Spare Change (33 page)

He returned up the back
stairs and slipped into the apartment with Olivia never having been any the
wiser.

 He’d expected to climb into
bed and sleep the sleep of a man in control of things, a man who was
well-prepared for whatever might be headed his way; but instead, he tossed and
turned with worries mounding like anthills in his brain. First off, he reasoned,
he wasn’t all that prepared—he didn’t even know for certain Seth Porter’s relic
of a shotgun would fire, and then there was always the chance that when he
pulled the trigger, the gun would blow up in his face. Old guns were known to
do that. Tommy Tristan’s daddy was killed in just such a way; he’d gone hunting
one morning, promising to bring home a rabbit for stewing, and instead came
home dead. An old shotgun, that’s what did him in.

Ethan wished he’d had a
chance to give the Browning a try, but there was no way. It was one thing to
rummage through the basement with barely a sound and quite another to slam off
a shot in the middle of the night. And, it was a given, if Grandma Olivia found
out he had a shotgun stashed under his bed she’d surely take it away. She’d
make him return the gun to Seth Porter, along with a hangdog apology and a
promise not to go pilfering the storage room ever again. Nope, trying the
shotgun was not worth considering, he’d have to trust to luck, hope for the
best and pray to God no Cobbs showed up.

Once Ethan Allen settled his
mind, he closed his eyes and tried again to sleep. He turned to the wall, then
to the doorway, then flipped over on his back, but he was still wide awake; actually,
as awake as awake could be.  He’d heard of people counting sheep in order to
drift off to sleep, so he pictured a meadow, then he fixed his thoughts on a
stretched out rail fence, but before the first of his sheep took a jump he
remembered something else. Size. Both Cobbs were big men, shotguns were made
for killing small animals. What good was a scattering of buckshot gonna do when
a mountain of a man was coming at you? Not much, he feared. 

Once he started dwelling on
the size of the Cobbs, sleep was nigh on to impossible. He tried thinking back
on the names and batting averages for every member of the Baltimore Orioles,
then he moved on to the New York Yankees, who, now, he’d probably never get to
see. After that, he conjured up an imaginary baseball game, which worked better
than most anything else because he could almost hear Chuck Thompson screaming
Brooks Robinson had rounded third and was looking like he’d score on an inside
the park home run. 

The first light of dawn was
creasing the sky when Ethan fell asleep and even then, the only reason he did
was because he’d set his mind to ease with a new plan—a plan to take his errand
money and go buy a box of cartridges for the Winchester. Tomorrow morning, he’d
told himself as he drifted off—tomorrow morning. Of course, he hadn’t counted
on the fact that he’d be so exhausted he’d sleep through until almost noon.

Emma Cobb

A
lifetime of sorrow is what comes of marrying a man
with a smile that draws women like flies to a spill of syrup. Such a man comes
wrapped in the love of himself—here I am, he says, isn’t that enough?  

You might look at my
husband and see a man who’s old, fat and mean-spirited. Well, he wasn’t always.
Thirty years ago, he was handsome and knew how to charm. He was a man with
money to spend and a successful business. Why, there was not a girl in town who
didn’t itch to wear my shoes. The minute Scooter Cobb crooked his finger in my
direction I went running to him.Little did I dream that for most of our years
together, he would lie beside me with the scent of other women still fastened
to his skin.

What a fool I have been,
to stand silently all these years and watch so selfish a man destroy my family.
He has already driven one son from the house and now he is determined to
corrupt the other. This I cannot bear, not now, when there is no love left and
barely a shred of civility between us. 

I swear to you, with God
as my witness, I will never allow my Sam to follow in his daddy’s footsteps—never!

The Shirt

M
ahoney left the house claiming he needed to clear his
head. He bypassed the car standing in his driveway and started to walk; he told
himself he was headed to nowhere in particular and walked for almost two hours,
but in the end, he found himself standing at Emma Cobb’s front door. When he
lifted his arm to knock, it felt heavy as a lead weight. His heart felt even
heavier.

“Jack,” Emma said with her
broad smile, “come on in.” She swung the door back and he followed her without
a word. “I’ve some fresh-baked raspberry cake,” she went on, “it’s the end of
the season, but right now the berries have the most delicious flavor. Or, if
you’d rather I’ve got—”   

“Emma,” Jack interrupted,
“Let’s sit down. There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

She stopped and turned; her
face suddenly white. “Is it Sam?” she asked. “He’s not hurt, is he? Tell me he
hasn’t been shot, please…”   

“Sam hasn’t been injured,”
Jack said, tenderly circling his arm around her shoulders. “He’s not hurt, but
he is in jail.”

“Sam?” she gasped, “My Sam,
in jail?”

Jack nodded.

“But it’s a mistake, isn’t
it?” she asked, nervously tugging at a handkerchief she’d pulled from her
pocket. “…Sam being in jail? He’s a police officer, what could he possibly…”

“It’s a long story,” Jack
replied. He guided Emma over to the sofa and when she sat down, he positioned
himself alongside of her. Emma,” he said, taking her hand into his, “I believe
Sam has gotten himself in trouble, by trying to protect his daddy.”

“Scooter?”

Jack nodded, and went on,
“It has to do with Ethan Allen Doyle, the boy I brought over here to spend the
night; do you remember him?” She dipped her head ever so slightly and continued
to listen. “Well,” Jack said, “a few days ago, the boy accused Scooter of being
the one who murdered his daddy.”

“Scooter? Why would he
murder a man he barely knew?”

“The boy said his mama was
involved with Scooter; he claims they were planning to run off to New York
together. Emma, I realize this is a real painful thing to hear, but try to
remember, it’s just an allegation. We don’t even know for sure if the kid’s
telling the truth or making the whole story up.” Jack stopped speaking for a
moment and waited, thinking she might have questions about her husband being
linked to another woman. But, Emma didn’t say a word; she just sat there
looking as empty as a dried-up well.   

Eventually, a pool of tears
rose to her eyes and without any reference to Scooter, she moaned, “But, what’s
that
got to do with Sam? He’d never get involved in such a thing. He has
a bit of his daddy’s temper, but he’d never…”

“Apparently, Sam took it on
himself to go over to Wyattsville— where Ethan Allen lives with his grandma—and
according to the local police, he attacked the boy.” In an effort to soften the
sound of what happened Jack deliberately worked in hope-rendering phrases such
as
apparently
and
according to.

“My Sam?” she gasped, “My
sweet Sam, tried to hurt that little boy?”

“We don’t actually know what
Sam’s intention was; the grandmother stopped him before he got hold of the
kid.”

“So, Sam didn’t really do
anything?” After thirty years of being married to Scooter, Emma was able to
focus her eye on the one rose in a bush full of thorns.

Jack slowly shook his head,
“No,” he said, “but, it appears he tried.”

Over the years, Emma had
learned to live with Scooter Cobb’s meanness, but to have her son grow into the
same nature was more than she could bear. She covered her face with her hands
and began to cry with great shuddering sobs. There was nothing Jack could do but
sit silently beside her. He waited a long while and then asked, “Emma, do you
know if Sam was aware of Scooter’s involvement?”

She sat there for what
seemed a very long time, her shoulders hunched, the round of her back
shuddering like ground that might give way, and a flow of tears streaming from
her eyes. Finally she said, “I’m the one who ought to be in jail. Me. I
suspected what Scooter had done but I turned my face the other way. The truth
was right there, raring up in front of me, but I kept saying to myself, such a
thing couldn’t possibly be. He’s got faults, I figured, but something bad as
this—never. I know I’ve been lying to myself; but how could I possibly open my
mind to the truth when I knew it would destroy my family?”

“Emma,” Mahoney stammered, “…what
is it you know?”

Without answering his
question, she continued on, “I thought my silence would save what was left of my
family; instead, it’s pushed the situation from bad to worse. I sure never
thought it would happen this way.  I love my boys, Sam and Tommy both. Those
boys have been the light of my life and God knows I’d sooner carve out my own
heart than do intentional harm to either one of them. I’m their mother—a mother
suffers something fierce to bring her children into this world and she’d do
most anything to keep those children from misery; you understand that don’t
you, Jack?”

He nodded.

“I know meaning well, don’t
excuse what I did. If I’d of told right off, Sam wouldn’t have been dragged
into it. The law would’ve thrown Scooter’s ass in jail and that would’ve been
the end of that. It’s where he ought to be. A man like him don’t deserve one
ounce of consideration.  Not an ounce. He was given two fine sons; boys who
trusted he’d show them right from wrong and what did he do?  He pointed them
down the road to damnation, that’s what…” Emma gave her nose a noisy blow then took
the balled up handkerchief in her hand and swiped at a fresh stream of tears
rolling down her face. “Sam’s a victim,” she said, “You understand that don’t
you? He’s a victim, not a criminal.”

“Emma,” Jack said, circling
back to his original question, “What you’re apparently saying is that Scooter
did
have a hand in this, but what exactly is it that you’re hiding?”

“If I tell, you’ve got to
arrest Scooter and put him in jail. If he’s not locked up, he’ll come back here
and kill me. I know that for sure.”

“Once we’ve got a reasonable
amount of evidence that he’s committed a crime he’ll be arrested; that’s
something you don’t have to worry about.”

“Well, I am worried.
Scooter’s got a mean disposition, meaner than you might imagine, and he’s got a
God-awful temper. If he figures I’ve turned against him…”

“He’s not going to know it
was you.”

“He’ll know; he’ll know
because I’m the only one who’s got proof of what he’s done.”

“I’ll keep anything you say
confidential.”

“I’m still not gonna tell
unless you promise to lock Scooter away from me and Sam. He’s done enough harm
to this family; it’s gotta stop here and now.”

“Emma, without knowing what
you have to say, it’s almost impossible for me to promise you such a thing.
But, if you tell me something that’s not enough to justify an arrest, I promise
not to mention a word of what you’ve told me to anyone else. That way, your
husband will never learn of our conversation.”

“I’m gonna trust you, Jack.”

“I respect that,” he said,
giving her a nod of confidence.

Emma let go of a sigh
weighted with all the heartaches she’d stored up—years and years of worry and
regret, let loose in one sorrowful swoosh of air. “I know for certain Scooter
killed that boy’s daddy,” she finally said. “Sam didn’t have a thing to do with
it. It was just Scooter.  Nobody else.” She nervously twisted the wet
handkerchief in her hands.

“The night it happened, I
was already in bed, fast asleep by time Scooter came home, so we didn’t catch
sight of each other till morning. Even then, I didn’t see much of him ‘cause he
had to get to the diner. It was Sunday, I know, ‘cause I always sort the
laundry on Sunday and start my washing on Monday. Anyway, as he’s flying out
the door, I tell him, ‘Be sure to leave your dirty shirt out.’ He calls back
that his shirt don’t need washing, and keeps going. I remember it perfectly
clear. I heard what he’d said, but I was thinking, that’ll be the day!
Scooter’s a man who sweats buckets, if he wears a shirt for an hour, it needs
washing.” Emma hesitated for a long moment, as if remembering something too
private to share, then she continued on, “After he was gone, I went looking for
that shirt and found it. He’d stuck it way back under the bed, so far back I
had to get down on my hands and knees to reach. I got hold of the shirt and
pulled it out, that’s when I saw it was covered with blood, not little speckles
like he gets from cutting up meat, but enough blood to make me wonder if he’d
butchered a cow.”

“And this shirt you found
under the bed, you know it’s Scooter’s?”

“For a fact,” she said.
“Week after week, I washed that shirt, then I’d stand there and iron the
wrinkles from it…yes, I
know
it’s his shirt.” She gave a sigh of
weariness then went on, “I saw all that blood and couldn’t imagine what he’d
been up to, so I set the shirt aside thinking I’d ask him about it that night. All
this happened before I’d heard about the murders.”