Spare Change

by Bette Lee Crosby

  Cobb turned with an angry glare, “Watch your mouth!” he growled.

  Mahoney broke in, “Leave him be,” he said, “The boy’s scared, and he’s got a right. Ain’t that so Ethan Allen?” He glanced back and saw the boy swiping at the tears overflowing his eyes. “Still,” Mahoney said, “You ought to eat. A bowl of soup, maybe? Or a dish of ice cream?”

  Ethan Allen shook his head.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Mahoney said, a gentle note of concern in his voice, “when we get to the diner, you order anything you think you might want; if you feel up to eating it, fine. If you’re still not hungry, we’ll get Bertha to pack it up for you.”

  “Why do I gotta go in?”

  “Officer Cobb and me have been working all day, we need to get some supper and we can’t just leave you sitting in the car now, can we?”

  “Why not?”

  “If you was to up and run off, we’d be the ones held responsible.”

  Although precisely such a thought had already crossed his mind, Ethan Allen said, “I’m just a kid, where’s a kid gonna go?”

  Mahoney gave the boy a knowing grin.

  By the time they pulled into the diner parking lot, Ethan’s heart was about ready to explode. He could feel it already stretched out to three times the normal size. “I ain’t feeling too good,” he moaned, “if I was to eat one bite of anything I’d for sure puke.” Mahoney clamped a firm hand onto his shoulder and hustled him inside.

  Scooter Cobb was hanging over the counter with a sizeable piece of jelly donut crammed into his mouth and a lump of, what could have been raspberry jelly or could have been a part of Benjamin’s face, sliding down his right thumb. Ethan Allen, figuring it to be the later, felt a rise of vomit in his throat. Scooter looked bigger than ever; his head round as a basketball, his body mounded to the size of a mountain, and his hands—big thick massive hands that could squash a boy’s head with hardly trying. Ethan wanted to look away, he wanted not to see the hands, he wanted to turn his eyes from the heavy-lidded face, but instead he stood there and whimpered. It was a tiny sound that simply slid from his mouth—a dead giveaway of his fear. If Scooter hadn’t known before, he surely knew now.

  Scooter Cobb lumbered from behind the counter and grabbed hold of the boy. “Poor kid,” he moaned, pressing Ethan Allen into the thick of his stomach. “It’s an awful thing what happened to your mama…”

  There was no noticeable mention of his daddy.

  For what seemed to Ethan an eternity, Scooter hugged and squeezed, at times pressing the boy’s nose so deep into the greasy apron he could barely breathe. When Scooter finally let go, Ethan swallowed down a gasp of air to clear away the smell of fried hamburgers and meanness.

  Mahoney moved to the far end of the diner, he eased Ethan Allen into a booth and then slid in alongside of him. Sam Cobb sat on the opposite side; Scooter next to him.

  A short while later, Bertha, a woman with her own share of troubles, dropped four menus on the table. Bertha’s husband had lost four jobs in the last two months, her oldest boy was about to be sent off to reform school and the bunion on her right foot throbbed from morning till night, but still she mustered up a sad-eyed smile. “Sweetie,” she said to Ethan Allen, “your mama was a well-meaning person, and she sure deserved better than she got. I’m real sorry about what happened.” She told the boy she’d be saying a prayer then switched over to asking what he wanted to eat.

  “Nothing,” Ethan answered, locking his eyes onto a speckle of yellow mustard at the far end of the tabletop. “I ain’t one bit hungry.”

  “Even so,” Bertha winced a bit and shifted her weight to the left leg, “…you ought to eat something. How about I bring you some cherry pie, with ice cream on top?”

  Without looking up, Ethan Allen shook his head

  “Fix him a grilled cheese,” Scooter said, “with home fries, and a slice of blueberry pie. Matter of fact, bring two slices, I’m gonna have one too.”

  Mahoney and Sam Cobb gave their orders then Bertha limped off. As soon as she out of earshot, Scooter started in with a barrage of questions about what had taken place at the Doyle farm. “You got any suspicions as to who it was?” he asked eagerly. “What about clues? Eye witnesses?” When Bertha set the food down in front of them, Scooter ignored the pie and gulped down the black coffee as he leaned in to hear every last detail of how the investigation was progressing. When it seemed there was no more to be told, he asked “What about the boy? What’s gonna happen to him?”

  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

  Emma 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.

  It 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 asi
de. “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.”

  “It wasn’t what you think,” Scooter said defensively, “I was simply being kind to the woman, listening to her problems…”

  Emma gave him a hard glare and went on. “That’s not the end of it. Today, when I started to launder that shirt you wore last night, I found blood all over it. Not little specks, such as you’d get from a splash of meat, but a sizable amount. It didn’t make much sense till Jack Mahoney brought the boy to the house and told me the story of how Susanna had been killed and her husband beaten to a pulp. ‘It had to be a monster of a man,’ Jack said. A monster of a man…”