Spare Change (23 page)

At the time, Tom gave the
statement little attention, figuring it to be what his mama called
a man
feeling sorry about his lot.
But, the very next morning when he got up
there were two twenty dollar bills on the kitchen table and his daddy was gone
as gone could be. There was never even so much as a postcard after that.

In September, when the other
boys his age were lined up in Miss Brannigan’s sixth grade classroom, Tom was
missing. He was at home, watching over his mama and fearing at any moment she
would take her last breath; which didn’t happen until the day before Christmas.
He could still envision the look of sadness that settled in around his eyes
that year; a look of worry far beyond what any boy should know. On the day they
planted his mama in the ground, Tom caught a glimpse of himself as he passed by
a mirror. Any resemblance to the boy he had been was gone; the person looking
back was an old man, a man well-acquainted with misery.      

Tom could still picture that
reflection; it had a bitter, rock hard look, the same sort of look he’d seen on
the face of the boy—Jack Mahoney. 

Tom fished for three days
straight; leaving the door to the gas station locked tight and pushing aside
thoughts of customers who’d be standing at the pump waiting to purchase fuel
for their automobile. He sat alongside the creek and dangled his line in the
water—all the time remembering that summer when he’d been the most miserable
boy on the face of the earth.  Every so often a silvery bass swallowed down the
bait and started yanking on the line, but Tom was interested in thinking, not
catching, so he’d cut the fish free and send it on its way. He kept reminding
himself that he’d been just thirteen—what more could a boy of that age have
done for a mama that was dying? 

On the fourth day, Tom
returned to the gas station with a ball of resolve pushing up against his
chest. As a boy he’d had no choice but to stand there and watch his mama slip
away. But, he wasn’t a boy anymore; he was a man now and he could sure as hell
do something about the sorrowful condition of Jack Mahoney’s mama.

Tom wished he had asked
where the boy came from, or what his mama’s Christian name was—but he hadn’t,
so that was that. All he knew about the boy was that his last name was Mahoney
and he’d traveled south along the Eastern Shore headed for the mainland, which
probably meant his mama lived somewhere on the island. Unfortunately, nine
different counties ran end-to-end along the narrow peninsula, and each one had
their own telephone directory. Tom, scooping up every loose dime in the cash
register, positioned himself at the pay telephone on the outside wall of the
gas station, the telephone stood alongside a rack of directories. He opened the
first book—Flaubert County—dropped in a dime and dialed the number listed for
Albert Mahoney. Albert, who answered on the first ring, claimed he had no
knowledge of a boy named Jack, nor a Mahoney woman who might be lying on her
deathbed. Tom thanked the man, hung up, and tracked his finger down to the next
name. He dropped in another dime and dialed Allen Mahoney; after that it was Anna
then Charles, then Daniel, and, he continued on until one by one he had called
every Mahoney in Flaubert Country. 

At eight-thirty, after a
number of people had complained he’d interrupted their dinner, he stopped
calling. He had gone through three counties, but so far no one knew anything
about a boy named Jack Mahoney. 

The next morning he was back
at the telephone a full two hours before the gas station was scheduled to open.
Eugenia Mahoney was the first call. She answered on the second ring, her voice
registering the sound of a sob ready to follow, “hello.” 

“Good morning,” Tom said
cheerfully, “I hate to be a bother, but I’m looking to find the mama of a boy
named Jack Mahoney—”    

“How dare you!” the woman
angrily screamed into the receiver, “how dare you wake a sound asleep person
and make them think somebody’s died!”

“I’m real sorry,” Tom mumbled,
“I surely had no intention—”

“No intention? No
intention?” Eugenia, it seemed, had a tendency to repeat herself with the
second go around being considerably louder than the first. “What else,” she
screamed, “is a person supposed to think when the telephone starts jangling off
the hook in the middle of the night?”

“Actually, it’s
six-fifteen.”

“Are you some sort of a wise
guy? Is that it? Well,” she snapped, “you’re barking up the wrong tree, because
I’ll get the law down on you, that’s what—”

Tom quietly slid the
telephone receiver back into its cradle and ended the conversation. He’d be
better off, he decided, waiting till eight or nine o’clock to resume his
search. He walked back inside the station and set a pot of coffee to brew. 

When Clifford Pence stopped
by to fill his truck with gasoline, Tom asked if he knew anything of a boy,
“Nine or ten, maybe,” he said, “got himself a wiry-haired brown dog, you know
anybody like that?”

Clifford fingered his chin
for a moment then shook his head. “Can’t recall that I’ve seen such a lad,” he
said, “You checked the orphanage?”

Tom asked the same question
of everyone who drove in and even of two people who were simply passing by on
the sidewalk. Margaret Walters claimed she had a nephew in New Jersey who
pretty much fit that description, but everyone else simply shook their head and
went on about their business. At eight-forty-five, Tom started making telephone
calls again.

By four o’clock he’d moved
on to the ninth name in the sixth directory. He dropped a dime into the slot,
dialed the number and waited as the phone rang four, five, then six times. Just
as he was ready to hang up, a man answered, “Hold on a second,” he said, “let
me close the door.”

As soon as the voice came
back on the line, Tom swung into his apology for interrupting the man’s day,
and went to his questioning. “I’m looking to locate a woman who’s bad sick, as
I understand it, she’s the mama of a Jack Mahoney—”

“I’m Jack Mahoney, but…”

“Oh, I’m sure you ain’t the
same
Jack Mahoney. The one I’m referring to is just a boy—a bit over four foot tall,
blond hair, got a wiry-haired brown dog. You know anybody fits a description
such as that?”

“I can think of one such
boy,” Jack replied, remembering Ethan Allen, who was still among the missing, “…but,
his name isn’t Jack Mahoney.”   

“I doubt it’s him. The boy I
came across said his name was Jack Mahoney; I remember that for certain.”

“When was it you met this
boy?”

“Let’s see now,” Tom
mumbled, counting back the number of days, “Nine days ago,” he finally
answered, “Yep, a week back from last Sunday; that was it.”

“He wearing a brown and
yellow stripe shirt, green pants?”

“Now that you make mention
of it, I do believe he was.”

“You remember the name of
that animal he was traveling with?”

“Can’t say I do,” Tom
replied, “I believe the lad just called him dog.” 

Mahoney, who for a solid
week had been looking for Ethan Allen, said, “I know the boy you’re looking
for.”

“Well, actually, I wasn’t so
much looking for the boy, he should be pretty well off with his grandpa; I’m
looking to find his sick mama. I figured maybe I could offer up some help.” Tom
was on the verge of telling how his own mama’s death had taken place under
similar circumstances but before he got the chance, Mahoney interrupted.

 “That boy was just playing
on your sympathies. His name ain’t Jack Mahoney; it’s Ethan Allen Doyle and his
mama’s already dead.”

“Shitfire!”

“He knew she was dead when
he ran off. We had a place for the boy to live but—”

“Run off?”

“Yes indeed. I personally
dropped him off at the Cobb’s place and turned him over to Emma—she’s one of
the nicest people you could hope to meet. Emma’s the mama of a patrolman in my
station house, so we figured it would be a good place for the boy to stay. She
fixed him a bite to eat and tucked him into bed; next morning he was gone.
There was nothing but a rolled-up mound of clothes under the blanket.”

“Damnation!” Tom grumbled.
“I been took for the fool I am!  Listening to that boy, I would of sworn he was
on the up and up.”

They talked on and on for
almost twenty minutes, Mahoney explained how he and Patrolman Cobb were the law
officers called in when the boy’s mama and daddy were murdered. “It happened
right there in their own house,” he said, “the boy’s mama apparently died from
a single blow to the head, but his daddy… that poor bastard looked like he’d
gone through a meat grinder.”

“Sweet Jesus.”

“It’s bad enough for a boy
to lose both his parents,” Mahoney said, his voice weighted with concern, “…but,
we’ve also got a suspicion that Ethan Allen knows who did the killing. If that
is the case; he could be in a considerable amount of danger.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Tom sighed
again, understanding now why the boy lied. Anybody who’d gone through such a
thing would of course lie; not just lie, but run like hell to get loose from
the devil dogging his heels. A man could spend a lifetime trying to escape
things from which there was no escaping. But Tom knew that sometimes all you got
for your trouble was a bunch of bad memories.     

“If you got any knowledge as
to where he went…”

“Not right off,” Tom
answered. “But I know he was headed for his grandpa’s place over on the
mainland.”

“That’s like looking for a
raindrop in a river,” Mahoney sighed.

“It was one of those little
towns west of Richmond,” Tom said. “The address was written on an envelope…”
Tom closed his eyes and pictured the boy pulling the envelope from his pocket,
but he couldn’t focus in on the scribbled return address. “I remember helping the
kid find it on the map—Wernersville, Waterboro, Wyattstown—it was someplace
like that; give me a day or so and I’ll have the name for you.”

Mahoney, eager for even the
smallest bit of information, quickly volunteered to drive down for a face to
face talk with Tom. “I’ll see you day after tomorrow,” he said. After he hung
up he called Sam Cobb, “I’ve got a line on the boy,” he said, “and being you
were in on the start of this, I thought you might want to come along.”  

“Sure,” Cobb replied, for he
liked the prestige of working with a detective and didn’t often get the chance.
“’Course, I doubt he’s gonna tell
us
what really happened…”

“You never know,” Mahoney
answered, “you just never know.”

Olivia

S
ometimes when I look at Ethan Allen, I can see Charlie
looking back at me from inside those blue eyes. It’s amazing how much the boy
resembles his grandfather; yet there’s a world of difference in their
personalities. Charlie was open-hearted and full of fun; but this boy is the
exact opposite. It might be because he’s got so many hurts locked inside of him;
but still, you’d think he’d be more receptive to my kindness. That’s not the
way it is. The more I try to get close to him, the harder he pulls to get away.
I genuinely feel for the child, but I swear to God, he’s almost impossible to
understand.

And, that mouth of his—why,
it’s enough to make a sailor blush! 

Despite what I might
think, Ethan Allen is Charlie’s only grandchild, so I’m trying to do right by
him. At first, I figured us spending time together would encourage the boy to
loosen up about his family, but getting him to talk is worse than trying to
milk a stone. I’m sure he’s got relatives somewhere; people who’d love to take
both him and his dog.  That would probably be for the best. An orphaned child
belongs with blood relatives; not some stranger who happened to marry his
grandfather. I’m no relation whatsoever, the boy deserves better than that.
 

Thickening of Blood

O
livia saw the look on the boy’s face as he stomped out
the front door and recognized it right off—how could she have not? It was the
same wild-eyed frenzy she’d seen in her own mirror just after Charlie died. For
a while she’d been tricked into believing it to be sorrow; so she cried buckets
and buckets of tears. Then it masqueraded itself as anger, and she raged—hurtling
things against the walls and kicking at the furniture. Finally, on that stormy
night when there was nothing left but the roar of the ocean and the agony of
loneliness, she came to know it for what it really was—fear. The kind of fear
that chewed holes in a person’s heart—holes so cavernous, every last drop of
hope leaked out and left them believing they’d never again be safe, never again
be loved. Olivia felt a thin line of perspiration sliding down her back. It was
strange how, when you thought yourself free of such memories, they could fly back
and slap against your face like a sudden rainstorm.  

After she’d picked up the
pieces of the Baltimore Orioles puzzle he’d scattered across the floor, Olivia
looked at the clock; it was almost nine-thirty, Ethan Allen had been gone two
hours. He’d stormed off without a sweater or jacket and this was the time of
year when it turned downright cold once the sun had set. It would seem
reasonable, she thought, that he’d have come home by now, but of course
reasonableness was the last thing a person concerned themselves with in
situations such as this. A strange sort of regret began pressing down on
Olivia’s shoulders, settling over her like a sack of stones. I should have been
more understanding, she told herself; I should have waited until he was ready
to tell whatever he has to tell.