up. But it's way past lunch time, and I'm hungry. You had any lunch?"
"Uh-uh." Zackie wagged his head.
"How about some of mine? I have plenty. Then you can help me finish what I'm here for, and I'll go with you and help you. Okay?"
"Okay. But mek we finish the numbers first."
"How's your leg?" Peter asked.
"No problem. Your dad did fix it real good."
"Don't forget he wants to see it again."
"All right. When we go down."
With Zackie helping, Peter made short work of changing the last two numbers. Then they sat under a tree and ate the rolls and corned beef Peter had brought—"bully beef," the Jamaican boy called it—sharing some with Mongoose. Peter had to laugh at the way Mongoose begged. The little dog sat up straight and stiff as a statue, with his eyes unblinking and his mouth open, until you offered him a tidbit. Then he put both front paws on your wrist while eating out of your hand.
"Him always do that," Zackie said. "And, believe me, him nuh hungry. Me feed him."
Peter remembered the shack with only a table and two mattresses in it. "What do you feed him?"
"Same thing all of we poor people feed our dogs. Cornmeal porridge and scraps of whatever we have around.
Rich folk buy dog food in tins, but we nuh can afford that kind of stuff. Country shops don't carry it, anyway."
Peter said carefully, "Your dad was at the house this morning, Zackie."
"Me know."
"You mean he told you?"
"Not him. Some people going to them field did hear him yelling and knocking the fire alarm. Them say him drunk." Zackie looked off into space and shook his head. "A little after me did get back from walking with you up to house, him wake up and go out. Most likely him have a bottle hid somewhere. Then when him drunk enough, him did go up to call you daddy out."
"He thought we still had the pig."
"Yes, and him could make trouble, Peter. You must have to be careful."
"My dad was real angry about the fire alarm. Nobody is supposed to touch that unless there's a fire."
"Him did tell me daddy that?"
"He sure did."
"Me just hope it don't give him an idea," Zackie said. "About making trouble, me mean."
The sandwiches finished, the two boys left the last of the coffee fields behind and continued climbing. Although other parts of Kilmarnie were heavily forested, the land there was open. Tough, sticky grass about a foot high covered the steep slope. Zackie said some foolish person, years ago, had brought that particular kind of grass to the island, hoping to feed cattle with it, but the animals wouldn't eat it and the wind had carried the seeds all through the mountains. "It hard to root up when you make a garden," he said. "Then it hard to keep out afterward."
He had done both successfully, though, Peter saw a little later. The "secret garden" occupied a shallow gully between gentle slopes, and was bigger than any garden Peter had seen in Mango Gap. Zackie must have spent hours preparing the soil and planting it, and now had to spend hours more keeping it free of weeds and grass so the vegetables would have a chance. And, as Dad had remarked, he must have to spend a lot of time just walking up here and back, too.
Peter studied the garden and recognized all kinds of vegetables in it: scallions, carrots, cabbages, beets. At one end there was even a small forest of yam sticks, with the vines already reaching the tops of the sticks.
Going to a little shed that had bamboo walls and a sheet of old zinc for a roof, Zackie came back with a machete and a hoe. He handed the hoe with its homemade handle to Peter. "If you will use this in the carrots, Peter, me can dig some yams and scallions to take back down. If it too heavy—"
"I'll be okay," Peter said quickly, and went to work with enthusiasm.
They labored for an hour or so, stopping often to talk. In the beginning the talk was of nothing in particular, with Peter asking questions and Zackie either answering or trying not to. How often did Zackie come up here?
About three times a
"Uh-uh." Zackie wagged his head.
"How about some of mine? I have plenty. Then you can help me finish what I'm here for, and I'll go with you and help you. Okay?"
"Okay. But mek we finish the numbers first."
"How's your leg?" Peter asked.
"No problem. Your dad did fix it real good."
"Don't forget he wants to see it again."
"All right. When we go down."
With Zackie helping, Peter made short work of changing the last two numbers. Then they sat under a tree and ate the rolls and corned beef Peter had brought—"bully beef," the Jamaican boy called it—sharing some with Mongoose. Peter had to laugh at the way Mongoose begged. The little dog sat up straight and stiff as a statue, with his eyes unblinking and his mouth open, until you offered him a tidbit. Then he put both front paws on your wrist while eating out of your hand.
"Him always do that," Zackie said. "And, believe me, him nuh hungry. Me feed him."
Peter remembered the shack with only a table and two mattresses in it. "What do you feed him?"
"Same thing all of we poor people feed our dogs. Cornmeal porridge and scraps of whatever we have around.
Rich folk buy dog food in tins, but we nuh can afford that kind of stuff. Country shops don't carry it, anyway."
Peter said carefully, "Your dad was at the house this morning, Zackie."
"Me know."
"You mean he told you?"
"Not him. Some people going to them field did hear him yelling and knocking the fire alarm. Them say him drunk." Zackie looked off into space and shook his head. "A little after me did get back from walking with you up to house, him wake up and go out. Most likely him have a bottle hid somewhere. Then when him drunk enough, him did go up to call you daddy out."
"He thought we still had the pig."
"Yes, and him could make trouble, Peter. You must have to be careful."
"My dad was real angry about the fire alarm. Nobody is supposed to touch that unless there's a fire."
"Him did tell me daddy that?"
"He sure did."
"Me just hope it don't give him an idea," Zackie said. "About making trouble, me mean."
The sandwiches finished, the two boys left the last of the coffee fields behind and continued climbing. Although other parts of Kilmarnie were heavily forested, the land there was open. Tough, sticky grass about a foot high covered the steep slope. Zackie said some foolish person, years ago, had brought that particular kind of grass to the island, hoping to feed cattle with it, but the animals wouldn't eat it and the wind had carried the seeds all through the mountains. "It hard to root up when you make a garden," he said. "Then it hard to keep out afterward."
He had done both successfully, though, Peter saw a little later. The "secret garden" occupied a shallow gully between gentle slopes, and was bigger than any garden Peter had seen in Mango Gap. Zackie must have spent hours preparing the soil and planting it, and now had to spend hours more keeping it free of weeds and grass so the vegetables would have a chance. And, as Dad had remarked, he must have to spend a lot of time just walking up here and back, too.
Peter studied the garden and recognized all kinds of vegetables in it: scallions, carrots, cabbages, beets. At one end there was even a small forest of yam sticks, with the vines already reaching the tops of the sticks.
Going to a little shed that had bamboo walls and a sheet of old zinc for a roof, Zackie came back with a machete and a hoe. He handed the hoe with its homemade handle to Peter. "If you will use this in the carrots, Peter, me can dig some yams and scallions to take back down. If it too heavy—"
"I'll be okay," Peter said quickly, and went to work with enthusiasm.
They labored for an hour or so, stopping often to talk. In the beginning the talk was of nothing in particular, with Peter asking questions and Zackie either answering or trying not to. How often did Zackie come up here?
About three times a
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