Spare Change

by Bette Lee Crosby

  Clifford fingered his chin for a moment then shook his head. “Can’t recall that I’ve seen such a lad,” he said, “You checked the orphanage?”

  Tom asked the same question of everyone who drove in and even of two people who were simply passing by on the sidewalk. Margaret Walters claimed she had a nephew in New Jersey who pretty much fit that description, but everyone else simply shook their head and went on about their business. At eight-forty-five, Tom started making telephone calls again.

  By four o’clock he’d moved on to the ninth name in the sixth directory. He dropped a dime into the slot, dialed the number and waited as the phone rang four, five, then six times. Just as he was ready to hang up, a man answered, “Hold on a second,” he said, “let me close the door.”

  As soon as the voice came back on the line, Tom swung into his apology for interrupting the man’s day, and went to his questioning. “I’m looking to locate a woman who’s bad sick, as I understand it, she’s the mama of a Jack Mahoney—”

  “I’m Jack Mahoney, but…”

  “Oh, I’m sure you ain’t the same Jack Mahoney. The one I’m referring to is just a boy—a bit over four foot tall, blond hair, got a wiry-haired brown dog. You know anybody fits a description such as that?”

  “I can think of one such boy,” Jack replied, remembering Ethan Allen, who was still among the missing, “…but, his name isn’t Jack Mahoney.”

  “I doubt it’s him. The boy I came across said his name was Jack Mahoney; I remember that for certain.”

  “When was it you met this boy?”

  “Let’s see now,” Tom mumbled, counting back the number of days, “Nine days ago,” he finally answered, “Yep, a week back from last Sunday; that was it.”

  “He wearing a brown and yellow stripe shirt, green pants?”

  “Now that you make mention of it, I do believe he was.”

  “You remember the name of that animal he was traveling with?”

  “Can’t say I do,” Tom replied, “I believe the lad just called him dog.”

  Mahoney, who for a solid week had been looking for Ethan Allen, said, “I know the boy you’re looking for.”

  “Well, actually, I wasn’t so much looking for the boy, he should be pretty well off with his grandpa; I’m looking to find his sick mama. I figured maybe I could offer up some help.” Tom was on the verge of telling how his own mama’s death had taken place under similar circumstances but before he got the chance, Mahoney interrupted.

  “That boy was just playing on your sympathies. His name ain’t Jack Mahoney; it’s Ethan Allen Doyle and his mama’s already dead.”

  “Shitfire!”

  “He knew she was dead when he ran off. We had a place for the boy to live but—”

  “Run off?”

  “Yes indeed. I personally dropped him off at the Cobb’s place and turned him over to Emma—she’s one of the nicest people you could hope to meet. Emma’s the mama of a patrolman in my station house, so we figured it would be a good place for the boy to stay. She fixed him a bite to eat and tucked him into bed; next morning he was gone. There was nothing but a rolled-up mound of clothes under the blanket.”

  “Damnation!” Tom grumbled. “I been took for the fool I am! Listening to that boy, I would of sworn he was on the up and up.”

  They talked on and on for almost twenty minutes, Mahoney explained how he and Patrolman Cobb were the law officers called in when the boy’s mama and daddy were murdered. “It happened right there in their own house,” he said, “the boy’s mama apparently died from a single blow to the head, but his daddy… that poor bastard looked like he’d gone through a meat grinder.”

  “Sweet Jesus.”

  “It’s bad enough for a boy to lose both his parents,” Mahoney said, his voice weighted with concern, “…but, we’ve also got a suspicion that Ethan Allen knows who did the killing. If that is the case; he could be in a considerable amount of danger.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” Tom sighed again, understanding now why the boy lied. Anybody who’d gone through such a thing would of course lie; not just lie, but run like hell to get loose from the devil dogging his heels. A man could spend a lifetime trying to escape things from which there was no escaping. But Tom knew that sometimes all you got for your trouble was a bunch of bad memories.

  “If you got any knowledge as to where he went…”

  “Not right off,” Tom answered. “But I know he was headed for his grandpa’s place over on the mainland.”

  “That’s like looking for a raindrop in a river,” Mahoney sighed.

  “It was one of those little towns west of Richmond,” Tom said. “The address was written on an envelope…” Tom closed his eyes and pictured the boy pulling the envelope from his pocket, but he couldn’t focus in on the scribbled return address. “I remember helping the kid find it on the map—Wernersville, Waterboro, Wyattstown—it was someplace like that; give me a day or so and I’ll have the name for you.”

  Mahoney, eager for even the smallest bit of information, quickly volunteered to drive down for a face to face talk with Tom. “I’ll see you day after tomorrow,” he said. After he hung up he called Sam Cobb, “I’ve got a line on the boy,” he said, “and being you were in on the start of this, I thought you might want to come along.”

  “Sure,” Cobb replied, for he liked the prestige of working with a detective and didn’t often get the chance. “’Course, I doubt he’s gonna tell us what really happened…”

  “You never know,” Mahoney answered, “you just never know.”

  Olivia

  Sometimes when I look at Ethan Allen, I can see Charlie looking back at me from inside those blue eyes. It’s amazing how much the boy resembles his grandfather; yet there’s a world of difference in their personalities. Charlie was open-hearted and full of fun; but this boy is the exact opposite. It might be because he’s got so many hurts locked inside of him; but still, you’d think he’d be more receptive to my kindness. That’s not the way it is. The more I try to get close to him, the harder he pulls to get away. I genuinely feel for the child, but I swear to God, he’s almost impossible to understand.

  And, that mouth of his—why, it’s enough to make a sailor blush!

  Despite what I might think, Ethan Allen is Charlie’s only grandchild, so I’m trying to do right by him. At first, I figured us spending time together would encourage the boy to loosen up about his family, but getting him to talk is worse than trying to milk a stone. I’m sure he’s got relatives somewhere; people who’d love to take both him and his dog. That would probably be for the best. An orphaned child belongs with blood relatives; not some stranger who happened to marry his grandfather. I’m no relation whatsoever, the boy deserves better than that.

  Thickening of Blood

  Olivia saw the look on the boy’s face as he stomped out the front door and recognized it right off—how could she have not? It was the same wild-eyed frenzy she’d seen in her own mirror just after Charlie died. For a while she’d been tricked into believing it to be sorrow; so she cried buckets and buckets of tears. Then it masqueraded itself as anger, and she raged—hurtling things against the walls and kicking at the furniture. Finally, on that stormy night when there was nothing left but the roar of the ocean and the agony of loneliness, she came to know it for what it really was—fear. The kind of fear that chewed holes in a person’s heart—holes so cavernous, every last drop of hope leaked out and left them believing they’d never again be safe, never again be loved. Olivia felt a thin line of perspiration sliding down her back. It was strange how, when you thought yourself free of such memories, they could fly back and slap against your face like a sudden rainstorm.

  After she’d picked up the pieces of the Baltimore Orioles puzzle he’d scattered across the floor, Olivia looked at the clock; it was almost nine-thirty, Ethan Allen had been gone two hours. He’d stormed off without a sweater or jacket and this was the time of year when it turned downright cold once the sun had set. It would
seem reasonable, she thought, that he’d have come home by now, but of course reasonableness was the last thing a person concerned themselves with in situations such as this. A strange sort of regret began pressing down on Olivia’s shoulders, settling over her like a sack of stones. I should have been more understanding, she told herself; I should have waited until he was ready to tell whatever he has to tell.

  For a good part of her life, Olivia had swallowed down her own painful secrets, she’d choked back words that needed to be spoken, and stepped aside as life rolled by. She’d bottled herself up like a person already cremated; which, in looking back, was a thing she wouldn’t wish on anybody, especially a child. Still, if the boy wasn’t ready to let go of his troubles, it was downright mean to keep poking at him. The secrets hidden in a person’s heart could be like a persimmon—bite into them before they’re ready to be plucked loose and the bitterness will turn your mouth inside out. Olivia went to the window, parted the curtains and stood watching for the boy to come home. Further down the street was dark, hidden by overhanging branches and shadows of buildings; but directly beneath the window was a watery circle of yellow illumination where she would be able to see him. He has to come along this walkway, she told herself as she watched and waited. She could already feel the chill of night air pressing up against the windowpane. “It’s getting cold,” she sighed, “he’ll be back, just as soon as his bones start rattling.” …maybe not, the voice inside her head argued, maybe he’ll never come back.

  While Olivia was still commiserating over thoughts of the boy huddled alongside a garbage can in some freezing alleyway, the telephone rang. In two long strides, she crossed the room and jerked the receiver to her ear, “Ethan?” she asked.

  “Ethan?” Clara echoed, “isn’t he in bed?”

  “Oh,” Olivia moaned, “it’s you.”

  “Yeah, it’s me! How come you asked if I was Ethan Allen?”

  “I thought maybe it was him calling.”

  “Him calling…at twelve o’clock midnight? Why, a boy his age ought to be in bed! Why in the world would you let him—”

  “I didn’t let him. He got his dander up and went flying out the door.”

  “For no reason?”

  “Well,” Olivia stammered, “I might’ve pushed a bit too much in asking about his mama.”

  “You of all people,” Clara grumbled with an air of annoyance, “…should realize that Ethan Allen ain’t ready to talk about such a tragedy. Right now he just needs comforting, somebody to reach out…”

  As the words settled on Olivia’s ears, she could feel herself start to shrink. With every word she seemed to grow smaller and smaller. She was five feet tall, then four…

  “You surely know how it feels to…”

  She slipped down to three feet, the size of a toddler with a world that revolves around me’s; which somehow seemed appropriate considering her behavior.

  “Have you no sense of compassion?” Clara chided, “Why, that poor motherless boy…”

  By the time Clara finished, Olivia envisioned herself only inches high, small enough swallowed up by the dog searching for his master. She breathed a heavy sigh and said, “You’re right.”

  Clara abruptly hung up the telephone and Olivia was left with her thoughts—thoughts of how she’d not been the least bit Christian in her treatment of the boy. Sure, she’d bought him some clothes and a few games, but the whole while she’d been wishing he’d hurry up and leave, taking his dog with him. “I’m so sorry, Ethan,” she whispered into a flood of tears, “please come home.”

  A stream of tears was still rolling down her face when the front door banged open, and in walked a gathering of neighbors. “We’ve gotta find that boy,” Clara, who was apparently the person in charge, announced. Fred McGinty nodded, but with his hair standing on end and his right eye partway closed he had the look of a man not fully roused from sleep. Harry Hornsby, although he’d had the presence of mind to grab hold of a flashlight, had missed the fact that a cuff of striped pajama was poking out from beneath the sleeve of his jacket. Barbara Conklin and Maggie both had a trail of nightgown hanging from the hem of their coat. With the exception of Clara, an acknowledged night owl, they were all red-eyed, but anxious to join in the hunt for Ethan Allen.

  “Which way was he headed?” Ed Vaughn, a man from the third floor, asked.

  Olivia brushed back a few last tears and shrugged.

  Fred stepped forward and started organizing the operation. “Vaughn,” he said, “you check down at the movie house. “Paul,” he pointed to the thin-faced man standing at the back of the crowd, a man Olivia had never before seen, “you check the all night burger stand. Pete and me are gonna head over to the park.”

  “We ladies will search up and down the street,” Clara volunteered, “…check the courtyards, behind buildings.”

  Maggie, a woman known for toting along her umbrella on even the sunniest of days, wrinkled her brow. “Cold as it is,” she sighed, “we gotta hope he’s dressed warm.”

  “He isn’t,” Olivia stammered, her voice faltering and falling into another rush of tears, “he left here in shirtsleeves, no sweater or jacket.”

  “No jacket?” Clara screeched, but by then Olivia was sobbing so furiously it would have been unfair to expect an answer.

  “Let’s go,” Fred commanded, thrusting his right arm forward, “we’re gonna have to move fast!” As the others started out the door he turned back to Olivia. “Put a leash on that dog,” he said, “try and get him to sniff the boy out.”

  Olivia did as she was told. With a firm lock on the leash, she trudged up one walkway and down the next, urging the dog to find his master. “Find Ethan,” she begged, “please, find him. Find him and I’ll buy you a gigantic steak bone.”

  The residents of Wyattsville Arms worked throughout the night; poking their heads down alleyways, crisscrossing the park behind narrow flashlight beams, and hollering out for Ethan Allen to come home. As the hours crept by, the call of his name grew more urgent and other people joined in the search. “Ethan Allen, can you hear me?” they’d shout, flashing a circle of light onto the wall behind a row of garbage cans, or beneath the branches of an overgrown hedge. By morning, a drizzle of rain started to fall, not hard enough to send the searchers running for cover, but hard enough to soak them through to their underwear and set their teeth to chattering. They still had not found Ethan Allen.

  “A boy as resourceful as he is could be miles from here by now,” Olivia said, even though she doubted Ethan Allen had anyplace else to go. She mournfully suggested the searchers go home, before they caught their death of cold. “I’ll have to call the police station and report him missing,” she sobbed, “what else can I do?” With her shoulders rounded and her chin drooping down into the collar of her coat, she and the dog walked through the front door of the apartment building.

  Clara grabbed hold of her arm, “Olivia! Have you gone stark raving mad?” she said, “Do you want someone from the Rules Committee to see you with the dog?”

  “What does it matter now?” Olivia answered; then she stepped inside the elevator and pushed the button for the seventh floor.

  “Don’t worry,” Clara said, doggedly following along, “I’m not gonna leave your side till we’ve got some word of him.”

  Olivia shook her head, “I’d rather be alone.” She turned into her own apartment and closed the door behind her, leaving Clara in the hallway. Olivia may have thought she wanted to be alone, but once she was, the truth of the word settled heavily upon her. Alone was not at all the peace and quiet she envisioned it to be; it was a giant loneliness that draped itself across the ceiling and cascaded down the walls. Alone was cold and hungry and forgotten. Alone was so very…alone. She’d wanted the boy gone, so why was it she felt such a huge emptiness inside her heart? She tried to recall the reasons why she’d been opposed to his staying. She pictured muddy footprints running across the carpet, crusted bowls piled in the sink, dog hairs on the sofa;
but those images faded as quickly as they came—replaced by blue eyes like Charlie’s and a grin that popped loose when he found a lost piece of puzzle. It was strange how such a troublesome boy could fill a place with his being.

  “I’m letting my heart rule my head,” she sighed as she bent down to unleash the dog, “and, such a thing is foolish.” The words were heavy as bricks tumbling from her mouth. Olivia, suddenly found a need to remind herself of why she’d always avoided entangling relationships—there was always the demanding husband and hanging on children. She searched her memory for the snapshot of poor Francine Burnam, a woman with youngsters of every shape and size, a woman who couldn’t take a sideways step without a little one underfoot. It took several seconds, but she finally got hold of the image; which as it turned out, wasn’t at all the way she remembered it being. Olivia had seen Francine’s babies as cumbersome things, bananas hanging onto a stalk and weighing it down with their presence—but suddenly she could see they weren’t bananas after all; they were bright yellow sunflowers tilted toward the sun. Standing alongside them was Francine, an oak tree, straight and tall as anyone could ever hope to be.

  “Good Lord,” Olivia sighed and dropped down onto the sofa. “How could I have made such a mistake? How could I not have seen…” She reached for the telephone and dialed the number for the Wyattsville Police Station.

  “Sergeant Grubber,” a voice answered.

  “I’d like to report—” the door clicked open and Olivia screamed, “Ethan Allen!”

  “Excuse me?” Sergeant Grubber said.

  “Never mind.” Olivia hung up the receiver, leaped across the room and grabbed hold of the boy. “Thank heavens you’re back—”

  “I ain’t back,” he grumbled, “I just came to get Dog.”

  “But…”

  He removed the new harness and tossed it to the floor. “Where’s my rope?”