The Boy on the Porch by Sharon Creech Page A

The boy looked all around the room, equally interested, it seemed, in the man and woman standing before him as in the table, the dog, the wooden cabinet, the washbasin, the cupboards.
    â€œLook, John, the boy woke up.” Her words sounded silly to her ears.
    â€œYes, yes, I see,” John said, smiling. His voice had boomed out of his mouth, much too loud. “And what might your name be, boy?” Still too loud.
    The boy licked his lips, tapped his fingers on the table.
    â€œHe won’t say, John. I’ve tried already.”
    â€œIs he deaf, do you think?”
    â€œNo, he seems to hear all right. He just doesn’t speak.”
    â€œProbably too shy,” John said. “That’s okay, boy, take your time getting used to us.” He turned to his wife. “No one’s come for him yet?”
    â€œNo, shh, no.”
    â€œSurely someone will come for him, Marta.”
    â€œShh.”
    The boy reached into his pocket, withdrew a crumpled note, and handed it to Marta.
    Plees taik kair of Jacob .
    He is a god good boy .
    Wil be bak wen we can .

5

    W hen no one had come for the boy by nightfall, John and Marta fashioned a small bed beside their own. Marta offered the boy one of John’s softest shirts to sleep in and set out a basin of warm water and soap for him to wash with. She tucked him into the bed, patted his hand, and hummed a few bars of an old, half-forgotten lullaby, softly, for she was embarrassed that John might hear her and think her foolish. As she stood to go, the boy reached up and tapped her arm five or six times, in that funny way he did, always lightly tapping on surfaces, on his own arm, on the dog, on the floor. His touch startled her, and she nearly wept, so grateful was she for the gesture.
    After the child was asleep, John said, “This is too strange, Marta. Are you sure you have no idea who—”
    â€œNo! No idea. Maybe someone you worked for? Maybe a distant relative?”
    â€œNo, no. Maybe one of your relatives?”
    â€œYou know they have no idea where we live. My family never kept track of anybody.”
    â€œBut then, who?”
    â€œAnd why us ?”
    â€œI thought they’d be back by evening, didn’t you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSurely by tomorrow then.”
    â€œSurely.”

6

    A t noon the next day, John said, “Marta, I don’t know about all this. What are we supposed to do with the boy?”
    Marta stood on the back porch, watching the child trail a stick through the dirt. The beagle followed close behind, sniffing at the ground.
    â€œMarta? Should I take the boy with me when I go to town?”
    â€œNo. The people might come back.”
    â€œWhat people?”
    â€œThe people who left the note. The ones who said they’d be back.”
    â€œBut they didn’t say when they’d be back, did they? They didn’t say that.”
    After John left for town, Marta took the boy to the barn to see the new kittens and the mother goat and her three-month-old babes. The boy petted the animals and mimicked the kittens skittering and the goats leaping. The beagle watched from the side, intervening only when the boy got too close to the mother goat. When the boy sat in the straw, the kittens crawled over him and the young goats butted their heads under his arms, making the child laugh.
    But it was a silent laugh, a laugh that you could see but not hear. It spread across his face and shook his body; it waggled his arms and legs. It was Marta who gave voice to the laugh, watching the boy. She laughed until her side ached; she laughed until the beagle crawled up into her lap and licked her face, as if to taste the laugh. And as she was laughing, Marta was hoping that the boy might stay a day or two.
    During the twelve-mile stretch into town, John’s mind took as many winding turns as the narrow road. He tried to ready himself for what he might hear in town and for what he should say.