The Boy on the Porch

  “No, sir, it’s not, sorry to say.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Sure as sure can be. The one that ended up here ain’t no Angus, not by a long stretch. Heck, it’s got—”

  “Okay, then, sorry to trouble you.” The sheriff rubbed his hand over his badge.

  “No trouble. No trouble at all, Sheriff.”

  The sheriff turned his car around, but stopped again and leaned out the window. “Was that a boy I saw running up there?”

  “Yep. We’re watching him.”

  “That right? He must like it here.”

  “Yep. I guess he does.”

  “That the boy that rides cows?”

  “Yep. That’s the one.”

  “Well, I’ll be going now. You let me know if you see Krankins’s old Angus cow.”

  “I will. Sure, I will.”

  26

  Marta and John watched Jacob riding the cow across the pasture, trailed by the beagle.

  “That’s some boy,” John said.

  “I know it.”

  “He’s not your usual sort of boy, is he?”

  “Well, I don’t know what a usual sort of boy is, to tell you the truth.”

  “All that music and art stuff he does, how does he know how to do that? And is that good for him?”

  Marta didn’t answer. Sometimes John needed to toss questions out into the air, but he didn’t always expect an answer. It had taken her a long time to learn that about him, but when she did, she was vastly relieved. It had been exhausting trying to answer all his questions. Sometimes she made up answers just so she wouldn’t have to say “I don’t know” one more time.

  “What about school?” John asked. “That’s going to start up soon. What are we going to do then? What if the sheriff comes back? What about the people? Are they coming back or not? We can’t keep the boy forever, can we?”

  After Jacob and Lucy had played together on the playground the previous week, Lucy’s mother had suggested they meet regularly, every Saturday. Marta had agreed before checking with John.

  “You should have checked with me, Marta. I’m not sure we should be getting so cozy with—”

  “Oh, John, shoot. The boy has to have a friend—beyond a cow and a dog and a couple goats. He needs a human friend. What possible harm could there be?”

  On the third Saturday, Lucy’s mother asked, “Do you watch Jacob every weekend?”

  “For the time being, yes.”

  And then Lucy’s mother asked where Jacob went to school. “Lucy’s over here at Shady Vale Elementary. Second grade next year. Jacob, too?”

  “Too?”

  “Second grade?”

  “Oh, no, no. I mean, he might be, but—”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Is it because of him being, you know, mute, that—”

  “Mute?” Is that what people would call Jacob? Marta wondered. People who did not even know him?

  “Isn’t that what—oh, I’m so sorry—have I upset you?”

  Marta wanted to grab Jacob and race back to the truck, where John would be waiting. She wanted to speed away. But she could not. Instead, she said, “No, no, not at all. Sometimes, well, it is so sensitive, you know—”

  “His parents? They’re sensitive about it?”

  “Well—”

  “Who are his parents? Relatives of yours?”

  “No—”

  “Shh, shh, I’m sorry. I think I’ve been a little too nosy. Look, Jacob’s showing Lucy how to use those twigs like drumsticks. How cute is that?”

  And now, nearly a week later, Marta was dreading their Saturday outing, dreading the questions that might surprise her.

  “John,” she said as they watched Jacob lean forward on the cow, resting his head against the cow’s neck, “September will be here before we know it. Maybe we should find out about school.”

  John felt his feet sinking into the ground. He was going to be swallowed up. Whenever Marta said “Maybe we should,” what she really meant was “Maybe you should.” And he did not know the first thing about putting a child in school.

  27

  The boy found a snake. It was small and green and narrow, weaving swiftly through the tall grass. Jacob scooped it up and studied it, head to tail. The snake curled around his wrist and lifted its head, as if it, too, were studying the creature who held it.

  The beagle backed away, flapping his silent mouth, scolding the snake.

  Marta was sweeping the porch when Jacob approached.

  “What’s that you have—oh—well, now—” She stepped back. “That appears to be a—well, well—”

  The snake was comfortably coiled around Jacob’s wrist and in his palm.

  “John,” Marta called. “John, come see what—there, there, ooh, my, what a nice—what an interesting—John!”

  John beamed when he saw the boy holding the snake.

  “Well, lookee there, you caught a little garter snake. Isn’t he something?”

  “John, I think you and Jacob might want to take that—out—somewhere—else.”

  “Oh, sure,” he said.

  Later that day, when the boy was riding the cow, John said, “How about that boy, Marta? He caught a snake. I think he’s going to be just fine.”

  “Well, goody good, but I want you to know one thing, John. I hate snakes. I hate the sight of them, I hate the very thought of them, and no boy of mine is bringing any snakes in this house.”

  “Sure, sure, I understand,” John said. “But how about that? He caught a snake! And he wasn’t even afraid.”

  “Huh! I don’t see what’s so miraculous about that.”

  John didn’t see any point in explaining, even if he could, but he was thinking, How about that? My boy caught a snake!

  That night a storm blew through. Winds lashed the trees, sending buckets tumbling and barn doors rattling. Chairs skidded across the back porch and roof shingles flapped and flipped.

  In the morning, John and Marta surveyed the debris cluttering the yard. The wind had sheared the top off of a tall shagbark hickory tree and thrust its branches onto the roof.

  “Best cut the rest of that tree down,” John said. “Knew it was mostly hollow. It’s a skinny thing, shouldn’t be any trouble.”

  Marta and the boy watched from the porch as John finished sawing the base. The tree came down with a clean swoosh and thud.

  Jacob’s gaze fastened on something dropping out of a knothole in the newly fallen tree. He rushed forward, the beagle at his side.

  “What is it?” John asked. “What’s he after, Marta?”

  They heard tiny cries, barely audible squeaks.

  The boy nudged the beagle behind him and crouched, his arms forming a protective circle around four squirming, squealing critters.

  “Well, lookee there,” John said, coming to the boy’s side. “Baby squirrels. Newly born, I’d say, one or two days old at most.”

  “Are you sure, John? They look so—I don’t know—so creepy.”

  “They’re squirrels all right. Let them be.”

  “But what will happen to them?”

  “They’re rodents. We don’t need any more rodents.” John moved to the upper portion of the fallen tree and began sawing off limbs.

  “Come on, Jacob,” Marta said, “you can help me round up the buckets and baskets that went flying last night.”

  She was halfway to the barn when she realized Jacob wasn’t following her. He was scooping up dirt and leaves and nudging the baby squirrels into a roughly fashioned nest in his hands. After he carried his bundle to the hollow stump and gently set them inside, Jacob moved to the shade of another tree on the far side of the house. From there he could watch over the stump.

  The boy didn’t come in to dinner.

  “He’s still watching that old stump,” John said. “I tried to get him to come in, but he looked so worried, I thought I’d better leave him. I wish I knew what he was thinking, Marta.”

  “He’s probably wonderi
ng if the mother will come back,” she said, and as soon as she said that, she felt something clump in her chest.

  28

  One day the boy cried.

  He had fed the animals and then sat on the fence playing his guitar.

  “It’s so mournful,” Marta said.

  “How does he know these songs?”

  “I think he makes them up as he goes.”

  “How does a person do that, Marta? I can’t hardly fathom it.”

  “Usually he plays sweeter songs. This one’s so sad. Is he sad?”

  The boy stopped playing, his hands still cradling the guitar. He bowed his head.

  Marta and John went to the boy’s side and saw that he was crying.

  “What’s wrong?” Marta asked, putting an arm around his shoulders.

  John knelt in front of the boy. “Did something happen?”

  The boy gestured to the hollow stump where he had left the baby squirrels.

  John walked over to the stump, knelt, and peered inside. “They’re gone. The babies are gone.”

  The boy tapped his chest.

  “The mother came back for them?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Well, that’s good then, isn’t it, honey?”

  The boy’s thumb slid across the strings. He looked at the sky and back down at the ground, as if he weren’t sure of the answer to her question.

  After the boy was asleep that evening, Marta said, “John, I can hardly stand it. That boy must miss his mother and we are being entirely selfish and we have to find her.”

  “I know it.”

  “What were we thinking? How could we—”

  “He seemed so happy here, though.”

  “He did, he did. And they asked us to watch him.”

  “They said they’d be back.”

  The next morning, they saw the boy racing in the yard with the dog. They saw him climb the fence and slide onto the cow’s back, laughing his silent laugh. They saw him slide off the cow onto the grass and roll down the hill with the dog and the goats chasing after him. They saw him dip a brush into the paint can and paint a glorious blue tree shading a red goat. They heard him tapping a lively beat on the drums. They saw him hug the dog and accept the dog’s slobbery licks on his face.

  “See?” Marta said. “He is happy.”

  “I’m feeling mighty confused, Marta.”

  29

  John was in the sheriff’s office.

  “You find old man Krankins’s cow?” the sheriff asked.

  “No, that’s not why I’ve come.”

  “You lose somethin’?”

  “No.”

  The sheriff’s thumb slid across his badge, shining it.

  “Well, then?”

  And so John told him about the boy, about how the boy had appeared on their porch and how they’d become protective of him and fond of him.

  The sheriff pointed a finger at John. “So, are you saying you lied to me?”

  “Well, sir, I did try to—”

  “You lied to me. You said you were watching the boy for someone.”

  “Well, sir, technically we are. We just don’t know who that someone is.”

  “And you didn’t bother to report this?”

  “Well, sir, I did try. You may recall I came here to inquire about a missing boy.”

  “But you didn’t tell me the whole truth, did you?”

  “No, sir. Not precisely. I probably should’ve asked about missing parents.”

  “You could be locked up for this, you know that?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’m telling you: you could be locked up for this.”

  John took a step back. “Do you mean to tell me that protecting a child and feeding him and caring for him is a crime?”

  The sheriff again pointed at John. “It is if you don’t have permission. It is if nobody knows where that child is.”

  “He had a note, see?”

  Plees taik kair of Jacob.

  He is a god good boy.

  Wil be bak wen we can.

  The sheriff studied the note. “How do I know you didn’t write this note yourself?”

  “What? Look, I didn’t write the note. We don’t know who did write it. We figured they’d be back later that day, or the next day, or—”

  “And nobody knew where this boy was?”

  “What? The people knew—the people who left him. And maybe they told other people. And we knew where he was. My wife and I knew.”

  “Don’t be getting clever with me.”

  “No, sir. No, sir, I won’t.”

  “So why did you come in here today?”

  “I suppose we ought to try to find the boy’s family.”

  “You tired of the boy, is that it? Ready to be rid of him?”

  “No, sir. No, no. My wife—she’d be heartbroken to give him up—but we want to do the right thing by the boy.”

  “And you expect me to believe that you didn’t snatch this boy from somebody’s yard? This boy just appeared on your porch one morning?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  The sheriff’s receptionist, Darlene, came in from the back room.

  “What’s the truth?” she asked.

  30

  They were all in the barn: Marta, John, Jacob, and the sheriff.

  Marta’s heart was thumping in her chest; John’s tongue felt as dry as if he’d licked sand.

  The boy was sitting on a hay bale, drumming on a pail with two sticks. The beagle was curled at his feet.

  “So this is the boy?” the sheriff asked. “The one that just appeared one day?”

  Marta wanted to grab the boy and flee. She wanted to thunk the sheriff on the head. She wanted to scream.

  “Let’s have a look at him,” the sheriff said. “Come here, boy.”

  The boy kept drumming, engrossed in his work.

  “Is he deaf or what?”

  “No!” Marta said.

  “He doesn’t obey?”

  “He doesn’t know you, that’s all, or maybe he didn’t hear you because he’s concentrating.”

  The sheriff approached the boy.

  Marta slipped in front of the sheriff and knelt beside the boy. “This is the sheriff,” she explained. “He wants to meet you.”

  “What’s his name again?”

  “Jacob. He doesn’t speak.”

  “Boy!” the sheriff shouted.

  “He’s not deaf. You don’t have to shout at him,” Marta said, “and he has a name: Jacob.”

  “Yeah, you told me. Boy, look at me. How’d you get here?”

  “We told you, he doesn’t speak,” Marta said.

  “Boy, did these people snatch you and bring you here?”

  “Sheriff!”

  “Did they, boy?”

  The boy drummed on.

  “Are they keeping you penned up here in the barn?”

  “Sheriff!”

  “Doesn’t he even nod ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”

  “Sure, he does.”

  “Then why isn’t he doing that? Boy, did somebody else bring you here? Did somebody drop you off?”

  The beat of the tin drums was lively. The beagle thumped his tail.

  “Where you from, boy? Come on, say something.”

  “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.”

  31

  John 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.