The Waltons 2 - Trouble on the Mountain (12 page)

“About five o’clock yesterday afternoon.”

John-Boy stood up. “Mama, I guess it’s possible Mr. Levy could still have it.”

Olivia nodded, but her expression was grim. “I reckon you’re going to have to go down to Charlottesville. But I don’t guess you can do anything until your father gets back with the truck.”

That was true.

“You might as well take that money to Ike, John-Boy.”

John-Boy didn’t want to. But it might be hours before his father got back.

Mary Ellen suddenly brought a crumpled dollar bill from her pocket and placed it on the table. “John-Boy, we want you to have that.”

“What for?”

“That’s the dollar we got for the junk.”

John-Boy’s first reaction was angry disbelief. Did they really think a dollar would make up for what they had done? Was the dollar supposed to pay for a new typewriter? He stared at it for a minute and then looked at their stricken faces. Jim-Bob looked like he was about to cry, and the two girls were gazing fearfully at him. John-Boy shrugged. “You might as well keep your dollar.” He turned quickly and went out the door.

To John-Boy, as he headed for Ike’s, it seemed like the whole world was suddenly falling part. First, his story had come back unread. Then Grandpa had disappeared, only to leave again when he was found. And now, the worst thing of all: the Baldwin sisters’ typewriter in a junk yard, or sold to some antique dealer. Or worse yet, maybe ground up into scrap metal somewhere.

What could he possibly tell the Baldwin sisters? And after he had promised them over and over again that he would take good care of it and guard it with his life.

His grandmother had once told him about traveling gypsies who told fortunes by people’s birth dates and the positions of the stars. He wondered if all the stars and planets and constellations that governed his life had suddenly met each other in a massive collision. Before going up the steps of Ike’s porch, he threw a quick glance at the sky, half-expecting to see a burst of heavenly fireworks. But the sky was clear and blue, and the bell over Ike’s door gave its usual tinkle.

“Morning, John-Boy.”

Ike was putting money into his cash register and had a cup of steaming coffee on the counter.

“Hey, Ike. I brought you the money for the candles Grandpa was supposed to buy.”

“Oh, well thank you, John-Boy. I’m certainly mighty glad to see you this morning.”

“You afraid I wasn’t going to pay you?”

“It’s not that, John-Boy. It’s
that.”
He tossed his head toward the back of the store.

John-Boy blinked for a minute, then realized that the blanket-covered mound on the pool table was Grandpa. His head was resting on a pile of overalls, and he appeared to be sleeping peacefully. John-Boy felt relieved, but Ike didn’t look too happy.

“I don’t mind him sleeping here, John-Boy. But it’s about time for customers to start coming in.”

“You want me to wake him up?”

“I’d be obliged.”

John-Boy couldn’t help smiling as he went to the back room. Grandpa’s suitcase was resting on a chair, and he was wearing his faded blue nightshirt. John-Boy gave his shoulder a gentle nudge.

“Grandpa?”

After two more nudges, Grandpa’s eyes opened and he jerked himself up. “What? What’s the matter, John-Boy? What you doing here?”

“Time to get up, Grandpa. Customers coming in pretty quick.”

Grandpa finally realized where he was. He blinked a couple of times, looked around, cleared his throat, and then stretched as he swung his legs off the table.

“Have a good sleep?”

He shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

“You hungry?”

Grandpa looked at him, then seemed to remember why he was here. His face hardened, and he started dressing.

“If I am, I’ll just have me a soda pop and maybe a cookie from Ike.”

“That’s not much breakfast, Grandpa.”

“Your grandma send you down here?”

“No, sir. Nobody knew you were here.”

“Hmph. Just as well.”

“Grandpa, something terrible has happened.”

Grandpa stopped dressing, holding one of his overall straps over his shoulder.

“You know the Baldwin sisters’ typewriter? Well, I left it out in the toolshed there, with some junk on top to hide it.” John-Boy glanced out at Ike and lowered his voice. “Yesterday Mary Ellen and the others sold it to Jake Levy for junk.”

“What?” Grandpa stared at him, and John-Boy nodded.

“It was in a box, and nobody looked inside.”

Grandpa shook his head and hooked the strap. “Well, you do have a problem, John-Boy. But to tell you the truth, by the things that happen around that house sometimes, I’m not surprised.”

“It wasn’t really their fault, Grandpa.”

“No, it’s never anybody’s fault. It’s just that people around there sometimes don’t have much regard for other people, and for other people’s property. You tell your grandma where we got that typewriting machine?”

“No. But I told Mama, and I guess she’ll be telling her soon enough.”

Grandpa snorted and shook his head. “You can bet your life those two’ll have a grand time talking about that.”

“But what am I going to do about the typewriter, Grandpa?”

Grandpa snapped his suitcase shut and gave the question some thought. “Jake Levy took it, eh? Well, I reckon that’s the end of that.” He sighed and shook his head. “The only thing I can figure, John-Boy, is for you to tell the Baldwin ladies I stole it.”

“That
you
stole it? I couldn’t do that, Grandpa.”

“Why not? I’m the villain every place else in Walton’s Mountain. Might as well make it a hundred percent.”

“Aren’t you planning on going home, Grandpa?”

He moved over to a mirror with a soda pop advertisement on it and combed his hair with his fingers. “Not under certain conditions.”

“Oh.”

“They turn the electric on yet?”

“Wasn’t on when I left.”

“Well, it should be soon.”

“I know. Daddy told me how you paid it.”

Grandpa nodded. “After Esther knows the truth, she’ll have a change of heart.”

“I sure hope so, Grandpa.”

He turned from the mirror and gazed absently at the floor for a minute. “But then when she hears about us getting that typewriting machine from the Baldwins, I expect she’ll be mad all over again.”

“But you did it for me, Grandpa. She’ll understand that.”

“You think so? Well, you may be right. In that case, I don’t see no harm in your telling certain folks where I am. If she wants to come down here and make her peace, I don’t see any reason to stop her.”

“You mean apologize? Grandma?”

Grandpa shrugged and smiled, heading for the front of the store. “It’s up to her. I’ll let her conscience be her guide. Good morning, Ike, good morning.”

“Morning, Zeb.”

Grandpa pulled some change from his pocket. “I’ve got me sixteen cents and an appetite. Think you can fix me up?”

“Just look around, see what suits your fancy, Zeb. And John-Boy, here’s your change.”

Grandpa moved over to the shelves of crackers and canned goods, and John-Boy smiled at Ike. “Just apply the change to Grandpa’s bill, Ike. He just might need it.”

“You mean he ain’t going home?”

“I reckon not just yet.”

“John-Boy, I’d greatly appreciate it if . . .”

“I know, Ike. I’ll try.”

VII

A
s far as Ep Bridges knew, Jake Levy lived somewhere on the west side of Charlottesville. With these vague directions, John and John-Boy headed for town with no more than a sliver of hope.

John Walton’s reaction to the borrowing and disappearance of the typewriter had been a quiet, almost inward groan. And then he agreed that they should at least make an effort to find Jake Levy.

“I know your mama’s feelings toward the Baldwin ladies are blown up all out of any sensible proportion,” he said once they got started, “but you got to appreciate in her mind it’s a humiliating thing, John-Boy. She’d just as soon be caught skunk-drunk on that Recipe of theirs as she would have people know we borrowed something from them.”

“I know, Daddy.”

“And you should have told me about it. We could have found someplace better’n that box of junk in the toolshed to hide it in.”

John-Boy nodded. Looking back on the whole thing, he realized how foolish he had been about everything.

John gave a short laugh. “The only hope I see of your ever paying for that thing is if you sell that story of yours. And even then I don’t guess a brand new typewriting machine will satisfy them much.”

John-Boy knew very well it wouldn’t satisfy them. Because it was their papa’s and had been the sacred machine used to type his letters to Woodrow Wilson and the
New York Times,
it was impossible to replace. “Can we talk about something else, Daddy?”

John looked at him and suddenly laughed. “Oh, it’ll all be forgotten someday, John-Boy. I reckon it’s going to be about the most painful thing in your life to go out there and tell them about it. But those two old ladies are getting forgetful in their old age.”

John-Boy nodded again. His father’s efforts to comfort him were having the opposite effect. It was true the Baldwin sisters were forgetful about things. But it seemed to John-Boy that was only because they were so preoccupied with remembering everything about their papa.

“You know what we
could
do,” John went on, “we could tell them we took it over to the cemetery and buried it next to the judge’s grave. That might make them happy.”

“I’d rather not, Daddy. I expect one more lie is about all I need to get myself sent off to jail or the crazy house.”

“No,” John said, “I reckon you’re right. Best thing is to take your medicine and try to forget it.”

“I’ll take my medicine, but I’ll never forget it.”

They got Jake Levy’s address at the Charlottesville police station. They should go out to the end of town, the officer at the desk told them, and then follow the dirt road that angled off toward the hills. A couple of miles out, they would see Jake’s sign in front of his house—they couldn’t miss it.

They didn’t miss it. The paint on the sign was peeling and almost illegible, but the sign itself was almost as big as the house:
AUTO PARTS, IRON & JUNK,
it said,
JACOB S. LEVY, PROP.

The house looked like it was an assemblage of wood planks and old corrugated metal Jake had collected on his rounds and then whitewashed. His truck was parked in front, and there was smoke coming from the tin pipe on the roof. The truck, John-Boy noted, was empty, and there were no wooden boxes lying around to give him hope.

There was piano music coming from inside the house; an amazing rush of notes that made John-Boy think of water tumbling and bouncing down a rocky fall. His father banged on the door twice before the music finally stopped and the door opened.

“Well, well, well,” Mr. Levy said with smiling surprise. “John Walton! And John-Boy! Come in, come in! For what am I being honored by the visit of two such distinguished gentlemen? And all the way from Walton’s Mountain!”

“Afternoon, Jacob.”

“Mr. Levy,” John-Boy nodded.

The room was about the size of John-Boy’s bedroom, but made more crowded by the presence of an ornate upright piano and bench. Mr. Levy picked up old papers and clothing from the only two chairs and tossed the pile in the corner. “Sit down, be comfortable. I’ll make us some tea.”

They sat down, but John held up a protesting hand. “No, no tea, thank you, Mr. Levy. We’re much obliged, but I reckon we won’t be here long.”

“Rush, rush, everybody’s in a rush. So why can’t we enjoy life for a few minutes? You’re on business maybe?”

“Sort of,” John smiled. “That you playing the piano when we come up?”

“Ahh, yes. Scarlatti. Did you enjoy it? My father was a pianist in the old country.”

“That’s a fine-looking piano.”

“Yes. It is old, but a good instrument. Pianos are like people, huh? Age develops character.”

John smiled. “I reckon so, Jake. And I reckon it’s something old and with a lot of character we’ve come to ask you about.” He explained about the Baldwin sisters’ typewriter and its ultimate fate.

Mr. Levy looked like he was going to faint. He put a steadying hand on his piano and lowered himself to the bench. “The typewriter was in one of those boxes?! The ones I bought from your children?”

“Afraid so, Jacob.”

He shook his head. “Ahh, it is hopeless. They are gone, gone forever now. I sold them to Davidson. The boxes, the old clothes, the tires, everything. For practically nothing, I sold them to Davidson.”

“Just who is Mr. Davidson, Jake?”

“A junk man too. But not like me. He is a very big junk man. He travels in a huge truck—from Texas to Florida to Vermont. A very lucky man! The boxes, everything, he threw over the side into the truck. We had tea, we talked business, Davidson was on his way. To where is known only by God.”

John-Boy’s heart sank to its lowest level yet. Until now, that sliver of hope had sustained him; the tiniest chance that Mr. Levy had found the typewriter and still had it, or that he had set the boxes aside without knowing what was in them. But now, even if it were possible to trace the man named Mr. Davidson, it seemed doubtful that the typewriter was still in one piece.

“What does Mr. Davidson usually do with the junk?” John asked.

Mr. Levy shrugged. “They put it on ships? They weigh it, put it in furnaces to be melted into steel? They dump it around pilings to anchor piers? Who knows? About junk nobody writes history books.” He looked sadly at John-Boy. “And this you must tell those poor old ladies?”

“I’m afraid so, Mr. Levy.”

If only he hadn’t covered the typewriter with that junk, John-Boy told himself on the way home. If only he had hidden it in his room instead of the toolshed. If only Mary Ellen hadn’t been so eager to get that stupid beauty kit. It was all such a crazy series of coincidences that John-Boy couldn’t help wondering if somebody was conspiring to punish him. Was it God’s way of showing him what happened when he started telling lies?

“I was thinking,” his father said, “I can deliver firewood to the Baldwin sisters without charging them. It might help some.”