The Waltons 2 - Trouble on the Mountain (7 page)

“John?” Percy said when they all got out. “That you, John Walton?”

“Sure is, Mr. Crocker. And Anker Barnes, and my two boys, Ben and Jim-Bob.”

“Well, I’ll be hanged. Doggone. Anker Barnes! How are you? And look at these two fine boys.”

Percy couldn’t see very well anymore, and he had the boys come up close for a good look. He questioned them for a while about the family.

“Now you two run along into the back door there,” he finally said. “Tell Elvira to give you some lemonade and cookies.”

The boys went off, and Percy told John and Anker to have a seat. “John,” he said as quickly as they sat down, “I don’t guess it’s the season, but you didn’t happen to bring me something, did you?”

“No, Mr. Crocker, and I’m real sorry about that. I haven’t been smoking any venison lately. But the fact is, I been thinking a lot about what you used to tell me.”

“What was that?”

“That I ought to go into the smokin’ business.”

“Couldn’t miss,” Percy said promptly. “Ain’t no meat like that in the whole world. You ever taste it, Anker?”

“No, I ain’t, Mr. Crocker.”

Percy closed his eyes and smiled. “Sweet as angel cake. I used to make that deer meat last all winter. Wouldn’t even let Elvira have any. Yes sir, John, you let me know when you got your first batch ready.”

“Well, the fact is, Mr. Crocker, I think I got something better’n that deer meat. And I got me a new recipe for the cooking-wood that’ll make it taste like fine pheasant.”

“What’s that?”

“Smoked Berkshire pork.”

Percy frowned and looked at each of them. Apparently he didn’t know any more about hogs than John did. “What’s that?”

“Well,” John said, “as you know, most of the pigs grown around here is either Durocs or Chester Whites. But Anker here, he’s been raising these Berkshires. And, well, if you ain’t never tasted a Berkshire ham or a Berkshire pork chop, I guess there ain’t no way to describe it to you. That’s where we been today, down at Charlottesville picking up one Anker had sent from Pennsylvania.”

“Huh. I reckon a pig is a pig.”

John smiled. “Mr. Crocker, that’s like saying a Packard is just a car. And we all sure know the difference between a Packard and a Ford.”

“Hmph,” Percy muttered, but it was apparent he was not displeased with the simile.

“Anyhow, what I had in mind was for Anker here to build himself a smokehouse and smoke up these Berkshires so’s we can sell the meat. The way I figure it, we can get maybe a dollar or a dollar and a half a pound for it from the rich people in New York and Philadelphia and places like that.”

“You think it’s that good, huh.”

“A real delicacy, Mr. Crocker. And you know how much those people pay for crabs and things like them Russian fish eggs. I reckon we can put it in them little cans and sell it two or three ounces at a time.”

Percy eyed them both suspiciously. “And I suppose you’re here for money to finance this whole thing.”

“No, there’s no problem there,” John smiled. “I reckon we can get along with what money we got.”

Percy nodded and looked slyly at John. “I guess this means you won’t be smoking no more venison.”

“Don’t think I’ll have time.”

“And I don’t expect you’ll be givin’ away any of that Berkshire meat.”

“Well, now, you’re an old friend, Mr. Crocker. We’re sure going to let you have a little taste of it. Don’t you think, Anker?”

“Sure,” Anker nodded.

John looked around. “It’s too bad you don’t have a smokehouse of your own here. I reckon if you had a Berkshire hog and a smokehouse, you could easy smoke up for yourself.”

“I ain’t never smoked nothing.”

“Oh, that’s not hard. I could show you how to do that. And I reckon when the hog got big enough to cook, I could give you some of my recipe for the smoking-wood.”

Percy thought about it for a minute, then squinted off toward his barn. “Don’t know where I’d put a smokehouse.”

“Be perfect over there behind the barn, don’t you think, Anker? Wind generally blows to the east around here. Wouldn’t smoke up the house or anything.”

Anker nodded. “Looks like a perfect place to me.”

Percy was giving it serious thought now. He worked his lips in and out for a minute and squinted over at the barn again. “This meat really tastes that good, huh?”

“Mr. Crocker, I wish I could tell you how good. Once you tasted it, you’d never want any of that venison again.” John suddenly brightened as if struck by an unbelievably good idea. “Anker, it just come to me! You know what we got in that truck? We got all the makin’s for a smokehouse. And we got that Berkshire hog we picked up today. Now why don’t we just save ourselves a trip back with the lot of it, and let Mr. Crocker buy the pig. Then you can come over here tomorrow and start his smokehouse.”

Anker glanced uncertainly at Percy, not sure what he was supposed to say. “Well . . .”

“No,” John said quickly, “you’re right, Anker. We’d just have to order another pig and wait for it to come down from Pennsylvania.”

“How much you want for the pig?” Percy said.

“It’s worth twenty dollars,” John said.

“They’re selling for three cents a pound in Charlottesville.”

“Well, them are those Durocs and Chester Whites that nobody wants. And smoking up a Duroc or Chester White just ain’t worth the bother. Anker, would you consider letting Mr. Crocker here have that Berkshire for fifteen dollars?”

Anker nodded. “I reckon.”

“And fifteen for Anker to build the smokehouse,” John added.

“Ten,” Percy said.

John hesitated. He meant the fifteen dollars to include the price of the lumber. But he wasn’t sure Percy took it that way. “Well, that’s up to Anker if he wants to build it for ten dollars. But on top of that, of course, there’s the cost of the lumber. That came to five-sixty on the one you built for Jim Clayborne, didn’t it?”

“That’s right,” Anker nodded. The whole thing was beginning to confuse him.

“I’ll give you fifteen dollars for the whole thing, including the cost of the lumber, and for your coming over here with your burnin’-wood to show me how to do it. And fifteen dollars for the pig. Now that’s my last offer, because the fact is I’m not so convinced this smoked pig is gonna taste as good as you say it is.”

“You ever tasted smoked pheasant, Mr. Crocker?”

“Yes.”

John spread his hands and shrugged. “Anker, you want to leave the pig and all that lumber for that price?”

Anker rubbed his chin and glanced from Percy to John. “Well, yes, I reckon.”

Percy smiled and drew a small purse from inside his coat. “Fifteen dollars now, and fifteen dollars when the smokehouse is done.” He pulled out three five-dollar bills, but held them back, waiting for confirmation.

“All right,” John agreed. “Fair enough.”

They unloaded the lumber and the pig, and Anker nailed up a temporary fence to hold the animal until he could come back and make a proper pen.

When they finally got in the truck and headed home, Anker grinned and shook his head. “John, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I don’t think I’d have believed it.”

Even John was a little surprised at how easy it had been. “Well,” he laughed, “I guess we hadn’t ought to look a gift pig in the mouth. Old Percival can afford it. And you’ll be needing some more wood to finish up both the smokehouse and a pigpen.”

“Yep, I reckon I will. I think I’m gonna build Percy the fanciest smokehouse in the whole county.” Anker reflected on it a minute and then frowned. “John, what are we going to do when Percy cooks up that pig and tastes it?”

“We’re going to wait for him to thank us. Percy’s just as sure as anything that that pig is going to taste better’n anything he ever tasted before. And when anyone’s that sure, you can bet it’s going to taste good to him. Besides, you said Berskshire hogs were better’n other hogs.”

Anker smiled. “I don’t guess they’re that much better. Fact is, I was thinkin’ of getting some of them Poland China pigs they got up in Ohio.”

John looked at him, then couldn’t help laughing. “Well, I reckon we shouldn’t feel too bad, Anker. I guess I’ve given Percy about fifty dollars worth of smoked venison over the years.”

IV

J
ohn-Boy was unaware of the crisis over the electricity being turned off. While the others were still at the breakfast table he got his manuscript and some blank paper from his room, and slipped out the front door and around to the toolshed.

The old typewriter sat perfectly on the upturned wooden box. For a chair he brought in a short log from the sawmill. He inserted the first sheet of paper, centered it, got the margins all set, and then carefully typed each letter of the first sentence. When it was finished, he held his breath for a minute, read it and then smiled broadly. It was perfect. And the precisely printed letters and neat spacing seemed to magically transform his words into profound and enduring thoughts. He pulled his log-chair closer and with mounting excitement went on with the task.

During the morning he paused several times and listened with alarm to the sounds outside. He heard Erin and Elizabeth and Grandma hanging up clothes, and he stopped typing until they were gone. And then, when his father came home with Jason and Ben, he waited until they got the saw going before he resumed the typing. And then he heard Elizabeth calling urgently for her father. A few minutes after that the truck drove away, and he worked on.

John-Boy had only six pages left to type when he heard his mother, and then Mary Ellen calling him for lunch. He was hungry and would have liked to eat, but he didn’t dare risk going into the house and then trying to slip back to the toolshed unseen. He waited until they gave up, and then continued with the laborious task.

Two hours later he was finished. The eighteen handwritten sheets had now become fourteen pages of neat, precisely typed manuscript. John-Boy folded a large envelope so it would fit into the typewriter and typed the address on the front. This time, without even opening the envelope, they would know that the contents were typed. Suddenly all the excitement he had experienced two weeks ago returned. They would read it for sure this time. And it was good. As he glanced over it one more time before sealing it into the envelope, he was more convinced than ever that it was a fine story.

He replaced the typewriter in the box, covered it carefully with the old rags, and buried it beneath the other box and the tire. Then, with the envelope hidden under his shirt, he slipped out the door and moved past the sawmill. And then his heart stopped.

John-Boy’s path had been clear, and he was certain he could make it to the road without being seen. What he had not counted on was Reckless, their old hound dog, who was suddenly bounding across the yard, yelping happily. And then his mother was at the opened back door. “John-Boy?”

He had reached the corner of the house, but there was no use trying to escape. “Yes, Mama.”

“Where’ve you been? You haven’t had any lunch.”

“I’m not hungry, Mama.”

“Well, you just come on in here and eat something, young man.”

John-Boy turned and moved stiffly toward the door. It would be impossible for her to see the envelope under his overalls. But without pressing his arm to his stomach, he wasn’t sure how long he could keep it from falling down into his pants.

“I declare, I don’t know what’s going on in this house,” Olivia said as she held the door for him. “You disappearing all day, and now your Daddy and Grandpa have both gone off somewhere. Where’ve you been, John-Boy?”

“No place. Just out walking.”

“Well, they’ve shut off our electricity and Grandpa went off to get candles at Ike’s three hours ago.”

John-Boy nodded, his hand thrust strategically into his pocket.

“There’s a sandwich on the table there. You want some milk?”

“No, that’s fine, Mama. I’ll just take the sandwich with me.” With his free hand he got the sandwich from under the waxed paper and moved toward the door.

“Where you going now?”

“No place.”

“Well, I wish you’d go down to Ike’s and see if you can find your Grandpa. We’re going to need those candles tonight.”

John-Boy smiled, suddenly relieved. “I’ll be glad to, Mama.” But as quickly as he got to the door she stopped him again.

“John-Boy?”

“Yes, Mama?”

“Is something wrong? You’re acting so strange.”

“No, nothing’s wrong, Mama.”

“I thought you were going to write a story this morning.”

It seemed to John-Boy that from the moment Grandpa decided they should go borrow the Baldwins’ typewriter, he had been unable to speak one word that wasn’t a lie. Briefly, he was tempted to put an end to all of it and confess everything. “I’ve been walking all morning thinking about the story, Mama.” He gave her a quick smile and was out the door before she could reply.

Olivia stared at the closed door for a minute. Then she saw John-Boy’s head bobbing quickly past the kitchen window.

There certainly was something strange going on around this house, she decided. First it was Grandpa’s odd behavior at lunch yesterday—before he and John-Boy went off to visit the Zimmermans. And then, when they got back, she had seen the two of them sneaking around the backyard. And now people were disappearing for hours at a time. Olivia shook her head, then got herself a cup of coffee and took it to the table.

“What’s the matter?” Grandma asked, coming in from the living room.

“I don’t know,” Olivia smiled. “Sometimes I have the feeling everyone around here’s going plumb crazy.”

Grandma nodded and got coffee for herself. “I know what you mean. Those three daughters of yours are going through every drawer and closet in the house looking for somethin’ to sell to that junk man.”

“All three of them?”

“Yep. They all decided to become movie stars. And Jim-Bob’s helping ’em. I don’t know what he hopes to get out of it.”

Olivia sighed. “Well, I don’t expect they’ll find much.”

“I let ’em have an old pair of boots they found in Zeb’s trunk. But I drew the line at Matthew’s war medals.”

Olivia sipped her coffee and thought about her own teenage years and how desperately she had once wanted a frilly yellow bonnet she had seen in a Charlottesville store window. Somehow, she thought that bonnet would change her whole life and she would be the envy of every girl in the world. She did extra chores for two months to earn the money to buy it, and then she had only worn it once. Suddenly, after she bought it, the bonnet seemed childish and immature—something suitable only for a girl half her age. But until she had it no one in the world could have convinced her that it wasn’t the most glamorous hat in the world. “Well, I expect Mary Ellen’s got to have that beauty kit sooner or later.”