Spare Change (Wyattsville #1)(62)

Olivia

It’s strange how a thought that’s been cemented inside your head for a lifetime can all of a sudden disappear. I used to pity poor Francine Burnam because of her having those five kids. With one of them always wanting something, she never seemed to have a minute to call her own. But, thinking back, I can remember how I’d be beside myself because the kids were romping around like a herd of wild buffalo; but she’d just sit there with the most contented smile on her face.

It’s an unexplainable thing, but having a youngster around makes a person feel they’ve got a more purposeful life. You wake up in the morning and instead of thinking… here I am stuck with another day to muddle through… you pop out of bed and start frying up an egg. After Charlie died, I worried about what would become of me; but now, I’m more worried about that boy—he’s downright foul-mouthed and skinny as a snake.

You’ve got to wonder what kind of parents would let a child grow up cussing the way he does. Not me, that’s for sure! Every time he lets go of one of those words, I say, Ethan Allen, watch your mouth.





The Youngest Resident

Once the Rules Committee decreed that Ethan Allen could stay at Wyattsville Arms, he took to marching through the hallways like a man who was part-owner of the building. He rode the elevator up and down for the least little thing, a drink of water, a snack, a trip to the bathroom—sometimes he rode up and down just for the pure fun of doing it, pushing buttons for floors where he had no intention of getting off. When Mister Capolinsky frowned and said he ought not to be doing such a thing, Ethan replied that the Rules Committee had made allowances for him.

“Just for living here,” Mister Capolinsky, who was rather crotchety, replied, “not for destroying private property.”

After that Ethan held back from pushing the buttons for all twelve floors, except times when he found himself alone in the elevator—he figured a thing that was as much fun as an elevator, should be used for riding pleasure. He reasoned that if a person simply wanted to get in or out of the building, they’d use the back staircase like he’d been doing for the past two weeks.

On the very first afternoon of his being allowed, Ethan Allen loaded both the bicycle and dog in the elevator, rode down to the lobby and strolled leisurely out the front door, nodding to folks he’d never before seen as he passed by. Missus Willoughby, who’d not yet heard the news of the Rules Committee’s decision, gasped aloud and wobbled as if she was about to fall into a faint. “It’s okay,” Ethan said proudly, “I’m allowed!” He wheeled his new bicycle to the sidewalk, lifted Dog into the basket and off he went. He rode round and round the building walkway for hours; so long in fact that residents started waving from their windows and counting the laps as he passed by. Afterward, he rode over to the park and then to the playground, which was locked because of it being a school day. Finally, having run out of places to go and tired of circling the building, he parked his bike in the lobby and went upstairs. “You need anything from the store?” he asked Olivia. “Bread, maybe? Milk?”

“Well,” she answered, “I suppose I could use a bit more peanut butter.”

“Okay,” he chirped cheerfully, and was out the door before she had time to mention they were also running a bit low on potato chips.

When that errand was finished, he went by Clara’s apartment and asked the same question. She, it seemed, was short of buttermilk, so Ethan peddled back to the Piggly Wiggly and fetched it for her. Clara, pleased she wouldn’t have to make the trip herself, gave Ethan a nickel for his trouble. After that, Mister Edwards sent him for the new issue of Life Magazine. Then it was a bag of onions for Hanna Michaels, a tube of toothpaste for Barbara Conklin, some sugar for Elsie Kurtz and a newspaper for Fred McGinty, who gave him a dime for fetching a newspaper that cost five cents. By suppertime, Ethan couldn’t make a move without hearing the sound of coins jingling in his pocket.

“Where’d you get all that money,” Olivia asked as they sat down to eat.

“Earned it,” he answered, his face bright as a Christmas tree, “doing errands.”

Olivia couldn’t help but notice the way the boy’s mouth stretched into a smile—smaller, but angled exactly like Charlie’s. “You’re not going around bothering folks, are you?” she asked, but that wasn’t really what she was thinking.

Ethan shook his head, and reluctantly chomped down on a forkful of string beans which, along with a chunk of fatback, had simmered on Olivia’s stove for hours. “These is real good,” he said letting go of a smile. “They taste different than beans from a can.” He shoveled in another bite.

Olivia smiled. She knew the taste of canned string beans only too well; she’d been eating them for over thirty years. Canned string beans, a single pork chop, one leg of a chicken—that was the way a single woman had to cook; anything more would have been wasteful. But, after a lifetime of canned goods and ready-made foods from the downtown delicatessen, she was ready for some home cooking. She’d planned to do it for Charlie, not just planned, eagerly anticipated, even gathered up a whole collection of recipes, then… Olivia gazed across the table at the boy with twilight blue eyes and a curled up grin, and saw him as a miniature of his grandfather. “Close enough,” she sighed.