The Boy on the Porch

The Boy on The Porch

If walls could talk, they would tell me the secrets. As I sit here on the run-down porch of the dilapidated house, which I assume was built in the 1800’s, I can envision the young boy. The first time I saw him I must have been about six years old. He looked around the same age as me. He stood on this same porch waving at the cars driving by. I was with my parents traveling to my grandparents’ home. I remember how bored I was. The scenery was the same for miles and miles. Then suddenly, the house came out of nowhere. A small home painted white and yellow. No plants, no barn, nothing around it. I didn’t even see his parents or a car. There was probably not much for him to do. But I remember he made me smile, breaking up the monotony of the never-ending drive. One that would become our yearly trek.

This shack sits alone on land that stretches for miles and has to face the harsh beatings of freezing winters and dry hot summers. Sitting between two mountain ranges, about 100 yards off the highway which takes families and truckers to their destinations. There was nothing close to this lonesome little home. No other houses, no business, no life. I felt bad for the young boy. Yet he seemed so happy. He would see a car and would smile and wave at them. Many people waving back, and some honking at his enthusiasm.

This boy had brown shaggy hair. He wore a blue t shirt and a pair of jeans the first time I saw him. I didn’t know, but he was barefooted. Had I known, I would’ve been surprised because it was extremely hot outside. He stood on the wooden, uncovered porch as if standing on carpet. I can tell you that was the best thirty seconds of that drive with my parents and brother. I watched him as long as I could. Sitting up in my seat and twisting my body around to see out the back window of our station wagon. My mom told me to sit down but I didn’t listen. I just stared at the boy until I could see him no more. Then I turned around and plopped back into my seat. My brother giving me a strange look like the teenager he was, and my dad looking at me through the rearview mirror over the top of his glasses. He gave me a look of concern. He knew I was bored. Before I knew it, he distracted me with a game of I Spy. And five minutes later we were all laughing. But I did think of that boy. In fact, I would think of him often for many years.

For the next four summers after that first one, we would do the same drive, the same time of year, and the same day of the week. I would look forward to the drive because of him. I would sit eagerly hoping to catch a glimpse of the boy in the blue t shirt, and for the next four years he didn’t disappoint. I remember the next summer I saw him; I screamed out to my parents. I told them how I had seen him the year before, and now there he was again in the same spot waving to us. This time wearing a pair of white shorts and an orange t shirt. Still, no one around the house but him. It was odd I thought. The scenery was the same. I felt bad for him. I wondered if he had a family. I again watched him as we drove by, and he disappeared behind us.

The next two years we did the same trek again. Same time, same drive, same day. But this time my dad surprised me and pulled over on the side of the road by this old house. And there was the boy. A bit older, a bit taller, and this time with shorter hair. The boy was just as surprised as me that we had stopped the car. He took a step off the porch as we rolled our windows down to wave. The air was awful. Hot and still and almost hard to breath. I wondered how he tolerated the heat. The second step the boy took, he stopped. He looked back over his left shoulder and then stepped back onto the porch. He waved but almost seemed sad. Something had changed in him. I was young and didn’t understand. But that day would stick with me. My dad rolled the windows up after about thirty seconds. The heat was miserable. We continued to wave and then my dad pulled back out onto the highway. The next year we did the same thing. Stopped and waved. And there was the boy again. But this time he didn’t take a step off the porch. He waved to us. Gosh, I wish I knew his name was all I could think about. I felt like he was my friend, even though I would see him but a few minutes yearly. I wanted to write to him during the year. But there was no address, nor a mailbox. We weren’t even sure what town this little house stood in. I wanted to thank him for always making me smile. I was ten years old the last time I would see him. I didn’t know that next summer driving by, he would be gone.

Our fifth trip up north was the same. But the weather was a bit different. A late storm had left the skies gray. No sun at all, and it was sure muggy outside. Our old station wagon air conditioning struggled. The three of us were sweating horribly. My brother got lucky. He was old enough to stay home alone now. I missed him. The car ride wasn’t the same without him picking on me. I was excited though to see my friend. This would be our fifth time driving by the lonely little house. We all watched eagerly out the window. Then we saw it in the distance. My dad pointing it out as we got closer. My dad pulled over on the side of the road. He wasn’t there. The boy was nowhere to be seen. The house seemed emptier and more alone than it had the first time we had seen it. We waited. Dad rolled the windows down. He even honked the horn. Nothing. No movement through the windows. I wanted to see my friend. But nothing. Where was he? We waited ten minutes in hopes he would come out or come home. Nothing. My dad decided to hand me his camera. He told me to snap a few pictures of the house. Then he said we needed to leave. I told him to wait. We waited five more minutes and then dad pulled back onto the highway. I stared at the house. Nothing. I turned back in my seat, a tear running down my cheek. I didn’t know then that day would be our last trek up north to see my grandparents. They would move away and we would have to take a plane to visit them. I also didn’t know I would never see my friend again. I would think about him often for many years. Through marriages, divorces, deaths, and the birth of my boys.

On my fifty fifth birthday I decided to take a drive. My boys were grown and busy. My parents and brother were living in another state, so it was just me. I hadn’t taken a solo trip in years and thought it would be fun. I loaded my car up with snacks and my dog and started driving. I wasn’t sure where I was going to go, but my heart pulled me in one direction. Up the same highway to that lonely house. As I drove, I wondered if the house still stood there. And I wondered what happened to that little boy. I never learned his name. But he sure stuck with me. My dad and I would talk often about him.

I was within a mile of the little shack. Nothing had changed scenery wise. Open land and nothing for miles. Then I saw it. Exactly how I remembered it. I was surprised that it still stood in the same exact spot. Just run down now. Very dilapidated and weathered. I pulled my car to the side of the road. There was no fence blocking the way to the house. I drove my car off the road and as far as I could to the house. I was about twenty yards away. I put my car in park, grabbed my camera, and grabbed the dog leash. We were both eager to stretch our legs. I kept the leash wrapped around my wrist and trekked up to the house. The air was still but not as hot as it was the time of year I would travel with my parents. I stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, looking up at the door. I turned and sat down on the step looking out at the highway as the cars drove back and forth. I could only imagine the lonely life the boy must have had. I hoped that he was now living a life with lots of family and friends around him.

I sat for about twenty minutes on the porch staring at the cars and trucks going past. I stood up at one point and waved to a car passing by. It honked and kept driving. I turned slowly and walked up the steps to the porch. There were holes in the wood, spider webs in most of the corners, and dirt. I had never seen so much dust. The front door was off its hinges and lying on floor inside the old house. I was nervous about going inside. I grabbed the dog leash tighter and walked in. There was nothing but one large room. No other rooms. Not even a bathroom. All the windows were broken, and the old dirty brown curtains swayed in the wind. How this place was still standing was beyond me. It was so old and so run down. I was waiting for an animal or a reptile to jump out at me. But nothing. Just old broken furniture in pieces around the room. And lots of dust and dirt. It was quiet. Creepy silence. But the one thing I could hear in the distance was the faint humming of the cars. I get it now. This boy lived in silence here. I saw a shelf in the corner, which had a few game pieces and books on it. I didn’t see any outlets anywhere. There must not have been a tv or radio or lamps. Nothing. It was an eerie feeling being in this house. I can’t explain the silence. I pulled my camera up off my neck and started shooting pictures of everything. I wanted to show my family the house. I shot pictures of the walls, the windows, the highway from the porch. Anything and everything. I took several pictures of the books. I had opened them in hopes of finding a name, but nothing. I even walked and looked at all the walls in hopes of finding something written on them. Nothing. It was like the family didn’t exist. If only the walls could talk and tell me about this family and the little boy. I am sure they would tell me some great stories. They had seen a lot. And heard a lot.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something through the back window of the little home. Grabbing my dog with one hand and keeping the camera tight in my other, I walked back out through the front door, the only door, turned right on the porch and made my way around the house to the back of it. First thing I noticed was the outhouse, which could not be seen from the front of the small wooden house. I kept shooting pictures. The scenery, the outhouse, and then I saw it. There about fifty feet from the back of the house stood three small crosses. I stopped, not wanting to know the answer. I looked down at my dog who looked up at me with curiosity. Taking a deep breathe I started to walk towards the graves, dog in tow. I stopped and looked down at the three white makeshift crosses. The first one read: Carl McCafey. The next read: Hazel McCafey. The last one: Christopher McCafey. Then I noticed under each name faintly visible were the ages of the dead. Carl and Hazel were both 29 years old. Christopher was eleven. I broke down crying. How could this be? This little boy I had waved to and called my friend was dead. That was why we didn’t see him that summer. He had died. My heart was breaking. I would never know the story of Christopher. What had happened to him? What had happened to his entire family? I took some quick pictures of the crosses, wiped my eyes, and walked back towards the house. I walked back inside the broken-down home. Putting my hand on a wall, I wished it could talk to me and tell me what happened. My heart was breaking for Christopher. I stood a couple more minutes and then decided I should head home before it got too late.

As I stood on the porch, I stopped. The sun was beginning to set behind the mountains. The headlights of the cars were now coming on. I waved to the cars driving by. There was just enough light for them to see me. I smiled as the cars honked and the strangers waved. I would always carry the memory of my friend with me. That little boy waving from the porch. The boy I now know was named Christopher. I walked back to my car putting the dog and camera in their places. I turned back towards the dilapidated little house. I could see him standing there waving to me. My little friend Christopher. Oh, if the walls could talk.