Spare Change

by Bette Lee Crosby

  “You can’t think it was me?”

  “I don’t think—I know.”

  “Good God, Emma! After all the years we been together, you ought to realize I’d never do such a thing.”

  “Really? You’re practically a stranger to me now. At one time I might have known if you would do, or not do, a thing. But now, I can’t begin to imagine the ungodly deeds you’re capable of!”

  “That’s great!” he exclaimed. “Really great! You think I murdered the woman I was supposedly having an affair with?”

  “No,” she answered coolly, “but I wouldn’t doubt you had something to do with the beating of her husband.”

  Scooter looked visibly shaken. “Is that what you told Jack Mahoney?” he asked.

  “No.” She allowed the word to hang in the air a long time before she spoke again. “But if you ever so much as glance at another woman again, I will.” She turned and picked up her embroidery.

  “You’re crazy, Emma,” Scooter shouted, “crazy as a loon to think you can threaten me with a thing such as that!”

  “Perhaps…” she drawled, slipping a thread of blue yarn through the eye of the needle, “I forgot to mention that I never did get around to washing the shirt.”

  Scooter narrowed his black eyes and glared at Emma, but seeing the iron set look of determination on her face, he bit down on his lip and wisely said nothing. When she went back to her embroidery, he turned away and stomped up the stairs.

  “Don’t you dare wake the boy,” she called out before he was halfway to the landing, then she circled the thread around her needle and eased a lovers knot into place. “He’s already been through more than any child should have to endure.”

  Mumbling some belligerent under-his-breath answer Scooter continued on.

  “I’m warning you,” she said.

  Although he was not generally a man to be ordered around, he knew better than to cross Emma. Maybe given some time, she’d simmer down and he’d find a way to convince her that such suspicions were pure nonsense, but for now he wasn’t going to stick a single toe over the line. Of course, if the boy was still awake—he tiptoed up the stairs and cracked open the door to what was now Ethan’s room, but the boy appeared to be huddled under the comforter, sound asleep.

  Scooter returned to the second floor and climbed into bed, making sure to position himself smack in the middle of the mattress. He was still awake when Emma came to bed and for several hours afterward. Finally, just minutes before the first ray of sun lit the horizon, he dropped into an exhaustive sleep.

  It took Ethan almost two hours to walk from the Cobb place back to his own house. It was a forty-five minute drive, but that was following the road which circled around half the farms on the Eastern Shore. Ethan boosted himself up and over the chain link fence at the far edge of the Kramer farm, then he traveled as the crow flies, tromping through pitch black cornfields and row after row of soybeans. He stayed back from the houses and moved silently as a shadow. With any luck he’d get what he needed and be long gone before Scooter Cobb discovered him missing. In the woods south of Miller’s pond, Ethan heard the growl of something in the underbrush and took off running. It was rumored that rabid wolves had been spotted in the area and any other time Ethan would have turned back or gone off in another direction; but on this night there was no time to waste. He’d seen what Scooter Cobb could do; and it was a hell of a lot worse than any wolf—rabid or not. He zigzagged his way through the Morgan’s overgrown orchard; then cut through a field of cabbages which had been left to rot. Two minutes later he arrived at the place that for the whole of his life had been home. The front door of Susanna’s car was hanging open although Ethan Allen could swear he’d seen the policeman close it.

  “Mama,” he shouted and darted across the yard. For a split second, he’d slipped back to yesterday or the day before or possibly some time weeks ago, and imagined she’d be there, sitting behind the wheel, ready to twist the key in the ignition and head off to work. Then that moment of thought disappeared and he remembered how the men from coroner’s office had carried Susanna away in a black plastic bag. Ethan Allen didn’t want to cry; he didn’t have time to cry—but that didn’t stop the tears from coming. He slid into the driver’s seat of his mama’s car, then leaned forward and banged his head against the steering wheel over and over again. Sitting there and remembering back on how Susanna had said she’d drive all the way to New York City if she had to, he came up with the idea for a new plan.

  Ethan knew how to drive, at least he sort of knew how. He’d done it sitting in Susanna’s lap a dozen times, maybe more. Okay, there was the problem of his feet falling short of the pedals, but if he scooted forward far enough, well then… The new plan was formulating itself inside his head. He’d headed home with every intention of putting Dog in his bicycle basket and pedaling all the way to Wyattsville, but driving would make considerably more sense. For one thing, it was faster. Before sunup he could be clear to the ferry, maybe even to Norfolk. By noon he could be in Wyattsville. On the other hand, there was the chance he’d run into some policeman who’d arrest him for being too young to drive a car. Ethan sat there for five minutes, wrinkling his brow, scratching his head and twisting his mouth first to one side and then the other. Finally he stiffened his back and jutted his chin forward in a way that made him look remarkably like his mama, and came to a decision. Of course, before he went anywhere, there were things he had to get hold of—the cookie jar money, Mister Charles Doyle’s address and the ignition key.

  As the boy started toward the house, the dog suddenly trotted out of the woods and followed along at his heels. “Good thing you came back,” Ethan said, “else, I’d leave you behind.” Despite his words, Ethan knew he had no intention of doing such a thing, Dog was all he had. Dog, and a grandpa he hadn’t heard from in over a year. A grandpa who apparently figured a boy of eleven didn’t need a dollar, because this year he hadn’t sent a card for Ethan’s birthday or Christmas. A grandpa who, according to Susanna, had no use for his own son; a grandpa who Ethan hoped would feel more kindly about having a grandson.

  A police order telling people to keep out was posted on the door of the house, the same door Ethan had banged in and out of millions of times. “Like hell,” he grumbled. He took hold of the knob and tried to turn it, but the door was locked tight. And, the key his mama kept under the geranium pot for just such an occasion was gone. He gave the door an angry kick then stomped around to the back. That door was also locked. “Damn,” he moaned. He then tried window after window, but every one of them was locked. Luckily the sky had remained cloudless and a white moon was shinning down brighter than ever. Ethan supposed it could be midnight, perhaps later; but he was running out of time. In a few hours they’d discover he was gone and come looking for him—likely as not it would be Officer Cobb, possibly even Scooter. A trickle of sweat rolled down his back as he thought, maybe they already know. Maybe they’d checked the bed and found nothing but a rolled up bunch of clothes. Maybe they were right now rounding the bend at Klausner’s Corner, maybe they’d be here in a matter of minutes! Ethan scooped up a rock and hurled it through his bedroom window. The sound of breaking glass crashed through the night, louder than he figured possible, loud enough to maybe be heard for miles. For the third time that evening, he began calling for the Lord to lend a hand. “Please, God,” he prayed, “let me get gone before Scooter comes.” He didn’t allow the praying to slow him down as he climbed onto the sill and went through the window feet first. The sweater he’d taken from Sam Cobb’s closet caught on the jagged edges of glass, but Ethan slid out of it and kept moving.

  With the moon bright as it was, there was no need to switch on a light. Still, he moved slowly and stuck close to the walls, just in case somebody was watching. Twice he thought he heard the sound of pounding at the door, but it turned out to be only the thumping of his heart. He took the cookie jar from the top shelf of the china closet and emptied it onto the table—nine dollars an
d sixty-six cents. He crammed the money into his right pocket then moved on to Susanna’s room. His mama had two sets of car keys; Ethan knew that for a fact. She was a person given to locking her keys in the car, then calling home for somebody to come rescue her. Three times, Ethan himself had bicycled down to the diner with her car key jingling in his pocket. He could remember the last time; “Ethan Allen,” she’d cooed across the telephone line, “be a sweetie and bring me my other set of car keys.” He could hear the sugary sound of her voice, but, with the way she was always switching hiding spots to keep Benjamin from finding her secret stuff, he plain out couldn’t fix his memory on where that last place had been.

  Ethan lifted the lid of the jewelry box, but before he could do any searching, music began bing-bonging like a brass band. He instantly slammed the lid closed; she’d never hide the keys there anyway—too obvious. Still trying to recall his mama’s words, the boy rummaged through drawer after drawer with no luck. He fished under the bed far as he could reach, still nothing. He squeezed his fingers into the toe of every shoe, checked the zipper pouch of an old grey pocketbook and shook eight lacy brassieres hoping the keys would fall out. He was on the verge of tears when his mama’s voice came to him. “Sugar, get my car keys, and bring them to me,” she’d said, “…they’re hidden in the pocket of my blue audition dress.”

  Ethan went tearing out the front door—her audition dress was one thing Susanna would never leave without—sure enough, in the back seat of the car was her suitcase. He snapped it open and right there on top was the blue sequined dress, a set of car keys in the pocket. He needed just one more thing and knew exactly where it was.

  For years he’d saved those cards, envelope and all, it seemed somehow nice to think he had a grandpa. Ethan would carry the folded dollar bill in his pocket for months on end, without spending it. With the dollar bill in his pocket, he could imagine a grandpa who might one Christmas Eve show up with an armload of presents, or a pony— sometimes he could even imagine a grandma who roasted turkeys and smelled of chocolate chip cookies. Ethan dug down to the bottom of his baseball card box and hauled up the greeting cards signed, love Grandpa. On the back flap of every envelope was a carefully written return address. No telephone number, but he didn’t need one. He stuffed the cards into his left pocket and walked out the door, leaving it to swing open behind him.

  Ethan lifted the dog into his mama’s car then slid behind the wheel. He sat for a moment then stuck the key in the ignition. Inching forward in the seat, he stretched his toe toward the clutch pedal. He could barely reach it. The other times he’d driven, Susanna had been behind him, he’d leaned his back against her and easily enough reached the pedals. He scooted up to the front edge of the seat, where he could lay his foot flat on the pedal. At first it seemed to work; but the car had a heavy clutch that had to be pressed clear to the floor before the transmission would slide from one gear to the next, so when he tried to push down on the clutch, he slid back to his original position. Three times he gave it a go; then he got out of the car, took hold of Susanna’s valise and wedged it up against the back of the driver’s seat. It was a boxy thing, which didn’t leave a whole lot of room for his body, but once he’d squeezed behind the wheel, he knew for sure he wouldn’t be sliding back. He tried again. With a grunt, he pushed the pedal to the floor; he turned the key and mumbling, “Thanks, Mama,” shifted into reverse.

  Once Ethan was out of the driveway, he slid the gearshift into first, then second, then third and was on his way—him, his mama’s suitcase, and Dog. With the moon bright as it was, he could see well enough to drive without lights, which meant there was less likelihood of someone spotting the slow-moving car as it crossed over the back roads and headed toward the old towpath. It was a dirt road that ran alongside the canal and stretched clear to the end of the island. Best of all, no one ever used it; so he wasn’t gonna encounter some wise-ass policeman asking if he wasn’t a tad young to be driving a car. Ethan thumped down the Miller’s tractor run for almost two miles then he spotted the towpath and turned onto it. The towpath ran behind a stretch of farms, farms where people might be on the lookout for an escaped kid Ethan figured, so he continued to drive without lights. He sat small behind the wheel and had to stretch his nose to keep an eye on where he was headed, but he was moving, putting distance between himself and Scooter Cobb. After several hours, once he believed himself to be out of the county and far enough away to be safe, he began feeling hungry and took to wishing he’d brought along a snack. A sandwich maybe; and some dog food. Probably even his third baseman’s mitt. “Shit-fire!” Ethan grumbled, thinking back on all the things he’d stupidly left behind.

  A short while before sunup, when there were streaks of red poking splinters into the sky but still no daylight, the car sputtered to a stop. “What-the-hell?” Ethan groaned. He tried starting the car again. The engine coughed once then settled into a hollow whine. Susanna had taught Ethan to drive—start the engine, shift gears, stop and go; but she’d not bothered with the necessity of gas-buying. The boy twisted the ignition key numerous times then finally gave up. He took hold of Dog’s rope and stepped out onto the road. “You hunk of junk,” he said, giving the fender one last kick before they began walking south along the towpath—him kicking at the dirt, the dog panting as if he was thirsting for a drink of water. “Forget it,” Ethan moaned, “We ain’t got none.” Once the light of morning broke, they turned east in search of a main road, some food and water, and hopefully someone who could give them a ride to Wyattsville.

  Ethan Allen

  We’d of been in Norfolk by now, if that stupid ass car didn’t give out. Mama would be real proud of me, driving off in her car, and escaping as I did. She says I’m free-spirited like her. She says her and me has got a God given gift for seeing past bad times and fixing our eye on some bright spot in the future. I ain’t figuring on no bright spots coming up anytime soon, but leastwise I ain’t getting my ass pounded to a pulp by Scooter Cobb.

  I’m glad I’m like Mama, even if she is dead. Leastwise I‘ll be having myself some fun instead of grumping all the time, like Daddy. This Grandpa, I’m headed for, he’s from Daddy’s side of the family but I sure hope he ain’t nothing like Daddy; ‘cause if he is, I got myself one hell of a problem.

  One time I asked Mama where her side of the family was, but she said there wasn’t none. She said she never had no mama or papa; she just one day crawled out from under a rosebush, full grown and singing like a lark. That was Mama, always making up stuff and acting a fool. Daddy used to think she was poking fun at him, but Mama poked fun at everybody, even herself. Daddy never did see that.

  Help at Hand

  Welcome to Exmore the sign said, but for as far ahead as Ethan could see there was nothing but dirt road. He’d been walking for what seemed to be hours. He was tired, thirsty, and damn sorry he hadn’t brought his bicycle. If I had it, he thought, I would have been clear to the ferry by now, instead of dragging my sorry ass through a bunch of back roads. Almost an hour after he passed the sign, Ethan came to the first inkling of civilization; a gas station. Standing alongside the pump was a man wearing a uniform that read Go ESSO. “You got water for a dog?” Ethan asked.

  “Around back,” the man answered, “there’s a spigot and pan.”

  “You sell food? Sandwiches, maybe?”

  “Just soda pop and snacks.”

  Ethan led Dog around to the back of the station and waited as he lapped up two full pans of water. Then he trudged inside the garage where a rack of cup cakes and candies sat next to a red cooler. Ethan took hold of two Moon Pies then lifted the lid of the cooler—a bunch of pop bottles were bobbing around in a tub of lukewarm water. “Hey,” he shouted, “this pop ain’t cold!”

  “It’s all I got,” the man answered.

  “Figures,” Ethan groaned. He pulled out a bottle of Yoo-Hoo then slid a pack of gum into his pocket on his way out the door. “How much for two Moon Pies and a pop?” he breezily asked the
attendant.

  “Fifteen cents for the pies and ten for the pop, two cents deposit if you’re taking that bottle with you.” The man, willowy as a reed and, according to neighborhood boys, suspicious by nature, raised an eyebrow. “And,” he drawled, “that gum in your pocket’s an extra six cents.”

  Ethan, who had a knack for sliding things into his pocket smoothly, had never before been caught in the act. He turned red-faced; “Oh yeah, the gum,” he stammered, “I almost forgot about that.” He fished in his pocket and counted out thirty-one cents. “I ain’t gonna take the bottle,” he said.

  Ethan squatted on the curb and peeled back a Moon Pie wrapper. He took a bite then broke off a piece and fed it to the dog, took another bite and fed the dog another piece. The attendant watched as this continued until the first Moon Pie was finished but when the boy unwrapped the second one and started doing the same thing, he called out, “You ought not be giving that dog chocolate, it’ll kill him!”

  Ethan turned, “Huh?”

  “Dogs,” the man said, “they can’t eat chocolate the way people can. Speeds their heart up; causes them to fall over dead, that’s what it does.”

  “You pulling my leg, mister?”

  “I sure ain’t. I got eight dogs, I’d feed any one of them gun powder ‘fore I’d give them chocolate.” The man walked over to the curb and sat down alongside Dog. “Bet you love this dog, don’t you?”

  Ethan nodded.

  “Can’t say I blame you. He’s a mighty fine animal. Yep, a body sure wouldn’t want to harm a fine animal like him.”

  “No sir,” Ethan answered, “I wouldn’t.”

  The ESSO man smiled, “What’s your name, boy?”

  Ethan swallowed hard then spit out the first name that came to mind. “Jack,” he answered, “Jack Mahoney.”