The Boy on the Porch Read Online Free Page B

about this boy?” John asked.
    â€œWe need to get him some clothes. He’s looking shabby.”
    â€œDid you hear me, Marta? Why doesn’t anyone—”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œCat got your tongue?”
    â€œHe’s shy,” John said.
    â€œHow old are you?” the clerk asked the boy.
    The boy tilted his head and blinked.
    â€œSeven—” Marta said.
    â€œSix—” John said.
    â€œOops.”
    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.
    â€œKids,” 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!”

20

    I n the middle of fixing dinner, Marta said, “John, the boy needs to be around other kids.”
    â€œI know it, but how are we going to do that?”
    â€œHe needs a friend his age.”
    â€œHe’s got friends—the dog, the cow—”
    â€œJohn!”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œBut, John, what about the friend? Did you find him a friend?”
    â€œNo, 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.
    â€œSure,” 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.
    â€œWhere does he come up with this stuff?” John asked.
    â€œI don’t know. I think he’s a genius.”

21

    â€œM arta, we need to ask again about the boy.”
    â€œHe needs to be around some kids his own age—”
    â€œMarta—”
    â€œâ€”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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œI was wondering something.”
    â€œIs that right?”
    â€œA cow wandered onto our property and I’ve been