Conquering Kilmarni Read Online Free Page B
a man asleep and snoring. There seemed to be nothing else in the room, and there was only one room.
Zackie went forward and kneeled to peer into the man's face, which in the lamplight looked hollow in some places and lumpy in others, and had several days’ stubble on it.
After studying his father a moment, he let his breath out in a sigh and got to his feet. "Him been drinking, Peter, like always."
"What's the funny smell in here?" Peter asked. It was not the unpleasant smell of something rotten, but it was making him uneasy. And it seemed to be everywhere in the room, as if it had been there a long time.
The Jamaican boy did not answer at once. On the other hand, he didn't bother to test the air by sniffing, as he probably would have if the question had surprised him. For a moment he only stood there, gazing down at the little dog by his feet. Then he lifted his gaze to Peter's face and moved his shoulders in a shrug. "You nuh know what ganja smell like, Peter?"
Ganja, Peter knew, was the Jamaican name for marijuana. "You mean your dad uses it?"
Zackie nodded.
With Peter not knowing how to react, a moment of silence went by. Then he said, "Well, Zackie, I guess I'd better get home. My dad might be getting worried."
"All right."
Again accompanied by Zackie's little dog, they trudged back up to Peter's house. Long before they reached it, its many lighted windows were visible in the darkness.
At the foot of the veranda steps, Peter and Zackie stopped. "Look," Peter said. "Why don't you stay here tonight with Dad and me, Zackie? Dad would let you. I know he would."
"No, Peter, me can't do that."
"Why can't you?"
"When me father wake up, him may be real sick and need me there to look after him." He handed Peter the borrowed flashlight. "Thanks for helping me with the pig.”
Peter stood there watching him go down the path, and didn't turn to climb the steps until Zackie and the dog had disappeared. What would happen, he wondered, when the boy's father heard about the pig and demanded the money Zackie was paid for it? What kind of man was he, anyway, to be drunk all the time, or worse, while expecting a twelve-year-old boy to take care of him?
Peter's own father was sitting at the big mahogany table in the living room when he walked in. He was writing a letter, Peter saw. Looking up, he pushed the letter aside and said with a frown, "Well, did everything go all right?"
Peter went to the table and sat down. "Can I talk to you a minute, Dad?"
"Of course."
Peter told him everything, even about Zackie's having a secret garden in the high bush. "What did he mean by 'high bush,' Dad?"
"I'm not quite sure," Mr. Devon admitted. "When our workers use that expression, they mean the plantation land that's too remote or too inaccessible for coffee. I can't imagine anyone having a garden in such a place. He'd have to spend most of his time going and coming."
Peter thought about it. "That could be what he meant, though. He wouldn't want his father to find out about it, or he'd never get to keep the money for what he grows."
"Tell me more about this man," Mr. Devon said. Peter told all he could remember.
"Was the house in bad shape?"
"If you mean was it real dirty, no. I bet Zackie is the one who keeps it clean, though; his father wouldn't bother. But if they ever had any furniture, Mr. Leonard must have sold it to buy rum and ganja. All I saw was a table and two old mattresses."
"No bedroom with beds?"
"Only mattresses. On the floor."
"Well, just remember we're outsiders here and it's none of our business," Mr. Devon said with a shake of his head. "As I said before, we have problems of our own."
But even as Walter Devon said those words, Peter knew that he was interested in Zackie Leonard—and it had been years since Dad had cared about anyone or anything outside the family. Dad would try not to care about Zackie, either, but Peter would see what he could do about that.
FOUR
W hen he was at Kilmarnie, Peter
Zackie went forward and kneeled to peer into the man's face, which in the lamplight looked hollow in some places and lumpy in others, and had several days’ stubble on it.
After studying his father a moment, he let his breath out in a sigh and got to his feet. "Him been drinking, Peter, like always."
"What's the funny smell in here?" Peter asked. It was not the unpleasant smell of something rotten, but it was making him uneasy. And it seemed to be everywhere in the room, as if it had been there a long time.
The Jamaican boy did not answer at once. On the other hand, he didn't bother to test the air by sniffing, as he probably would have if the question had surprised him. For a moment he only stood there, gazing down at the little dog by his feet. Then he lifted his gaze to Peter's face and moved his shoulders in a shrug. "You nuh know what ganja smell like, Peter?"
Ganja, Peter knew, was the Jamaican name for marijuana. "You mean your dad uses it?"
Zackie nodded.
With Peter not knowing how to react, a moment of silence went by. Then he said, "Well, Zackie, I guess I'd better get home. My dad might be getting worried."
"All right."
Again accompanied by Zackie's little dog, they trudged back up to Peter's house. Long before they reached it, its many lighted windows were visible in the darkness.
At the foot of the veranda steps, Peter and Zackie stopped. "Look," Peter said. "Why don't you stay here tonight with Dad and me, Zackie? Dad would let you. I know he would."
"No, Peter, me can't do that."
"Why can't you?"
"When me father wake up, him may be real sick and need me there to look after him." He handed Peter the borrowed flashlight. "Thanks for helping me with the pig.”
Peter stood there watching him go down the path, and didn't turn to climb the steps until Zackie and the dog had disappeared. What would happen, he wondered, when the boy's father heard about the pig and demanded the money Zackie was paid for it? What kind of man was he, anyway, to be drunk all the time, or worse, while expecting a twelve-year-old boy to take care of him?
Peter's own father was sitting at the big mahogany table in the living room when he walked in. He was writing a letter, Peter saw. Looking up, he pushed the letter aside and said with a frown, "Well, did everything go all right?"
Peter went to the table and sat down. "Can I talk to you a minute, Dad?"
"Of course."
Peter told him everything, even about Zackie's having a secret garden in the high bush. "What did he mean by 'high bush,' Dad?"
"I'm not quite sure," Mr. Devon admitted. "When our workers use that expression, they mean the plantation land that's too remote or too inaccessible for coffee. I can't imagine anyone having a garden in such a place. He'd have to spend most of his time going and coming."
Peter thought about it. "That could be what he meant, though. He wouldn't want his father to find out about it, or he'd never get to keep the money for what he grows."
"Tell me more about this man," Mr. Devon said. Peter told all he could remember.
"Was the house in bad shape?"
"If you mean was it real dirty, no. I bet Zackie is the one who keeps it clean, though; his father wouldn't bother. But if they ever had any furniture, Mr. Leonard must have sold it to buy rum and ganja. All I saw was a table and two old mattresses."
"No bedroom with beds?"
"Only mattresses. On the floor."
"Well, just remember we're outsiders here and it's none of our business," Mr. Devon said with a shake of his head. "As I said before, we have problems of our own."
But even as Walter Devon said those words, Peter knew that he was interested in Zackie Leonard—and it had been years since Dad had cared about anyone or anything outside the family. Dad would try not to care about Zackie, either, but Peter would see what he could do about that.
FOUR
W hen he was at Kilmarnie, Peter
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