Spare Change (Wyattsville #1)(33)

“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.