week, the Jamaican boy said. Didn't anyone know he had a garden here? No, not a soul. What about the higglers who bought vegetables from him—didn't they ever ask where he grew them? No, the higglers didn't question him.
There was one question Peter really wanted to ask, but didn't. It was, "How come you trusted me enough to show me this garden, Zackie?" The answer, maybe, was that Zackie needed a friend as much as he did.
"You say you want to move to Kingston, Zackie, to go to school and find work. Where will you live if you go there?"
"Me will find me mother."
"But she left you with her mother soon after you were born, Mr. Campbell told me."
"Only because me father drinking too much and using ganja all the time, Granny did tell me. That was in Seaforth, near Morant Bay. Then Granny dead, and me father find the house we in now. Nobody did live in it or even want it. Him bring me here."
"So he could look after you."
Zackie's low laugh had a kind of sneer in it. "No, Peter. So me would look after him."
"But if you haven't seen your mother since she went away, how will you find her?"
"She name Elaine Grant and she in Kingston somewhere. Don't worry. Me will find her."
"What if—" Peter was about to say, "What if she doesn't want you to find her?" but changed his mind.
That might hurt too much. "What if you can't?" he asked instead.
"Well, me nuh know. Me will think about that if me have to."
Between spells of talking, Peter had finished hoeing the weeds between rows of carrots and Zackie had gathered up the vegetables he wanted. They left then, with the Jamaican boy carrying the load of vegetables in a basket on his head, the way the country women carried almost everything. Once Peter had even seen a woman carrying a single egg on her head, in a little nest of grass she had put together to hold it. "You know, I envy you being able to do that," he said to Zackie. "It must be a lot easier than carrying a heavy basket in your arms or on your shoulder. If you don't get a headache or a sore neck, that is.”
The Jamaican boy's laughter was soft as a bird cry. "Country people do it to leave them hands free. Mostly women do it, though, not men."
"Then why do you?"
"Well, it seem to me women are smarter than us about some things. Look, is you daddy at home?"
"He should be, unless Mr. Campbell got back early with the young coffee trees. Then they'd both be in field six getting them planted. The holes are already dug."
But when the boys reached the field that was to be made larger, there was no sign of Mr. Devon or the headman. And at the house they found Walter Devon seated at a card table set up on the veranda, working on the plantation payroll, or "paybill," so he would know how much money to draw from the bank in Morant Bay in the morning. The workers were paid once a week, in cash.
As they neared the house, Zackie moved the basket of vegetables from his head to his right shoulder. At the foot of the veranda steps he ordered Mongoose, who had romped with them all the way from the garden, to sit and wait. He followed Peter up the steps and set the basket on a veranda chair.
Mr. Devon had stopped work to watch. "Well, hello," he said. "The two of you together again?"
"Zackie helped me put up the numbers, Dad."
"And Peter did help me in the garden," Zackie added.
"I see."
"Mr. Devon, me will glad if you take some of these vegetables." Zackie stepped aside to let Peter's father see what was in the basket. "Them is from me own garden, not me daddy's. Him don't have a garden. You will take some, please? For looking about me leg?"
"Well . . . How is your leg?"
"It ache a little, is all."
"May I see it?"
Zackie bared the wound so carefully that Peter guessed it must be hurting more than just a little. Leaving his chair, Mr. Devon came around the card table to examine it.
"Let's put on a fresh bandage, shall we?" Mr. Devon said.
Zackie shook his head.
"It won't take a minute. And I'll be more than glad to
There was one question Peter really wanted to ask, but didn't. It was, "How come you trusted me enough to show me this garden, Zackie?" The answer, maybe, was that Zackie needed a friend as much as he did.
"You say you want to move to Kingston, Zackie, to go to school and find work. Where will you live if you go there?"
"Me will find me mother."
"But she left you with her mother soon after you were born, Mr. Campbell told me."
"Only because me father drinking too much and using ganja all the time, Granny did tell me. That was in Seaforth, near Morant Bay. Then Granny dead, and me father find the house we in now. Nobody did live in it or even want it. Him bring me here."
"So he could look after you."
Zackie's low laugh had a kind of sneer in it. "No, Peter. So me would look after him."
"But if you haven't seen your mother since she went away, how will you find her?"
"She name Elaine Grant and she in Kingston somewhere. Don't worry. Me will find her."
"What if—" Peter was about to say, "What if she doesn't want you to find her?" but changed his mind.
That might hurt too much. "What if you can't?" he asked instead.
"Well, me nuh know. Me will think about that if me have to."
Between spells of talking, Peter had finished hoeing the weeds between rows of carrots and Zackie had gathered up the vegetables he wanted. They left then, with the Jamaican boy carrying the load of vegetables in a basket on his head, the way the country women carried almost everything. Once Peter had even seen a woman carrying a single egg on her head, in a little nest of grass she had put together to hold it. "You know, I envy you being able to do that," he said to Zackie. "It must be a lot easier than carrying a heavy basket in your arms or on your shoulder. If you don't get a headache or a sore neck, that is.”
The Jamaican boy's laughter was soft as a bird cry. "Country people do it to leave them hands free. Mostly women do it, though, not men."
"Then why do you?"
"Well, it seem to me women are smarter than us about some things. Look, is you daddy at home?"
"He should be, unless Mr. Campbell got back early with the young coffee trees. Then they'd both be in field six getting them planted. The holes are already dug."
But when the boys reached the field that was to be made larger, there was no sign of Mr. Devon or the headman. And at the house they found Walter Devon seated at a card table set up on the veranda, working on the plantation payroll, or "paybill," so he would know how much money to draw from the bank in Morant Bay in the morning. The workers were paid once a week, in cash.
As they neared the house, Zackie moved the basket of vegetables from his head to his right shoulder. At the foot of the veranda steps he ordered Mongoose, who had romped with them all the way from the garden, to sit and wait. He followed Peter up the steps and set the basket on a veranda chair.
Mr. Devon had stopped work to watch. "Well, hello," he said. "The two of you together again?"
"Zackie helped me put up the numbers, Dad."
"And Peter did help me in the garden," Zackie added.
"I see."
"Mr. Devon, me will glad if you take some of these vegetables." Zackie stepped aside to let Peter's father see what was in the basket. "Them is from me own garden, not me daddy's. Him don't have a garden. You will take some, please? For looking about me leg?"
"Well . . . How is your leg?"
"It ache a little, is all."
"May I see it?"
Zackie bared the wound so carefully that Peter guessed it must be hurting more than just a little. Leaving his chair, Mr. Devon came around the card table to examine it.
"Let's put on a fresh bandage, shall we?" Mr. Devon said.
Zackie shook his head.
"It won't take a minute. And I'll be more than glad to
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