Free The Boy on the Porch by Sharon Creech

them.
    â€œAnd maybe he is making up a little tune right this minute—you know that way he did. Do you think so, John?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    Another day, Marta said, “Beagle hasn’t been the same since Jacob left. Look at him. All he does is lie there. He’s sad.”
    â€œHe’s a dog. He’s not sad.”
    â€œSure he is, John. Dogs can be sad. Just like people. Just like—”
    â€œMaybe. Maybe so.”
    Marta lay awake at night, trying to imagine what Jacob was doing. She made up scenes for him. There he is with his dog. I hope he has a dog. They’re running around the yard. I hope they have a yard. There he is sitting on his bed. I hope he has a bed. He’s playing his guitar. I hope he still has the guitar .
    John worried while he was driving. Some people shouldn’t have kids. That father shouldn’t have dropped Jacob off here without knowing us—what if we were bad people? What if he drops Jacob off somewhere else, where people aren’t good to him ? That last thought made John so agitated he had to pull over to the side of the road. He bent his head against the wheel.

45

    O ne Saturday, they returned to the park where Jacob and Lucy had played together, and there was Lucy, swinging, and there was her mother, sitting on the bench, her face tilted toward the sun.
    â€œOh!” she said, when she saw Marta and John. “What a great surprise! We wondered what had happened to you. We were worried.”
    Marta explained as best she could.
    â€œOh, dear. Oh, my. Oh, how very difficult. Oh, how could you bear it? There, there.”
    The three adults sat for some time, watching Lucy swing. At last, Lucy’s mother said, “I know exactly what you should do next!”

46

    O n the way home, John said, “I don’t know the first thing about foster children.”
    â€œMe either, but Lucy’s mom said those kids need good homes. I can’t bear the thought that there are kids out there who don’t have homes. Maybe we should talk to that Mrs. Floyd—that friend of Lucy’s mother.”
    â€œShe’s in charge of placement?”
    â€œYes. We’d have to be interviewed and approved.”
    John scowled. “What if we don’t pass? I’m not good at being interviewed.”
    â€œMe either. And what if we get a child who isn’t happy with us?”
    â€œOr what if we don’t like the kid?”
    â€œOf course we’ll like the child, John. How could we not like a child?”
    â€œYou never met my cousin’s kids.”
    â€œWon’t it be hard if we just have the child for a few months and then he’s gone again? Won’t that be like losing Jacob?”
    â€œThat’s the part I’m worried about,” John admitted.
    â€œMaybe they won’t have any children available anyway. We shouldn’t get our hopes up.”
    When they met with Mrs. Floyd, however, they learned that there were twenty-seven children who needed temporary homes. John and Marta were interviewed and were visited at their home.
    â€œHow many can you take?” asked Mrs. Floyd.
    â€œHow many? Maybe we should start with just one—”
    â€œHow about two? I have a brother and sister who need a home like yours. It’s temporary, of course. Be sure you’re okay with that. Probably about six months.”

47

    T he brother and the sister who came to John and Marta’s were eight and ten years old. Tyler and Zizi were thin as rails and sullen, refusing to speak.
    â€œJacob wasn’t ever gloomy like that, was he?” John asked Marta the first night, after the children were in bed.
    â€œNo, never.”
    â€œAre we ever going to look after a child who speaks?”
    â€œShh, they can speak—”
    â€œTo each other, maybe, but not to us. They won’t even look us in the eye, Marta.”
    â€œThey’re just scared.”
    â€œWhen do you think