The Year the Swallows Came Early Read Online Free PDF

customers at his restaurant to look at. Marisol says they can enjoy her artwork while they eat.”
    Marisol smiled proudly. “I’m starting out there. Soon I’ll be in galleries.”
    â€œOh,” I said. “I better go. I’m looking for Frankie.”
    â€œYeah, he walked by here. He didn’t even say hello. Or sorry.” She waved her hand in the direction of the jetty. “He’s out there.”
    â€œThanks,” I said, walking away as fast as I could. Marisol Cruz wasn’t the nicest girl; we found that out pretty quick when she moved here last year with her father, who opened up a Mexican restaurant in town. And the fact that she sat alone at lunch recess, sketching every day, made it even harder to get to know her.
    I knew where Frankie would be, without Marisol’s help. I found him sitting on the jetty rocks that overlooked the ocean.
    Mr. Tom was sitting with his guitar next toFrankie. He played a song I’d heard before but couldn’t remember the name of.
    Mr. Tom didn’t live anywhere we knew. Sometimes we saw him sitting on the yellow bench in front of the Swallow when it wasn’t too busy, but mostly he kept to himself. He had a cardboard box of old sea charts, and a red umbrella that he slept under so he wouldn’t get dropped on by the seagulls. His face was a storm of lines and wrinkles, showing the long journeys he’d been on.
    Frankie said that Mr. Tom knew the way to the islands off the coast without using a GPS. And that he was waiting for a free boat ride to take him there so he could retire.
    I walked up to them and stood listening to the song.
    After a while I said, “Luis told me you got another letter from your mother a couple of weeks ago, Frankie. Why didn’t you tell me?” I sat down next to him, away from Mr. Tom, on account of Mama telling me he was crazy.
    â€œI don’t want to know what she has to say,” Frankie told me.
    â€œI think you should read her letter, though.”
    â€œNo, thanks,” he answered quickly.
    â€œWhere was the letter sent from?”
    Frankie turned away and shook his head. “I don’t care where it was sent from,” he said.
    Mr. Tom sang on, like he was playing for a huge audience, about a levy and pie. He wore a purple cap over his gray hair and a yellow foul-weather coat, one that had the name Skip Harris embroidered on the left side below the collar. I guessed he’d probably found the coat, being that his name wasn’t Skip.
    His fingernails were dirty, and long for a man. He wore blue flip-flops that were worn down to nothing. I could see a wad of gray chewed-up gum stuck to the bottom of his right sole. From the grayness of it, I decided it had probably been spearmint-flavored at one time.
    Mr. Tom didn’t seem to mind me staring at him. He just looked straight ahead and kept singing hiswords, the fog making his voice sound close and faraway at the same time.
    And I thought that if Daddy were here, he would know the words because it sounded like just the kind of music he used to play on his radio. Soft and a little sad.
    â€œFrankie,” I said, “why don’t you want to know what she has to say? Maybe she wants to explain. Unlike my mama right now. A letter is a lot different than a postcard.”
    â€œI have my own life,” he told me. “With Luis.” He unwrapped his roll of Tums to the last one. It was lime-flavored, but he ate it anyway.
    I watched his face and saw a funny look on it. And I thought it must have taken a lot for him to hide that away for so long because just then, he looked a lot different from the friend I knew who could do anything. I started wishing I had a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies to offer him. Ones that came straight from the oven, something to make him feel better.
    Mr. Tom stopped singing. He put his guitardown and stood up next to Frankie, stretching his arms and hands out with his