Spare Change (Wyattsville #1)(38)

“Oh, she would Mister Behrens, but she’s flat on her back, at death’s door the doctor said. She likely won’t make it through the week, that’s why she sent me to fetch my Grandpa.” Ethan sniffled as though he was fighting back a tear.

“Good grief,” Tom Behrens said, shaking his head side to side. “That’s a lot of worry for a little fella like you to be carting around.” Tom stood and walked into the garage, minutes later he was back with a map of Virginia. “Okay, now,” he said unfolding fold after fold, “…let’s find out exactly where Wyattsville is.” It took almost ten minutes but he finally plopped his finger down on a tiny speck and said, “Here!”

Ethan stretched his neck and looked, but not having any map-reading experience, he wasn’t all that sure of what he was actually looking at.

“It’s about fifty miles northwest of Richmond,” Tom said, “and Richmond’s one hundred and fifty miles from here, give or take.”

“Whew! Further than I figured.”

“Was you planning on walking the whole way?”

Ethan lowered his eyes and nodded solemnly.

“You’d be an old man by time you got there. You got to catch a ride.” Tom started fingering his chin, “Let’s see,” he hummed, “with it being Sunday, there’s less folks likely to be headed over to Richmond. So, we got to figure who’d have cause…” He sat there for what seemed to Ethan an awfully long time; then he said, “Kenny Wilkes! Kenny harvested a slew of soy beans last week and he’s probably going to market today.”

When Tom went to call Kenny, Ethan picked up the map and started studying it, tracing his finger from town to town, wondering if he would ever make it to Wyattsville. And what if he did? Maybe this grandpa he’d never even seen would simply slam the door in his face and tell him to go on back home. What then? He wondered. By the time Tom returned, there were tears rimming Ethan’s eyes.

“What’s this?” Tom asked and offered out a greasy handkerchief.

Ethan set his mouth in a perfectly straight line and said, “Nothing. A cinder might’ve blew in my eye.”

Tom shrugged. He knew damn good and well the boy was lying, but sometimes it was a kinder thing to believe a lie than probe for the truth. “Kenny took the beans over last week,” Tom said, “but he fixed it for you to ride with a friend of his, name of Butch Wheeler. Thing is, Butch’s working on a tight schedule, so you got to meet him at the truck stop over on Route thirteen—one o’clock, on the button.”

Ethan glanced at the clock outside the garage. “I’ll never make it,” he said with the corners of his mouth turned down, “it’s twelve-thirty now.”

Tom smiled, “You will if I drive you.” As they climbed into the truck, he handed the boy a pack of Twinkies and a stick of beef jerky. “On the house,” he said, “but, don’t you go giving the dog any of the cup cake.”

Tom whirled into the Lucky 13 Truck Depot with almost two full minutes to spare. Butch Wheeler was already there; he was standing outside the cab of a flatbed loaded with crates of squawking chickens. The sight of him, back turned, caused Ethan to shudder; for if ever Scooter Cobb had a twin, it was surely Butch Wheeler. He had the same massive build, taller even than Scooter, certainly wider. As it turned out, there were two differences—Butch Wheeler was blacker than a night sky and he had a robust laugh such as Ethan had never heard. “Well boy, I sure hope you ain’t allergic to Chickens,” he growled, then laughed so loud it sounded like thunder.

“No sir,” Ethan, still taking measure of the man’s size, mumbled. “I ain’t afraid of nothing, leastwise chickens.”

Butch Wheeler laughed louder than ever, so loud in fact, Dog’s tail drooped to the ground. Tom, not given to the same level of joviality as Butch, cracked a bit of a smile then told Ethan allergic was when a thing caused you to itch or sneeze. One minute later, on the dot of one o’clock, the flatbed pulled out carrying a very large man, a boy, a dog and seventeen crates of live chickens.

Just before Ethan climbed up into the truck, Tom had pressed a dollar bill into his palm and whispered, “Take care of yourself Jack and get to Wyattsville safely. I’ll be praying for you and that sick mama of yours.” After that he’d given Ethan a real friendly hug and sent him on his way, expecting nothing in return.

Several miles later as Ethan sat watching the road signs whiz by, he thought back to the incident and started hoping this grandpa he was going to see had the goodness of Tom Behrens. Maybe, he thought, Grandpa will feel real bad about me losing my mama and buy me a new bicycle. After that, Ethan started wondering whether it would be better to ask for the bicycle right off or start with a third baseman’s mitt.

“Whatcha thinking about, Jack?” Butch asked. “Jack? Jack?”





Olivia

I know the people here at the Wyattsville Arms apartment building mean well. At first they were real standoffish, but now they treat me as kindly as they would one of their own. Someone is always telephoning to ask if I’ve an interest in going shopping, or joining up for some social event; and I make an effort to be sociable right back. But still there isn’t a day that passes when I don’t wake up and wonder how I can possibly struggle through another twenty-four hours. I look at that chair and instead of seeing a plumped up pillow, I see a hole where Charlie ought to be sitting. A single day hangs onto me like a week, and a week, why that seems longer than a lifetime.