Clarence Chance, Contributor

No wind stirred the leaves of the trees he passed. And Dennis thought that it was as if the leaves knew; they hung lifelessly in the still air. Rain had fallen earlier and he was navigating around pools of water and picking his way through muck and mud, searching for the harder portions of the dirt road. He held the baby tenderly over his shoulder, not too tightly, not too lightly. The whole thing seemed like a dream. But now Dennis bit his lower lip, as if to convince himself once and for all that it was no dream, that Rosie was dead. Tears were coming, and he was trying to hold them back, to be brave and strong for the little one.

Sixteen-year-old Dennis Donaldson had emerged from a taxi in the square; he was on his way from the hospital to Rosie's mother's house. He passed Mr. Churchill's goat pen, but the big black he-goat he called Africa held no fascination for him today. He looked at it and didn't see it. His feet, heavy with mud and weakened by fear, were coming to the gate now. Dennis could see Miss Madge sitting on her verandah. There was someone else there, a woman, resembling Miss Enid from Pump Hole.

The boy turned mechanically through the gate and climbed the steps. 'Afternoon, Miss Madge.'

No answer.

'A' bring home the baby ... Rosie son, ma'am.'

Miss Madge rose. 'Yu have the audacity to come here to talk 'bout Rosie son. Where is Rosie? Weh Rosie deh?'

Miss Madge turned to Miss Enid. 'Dem murder mi one pickney, Miss Enid, between this bad-breed bwoy and the doctor them. 'Bout high blood pressure. Rosie never have no pressure. A' going show them what pressure is, yu hear!'

She paused, looked at the baby, then went on: 'If yu know what I know, bwoy, yu take that baby and carry it to yu bad-breed mumma. A' warn Rosie 'bout unno. A' beat har again and again. A' tell har not to tangle up with people like unno. Something like this was bound to happen. Bound to happen!'

He was making his way up to his house. His jeans were wet up to his knee from the wet bushes. He was passing his mother's pig pen now, thinking that five days ago Rosie was a bubbly 15-year-old, looking forward to her baby's birth, and today. Well, today.

Tears were coming again. He had to stop them. 'Be strong, be strong.' He said that now aloud, as if to cement it into his brain, as if saying it would drive the fear away.

He came into the yard through the back. His mother was putting clothes on to the line. She stopped when she saw him. 'Where yu going with that baby, Dennis?'

'The hospital release him, ma'am, and is my seed, and so a' go for him.'

'Yu working anywhere? How yu going to mind baby, bwoy? A' woulda expect one a' yu sister to carry baby in here on mi, not you, Dennis!'

'Well, Mummy it done happen a'ready.'

'What yu seh? Don't get bright in here. That baby not staying here. A' warn yu again and again not to mix up with them bad-breed people. A' tell yu them deeds. A' tell yu how them bad-mind yu uncle and send him go prison. A' tell yu how them tief yu great-grandfather land, but yu wouldn't hear. Yu go mix. Yu go mix up and look what them leave yu holding, a baby. Well, it not staying here!'

His hands were getting tired. The left hand supported the baby over his shoulder, and the right hand, a bag with baby stuff suspended from his other shoulder. He was coming to the gate of Miss Francis' house.

Miss Francis had been teacher to both Dennis and Rosie at primary school. It was Miss Francis who had supported them above anybody else through the pregnancy, and it was she who had bought the things for the baby. Maybe she would keep the child, Dennis thought; she was almost 40 and had no children of her own.

Miss Francis was overwhelmed with joy. 'For as long as you want,' she said. And then she went on to say how sorry she was for the passing. 'And if there is any thing I can do for the.' She would have said funeral, but changed it to 'home-going'.

So there it was, then, the baby in the care of Miss Francis. Things were looking up for now, Dennis thought.

But next day, around the same time, there was a knocking at Miss Francis' gate, and Miss Francis came out to see Miss Madge, arms akimbo, shaking from side to side like a spoiled schoolgirl.

'A' hear yu have something down here that belong to mi.'

'If you are talking about Rosie's baby, Dennis said you chased him away with it.'

'What give yu right to Rosie pickney? A' chase him away yesterday, today a' want the baby.'

'But Dennis said ...'

'Who care what Dennis seh! A' come fi mi grandpickney and that is that. Maybe is you and him mek up and murder mi Rosie!'

'Don't be ridiculous, ma'am. Why would I do that?'

'Because yu is a mule. To get har pickney. Don't mek mi gwaan bad down here!'

Miss Madge left Miss Francis' home with Rosie's baby.

Later that day news filtered out what had happened. And everybody with the surname Donaldson or Smith, and every close relative who was available, grabbed what he or she could. Some were carrying machetes, others sticks. They marched down to Miss Madge's house. She had had no right to go for the baby, they said. At their front was Dennis' mother, Miss Smith.

'Madge, a' don't need to tell yu that is Dennis pickney wi come for.'

'Rosie pickney leaving here only over mi dead body,' Miss Madge screamed.

'Well that not hard to arrange,' Miss Smith said.

Miss Madge's common-law husband, Dee, stepped down into the front yard. 'Madge, yu fool-fool or what? Yu don't know a dangerous situation when yu see one?'

He brought out the baby and his bag and handed the child to Miss Smith.

'Bright!' Miss Smith said. 'Bout yu gone fi baby, yu don't seh yu don't want him a'ready?'

They buried Rosie that Saturday under the apple tree with the swing suspended from it. All through the service Miss Madge could be heard saying they had murdered her 15-year-old daughter and somebody would have to pay for it.

The sun was boiling hot. It was capturing moisture and making it shimmer in the air. The asphalt had softened underfoot, so that sometimes when you walked on it it came off on your shoes as a paste. In the banana plantation next to the road was 18-year-old Dennis Donaldson. He was carrying bananas, working seven days a week, pushing himself hard. He had to make a way, he said, for his two-year-old son, so that he didn't end up like him, cutting and carrying bananas on a plantation. Dennis had got this job in place of Miss Madge's common-law husband, Dee, who had died from cancer.

One evening the manager called Dennis into his office. 'I was thinking to say this to you for a while.'

'Yes?' Dennis said.

'Yes. I have seen how hard you work. Now, that is commendable, but I am a firm believer in truth, because you see, it is truth that.'

The manager didn't know how to say what he wanted to say. He started again, deciding to be more direct. 'Let me tell you what Dee told me before he died. This, you must understand, does not reflect badly on you, but as I say, truth is truth. Yes. Dee told me, as some sort of confession, that he had been fooling around with that girl for years and that there was a possibility that he could be the father of the boy.'

'Lie! Damn lie!' Dennis screamed. 'You are out of order to come to me with this!'

'All I suggest is that you do a paternity test. I will stand the cost and if at the end it is yours, good. If not, and you feel you should still support the child, even better. But truth is truth.'

'Keep your money and your job! Out of order!' Dennis slammed the door on his way out.

He didn't go to work for three days. On the fourth day he apologised to the manager and decided to do the test.

The results showed that Dennis Donaldson was not the father of the boy he had named Ronaldo Donaldson.

That evening the two men shook hands firmly in the manager's office. They had made a gentleman's agreement, they would take the knowledge that Ronaldo was not Dennis' son to their graves.

And Dennis Donaldson vowed to be the best father Ronaldo could ever have.

The moon shone brilliantly, dimming the stars. The people had come to the community centre in their numbers. A large television set was placed on a counter. It was the finals of TVJ's junior school challenge quiz. After the jumping, the screaming, the laughing, the crying, it was now time for the captain of the winning team to make his speech.

'Firstly, I must thank God for all that he has given and all that he has done. I want to thank my teacher Miss Francis and my two grandmothers who showered me with love and affection. And to Mr. Dennis Donaldson in Lucky Hill, St Mary, I want to say that I honour you, sir, great father that you are. And to the sponsors, I say.'

Dennis didn't jump when he heard that; the time for jumping was over. He sat there with tears flowing down his cheeks. Pride and joy were welling up in his heart. From the remote shelves of his memory he was seeing the dim picture of a frightened 16-year-old schoolboy navigating through mud and muck and pools of water.

Dennis Donaldson broke down and cried. Near him three women were embracing; not jumping anymore, just hugging tightly and rubbing one another's backs. The women were schoolteacher, Miss Iona Francis, Miss Madge Vassell and Miss Angela Smith, and they knew they had just witnessed the coming of age of Rosie's baby.

- Clarence Chance