The Boy on the Porch (8 page)

“He
doesn't speak
, Sheriff.”

“So you said. Maybe you threatened him, told him not to talk.”

Marta stood. “Sheriff! We did
not
threaten him. Look at him. Does he look afraid? Does he look threatened? No, he looks content. He is happy here.”

The sheriff walked around the property and checked inside the house. He saw the drums and paints and the small room that had been set up for the boy to sleep in.

“And you say he just appeared on your porch one day, is that right?”

“Yes,” John said.

“Out of the blue, just like that?”

“Yes.”

“Sorta like that cow that appeared one day?”

“Well, sort of, but not the same, I mean the boy wasn't tied up to the railing like the cow was. The boy was just asleep on the porch, and he had a note. The cow didn't have a note.”

“Uh-huh.” The sheriff tapped his boot against the railing. “And how many days has he been here?”

“Days? Well, now—let's see—I can't exactly remember—it's been more like weeks—”

“Weeks? He's been here for
weeks
?”

“Well, now, I don't exactly—”

“And you're just now getting around to reporting it?”

John sank onto a chair on the porch and pressed his hands to his face. He did not want to cry in front of the sheriff, but that's what he felt like doing. He wanted to sob like a baby.

“Sheriff, we didn't mean to get attached to him, but—”

“Okay, okay, I get it. I've got kids and grandkids. I get it.”

“You do?”

“Look, it still sounds fishy to me, but the boy looks well cared for, so he can stay here for now.”

It hadn't occurred to John that the sheriff might take the boy away. That thought filled John with such dread that he thought he'd be sick all over the sheriff's feet.

“Sheriff, you wouldn't, you couldn't just take—”

“This boy isn't yours.”

“But, you couldn't just take—”

“I
am
the
law
.” The sheriff tapped his badge and returned to his car. “I'll be doing some checking around. I'll let you know if I find out anything.”

J
ohn and Marta were rattled with worry. In front of the boy, they tried to remain calm and cheerful, as usual, but at night they lay awake.

“I shouldn't have gone to the sheriff,” John said.

“You had to do that, sooner or later.”

“I wish I hadn't gone. I didn't like his tone, did you?”

“No. He acted as if we were criminals.”

“As if we had stolen the boy.”

“As if we were keeping him here against his will.”

“The nerve!”

The next morning, the boy started a new painting in the barn. He had already filled the lower section of one side of the barn with a wide landscape: blue trees and red paths and purple animals and blue and red and purple swirls and bubbles in the air. He'd found some black paint and created an enormous black cloud hovering over the scene.

Marta came running into the barn. “John! John!”

“What? What's wrong? Is it the sheriff?”

“No, no. I just realized—it just came to me—look—” She stood beside him, lowering her voice and indicating the painted scene. “Maybe
that's
where he's from.”

“What? You think he's painting it?”

“Why didn't we ever think of that?”

“But, Marta—what—you think he's from a blue forest or something?”

“No, don't be silly.”

They watched the boy begin a new scene: it looked like a creek.

Marta tapped the boy's shoulder and turned him toward the other wall with its completed scene. “Do you know that place?” she asked.

The boy regarded the painting.

“Is that where you came from?”

The boy scratched the back of his neck.

“Is that your—home?”

The boy scratched his knee.

“Marta, maybe he doesn't remember—”

“How could he not remember?”

“Well, you know, kids might not—”

“How could he paint it if he didn't remember it?”

That night, Marta suggested a plan. “We'll go exploring.”

“We will?”

“All three of us. See this map? See this circle? We'll get in the truck and cover all this area.”

“And we'll be looking for what exactly?”

“For that scene he painted.”

“For blue trees and purple animals and red creek?”

“Don't be silly, John.”

A
nd so, the next morning they set off, the three of them in the truck, along with the beagle, who leaped in at the last minute and snuggled by the boy's feet. They planned to wander along the back roads for a few hours, looking for the scene on the wall of the barn.

They turned down narrow roads they had not traveled before; they rolled through small towns with dilapidated stores and abandoned gas stations. They passed neglected shacks and derelict buildings and cast-off, rusty vehicles and appliances. They passed many barns, some small and rustic, and some larger, older ones with sunken roofs and tilting frames.

The first time they came to a wooded area bordered by a creek, John slowed the truck and Marta caught her breath, sat back in her seat, and gripped the door handle. The boy was looking at a nearby house. He pointed to the porch.

“What? No, oh no. What?” Marta said. “Is it—?”

The boy smiled and waved his hand at the porch.

“Is it—do you know that place?”

But the boy had already turned away and was reaching for the dog, rubbing his head.

John said, “Look there—see that? It's probably just those chickens he was waving at.”

“Oh. Thank goodness. I mean—”

“I know,” John said. “I know.”

And on they drove through the countryside, through small towns, past several pastures and creeks, and none of them seemed especially familiar to Jacob.

When they returned home that afternoon, and the boy had run up to the pasture to greet the cows and goats, Marta said, “Let's have a big dinner tonight. I'm starved! Let's have fried chicken and mashed potatoes and green beans with bacon and—oh!—I'll make a pie—we haven't had apple pie in ages. It feels so good to be back home today, doesn't it, John? Doesn't it feel good to be home?”

“Yes, it does.”

O
n Saturday, they drove to the park where they usually met Lucy and her mother. Marta had resolved that she was going to tell Lucy's mother the whole truth about the boy.

“It will be good to get it out in the open,” she told John.

“If you think so.”

Lucy and Jacob were by now fast friends, attached to each other as if they'd known each other for years. Lucy would run up to him and grab his hand and off they would go, dashing to the swings or slide or climbing bars.

“She's so motherly,” Lucy's mother said. “Look how she holds Jacob's hand. Cute.”

“Yes, well . . .”

“You really should come to our house sometime—just leave Jacob for a day. They would have such fun. Would that be okay with, you know, his family?”

“Ah, well . . .”

“Or, if you'd rather, I could bring Lucy to your house.”

“There's something I want to tell you first,” Marta said. Her hands fluttered helplessly. She looked around for John, but he had already returned to the truck.

“Sure, what is it? Is something wrong?”

“No, no, not wrong.” Feeling as if she could not turn back, Marta barreled on ahead, telling Lucy's mom about finding the boy on the porch and not knowing where he had come from or who had left him.

Lucy's mother sat up straight. “You
found
him on your porch? You don't know who left him? You don't know when they're coming back?”

“That's right.”

“But how strange, how odd. That's a bit creepy, don't you think?”

“Creepy? Well, I wouldn't say that—”

“But what are you going to do?”

“Try to find his family.”

“But if you do—have you thought about that? What happens if you do find them?”

“I don't know.”

“There, there. Shh.” She put a protective arm around Marta. “Shh. What a strange, strange thing. Shh.”

A
gain they drove out into the surrounding countryside, this time with renewed urgency and renewed dread.

“John, I just have to know—”

“Yes—”

“—where he came from, how he ended up here, what his life was like, how anyone could part with him—if anyone is coming back for him—”

They drove up and down the hills, along the winding roads, past miles and miles of dense trees and small streams.

“So beautiful here,” Marta said. She tapped the boy's arm. “Beautiful, don't you think?”

The boy gazed out the window and tapped his chest.

Marta looked into the boy's eyes. “You understand so much, don't you?”

The boy nodded.

“I wish I knew what was in your head. I wish I knew what you were thinking all the time.”

At the crest of a hill, John pulled over. “Let's walk a bit,” he said. “Too nice a day to be cooped up inside this truck.”

And so they walked along a trail that led from the top of the hill to a creek below. The boy and the beagle ran ahead, dashing off the path from time to time and then circling back again.

“This is nice,” Marta said.

“Yes,” John agreed.

“I wish it could be like this always.”

Over the next two weeks, they drove out into new areas, and each time, they stopped the truck to walk a scenic path or explore a creek. On one such day, they parked near a public beach at a small lake, well concealed by dense woods. From the beach they tossed stones into the water and dug in the sand. The beagle chased the boy up and down the deserted, narrow beach. After a picnic, they followed a path through the trees and ate from blackberry bushes.