The Boy on the Porch by Sharon Creech

I’m sure.”
    Later that day, Bitsy-bo climbed onto Marta’s lap and said, “I’ll come back.”
    And she did. Bitsy-bo and Luke visited every summer; Lily, Oshen, and Rosie-girl returned each Thanksgiving. A few were in and out of foster care, reappearing to take up where they had left off.
    Sometimes at night, John would say to Marta, “It’s okay here, isn’t it?” and she would say, “It’s a nuthouse, but yes, it’s okay here. Yes, it is.”
    Often they thought of Jacob and often they imagined where he might be. Whenever they were in the barn, they liked to gaze on Jacob’s paintings, still there, barely faded.
    â€œEven if we never see him again,” Marta said one day, “we know he was here.”
    â€œRemember when he used to lie on the porch with the dog? Remember that? Remember his tapping? Remember that music he made?”
    â€œSure, I do. That boy, that boy. What became of that boy?”
    Even on the most difficult days, it brought them comfort to remember the boy who rode a cow.

49

    E arly one morning, Marta stepped out onto the front porch to breathe in the balmy air, to inhale a few minutes of quiet before all the children awoke. There were now six staying with them and they were an energetic group: Stefania, Jamie, Jock, Ruby, Harley, and Weezer.
    The beagle, old now and half-deaf, was sniffing the porch floor eagerly, following his nose to a parcel sitting near the door.
    â€œWhat’s that? A package? For us?”
    The dog whimpered pitifully.
    â€œOh, you, dog. You’ll get some breakfast in a minute.”
    It was a flat parcel, about a foot square, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. There was no name or address on it. Maybe one of the kids put it there, she thought. Maybe it was something for school.
    She forgot about the parcel as she went about waking the children and preparing breakfast, but Stefania found it and brought it inside. No one seemed to know anything about it.
    â€œOpen it,” John suggested. “Must be for us.”
    â€œOh, I don’t know—”
    â€œOpen it, open it!” the children chanted. “Open it! Open it!”
    And so she did.
    John stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders. Both of them stared at the painting.
    Finally, John said, “It’s the most beautiful thing I ever saw.”
    â€œI know.”
    It was an elegant painting of a boy riding a cow, with a beagle loping alongside.

50

    T hey were not art experts, John and Marta, but the painting looked as polished and professional as any they had ever seen. They would have known its artist was Jacob even if it weren’t for the signature at the bottom.
    They lay awake most of the night, speculating about how the boy had found them and when he might reappear.
    â€œMaybe tomorrow—”
    â€œâ€”shouldn’t get our hopes up—”
    â€œâ€”but maybe—”
    â€œâ€”surely—”
    They were alert to every crunch of the gravel drive, every footstep on the porch.
    Could that be him ?
    As the days and weeks went by, however, with no sign of Jacob, John and Marta alternated between despair and hope.
    â€œIs he gone again, so soon?”
    â€œWill we never see him again?”
    â€œBut he remembered us.”
    â€œHe found us.”
    â€œHe will come back.”
    â€œBut . . . maybe not.”
    Marta leaned against the cow, now old and thin. “You hang on, cow,” Marta whispered. “When Jacob comes back, he’ll want to see you.”
    The next time John made the rounds in town, he stopped in at the general store, as usual. He had been wondering how Jacob had found his way back to their place in order to leave the painting, and so he asked Shep if anyone had been looking for him.
    â€œNot that I recall, but then, I’m not here every day anymore. I got my son-in-law working up here some days. He’s half-worthless, but there