Spare Change (14 page)

Mahoney answered. “I don’t
know,” he said, “right now, we don’t know of any relatives. Ethan claims
there’s a grandpa, but he doesn’t know the phone number.”

“The kid’s lying up one side
and down the other,” Sam Cobb, who had a sharp-tongued manner, said. “He knows
plenty of stuff he ain’t telling.”

Ethan felt his heart explode
with the force of an overblown balloon and a rush of air whooshed from his
mouth. He started coughing so furiously his face went blue as the pie. 

Mahoney reached over and
thumped a heavy hand against the boy’s back, at the same time giving Sam Cobb a
look of disgust. “Back off,” he said, “the kid’s got enough troubles. So what
if he
can’t
recall his grandpa’s phone number right off. Tomorrow, we’ll
try again, huh, Ethan?” He slid his arm around the boy’s shoulder. “For now,
we’re gonna let him bunk in over at the stationhouse.” 

“He’s just a kid,” Scooter
said. “Kids ought not be sleeping in the jailhouse.”

“It’s too late to make any
other arrangements tonight,” Mahoney said, “tomorrow, we’ll try to locate the
grandpa, but, if nothing turns up…”

“If nothing turns up?”
Scooter repeated in an angry voice. “What?  You’ll have him live in the
jailhouse, like some sort of criminal?”

“Of course not. He’ll
probably go to Holy Trinity.” Mahoney shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying
to look away from the boy as he spoke. “Nobody wants such a thing to happen,
but we don’t have a choice.”

“Holy Trinity?” Scooter
sputtered, “You’d cart Susanna’s boy off to the orphanage?”

“There’s no choice,” Mahoney
mumbled apologetically, “it’s the law.”

“Well that ain’t gonna
happen!” Scooter slammed his fist down so hard the butter dish bounced from the
table and fell to the floor. “There’s no way in hell, I’d allow Susanna’s boy
to sent off to an orphanage!”

“Pop!” Sam Cobb stammered.

“Don’t Pop me! We got plenty
of room at our house. Emma won’t mind caring for another boy, she misses having
a youngster around.”

Ethan looked up, his eyes
were popped out like giant blueberries, “Oh no,” he said, “Mama would never
want that! She
always
told me not to be a bother to people.” The thought
of being bundled off to an orphanage wasn’t half bad; a boy could survive at an
orphanage, he could wait it out until there was a chance to escape. But getting
turned over to Scooter—Ethan gave a quick glance at the man’s hands and knew beyond
a smidgen of doubt that in such a situation he was good as dead. 

“You ain’t no bother!”

 “But, I wanna spend the
night at the jailhouse. Ain’t nobody I know ever done an exciting thing like
that!”

“Ain’t nothing exciting
about sleeping on a rock-hard cot,” Mahoney said with a smile tugging at the
corner of his mouth, “You’d be a lot better off at the Cobb’s.” 

“But…”   

“No buts,” Scooter said. “I
owe your mama. Susanna would want me to make sure you’re taken care of!”

Ethan could feel himself
being boxed in. His right eye started twitching something fierce and beads of
sweat rose up on his forehead. It was obvious what Scooter’s plan was; he’d make
it appear he was being real friendly, then when nobody expected it—pounce!
Ethan had to find a way out. First he considered the possibility of sneaking
out through the back door but that wasn’t much of a plan because Mahoney would
never allow him to go wandering off by himself. Then there was the chance he
could break and run, but the probability was, even if he ran faster than he’d
ever run before, he’d not make it to the door. 

Mahoney, who’d right off
accepted Scooter’s offer, suggested they could drop the boy off on their way
back to the station, if Emma wouldn’t mind.     

“You needn’t bother,”
Scooter replied, “Leave him here. I’ll be heading home in a few hours, he can
ride with me.”

The boy’s heart came to dead
stop; he knew for certain he wouldn’t make it to the house once Scooter got
hold of him. ‘
He just up and disappeared,’
Scooter would claim as he
served up a plateful of suspicious looking meatloaf. Nope, if he wanted to go
on living, Ethan had to make a move right now! Mustering up every bit of acting
ability he had, he nonchalantly stretched his arms in the air and yawned, then
started telling how tired he was. “I’d surely appreciate it,” he sighed, “if I
could get to bed early ‘stead of waiting around.”

“Well now,” Mahoney replied,
“I think we can take care of that.” He hooked his arm over the boy’s shoulder
and headed for the door.

At the last minute Ethan
turned and looked back, “Bye, Mister Scooter,” he called, “see you later.”

Ethan Allen

I
am the most unluckiest kid on earth. I got a dead
Mama, a dead Daddy, and the meanest man on earth wanting to kill me. Being dead
might be better than having no place to go, ‘cept I seen how Scooter Cobb kills
people, and that sure ain’t for me.

Mama’s mostly to blame
for this problem I got. If she’d kept her mouth shut we could’ve snuck off and
Daddy wouldn’t have been any the wiser. But no, she had to have the last word—that’s
how Mama was.  You’d love her one day, and hate her the next. She’d smear
kisses across your face and tell how much fun you was gonna have together, then
just when you was believing such a thing would really happen, she’d forget you
was alive. That’s when you’d wind up hating her. Right now I hate her. If she
was here right now, I’d sure let her know how much I hate her; or maybe I’d
just be glad she was here and forget about the hating.

Mister Cobb says on
account of his feelings for Mama, he’s gonna see to taking care of me. Ha! I
say what he’s gonna see to, is me being dead.  If I ain’t looking to be dead, I
gotta get my ass outta here.

I got no choice but to take
a chance on that grandpa I ain’t never seen. He probably won’t be none too happy
about Daddy’s kid wanting to come live with him, but so what. I’m blood kin.
Everybody knows you ain’t supposed to turn blood kin away.

No Goodbye

E
mma Cobb was no more than a head taller than Ethan,
but nearly as wide as Scooter. She had a pleasant smile and a mother’s
warm-hearted way of telling the boy to brush his teeth before he got into bed.
If things were different, if Ethan didn’t have to act quickly, he could have
easily succumbed to having a woman such as this fuss over him, serve warm cocoa
and ask if he was feeling a bit better—but as it was, he simply said he was
dog-tired and needed to go right to bed.

“You ought to at least have
a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” Emma suggested. “And, maybe some milk?”

Ethan hadn’t eaten all day
and he was feeling his belly button rub against his backbone. Not that such a
thing bothered him, for he’d gone without eating plenty of times before. Still at
this particular moment, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich seemed the answer to
at least one of his problems. Besides, the making and eating of such a sandwich
wouldn’t use up more than a half minute. “Okay,” he answered, licking at his
lips. He gulped down three such sandwiches and two glasses of milk, then
hurried off to bed. 

Ethan had at first figured
the Cobb house would be somewhat like his own, a pancake sort of structure with
windows nose-high from the ground. Instead he’d come up against a narrow
two-story building with attic rooms rising up in peaks. With his luck already
on a downslide, it came as no surprise when he was led up two flights of stairs
to a top floor bedroom with sloped ceilings and a single window. 

“This used to be Sammy’s
room,” Emma said, “when he was a boy just about your age.” She folded back a
worn coverlet and plumped the pillow, then handed Ethan a pair of frayed
pajamas and a toothbrush. Brushing a kiss across his forehead, she whispered,
“Sleep tight,” then left, closing the door behind her.

Ethan hurriedly pressed his
ear to the door. He heard her footsteps on the stair and listened for the click
of the light switch on the landing. When it came, he waited for what seemed to
be a million heartbeats then, certain she was gone, crossed over to the window.
It was a tiny window, far too narrow for a full size person to squeeze through,
but big enough for an eleven year old boy who was small for his age to begin
with. Ethan pushed at the sash but it was stuck, cemented in place by layer
after layer of paint.  “Figures,” he moaned, then pulled a pen knife from his
pocket and began chipping away. It took the better part of an hour before he
could pry the window open, time he couldn’t afford to lose. At first he’d
thought only of breaking loose and running but, while he was poking loose the
paint, he’d come to realize, he needed a plan.     

At the bottom of the closet
Ethan found a carton of clothes—jeans, flannel shirts and the like. It was the
time of year, when days were warmed by the sun, but once darkness came, a
chilling dampness settled into people’s bones. Ethan grabbed hold of a dark
blue sweater and pulled it over his head, then mounded the remaining clothes in
the center of the bed.  He shaped a figure the size of himself and pulled up
the coverlet. There, he thought with satisfaction; that ought to give me till
morning.

On a night when the air
smelled of coming rain and dark clouds drifted back and forth across the moon,
Ethan crawled out the attic window and eased it shut behind him. Once outside,
he began looking for a way down. With barely enough light for him to see the
toe ends of his sneakers, and a roof pitched at a preposterously steep angle,
he lost his footing on the very first step. It happened quicker than a hiccup,
a shingle popped loose and his foot slide from beneath him. The only thing he
could do was drop to his belly and pray he’d catch hold. “Please, Jesus,” he
gasped, “help me.” Apparently, the Lord didn’t hold a grudge over the fact that
Ethan had been to church only three times in his entire life—the day he was
christened counting as one of them—because he suddenly stopped.  For several
minutes he didn’t move a muscle, just suckered himself to the roof, telling the
Lord how appreciative he was for the help and swearing to show up at Sunday
service. 

A few moments later the clouds passed by and the moon
was bright as a streetlight. Ethan glanced down to get a feel for exactly where
he was, but looking at the ground from such a height caused something inside
his head to start spinning. “Stay with me, Lord,” he whispered. After a moment
the dizziness left him, and by then he knew he was on the northwest side of the
house, somewhat close to the back. Remaining on his hands and knees, he began
crabbing his way toward the place where a back porch ought to be. He moved
slowly until he finally spotted a drainpipe. It was a reach, two feet, maybe
more, but it was a way down. He flattened himself out and inched past a
darkened window praying no one was inside the room and that no one would spot
him. On the far edge of the roof he eased his right foot onto the gutter of the
drainpipe and got ready for the leap. There would be a thump when he landed, of
that he was certain, but all he could do was pray nobody heard it. “I believe
in you, Jesus,” he mumbled, “so help me out here.” He swung his legs across and
latched onto the pipe. Ever so slowly he shimmied down, as concerned about not
making noise as he was about making progress—until the moment his foot touched
the ground, then he took off running like a jack rabbit. 

I
t was almost midnight when Scooter Cobb came through
the door. Emma, quite used to the irregularity of his hours, was sitting in the
living room working on a piece of embroidery she hoped to have finished for
Christmas. “I put the boy in Sammy’s old room,” she said without looking up. 

“Good,” Scooter grunted. “He
asleep?”

Emma nodded, “…has been for
hours.” She knotted the thread she’d been working with and set the embroidery
aside. “I feel real sorry for the boy,” she sighed, “imagine the grief of
losing both a mama and daddy as he did.”

“That daddy of his was no
loss; the man was a rotten son-of-a-bitch!”

“Hush such talk…”

“I’m speaking the truth!
He’s the one to blame for the boy being wild as he is. Susanna used to say…”
Even a stranger who was blind in one eye would have noticed the look on
Scooter’s face when he spoke Susanna’s name. 

“Do you think I don’t know?”
Emma asked, an ocean of hurt brimming her eyes.

“Know what?” Scooter replied
apprehensively.

“Know what’s been going on
between you and Susanna Doyle.”

Figuring the boy had told,
he shot back, “You believe a kid like that?”

“I believe what my heart
tells me.”

“What kind of bullshit is
that supposed to be?”

“For months I’ve known you
were carrying on. I could tell by the way you’d splash on a half bottle of
cologne to go fry hamburgers then stay out biggest part of the night. You think
a wife don’t notice when her husband keeps to the far side of the bed?” Scooter
opened his mouth as if to answer, but she continued on. “I figured a man who’s
been married for thirty years is bound to have an occasional itch or two; but I
told myself—just wait, give it time. I thought this thing with Susanna would
eventually burn itself out, but,” she moaned, “it obviously didn’t.”