Marta came running into the barn. “John! John!”
“What? What’s wrong? Is it the sheriff?”
“No, no. I just realized—it just came to me—look—” She stood beside him, lowering her voice and indicating the painted scene. “Maybe that’s where he’s from.”
“What? You think he’s painting it?”
“Why didn’t we ever think of that?”
“But, Marta—what—you think he’s from a blue forest or something?”
“No, 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.
“Is that where you came from?”
The boy scratched the back of his neck.
“Is that your—home?”
The boy scratched his knee.
“Marta, maybe he doesn’t remember—”
“How could he not remember?”
“Well, you know, kids might not—”
“How could he paint it if he didn’t remember it?”
That night, Marta suggested a plan. “We’ll go exploring.”
“We will?”
“All three of us. See this map? See this circle? We’ll get in the truck and cover all this area.”
“And we’ll be looking for what exactly?”
“For that scene he painted.”
“For blue trees and purple animals and red creek?”
“Don’t be silly, John.”
32
And 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.
“What? No, oh no. What?” Marta said. “Is it—?”
The boy smiled and waved his hand at the porch.
“Is 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.”
“Oh. Thank goodness. I mean—”
“I 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?”
“Yes, it does.”
33
On 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.
“It will be good to get it out in the open,” she told John.
“If 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.
“She’s so motherly,” Lucy’s mother said. “Look how she holds Jacob’s hand. Cute.”
“Yes, well . . .”
“You 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?”
“Ah, well . . .”
“Or, if you’d rather, I could bring Lucy to your house.”
“There’s something I want to tell you first,” Marta said. Her hands fluttered helplessly. She looked around for John, but he had already returned to the truck.
“Sure, what is it? Is something wrong?”
“No, no, not wrong.” Feeling as if she could not turn back, Marta barreled on ahead, telling Lucy’s mom about finding the boy on the porch and not knowing where he had come from or who had left him.
Lucy’s mother sat up straight. “You found him on your porch? You don’t know who left him? You don’t know when they’re coming back?”
“That’s right.”
“But how strange, how odd. That’s a bit creepy, don’t you think?”
“Creepy? Well, I wouldn’t say that—”
“But what are you going to do?”
“Try to find his family.”
“But if you do—have you thought about that? What happens if you do find them?”
“I don’t know.”
“There, there. Shh.” She put a protective arm around Marta. “Shh. What a strange, strange thing. Shh.”
34
Again they drove out into the surrounding countryside, this time with renewed urgency and renewed dread.
“John, I just have to know—”
“Yes—”
“—where he came from, how he ended up here, what his life was like, how anyone could part with him—if anyone is coming back for him—”
They drove up and down the hills, along the winding roads, past miles and miles of dense trees and small streams.
“So beautiful here,” Marta said. She tapped the boy’s arm. “Beautiful, don’t you think?”
The boy gazed out the window and tapped his chest.
Marta looked into the boy’s eyes. “You understand so much, don’t you?”
The boy nodded.
“I wish I knew what was in your head. I wish I knew what you were thinking all the time.”
At the crest of a hill, John pulled over. “Let’s walk a bit,” he said. “Too nice a day to be cooped up inside this truck.”
And so they walked along a trail that led from the top of the hill to a creek below. The boy and the beagle ran ahead, dashing off the path from time to time and then circling back again.
“This is nice,” Marta said.
“Yes,” John agreed.
“I wish it could be like this always.”
Over the next two weeks, they drove out into new areas, and each time, they stopped the truck to walk a scenic path or explore a creek. On one such day, they parked near a public beach at a small lake, well concealed by dense woods. From the beach they tossed stones into the water and dug in the sand. The beagle chased the boy up and down the deserted, narrow beach. After a picnic, they followed a path through the trees and ate from blackberry bushes.
The dog found a ragged red rubber ball and brought it to the boy’s feet. The boy threw the ball, the dog retrieved it and brought it back, enjoying the game. On one throw, the ball bounced off the path into the leaves, and when the dog returned, he brought a dirty, sodden child’s shoe.
“Aw, some poor child has lost his shoe,” Marta said.
“Leave it,” John said. “It’s filthy.”
The boy seemed intrigued by the shoe, turning it this way and that. He sat down on the ground and took off his own shoe and tried to wedge his foot into the dirty shoe.
“What—? What are you—?”
“Leave it,” John repeated. “Don’t be silly. It’s filthy and it’s too small anyway. Can’t you see that?”
But the boy tried again to fo
rce his foot into the shoe.
“Cut that out,” John said. He knelt to put the boy’s own shoe back on and tossed the dirty shoe to the side of the trail.
They had barely moved on when the boy returned to reclaim the shoe, clutching it in his hand.
“Why?” Marta asked. “Why do you want that old shoe?”
The boy tapped his foot and then raced on.
“Funny kid,” Marta said. “Wanting that old shoe.”
“Yeah. Funny kid,” John agreed.
35
The boy did not want to part with the shoe. He carried it with him all that day, took it to bed with him that night, and toted it around all the next day. While he painted on the barn wall, the shoe rested on a stool beside him. When the beagle snatched the shoe, the boy gently removed it from the dog’s mouth and wedged it in his pocket.
It was a flimsy canvas shoe, the sort a child might wear in the summer, its sole worn, the canvas stained with mud and mold. It took some convincing for the boy to allow Marta to wash it. He stood by the tin tub while it soaked. He took the stiff brush from Marta and scrubbed the shoe, rinsed it, and pegged it to the line to dry.
He checked on the shoe so often that John said, “It’s just a shoe. It’s not going anywhere.”
The boy seemed startled. He tapped rapidly on John’s arm, an urgent and insistent message.
“What? What?”
The boy gave John a look that he had not seen before. Was it disappointment? Was the boy disappointed in John?
“Okay, okay,” John said. “It’s not just any old shoe.”
To Marta, later, John said, “That shoe is bothering me.”
“Don’t be silly, John. It’s just a shoe.”
The next day they returned to the spot where they’d found the shoe. It had rained the night before and the earth was dark, the leaves still dripping here and there. The sky was overcast, the lake flat and gray.
Again, the boy and the beagle ran ahead. The boy had insisted on carrying a knapsack with the shoe inside.
“I thought we were going to try different places each time,” Marta said.
“I know, but there was something about this spot—it’s nice here, don’t you think?”
“If it’s so nice, why do you look so worried?”
“Worried? I’m not worried.”
The boy and the beagle roamed in and out of the trees, on and off the path. Before they reached the beach, the boy returned to their sides, holding aloft the shoe, wet and stained with mud.
“You got it dirty again? Why’d you do that?” John asked.
The boy shrugged the knapsack off his shoulder, opened it, and retrieved the clean shoe. He held it next to the dirty one.
“The other shoe!” Marta said.
John leaned in for a closer look. “What do you know! You found the other one.”
The boy held the shoes close to his chest. Then he knelt, and with a stick, he drew in the dirt a figure of a child. Next to it, he drew a taller child. He placed the found shoes at the feet of the first, smaller figure. He sat down, took off his own shoes, and placed them at the feet of the taller child.
“I don’t get it,” John said. “What’s he trying to tell us?”
The boy thought a minute. Then he scratched out the figures and began again. He drew a child in the dirt. At the child’s feet, he placed the found shoes.
“You did that already,” John said.
Then the boy made the same figure bigger. He elongated the body, the arms, the legs. He made the feet larger. Now he removed the found shoes and placed his own shoes at the feet of the drawing.
“The boy grew!” Marta said. “His feet grew. He needed larger shoes, right?”
“Well, of course,” John said. “If your feet grow, you need—”
“Oh—” Marta knelt beside the boy and lifted the found shoes. “Are these your shoes?”
The boy nodded, and as he did so, he exhaled deeply, as if he were releasing volumes of trapped air.
36
On the day the boy found the second shoe, after they’d eaten their sandwiches at the beach and after the boy and the beagle had run through the paths, John steered the truck down a road that, he guessed, would lead them around the far side of the lake. It would be a longer route home, but the sun had come out and the air was fresh, a perfect day for a drive along a country road.
It was on this day that the boy, who had been studying the second shoe as he sat between John and Marta, with the beagle at his feet, suddenly slapped the shoe against the dashboard. He lunged for the window at Marta’s side and leaned out, his head turning this way and that.
Marta grasped the boy tightly. “Don’t do that! Whatever are you—stop—you’re going to fall out! John, stop this truck!”
John pulled to the side of the road and had barely stopped the truck when the boy jumped out, tugging at Marta’s sleeve. The beagle, picking up on the boy’s agitation, ran in circles around the trio, shaking its head, pawing at the boy’s legs.
“What happened?” John asked. “Did something bite him? Did he cut himself? What’s the—”
Marta was standing as still as a fence post. John followed her gaze. In the distance was a shabby trailer surrounded by rusted bits of metal. At one end was a tall, narrow tree, its trunk painted blue, and from it hung a swing.
The boy gripped Marta’s hand as she and John remained standing by the side of the road, unable to move.
“Do you know this place, Jacob?” Marta asked. “Do you—why, you’re trembling.”
The boy backed toward the truck.
“John, let’s go. I don’t like this. Jacob doesn’t like this—”
“Get in the truck. Wait for me,” John said, and he headed off toward the trailer to investigate.
In the truck, Jacob slipped to the floor and hid his head in his hands. Marta locked the doors and strained to follow John’s movements.
The trailer was abandoned, inhabited only by startled squirrels. Leaves and dirt and tattered bits of clothing littered the damp, dark rooms, cobwebs clouded the windows, and dirty pots filled the sink. John retrieved a worn, soiled stuffed toy—a rabbit—and returned to the truck.
When John offered Jacob the stuffed animal, the boy scowled, snatched the rabbit, and threw it out the window. With his fists, he pounded on the dashboard and shook his head back and forth. John and Marta had never seen him so agitated.
And so they drove home, silent and shaken.
They remained silent as they walked up to the pasture and barn to feed the animals. The cows and the goats murmured greetings and swung their heads this way and that, puzzled. The beagle rubbed up against each of the animals, communicating his own confusion.
Something is different, the dog seemed to be saying. That knowledge circulated among the animals.
Something is different. Something has changed.
That night, John said to his wife, “The sheriff might be able to investigate more.”
Marta did not answer. Instead, she got up and went to check on the boy, who was sound asleep, with the beagle curled beside him.
37
They considered moving.
They’d take Jacob, of course, and the dog, but they’d sell the other animals and the house and make a new start somewhere else.
“No one would be asking questions about the boy. They would assume he belonged to us—”
“And we could just go on with our lives and everyone would be happy.”
“But the people—if they came back—”
“Does it look like they’re coming back?”
“No, but they might, and if they did come back, and we weren’t here, then they might call the sheriff and—”
“What about a birth certificate? Isn’t he going to need one of those?”
“Lots of people can’t find their birth certificates.”
“But—”
“But—”
Round and round they went: Should we stay or should we go? r />
38
They stayed.
And the days went on as before, and when September came, John met with the sheriff and explained that the people had not returned for the boy, and they wanted to arrange legal custody of Jacob.
“Well, now, that might take some time,” the sheriff said. “Up at the county courthouse, things move as slow as a turtle in quicksand. We could get the welfare people out here, but naw, that department is a mess. You best hold on to the boy for the time being and see if those people show up, I guess, long as the boy doesn’t mind being with you.”
When John told the sheriff about the abandoned trailer, the sheriff promised to investigate.
At the schoolhouse, John was told that it might be better to wait until January to see about enrolling the boy, when they were better staffed. They did not know what to do with a child who did not speak.
“But he’s very talented,” John said. “He can draw—”
“All kids draw.”
“And music, he’s very talented in music, too—”
“All parents think that about their kids.”
That afternoon, John, Marta, and Jacob drove out to an orchard and picked a bushel of ripe, red apples. And while the sun was shining down on them as they munched on the fruit, and as the beagle ran in and out of the boy’s legs, back at their farmhouse, several miles away, an old car pulled into the drive.
A car door slammed shut.
“Hello? Hello?”
39
As soon as John and Marta saw the old car in their drive, they sensed the dark cloud that was about to descend upon them. Jacob slid to the floor and clutched Marta’s ankle.