I was redder than a fire engine as I got back into my truck. Even I know Jessica Swan is way out of my league. She is a smart cop with the whole world open to her. What would she ever see in a bumbling country handyman like me? A grade-eleven education, a collection of junk and a falling-down house? That doesn’t stop me from dreaming, but I don’t want the whole village to know.
I felt pulled apart. By Robin, by Penny, by what Jessica would think of me. I knew I shouldn’t keep this from her, but I’d made a promise to the kid. By the time I reached home, I was mad at everybody. Most of all myself. But Chevy leaped out of the truck, all excited. Usually she romps around with her tail waving, eager to check out the rabbits in the back field. But this time she headed instead toward one of the little sheds far from the house. Most of my sheds were so full of junk, you could hardly open the door. But this one still had some free floor space.
The door was shut. When I pushed it open, sunlight poured into the darkness, across a faded plaid blanket on the floor. I could see a bump beneath the blanket and long tangled hair on the pillow. Robin was fast asleep, but he bolted up when the sunlight hit. He shrank into the corner and looked at me with huge eyes. For a minute it looked like he didn’t know where he was.
“Robin,” I said, squatting down beside him. “You don’t have to hide out here.” Chevy licked his face, and slowly he stopped looking scared. I picked up the pillow and blanket and started back to the house. I’d learned words didn’t help. The boy would either follow, or he wouldn’t.
He followed. Head down, fingers locked in Chevy’s fur. “Thanks for taking care of the hens and the goat,” I said once we were in the kitchen. I unpacked the groceries.
“I know farm.”
“Yes, you do. Next time”—I opened the door to the fridge to put the food away— “you put the eggs and milk in here.”
He peered inside. Opened all the compartments. “Okay.”
I moved around the kitchen, showing him the stove, the toaster, the lights that came on at the flick of a switch. By the end, he was grinning as he turned the lights on and off.
I tried to sound casual. “You have no lights in your home?”
What century had this boy lived in? I took the notebook and crayons out of the bag and put them on the table. He flipped through the blank pages, frowning. While the soup warmed up, I printed the letter R on the first blank page. Then O-B-I-N.
“Robin,” I said and pointed to the space below. “You try.”
He took the crayon in his fist and made his first line. How did I teach a ten-year-old kid to read? Teachers had tried every trick in the book with me, and most of them hadn’t worked. So who did I think I was? While I puzzled over that, Robin copied his name. Badly. Before I could say a word, he scribbled over it and started again underneath. By the time the soup was hot, he’d filled the whole page.
I remembered the silly books my mother used to read me. Cat in the Hat. One Fish, Two Fish. Maybe I should look for them upstairs. I also remembered the lists of rhymes from my remedial books. I’m not much good at reading, but I’m pretty good at drawing. So while we sat at the table eating our soup, I drew pictures and printed letters underneath. A for apple, B for bowl, C for cup, T for table. The rhyming words cat, hat, bat, rat.
Robin tried. Furrowed his brow and mouthed the sounds. But he couldn’t get it. I cut words out and taped them around the kitchen. Another trick my mother had tried. Chair on the back of the chair. Can on the tomato soup. Table, stove, fridge. By the end of an hour, the room was filled with bits of paper. I made up his bed again and left him with some yard chores before I headed out to my job.
When I got back, the yard was swept. The dead tomato vines were cleared. The vegetable garden was filled with compost from my pile nearby. I found Robin in his favorite shed, surrounded by chains, clamps and springs. My old bear trap sat on the floor, half taken apart. He shrank away at the sight of me.
“Not steal! I make same.”
I squatted beside him. He’d made a good start. But he needed more tools, including a blowtorch, to finish the job. I wasn’t about to let him try that. My house might not be much, but I’m kind of attached to it.
That night after I put him to bed, I noticed the notebook open on the kitchen counter. I leafed through it. Robin had filled the entire book. First with copied letters and words, later with the numbers I had written on the map that first night. At the back, he’d made drawings of dogs, chickens, goats and trucks. He’d tried all the colors. Not much to look at, but the kid had never held crayons before. Whatever he was, he was not stupid.
I studied the drawings carefully, hoping for a clue to his past. There was only one. A small one-story house that looked nothing like mine. It had a front porch with what looked like a rocking chair on it. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Was it time to tell Jessica the truth? And get this kid back home with some real help?
Instead, I stalled. I admit, I kind of liked his company—and his help. I had a busy couple of days paneling the living room in a cottage near the village. So Robin was left to do the chores and keep himself busy. He spent hours in my junk sheds, fiddling with things. He played with Chevy and the goat, even enjoyed watching the hens. But he hardly talked. Every night I put him to bed in my mother’s bed, and every morning I found him asleep in the shed. He ate like a football player, but during the night food still disappeared. Not only food, but my mother’s sweaters, more towels and spare cushions from the couch.
So one night I woke up at 2:00 AM and went to peek in my mother’s room. Sure enough, the bed was empty. I peered out the window. The moon was on the wane but still cast enough pale light that I could see a shape running toward the woods. Toward the mystery cave I had found a few days earlier.
What the hell was this boy up to?