The Boy on the Porch by Sharon Creech Read Free Book Online Page B

it?”
    â€œWhy didn’t we ever think of that?”
    â€œBut, Marta—what—you think he’s from a blue forest or something?”
    â€œNo, don’t be silly.”
    They watched the boy begin a new scene: it looked like a creek.
    Marta tapped the boy’s shoulder and turned him toward the other wall with its completed scene. “Do you know that place?” she asked.
    The boy regarded the painting.
    â€œIs that where you came from?”
    The boy scratched the back of his neck.
    â€œIs that your—home?”
    The boy scratched his knee.
    â€œMarta, maybe he doesn’t remember—”
    â€œHow could he not remember?”
    â€œWell, you know, kids might not—”
    â€œHow could he paint it if he didn’t remember it?”
    That night, Marta suggested a plan. “We’ll go exploring.”
    â€œWe will?”
    â€œAll three of us. See this map? See this circle? We’ll get in the truck and cover all this area.”
    â€œAnd we’ll be looking for what exactly?”
    â€œFor that scene he painted.”
    â€œFor blue trees and purple animals and red creek?”
    â€œDon’t be silly, John.”

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    A nd so, the next morning they set off, the three of them in the truck, along with the beagle, who leaped in at the last minute and snuggled by the boy’s feet. They planned to wander along the back roads for a few hours, looking for the scene on the wall of the barn.
    They turned down narrow roads they had not traveled before; they rolled through small towns with dilapidated stores and abandoned gas stations. They passed neglected shacks and derelict buildings and cast-off, rusty vehicles and appliances. They passed many barns, some small and rustic, and some larger, older ones with sunken roofs and tilting frames.
    The first time they came to a wooded area bordered by a creek, John slowed the truck and Marta caught her breath, sat back in her seat, and gripped the door handle. The boy was looking at a nearby house. He pointed to the porch.
    â€œWhat? No, oh no. What?” Marta said. “Is it—?”
    The boy smiled and waved his hand at the porch.
    â€œIs it—do you know that place?”
    But the boy had already turned away and was reaching for the dog, rubbing his head.
    John said, “Look there—see that? It’s probably just those chickens he was waving at.”
    â€œOh. Thank goodness. I mean—”
    â€œI know,” John said. “I know.”
    And on they drove through the countryside, through small towns, past several pastures and creeks, and none of them seemed especially familiar to Jacob.
    When they returned home that afternoon, and the boy had run up to the pasture to greet the cows and goats, Marta said, “Let’s have a big dinner tonight. I’m starved! Let’s have fried chicken and mashed potatoes and green beans with bacon and—oh!—I’ll make a pie—we haven’t had apple pie in ages. It feels so good to be back home today, doesn’t it, John? Doesn’t it feel good to be home?”
    â€œYes, it does.”

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    O n Saturday, they drove to the park where they usually met Lucy and her mother. Marta had resolved that she was going to tell Lucy’s mother the whole truth about the boy.
    â€œIt will be good to get it out in the open,” she told John.
    â€œIf you think so.”
    Lucy and Jacob were by now fast friends, attached to each other as if they’d known each other for years. Lucy would run up to him and grab his hand and off they would go, dashing to the swings or slide or climbing bars.
    â€œShe’s so motherly,” Lucy’s mother said. “Look how she holds Jacob’s hand. Cute.”
    â€œYes, well . . .”
    â€œYou really should come to our house sometime—just leave Jacob for a day. They would have such fun. Would that be okay with, you know, his family?”
    â€œAh,