Spare Change (Wyattsville #1)(15)

Ethan Allen squeezed himself a bit closer. Susanna smiled and tightened her arms around him. At times his way of thinking seemed so grown up that it was possible for her to forget he was still a boy who needed his mama’s hugs. “Honey,” she sighed, “you simply got to understand this business with Mister Cobb don’t mean nothing. He’s my boss and I butter him up a bit so he’ll take a liking to me.”

“But, Mama…”

“Uh-uh,” she put her finger to his lips. “No buts. Mama knows what she’s doing and me working for Scooter Cobb is what’s gonna get us to New York City.”

Ethan Allen gave her a wide smile. He’d been listening to stories of New York City for as long as he could remember and never tired of hearing them. He never grew bored of watching his mama’s eyes sparkle as she talked about how the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall could kick their legs higher than a man’s head. While other toddlers were listening to stories of Peter Rabbit, he heard about how the women in New York were paid hundreds of dollars every week, just for singing and dancing.

“You’re gonna love New York,” Susanna said, “It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before. More lights than a downtown Christmas tree and the partying—why, it goes on all night long.” She smiled and waited for him to ask the question he always asked. It was a game they played; she wove tales of fame and fortune, he urged her on, hoping to prolong those moments of intimacy.

“Are we really gonna move to New York?” he said with a grin.

“You betcha boots! Mama’s gonna get a job singing, maybe even on the radio, then we’re gonna move into a fine apartment building with an elevator that carries people up and down anytime of the day or night they’ve a mind to go.”

“What about Dog?”

“He’ll come with us. We’ll get him a fancy rhinestone collar and let him poop right out in the middle of Fifth Avenue.”

For a few minutes Ethan Allen was laughing like a kid; then the overly mature look of worry slipped back onto his face. “Is Mister Scooter going with us?”

Susanna shook her head. “Of course not,” she answered. “It’s gonna be just the three of us—you, me and your daddy.”

“Good!”

“Good?”

“Yeah; I don’t like Mister Scooter. He’s too fat and he grabs hold of your boobies in front of everybody.”

“He don’t mean nothing by that, it’s his way of acting a fool. He’s been real good to you Ethan, and he’s good to me too. Why, he’s paying me twice as much money as they did at the five and dime.” She started to tickle his belly. “Besides,” she said, “I get lots of tips and you get all that free pie!”

“I wouldn’t care if I didn’t get no more free pie,” he answered.

“Well, I’d care if I didn’t get that tip money!” She smiled proudly, “Do you know I’ve got almost one thousand dollars saved up already. Come summer, we’re off to New York City—and, that, my little man, is a promise!”





Susanna Doyle





There are times when I can say with absolute honesty, I hate Benjamin Doyle. Because of him, I got no life whatsoever. If I didn’t have my waitressing job I’d probably go

stark raving mad. At least with working I got a reason to get out of the house, but let me come home the teeniest bit late and he starts carrying on like I

been dancing naked in the town square.





It’s true enough that I got a good body, the kind that attracts men; but if Benjamin would of taken me to New York like he said he was gonna, I likely as not wouldn’t be looking for other means of entertainment.





Our kid, Ethan Allen, he’s sort of like me. He knows how to make the best of situations. He thinks I don’t know he steals money out of the cookie jar—but I do. I figure a kid’s gotta have some fun, and there sure as hell ain’t no fun out here on this rat trap farm. One of these days, I’m

gonna get loose of this place, and when I do, I’m taking the kid with me—he

deserves at least that.





Summer of Rage

The year Ethan Allen became eleven was when things between Benjamin and Susanna turned rancid as a week old pork chop. It had been a summer of one-hundred-degree days with hardly a drop of rain. Morning after morning, the sun came up hotter than a fireball threatening to blister any foolhardy soul who dared venture outside. Housewives kept their window shades pulled down and refused to fetch laundry that had been hanging on the clothesline for weeks. Men, accustomed to spending their days in the field, stood in front of their refrigerator gasping bits of cool air. “Why bother,” they’d tell their wives, “The corn’s too puny to bring to market.”

There was not a single person on all of the Eastern Shore who was not irritable and out of sorts, but Benjamin was by far the worst. Not only was he dealing with a crop of soy beans that wouldn’t take root, but the tractor had suddenly taken to acting temperamental. He was in the barn, replacing a rubber belt that had become drier than a dinosaur bone, when Susanna walked in and announced it was time for them to start thinking about that trip to New York City. “Don’t bother me with such nonsense,” he answered, “You see I’ve got problems with the tractor.”