The Boy on the Porch (5 page)

Marta took one look at the wet, muddy man, boy, and dog as they returned to the house. “Well, John,” she said. “Is he dirty enough for you?”

M
ore weeks passed.

“Why doesn't anyone know about this boy?” John asked.

“We need to get him some clothes. He's looking shabby.”

“Did you hear me, Marta? Why doesn't anyone—”

“I heard you. I don't know the answer to your question, but I do know that the boy needs some clothes.”

They drove to the nearest town with a clothing store, some thirty miles away.

At the counter, the clerk glanced down at the boy and said, “What a quiet lad you are. What's your name?”

The boy smiled up at her.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“He's shy,” John said.

“How old are you?” the clerk asked the boy.

The boy tilted his head and blinked.

“Seven—” Marta said.

“Six—” John said.

“Oops.”

The clerk winked at Marta. “I know—my husband can never keep track of our kids' ages either.”

The boy had twisted around to look at a woman and a young girl standing in line behind them. The boy put his hand up, palm toward the girl, and the girl raised her own palm and tapped his. The boy waggled his arms in a silly way. The girl did the same.

“Kids,” the woman said to Marta. “Crazy kids.”

The boy knocked his knees together and the girl did the same.

Marta felt such pride. “Yes!” she said. “Crazy kids!”

I
n the middle of fixing dinner, Marta said, “John, the boy needs to be around other kids.”

“I know it, but how are we going to do that?”

“He needs a friend his age.”

“He's got friends—the dog, the cow—”

“John!”

“I know, I know. I'll go nose around. See what I can come up with.”

He went to town and came home with a present for the boy.

“But, John, what about the friend? Did you find him a friend?”

“No, but look at these—I traded that old hat of mine for these.”

It was a used painting set: ten dimpled watercolor cubes, a frayed brush, and a pad of yellowed paper.

The boy touched each colored cube lightly, as if they were as fragile as a butterfly's wings. Marta brought him a cup of water and showed him how to dip the brush in the water and then swirl it on the paint cube. The boy leaned forward, grasping the brush, swirling it over the red, and sweeping an arc across the paper. He bent close to the paper, his hand moving deftly. He filled up an entire sheet trying every color, blending them, dotting and swishing the brush as if his hand was made to do exactly what it was doing.

He looked up at Marta and John and then at the next blank sheet of paper.

“Sure,” John said. “Go right ahead.”

The boy painted all afternoon. He painted until dark. He painted all the next day and the next and the next until the cubes were worn down and all the paper had been used. What started as swirly shapes quickly evolved into recognizable animals—cows, dogs, goats—and flowers and trees, cabins and barns and bridges. But the scenes were unusual: dogs stood on top of cows, flowers grew out of chimneys, bridges connected houses, barns roosted in treetops.

“Where does he come up with this stuff?” John asked.

“I don't know. I think he's a genius.”

“M
arta, we need to ask again about the boy.”

“He needs to be around some kids his own age—”

“Marta—”

“—not all day, but now and then.”

John went to town. This time, when he stopped at the sheriff's office, the sheriff came in while John was studying the bulletin board for new notices.

“You looking for something?” the sheriff said. He was a stocky, muscular man, his shirt tight across his chest. He had a habit of rubbing his thumb across his badge, as if to remind people exactly who he was.

“I was wondering something.”

“Is that right?”

“A cow wandered onto our property and I've been waiting for someone to claim her, but no one has.”

“Is that right?”

“I don't see any notices here about missing cows—”

The sheriff rubbed his thumb across his badge.

“—but if someone claims it, how do I know it really belongs to that someone?”

The sheriff looked from John to the receptionist, Darlene, and back again. “Would you be suggesting that someone might lie about owning that cow?” He aimed a finger at John's face.

“I was just wondering—let's say a couple weeks go by and nobody claims that cow, and I'm just looking after it, right? I'm not stealing it. And somebody comes along and says it's his cow—”

“Yeah, so?”

“I wouldn't be accused of stealing that cow, would I?”

“Did you steal it?”

“No! Like I said—”

“Then what are you so worried about?”

“I was just wondering, what if someone
said
I stole it?”

“Well, now, if you didn't steal it, they'd be lying. And if you did steal it, well, then—”

“I
didn't
steal it.”

“Then what's the problem?”

“Should I have reported it? That cow, I mean? And how would I do that?”

“How would you do what?”

“Report it, report the cow.”

“You wanna report a cow?” The sheriff turned to his receptionist. “Now that's a new one. He wants to report a cow. Ha-ha. That's a new one all right. Ha-ha-ha.”

John thought,
If they don't understand about a cow, how are they going to understand about the boy
?

John left the sheriff's office and stopped at the general store, where he traded in a leather belt for a sack of jelly beans and a harmonica.

J
ohn and Marta stood at the barn doors listening to the boy play the harmonica to his audience: the cow, the beagle, and the goats. The cow rested her head on the top fence rail, the beagle lay on the ground between the cow's forefeet, and the baby goats were uncharacteristically still, leaning against each other, gazing at the boy. It was a slow, hypnotic tune he played.

“We've got to ask him some questions, Marta.”

“But we've tried, and he seems so far away when we ask, as if he doesn't understand the simplest things, and yet—”

“—and yet other times, he seems so capable—”

“—and smart, but—”

“—quiet, very quiet.”

They tried to find out how old he was, but he didn't seem to know. They asked if he had any brothers or sisters, but he merely shrugged in reply. They asked if it was his parents who left him on the porch, but he shrugged again.

“Do you even
have
any parents?” John asked.

“John, shh!”

“Well, does he or not? Jacob? Do you have any parents? Mother? Father?”

Jacob rested his chin in his hand, elbow propped on the table. He looked sleepy.

“Is someone coming to get you?” John pressed.

Jacob looked around the room, as if the answer might be there.

“Do you
want
someone to come get you?”

“John!”

“Well, I'm just asking. Do you, Jacob? Do you
want
someone to come get you?”

The boy yawned.

“What is the
matter
with him? Can't answer a simple question.”

“John! Stop that. Maybe it's not such a simple question, maybe—oh, now see what you've done—”

A tear slipped down the boy's cheek.

“Now, look,” Marta said, springing to the boy's side. “We've hurt his feelings.”

“How did we do
that
?”

“Kids are sensitive. You ought to know that. You're a great big kid yourself.”

“H
e doesn't know how to read or write. When do kids learn that, Marta?”

“I don't remember. Five? Six?”

“If we could teach him how to read and write, he could answer our questions. Try, Marta. Try to teach him.”

“Me? How do you teach someone to read?”

She tried her best, but teaching reading and writing did not come naturally to Marta, and no matter how hard she tried, Jacob did not seem to catch on. If she asked him to copy the letter
A
, the boy made a scribble. If she asked him to copy the letter
B
, he drew something more like a
Q
. If she asked him to copy
s-a-t
, the boy drew a chicken.

“I think he's a lot better at painting and drawing and making music than he is ever going to be at reading and writing,” Marta said.

“Is that a bad thing or a good thing?”

“Of course it's a bad thing. Isn't it, John?”

“Try some more.”

Marta felt as if her hair were on fire. The pressure! The whirring of her brain. The letters whizzing around.