Spare Change (Wyattsville #1)(44)

Two weeks later, with Olivia at the wheel, five women from the Wyattsville Social Club drove over to the Old Sailors Home and donated nine cartons of perfectly good clothing. They stayed for lunch and watched as the men happily divvied up jackets, suits, sweaters and so forth. Olivia had to admit the bearded man who won out for Charlie’s powder blue suit looked strikingly handsome. All in all, she had never before witnessed quite so much smiling in a single afternoon.

The club chair, which was far too cumbersome to transport any distance was given to Herman Hopmeyer, a man who lived three doors down and had the same roundness of behind as did Charlie.

In the weeks that followed, Olivia transformed the apartment bit by bit. She bought a Queen Anne slipper chair to replace the one given away, painted the bathroom a rose petal pink, hung new curtains in the kitchen and set row after row of potted plants on every windowsill. She also had the name Westerly—Doyle etched in brass and affixed it to the front door.

One night in early April, shortly after the hyacinth burst open in a profusion of purple, Olivia had a dream. She was walking through the park holding tight to the string of a powder blue balloon, when suddenly the string slipped from her hand. As it floated upward she saw the sky filled with brightly colored balloons, all of them rising higher and higher until at the very top of the heavens they became part of a rainbow. Although the people around her seemed to be singing a truly joyous song, Olivia started to sob. “Why are you crying?” a boy asked.

“Because I’ve lost my balloon,” she answered.

“Lost? It’s not lost. Look.” The boy lifted his hand and pointed a finger toward a brilliant speck of blue dancing on the edge of the rainbow.

“But,” Olivia sobbed, “…when the rainbow is gone—”

“It’s never gone,” the boy said, “it’s always there if you go looking.” The child eased his hand into hers and looked up with eyes blue as the balloon.

The next morning Olivia awoke with the strangest peace of mind.

Thus began a new life. Olivia had gone through a thousand heartaches and passed by countless milestones, but at long last she had arrived at the place where she could spend her days enjoying the simple life of warm-hearted friends, pot roast dinners and neighborly parties—a life free of complex relationships.





Ethan Allen

It was a real nice thing, Mister Behrens fixing me a ride to Wyattsville. But I gotta say, the closer I get to Grandpa Doyle’s house, the more I’m worrying he ain’t gonna be too pleased with the sight of me.

Mama said he didn’t want nothing to do with Daddy—could be, he’s got no use for kids. ‘Course, I don’t know if Grandpa didn’t want nothing to do with Daddy when he was a kid, or just after he got growed-up and mean. I’m hoping it was the growed-up part; leastwise then I got a chance.

Daddy wasn’t always mean. Mama said when they was first married he was sweet as honeysuckle—‘course, you couldn’t prove it by me, I only knowed him as mean.

Blood’s thicker than water, according to Mama, so I’m trusting this grandpa’s gonna let me stay. I’ll say I take after Daddy when he was a kid, that ought to make Grandpa feel good—if it turns out Daddy was a mean kid, then I’ll say I’m more like Mama. If I can’t get this grandpa to take some sort of liking to me, I’m really shit outta luck.





The Crossing

When the flatbed of chickens pulled out of the Lucky 13 Truck Depot, Ethan Allen had his eyes focused straight ahead, watching only where he was headed. Had the boy turned to look back, he would have seen Tom Behrens—a man standing apart from the others, his hands jammed deep into the pockets of ESSO coveralls and his foot kicking at the dirt. Tom watched as the truck shrunk to the size of a toy then disappeared altogether. If he was smart, he told himself, he’d walk away. Walk away and forget what he’d seen in the boy’s face, forget that it was the same look of hardness and hurt he’d seen in the mirror a thousand or more times. It had taken him twenty years to forget those days, and now, in the span of a few short hours, it was all back again. “May the Lord God have mercy on you, Jack Mahoney,” he mumbled, then turned and walked off.

“You got dirt in your ears, boy?” Butch Wheeler shouted in a booming voice.

Ethan Allen, lost in the thumping of tires against the road and thoughts of how to explain himself to this never-before-seen grandpa, looked over. “Dirt in my ears?”

“Yeah. Four times I asked, whatcha thinking about Jack; but you sit there like you’re deaf as a stone.”

“Oh, sorry,” Ethan said with a sheepish grin. Obviously, he was gonna have to keep an ear open for answering to the name of Jack Mahoney.

“No harm done.” Butch Wheeler signaled for a left hand turn then pulled into the line of cars waiting for the ferry to dock.

Ethan craned his neck checking out the cars on both sides of the truck. He saw plenty of Fords, Plymouths and Pontiacs, but happily, no police cars. All he needed now was another hour or two of luck. Once he made it to the mainland, Scooter would never find him. Never in a million years. Even if Cobb nosed around the truckers asking if they knew anything of Ethan Allen Doyle, they’d say no and shake their head. Good thing he’d thought to say his name was Jack Mahoney.

They sat there for another twenty minutes, the chickens squawking and the motor grumbling like it was in need of some oil; finally the line of cars began to inch forward. They’d moved two, maybe three, car lengths when Ethan spotted a uniformed man up ahead. His heart came to a standstill—no beating, no pumping blood in one side and out the other, nothing. It could be they had his picture—if that was the case it wouldn’t matter what name he was using. A faint heartbeat started up again and he slid closer to the door, looping his fingers around the handle. He could run if he had to, if his heart held out long enough, but maybe… he turned and in the high-pitched voice of a castrated canary, said, “Okay if I squat down under the seat when that policeman gets here?”