard were a mere child.
Never before had Peter seen his father lift a hand to anyone in anger, but he did now. Mr. Devon swung the bamboo high and took a single step forward, ready to bring the stick crashing down on Leonard's head.
"Get out, Mr. Leonard. Now."
It was said so quietly that Peter almost didn't hear it. Leonard did, and recognized the honest fury behind it. The man staggered back with both hands flapping in front of his face, then turned and fled.
Mr. Devon did not pursue him. He simply stood there, shaking. Long after the crashing sound of footfalls had died away to silence, he continued to stand there motionless except for the shaking. At last the shaking stopped.
Seemingly unaware that Peter was still with him, he dropped the bamboo stick, picked up his flashlight, and walked slowly back to the house. Peter followed in silence, feeling proud. Not until they reached the veranda steps did Mr. Devon seem to remember he was not alone. Turning, he looked at Peter.
"Oh, there you are. Peter, that man won't return to-night. I don't believe Zackie will be coming at this late hour, either."
"I'm afraid you're right, Dad. And, Dad, you were terrific."
"Thanks, son. Thanks a lot."
SEVEN
Peter awoke at daybreak the next morning to hear the sound of rain on the roof. The roof was shingled with Jamaican cedar, and the shingles were covered with moss after so many years. When rain fell, it sounded a little like someone gently beating on a drumhead covered with a thick towel. Other than that, the house was so silent it was almost creepy, and Peter guessed that his father was still asleep. That often happened when Dad visited the cemetery. He stayed awake most of the night, and then slept late in the morning.
It was a difficult morning for Peter. While waiting for Miss Lorrie to come and make breakfast, he sat on the veranda, alone with his thoughts. The veranda faced west, so the house blocked his view of the sun as it rose from behind the mountain range. He watched its golden glow creep slowly down the river valley, though, and while doing so thought about Zackie.
It was strange, he realized, that he and Zackie had become friends. At their first meeting, Zackie had been stealing something—or trying to—at the shop in the village. Stealing what? Peter wondered. On their next meeting, the Jamaican boy had been hunting a pig on property not his own, where hunting was prohibited. Did they really have anything in common? Yes, they both needed a friend, but it was more than that: They trusted each other.
Peter suddenly realized he had been sitting on the veranda for quite a while and was hungry. Was Miss Lorrie sick?
Leaving the veranda, Peter went to the door of his father's room and listened. There was no sound from inside. He opened the door a few inches, not letting it make any noise, and looked in. Mr. Devon lay there in his pajamas, asleep, and the bedding was half on the floor, as though he had tossed and turned a lot during the night. At least he was getting some good sleep now, Peter thought sadly, and drew the door shut again.
In the kitchen he broke two eggs into a bowl and whipped them up with a fork, then took a frying pan from a rack on the wall and turned to the stove. The stove ran on propane gas that his father had to bring up in tall cylinders from Morant Bay.
He lit one of the burners and scrambled the eggs, then poured a glass of milk. It wasn't like the milk you bought in supermarkets back in the States. Kilmarnie was too far from any such markets for that to be practical. Mom h
ad suggested they buy powdered milk and mix it with Kilmarnie's water, which they knew was pure because they'd had it tested. Miss Lorrie, of course, now made it that way.
With the eggs and milk Peter ate two slices of Jamaican hard-dough bread. He had just finished breakfast and was sitting at the kitchen table, still thinking, when Miss Lorrie arrived.
"Me sorry to be late," she said. "Me truly am, Peter. But me did have to find out something."
"It's all right, Miss Lorrie."
She put down the sisal bag she always carried and took his dishes to the sink, but after turning on the water she swung around to speak to him again. "Zackie did come, Peter?"
He shook his head.
"Has you any idea where him is?"
Again Peter shook his head. "I wish I did."
She looked at him in silence for a few seconds, frowning as if she were not sure she should say any more. Then she turned to shut off the water and came to the table and sat down facing him. "Peter," she said, "the police are looking for him."
"What?"
"Some tiefing is going on in Mango Gap, Peter." Miss Lorrie seemed to be choosing her words with care. "Some houses are being broken into while people not at home. Someone is tiefing food and money and other things. The police are looking for Zackie to question him."
"Zackie wouldn't do—" As a certain picture flashed through his mind, Peter fell silent. The picture was of Zackie Leonard almost knocking him off his feet while racing out of that village shop, and of the Chinese proprietor yelling, "Stop, thief!" as he rushed, too late, from behind the counter. "Why—why do they think it's Zackie who is doing it?" he finished in a more subdued tone.
"Well, him is a boy with troubles, even if we like him and sorry for him. That don't make him a tief, of course, but it natural for the police to think him might be the one doing this, Peter."
