by Cave, Hugh
"But me know where to get a bus to Constant Spring," Zackie said with confidence. "Come on!"
He was right. In less than half an hour they were seated together behind the driver of a big, noisy vehicle that bored its way through the city's traffic like a bulldozer through a forest.
Peter sat next to the window and, when he saw that Zackie did not want to talk, contented himself with looking out at the city's sights. Zackie must be excited—and nervous—at the prospect of seeing his mother, Peter guessed.
The bus stopped every little while. People got on and off—all kinds of people. There was a busy place called Cross Roads, a sort of city within the city, with a theater and big stores and other large buildings. Then another busy meeting of roads called Half Way Tree. The whole world, Peter decided, was full of cars, bicycles, motorcycles, and big buses.
Then the traffic thinned out for a few miles, and Zackie nudged Peter on the arm. "The next stop is for the market, Peter."
The bus hissed to a halt, and they got out. And as the vehicle lumbered on without them, Peter wondered how he would ever find his way back to his father if Zackie were suddenly to disappear in the big, open-air market at which he was staring. It seemed to cover several acres of ground and was like a huge jigsaw puzzle. Everywhere he looked were displays of fruits and vegetables, some on tables, some on the ground, with sellers calling to one another or talking to buyers, and crowds of customers walking around, looking at what was being offered.
Zackie touched him on the arm again. "You coming, Peter?"
"Huh? Yes, of course!" Once, with Mom and Mark, Peter had ventured into the Coronation market, in the heart of downtown Kingston. Not to shop, although Mom had bought a few hard-to-find vegetables and other things there, but to walk around and see what was going on, because the Coronation was written about in books they had. This, though, was different. This wasn't a maze of crowded city streets choked with heat and smells. It was like a country fair.
But Zackie was in no mood for sightseeing. At the very first table they came to, he stopped and spoke to a young woman behind it. Zackie asked her if she knew a higgler named Elaine Grant.
"Who, sonny?"
"Elaine Grant, ma'am. Me did hear tell she work here."
"Elaine . . . Elaine . . . Now, me may have heard that name, yes, but me don't recall where, sonny. Look. You see that lady over there with the red bandu 'round she head? The one selling yams?"
Zackie turned to look where she was pointing. "Yes, ma'am."
"That lady been here years, and know everybody. You go and ask her."
"Thank you." With Peter trailing, Zackie hurried to a woman who had many kinds of yams heaped up on the ground. This higgler was old and wore an old felt hat and was puffing on a pipe as she stood there with her hands on her hips.
In answer to Zackie's question, she said, "Elaine Grant? Me know Elaine, yes, but she nuh here today."
Peter was watching Zackie closely, and saw the eagerness disappear from his friend's face.
"Not here, ma'am?"
"Me did hear she sick, boy."
"Do you— Do you know where she live?"
"No, boy, me don't. But there is a woman here who likely does." She took the pipe from her mouth and turned to point with it. "You see that table down there where the lady selling callaloo and scallions? The young lady in the white dress?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"You go and talk to her now. She and Elaine Grant has become good friends since Elaine work here. She name Jennifer."
Zackie's look of eagerness returned, and again he led the way, with Peter hurrying to keep up. This woman was about the age the boy's mother would be, Peter guessed. Her table was in a shaft of sunlight and her dark skin shone with perspiration.
"Miss Jennifer?" Zackie said.
"Yes, sonny?"
"Me name Zackie Leonard. The lady over there did say you know me mother."
The woman had been making up bundles of the green called callaloo and tying them with thin strips of banana trash. Putting down the one she was working on, she leaned forward with her knuckles on the table and seemed to hold her breath while peering at Zackie's face. "You are who?"
"Zackie Leonard, ma'am." It came out as if Zackie had rehearsed it and made up his mind to keep calm. "Elaine Grant is me mother."
"Well, I . . . Come 'round here! Let me look at you!"
With a quick glance at Peter, Zackie obeyed. The woman named Jennifer put both hands on his shoulders and studied him again.
"I've heard so much about you from Elaine, and now here you are," she said. "And look at you!" she went on excitedly. "All grown-up and handsome!"
"Miss Jennifer," Zackie said, "does you know where me mother is? Me did come here to find her."
"Yes, I know where she is. She's at home sick today. Not real sick," the higgler added quickly. "Only feeling poorly."
"But where is she live?" Zackie begged.
"Before I tell you where she lives, let me ask you something." Jennifer stepped back a little, frowning now but still staring. "What do you want with her?"
"She me mother! Me must have to find her!"
"You're not mad at her for leaving you?"
"No, no, me not mad at her!"
"Because I want you to know she would have taken you after your granny died, 'stead of letting your daddy have you. Many a time she has told me that. The problem was, she never had enough money to rent a decent place for the two of you to live."
"Please," Zackie begged. "Where she is, Miss Jennifer?"
The young woman seemed to hesitate. Then she peered at Peter. "Is this white boy with you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Maybe he should not go with you to your mother's. She lives in a part of Kingston that isn't so nice. But you're not to be mad at her for that, you understand, because she does her best, believe me. It's just that she never seems to have any good luck, and can't get enough money saved up to move out of there."
Zackie looked at Peter. "Is you going be mad if me go there without you?" he asked.
Peter had been wondering whether he should go the whole way. "Maybe you ought to see your mother alone, anyway," he said. "It'll be better for you. I can start back to my father."
Zackie smiled his thanks and turned to the higgler again.
"All right," she said. "I'll write it down for you if you're so determined." Reaching into a pocket of her white dress, she took out a scrap of paper and a stub of pencil. "Do you know where that is?" she asked, as Zackie peered at what she had written.
"Me can find it, ma'am, thank you." Full of impatience now, Zackie grabbed Peter's arm. "Come, Peter!" Then, as they hurried to the bus stop, he said, "If me not back there at the garage when you daddy come at three o'clock, the two of you can go home without me, you hear? Me will get a ride to Rainy Ridge on the truck."
"Suppose you miss the truck. You'll be stuck here in Kingston all night."
"No, me won't. Me will take a bus to Morant Bay and beg a ride with somebody going up from there."
A bus was coming. "Is this one we can take?" Peter asked.
The vehicle veered in to the curb and Zackie said yes, it would take them back downtown, so Peter stepped aboard. This time they sat in the back, and for a while Zackie was silent, perhaps thinking about all the things the higgler, Miss Jennifer, had told him.
Cross Roads and Half Way Tree were behind them when Zackie broke his silence. "What me can do, Peter, me can go with you back to the garage, then find me mother but not stay with her long. If she say it is all right, me can come back another time and bring some money to help her move out of that place."
"No, Zackie." The bus had reached the downtown place where they had boarded the one for Constant Spring, and Peter stood up. "You go to your mother now. I can find the garage by myself."
"You sure?"
On the sidewalk they faced each other. "Hey, look," Peter said, "you think this is a big city? You should see Miami."
"Which way
is the garage?" Zackie challenged. "Tell me!"
Peter had to laugh. "Go on," he said, giving Zackie a push. "Just be sure to get back there by three o'clock, because we'll probably be going home through the Bay and my dad hates to be kept waiting."
His father almost always took the long way home from Kingston so he could stop at the Morant Bay cemetery where Peter's mother and brother were buried. Thinking about it made Peter remember the two funerals—the walks to the cemetery from the church in the Bay, and standing at his father's side by the open graves while the coffins were lowered into them. Rain had fallen the day Mark was buried. Dad had refused to use an umbrella and had come down with a bad cold.
When he stopped remembering, Peter realized Zackie had disappeared—whether to walk to where his mother lived or to take another bus, Peter did not know. He began walking. With time to waste, he didn't hurry but just strolled along, heading in the general direction of the garage. As he walked down King Street, in the heart of the city's busiest shopping district, he looked in store windows and watched the crowds of shoppers.
Feeling hungry, he went into Woolworth's and sat at a lunch counter, where he ate two beef patties and drank a bottle of orange soda. Then, to kill time, he crossed the street and went into a big store called the Times Store. There he just walked around, upstairs and down, looking at what was on sale.
By the time he reached the parking garage, he was tired from so much walking and looking. His father was not there, of course. It was only a quarter to twelve. He sat on a bench near the booth where Dad would have to pay before taking the car out, and would be sure to see him. Then he shut his eyes and wondered how things were going for Zackie.
TEN
Mr. Devon came at two-thirty, and Peter told him what had happened. They sat together on the bench and waited. Zackie did not come.
At three-thirty Mr. Devon said in a tone of voice that told Peter he was beginning to be annoyed, "We can wait another half hour, and that's all. I'm sure if he found his mother it must be hard for him to break away, but I said three o'clock for a reason, Peter. I want to go home by way of the Bay."
"To stop at the cemetery, Dad?"
"Well, yes, we'll do that. But we've been having some heavy afternoon rains lately, remember, and the mountain road can be dangerous in a rain."
"He'll come, Dad. I know he will."
But at four o'clock Zackie still had not shown up. Frowning at the watch on his wrist, Mr. Devon took in a big breath, let it out, and stood up. "I'll bring the car down," he said. "You wait here just in case."
Peter sat there staring at the entrance, praying Zackie would suddenly appear. But Zackie did not, and when the car came down the ramp with Dad at the wheel, he gave up hope and got into it.
His father was right about the rain. It began before they were out of the city and continued in a downpour all the time they were traveling the coastal highway to the Bay. Peter hoped it would keep up, so that when they reached the cemetery they would not get out of the car and walk in to the graves but only sit there awhile. He could appreciate Dad's feelings—after all, he shared them—but he hated to see his father go into such a state of depression afterward.
The rain quit before they reached the Bay, though, and when they stopped at the cemetery gate, Dad got out of the car. He didn't say, "Come, Peter," or "Are you coming, son?" or anything; he just stepped out and stood waiting until Peter got out, too. Then he took Peter's hand and the two of them walked in over the wet grass to the graves. The graves were side by side, with names and dates on the headstones.
Dad still didn't say anything. He only stood in front of Mom's grave for a few minutes with his head bowed, then moved to Mark's and did the same there. When he turned and started back to the car, it was as though Peter did not exist anymore. In silence Peter followed him to the car and got in.
Before they reached the town of Seaforth, with rain again pounding the car's roof, Dad broke the silence. "How did you say Zackie would get home, son?"
"On the Rainy Ridge truck, Dad. That's what he said, anyway."
"Mmm." Mr. Devon shook his head. "I wonder if the trucker will make the trip in this weather."
Peter knew what he meant. The truck used the mountain road, not this one, because the people who used it for transportation lived along that road. Peter had been over it in a hard rain with his father, and it was a kind of journey not easily forgotten.
The rain had begun that day when they were climbing Cambridge Hill on their way home from town. It was a downpour by the time they reached the bridge over the Yallahs at Ramble. Looking down as they crossed the bridge, Mr. Devon had said, "Up in the mountains it must have begun much earlier than this. See how high the river is.”
Usually they could hear the planks rattle under the car's wheels when they drove over that bridge, which was said to be the highest in the island. That afternoon all they could hear was the roar of the river as it rushed over its rocky bed, far below.
So if Zackie couldn't come home on the Rainy Ridge truck, what would he do? Would he stay with his mother in town, maybe?
It was dark when the little English car rolled into Kilmarnie's garage. All but exhausted from driving with the rain streaming down the windshield and long stretches of the road hidden by rushing water, Mr. Devon let himself go limp behind the wheel and let out a long "Whew!"
Through the continuing downpour, father and son ran from the garage to the house, where Miss Lorrie had the door open before they reached the top of the veranda steps. "Zackie don't come with you?" she asked, peering out at the yard.
"He'll be on the truck," Peter said.
She waited until they were inside, with the door closed. Then she looked at them and said, "The truck? There will not be no truck in a rain like this, if the driver have any sense."
Looking worried, and perhaps even feeling a little guilty, Mr. Devon said, "I guess we should have waited for him, Peter. I'd better drive down to the village to pick him up when the truck does come." He turned to Lorrie. "What time do you think that might be, Lorrie?"
"Who could even guess, Mr. Devon? Anyway, him can walk. That boy is no stranger to rain." Gazing at both of them, she shook her head. "And look at you two. You must change into some dry clothes whilst me fetch dinner."
Peter went to his room to change. When he returned to the living room, he found Miss Lorrie putting food on the table. "You really don't think the truck will come, Miss Lorne?"
"No, me don't," she said. "Zackie could take the bus to the Bay, though."
Zackie had said the same thing, Peter remembered. But, of course, he might have trouble getting up from the Bay in this weather, too. Nobody liked to drive the island's roads in a hard rain.
Peter and his father ate supper to the sounds of the power plant chugging and the rain relentlessly pounding the roof. Miss Lorrie cleared the table and said she would have to stay the night or drown trying to get home. Mr. Devon made a fire in the fireplace, and then sat in front of it with a loose-leaf notebook. He and some of the other plantation owners were to meet soon to discuss their common problems, and for quite a while now he had been writing down things that he thought ought to be brought up at the meeting. He had to be well prepared, he had said, because he would be the only one present who was not a Jamaican.
Dad looked tired, Peter thought. No wonder, after spending the whole day in Kingston and driving back in such a rain. And, of course, stopping at the cemetery.
Miss Lorrie, coming up from the kitchen, looked at them and shook her head. "If you two waiting for Zackie, you may be sitting here all night," she said. "So me better say good-night and go look me bed."
An hour later Mr. Devon finally stopped studying his notes and rose from his chair. "Perhaps we should leave the front door unlocked, Peter," he said. "I don't believe Zackie would wake us up if he found it locked. What do you think?"
"All right, Dad. Nobody would come prowling around on a night like this, I guess."
"Then let'
s do it and go to bed," Mr. Devon said. "I'm about as tired as I can get."
There was no sign of Zackie when Peter awoke in the morning. The rain had stopped. Miss Lorrie was singing a Jamaican folk song as she set the table for breakfast. "Every time me 'member Liza, water come-a me eye," she sang. "Come back, Liza, come back, gal, water come-a me eye."
Still in his pajamas, Peter looked in his father's room on his way to take a shower and saw that the bed was empty. Good, he thought. Physically, Dad was in great shape from all the walking he had to do on the plantation, and being tired was a thing he could get over fast. What wore him down for days at a time was being depressed.
His father was waiting to have breakfast with him when Peter finished showering, and Miss Lorrie said they would probably hear soon if the truck had come in from the city the night before. "Some of the coffee workers will know," she predicted.
But while Peter was on the veranda after breakfast, waiting for the first of the workers to come up from Mango Gap so he could question them, the police Land-Rover came growling down the driveway. Corporal Buckley was driving it.
The tall policeman climbed the veranda steps slowly, as though carrying an invisible weight on his back. "Good morning, lad," he said. "Is your father here?"
The double doors were open, and Mr. Devon was at the big mahogany table, copying into an account book some figures from scraps of paper Mr. Campbell had given him over the past few days. "Come in, Corporal," he called, getting up. "What can I do for you?"
The policeman came only a few feet into the room. "I have bad news, Mr. Devon."
In the silence that followed, Peter went to stand beside his father. Somehow he was certain the bad news concerned Zackie.
"What is it, Corporal?" Mr. Devon said.
"Zackie Leonard has been hurt."
Peter felt his father's hand on his own, first only touching it, then clasping it. "Hurt?" Mr. Devon said. "How badly?"
"I'm not sure. He was on a bus coming from Kingston to Morant Bay, it seems, and there was an accident. The road was wet, of course. The bus skidded off it near White Horses to avoid some animal and tipped over. Zackie and three others were taken to the hospital."