Spare Change (Wyattsville #1)(45)

“Policeman?” Butch roared, a cascade of laughter slid down his chins and set his belly to bouncing, “Why, that man’s just a ticket taker!” He laughed again then said, “But you…well now, you got the look of a lad who’s up to something.”

Ethan’s mouth flew open, “Not me,” he stammered, “I ain’t up to nothing!”

“Is that so,” Butch said, a chuckle still rumbling through his chins. “Could be you robbed a bank. You got the shifty eyes of a bank robber. Yes sir, robbed a bank, or maybe stole that dog. You do either of those things, boy?”

“No sir,” Ethan Allen answered in earnest. “I never robbed no bank, and this here dog was a birthday present from my mama.”

“That so?” Butch laughed again, then stuck his arm out the window and handed the uniformed man his ticket. Once the ferry was underway, he turned to the boy and asked, “You running away from home, Jack? Is that why you’re so skittish about the police?”

Ethan Allen, who’d now tuned his ear to listening for the name Jack, answered, “No sir.”

“Your mama, she knows where you’re headed?”

“Yes sir.”

“And she allows for you to be hitching rides on chicken trucks?”

Ethan could make up stories quicker than you’d imagine possible, and he could tell them in a way that was most convincing. He also knew when he was skating too close to the edge of believability and the look on Butch Wheeler’s face, indicated it was time for him to move back. “Truth is,” Ethan said, in a heavy-hearted voice, “my mama’s dead. But, when she was breathing her last, she told me to go live with Grandpa.”

“Hmm.”

“Honest! Look here,” Ethan fished in his pocket and pulled out a card that read—love, Grandpa. “See, this is who I’m supposed to go live with.”

“Oh? And, where exactly does this grandpa live?”

Ethan showed the back flap of the envelope with Charlie Doyle’s return address.

“Doyle, huh? He your mama’s daddy?”

Still tuned in to his using of the name Mahoney, Ethan nodded.

Butch handed the envelope back, “Where’s your own daddy?”

“He got shot in the war and died.” Ethan thought about adding in that his daddy had been a hero with all kinds of medals, but he decided against it—sometimes saying too much was what could get a fellow in trouble.

“That’s sure enough a rotten break,” Butch said, “but it don’t explain you being so afraid of the law.”

“If they get hold of me, they’ll lock me up in an orphanage. This kid I know got sent to an orphanage, and he said it was God awful; they make you sleep on the floor and eat things that ain’t fit for human consumption.”

“It ain’t quite that bad,” Butch said with an easy smile, “but it sure enough ain’t pleasant. Anyway, you got no worries; you got blood kin willing to claim you.” He glanced over at the way one side of the boy’s mouth was sloping toward his chin, “Your grandpa knows you’re coming, don’t he?”

Ethan forced a happy-looking smile onto his face and nodded.

After that, things went along smooth as a pig’s belly. Butch Wheeler unloaded the crates of chickens in Richmond, then turned west onto Route 33 and drove Ethan Allen all the way to Wyattsville, right to the front door of his grandpa’s apartment building. “You want me to go in with you?” Butch asked, but the boy shook his head and hurried off.



Ethan Allen ran his finger along the names printed on the mail slots—Parker, Cunningham, Ryan, Casper, Dolby—Doyle! Apartment 7D. He gave Dog’s rope a tug, walked past the No Pets Allowed sign, stepped into the elevator and pushed number seven. As the brass doors rattled shut, he started to sweat—it was one thing to say you were going to live with a grandpa who didn’t know you from a knothole; but something else entirely, to be standing there when the door opened. He spit into the palm of his hand and slicked his hair back. “He’s my grandpa, he’s gotta like me,” Ethan told his reflection.

When the elevator doors opened, Ethan stepped out into a hallway with carpeting that stretched from one wall to the other. There was not a soul in sight and it was way too quiet for his liking. It didn’t give off the sounds or smells of a place where people lived. He heard the far away echo of people talking, but after the elevator doors rattled shut, even that was gone. Using the smallest whisper possible, he tried to practice what he would say when Grandpa Doyle answered the door, “Hello,” he squeaked, “I’m your grandson, Ethan Allen; I’ve come to live with you.” The words flip-flopped in his throat and made him want to gag, they sounded stupid and shrill as a tin whistle. He started down the hallway and tried again, “Hi there, Grandpa Doyle,” he said, this time mustering up a feigned gleefulness. It sounded worse than hello, I’m your grandson. One more try and then he found himself face to face with apartment 7D; he gave the doorbell a quick glance, then decided he wasn’t quite ready and shuffled off to the far end of the hall. “Grandpa Doyle,” he repeated over and over again, trying for the sound of sincerity, the sound of a boy genuinely glad to be spending time with an old man. When he finally got it right, he started working on what would follow.