The Waltons 2 - Trouble on the Mountain (3 page)

John Walton had paid little attention to the conversation until now. He looked up sharply. “Two dollars and ninety-five cents! For that much they ought to turn you into Jean Harlow and Myrna Loy all rolled in one.”

“That’s just what it is, Daddy!” Erin beamed, coming to Mary Ellen’s defense. “It’s really great. Everything in it is personally endorsed by Hollywood stars. There’s perfumes from Paris, France, and stuff for your eyes, and things to make your hands soft, and everything!”

“ ’Peers to me the best way to make your hands soft is by washing dishes,” Grandma said.

“No,” Mary Ellen protested, “that’s the worst thing you can do. They get all soft and squishy, but after they dry they’re all rough and ugly.”

“I never noticed your Mama’s hands being rough and ugly.”

“Weil, that’s because she’s just naturally beautiful, Daddy. And this kit can help me look like Mama.”

Olivia didn’t look too happy about Mary Ellen paying all that money for something that was probably worthless. But Mary Ellen’s last statement effectively disarmed her. “Darling, you’re a very pretty girl already, and someday you’ll be a beautiful woman. I really don’t think you should spend a lot of money for something like that.”

“It was only a dollar, Mama. And it was my money. It was the dollar Grandpa gave me last Christmas.”

Grandpa looked up. “Well, in that case I don’t see why she shouldn’t have it, Livvy. Sounds like a nice Christmas present to me.”

John-Boy smiled to himself. He knew his mother was fighting a losing battle and in the end Mary Ellen would get her beauty kit. What surprised him was Mary Ellen’s sudden interest in her appearance. Usually it was Erin who was so concerned about things like that, while Mary Ellen spent her time throwing baseballs and thinking up new business schemes with Ben. Apparently Mary Ellen had suddenly realized she was a girl, and that girls are different from boys. Either that or she had read somewhere how much money Hollywood movie stars made and she was preparing to storm the place.

“But where will you get the other dollar and ninety-five cents?” Olivia asked.

“I can earn it. I can sell my bead kit. Half the beads are lost anyway. And I’ve got some old dresses I could sell.”

Olivia gave John a questioning glance. The Walton family was in no position to be selling clothing. When Mary Ellen grew out of her dresses, they were ready for Erin, and some of those even lasted long enough to be set aside for Elizabeth. “I think you’d better find some other way to raise money, Mary Ellen,” John smiled. “Or else your sisters’ll be running around this house naked.”

Olivia ignored the snickers. “And I’m afraid we had something else in mind for your bead kit.” What she had in mind was Elizabeth’s birthday coming up next month.

“Well, how can I earn some money? I have to have it fast.”

“What’s the hurry?” John smiled. “You already got your bus ticket for Hollywood?”

“The dance is only a week from Saturday!” Erin blurted out.

Mary Ellen reddened again, making it clear why she wanted the beauty kit.

“What dance is that?” Grandpa asked.

Erin dug into the pocket of her dress and came up with a battered circular which she passed along the table. “It’s a big barn dance down at the livery stable. With real music and everything.”

“Well, isn’t that something,” John said when it got to him. “Liv, how long’s it been since we went dancing?”

“Oh,” Olivia smiled, “I’d say it was back around the turn of the century.”

“Still remember how?”

“If someone should ask me, I think I could manage.”

“Can we go, Mama?
All
of us?”

“Well,” she said after a minute, “we’ll talk about it. We’ve got plenty of time.”

“Does it say who the caller’s going to be, John?” Grandma asked.

“Man named Oglethorpe Hansen.”

Grandma nodded. “Best caller in the country.”

“Never heard of him,” Grandpa said.

“Oglethorpe is just his professional name. Don’t you remember Fred Hansen?”

Grandpa snorted. “That skinny bean pole. Thought he’d have dried up and got blown away by this time.”

“Best dancer this side of the James River,” Grandma said defiantly.

John-Boy glanced at each of them and smiled. It was apparent that Fred Hansen was not one of Grandpa’s favorite people. “Did you know him, Grandma?”

“Oh, yes,” she said smugly. “Quite well.”

“Quite well! Hah! Should’ve seen the two of ’em. Sashaying around the dance floor, showing off fancy steps. That’s all they ever done.”

“Now, Zeb,” Grandma said gently, “I may have danced a lot with Fred, but I always saved a special waltz for you.”

“And you were so worn out by that time you couldn’t keep up with me.”

John-Boy wasn’t certain if Grandpa was really irritated or just feigning indignation for the fun of it. But Olivia quickly put an end to it.

“I expect we’d better get these dishes cleaned up. And we could use more wood in the stove-box, John-Boy.”

In his room that night John-Boy made only a brief entry in his notebook:
Rec’d story back from Collier’s Magazine. They do not read handwritten manuscripts.

It seemed like some kind of milestone in his writing career—at least it was his first practical lesson on how to prepare a manuscript.

“John-Boy?”

John-Boy looked up. The door was open a few inches, and his grandmother was peering in.

“Come on in, Grandma.”

She smiled. “Just thought I’d come up and talk, if you had a mind to.”

“Sure. Sit down.”

She took the chair in the corner and looked around as though she had never seen the room before. “I truly feel bad about their sending back your story, John-Boy. I’m sure it’s a fine story.”

“Thank you, Grandma.”

“What is it you wrote about?”

John-Boy gave her a brief outline of the story. It was based on a true incident—one Christmas Eve when his father was late getting home and everyone was worried about him. There had been a heavy snowstorm, and Olivia was afraid he might be out drinking somewhere. But that had not been the case at all, and when he finally came he had presents for everybody. It was about the best Christmas any of them could remember.

When John-Boy finished, Grandma shook her head. “I just don’t know why they wouldn’t print a beautiful story like that.”

“Well, maybe they will, Grandma. Some day I reckon I can get it typed and send it to them again.”

She nodded, then fidgeted with a piece of ribbon in her hand, suggesting there was something else on her mind.

“John-Boy, your Grandpa has already given you what you’ll inherit from him.”

John-Boy nodded. “The meadow. And I treasure that, Grandma.” The entire mountain and some of the surrounding land had once been owned by Zebulon Walton and his brothers. But John-Boy’s grandfather had been the only one to hold on to his share of the property.

“I won’t be leaving you anything like that when I die, John-Boy. Land or money.”

“Well, I’ve always thought of the meadow as being from both of you, Grandma. Besides,” John-Boy smiled, “I’ve
known
you. That’s about as nice a present as anybody could ever get.”

The answer pleased her. “You know, John-Boy, my family were always storytellers. Long before we had the luxuries like electric lights and radios, and all this modernism, we used to sit by the fireplace and take turns telling stories. Ghost stories, witch stories, and way-back stories of Indians and long-ago wars. Things that happened in the history of our family. I’ve kept them all, and now they’re mellow in my mind and ready to tell again.”

“Grandma, Miss Hunter said that the talent of writing is a gift. Maybe now I know where that gift came from.”

“All those stories I remember. I’ll tell ’em to you, John-Boy. That will be my inheritance to you.”

John-Boy couldn’t help thinking about the many times he had taken his grandparents’ presence for granted. She and Grandpa were always there, and they were old, and it was easy to forget they had lived full, rich lives, and had experienced more trials and hardships, and more joys and happiness than it was possible for him to imagine. And now she was offering to share it all with him.

“Grandma, I cherish you.”

“And I you, boy.” She gazed at him for a minute, then got to her feet. “And John-Boy, I’m just as certain as that I’m an old woman that God’s going to provide a typewriting machine for you to write all them stories.”

“I sure hope so, Grandma.”

After all the “Goodnights” were exchanged, John Walton held Olivia’s hand and gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling for a while. “Well, I reckon John-Boy’s recovered all right. I don’t know whether they’d buy them stories of his or not, but I sure wish we had the money to buy him a typewriting machine, Livvy.”

“Ummm,” Olivia murmured. “I reckon we’d best think about where we can get two dollars and seventeen cents first. You know it’s been eight days now.”

“What’s been eight days?” John knew very well what she was talking about, but he didn’t want her to think he was worried about the whole thing.

“Since we got the notice. They said if we didn’t pay they’d turn off the electricity in five days.”

“Well, they’re three days late already. Maybe they’ll never do it. I don’t expect it costs them much to leave it on.”

“But what if they do shut it off?”

John gave her a look of mock concern. “Well, Livvy, I expect we’ll just have to go back to living in a cave somewhere. I’ll have to get me a club and go hunting dinosaurs. And while I’m gone you’ll have to protect the babies from them saber-toothed tigers attacking.”

Olivia couldn’t help smiling. John was right, of course. People had survived for thousands of years without electricity. And half the people in Walton’s Mountain were getting the same threatening notices.

John laughed and kissed her. “We’ll get by, Livvy. Things got to get better sooner or later.”

II

J
ohn Walton was a man who believed there was no point in worrying about things you could do nothing to change. Sooner or later the electricity would probably be turned off at the house. And the way things were going, the Depression might get a lot worse before it got better. But unless he found some money at the end of a rainbow or he was suddenly elected President of the United States, there wasn’t much he could do about either problem.

But as he drove up to the mountain with John-Boy and Grandpa early the next morning, it appeared like all the troubles of the world and then some were hanging over his two gloomy passengers.

“Fine-lookin day, ain’t it, John-Boy?”

“Uh huh.”

He smiled over at Grandpa. “What do you think, Pa? Nice day, ain’t it?”

“I reckon.”

“Did I get you two up too early this morning?”

“Nope.”

“What’s the matter, Pa?”

“Nothing.”

“Then how come you’re so down in the mouth?”

“Thinking.”

John looked over at him, then laughed. “Oh, I see. Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about that Fred Oglethorpe Hansen if I was you, Pa. I reckon Mama’s still got her cap set on you.”

“Ain’t thinking about that.”

They rode in silence for a few more minutes until John-Boy asked, “What you thinking about, Grandpa?”

“Trying to recollect something.”

“Anything we can help you with?”

“Nope.”

They cut down a dead oak on the lower slopes of the mountain and spent the rest of the morning stripping the limbs and getting three big sections of trunk into the back of the truck. Halfway back to the house Grandpa smiled and nodded to himself.

“You remember it, Grandpa?” John-Boy asked.

“Yep. And I think I know exactly where it is.”

“Where what is?”

“You’ll find out, John-Boy. But this is going to take a little smart maneuverin’ for us to make sure about it.”

When they got back to the house and unloaded the logs by the sawmill, Grandpa’s mysterious thinking and recollecting turned to a preoccupation with watching the house. Running the logs through the saw, he continually glanced from the house to the logs, and back to the house again. Ben, Jim-Bob, and Elizabeth were digging up new soil for the garden, but that appeared to have no interest for him.

“You figure the house is going to get up and walk away, Grandpa?” John finally asked.

“Nope. But, John-Boy, you just be ready to move when I tell you.”

“Okay, Grandpa.” John-Boy smiled, and then found himself watching the house as closely as Grandpa—waiting for some kind of mysterious signal. But there was nothing unusual. Olivia came out to shake a carpet and went back inside. Then Grandma came out, closely followed by Mary Ellen carrying a basketful of wet clothes.

“Okay, boy,” Grandpa said, “let’s go.”

Before John-Boy could protest, Grandpa had him by the elbow, hustling him toward the back door. “Be back in a couple minutes,” he said to John.

Olivia and Erin were shelling peas at the kitchen table, but Grandpa moved past without a word.

John-Boy smiled. “What are we doing, Grandpa?” he asked as they passed through the living room.

“Shhhh.”

At the top of the stairs, Grandpa paused for a second, listening, and then took John-Boy into his and Grandma’s room and carefully shut the door. “Okay, John-Boy, we gotta move fast now.”

He was already in the closet, pulling a heavy trunk out from behind the hanging clothes. John-Boy watched as he struggled with the clasp for a minute and then hoisted the lid. Grandpa laughed.

“Your grandma says I never learned to throw anything away.”

From what John-Boy could see, his grandmother was right. There was old clothing, books, a pair of old boots, and an array of unidentifiable bundles and packages. Grandpa rummaged deep into the trunk, then paused as he drew out a small daguerreotype picture. “That was Amy,” he said, “Died of scarlet fever.” He shoved the picture back where he found it, and this time came up with a handful of medals. “Look at those, John-Boy. Won by your Uncle Matt in the World War.” The medals went back in the trunk, and this time he brought out a sheaf of papers tied in a string. “There they are, John-Boy. Now you look through those. See if one of ’em wasn’t written on a typewriting machine.”