The Boy on the Porch (7 page)

T
he 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 wondering if the mother will come back,” she said, and as soon as she said that, she felt something clump in her chest.

O
ne 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.”

J
ohn 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.

T
hey 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.”