The Waltons 3 - The Easter Story (2 page)

“Blest be the tie that binds,”
Grandpa sang, starting another hymn.
“Our hearts in Jesus’ love: The fellowship of . . .”

“Grandpa,” Jason shouted from beneath the blanket, “We’re goin’ to be all sung out before we even get to church.”

“. . .
of Christian minds is like to that above,”
Grandpa boomed on.

John-Boy smiled, then grabbed for the railing as the truck swung sharply to the left and came to a stop.

“OK, John-Boy,” his father said jumping out, “Hand me my toolbox there.”

John-Boy got the toolbox and jumped down. “You sure you don’t want us to pick you up after church, Daddy?”

“Nope. No tellin’ how long this’ll take. And you watch out for that front tire, John-Boy.”

“OK, Daddy.” Almost all the tires on the truck were bad, but the one on the right front was down to the fabric.

“And take care of your mother. She starts ailin’ again, you just get her on home.”

“I’m all right, John.”

“Bye, Daddy.”

After he banged the door shut, John watched them circle around and head back down the road.

“Before our Father’s throne,”
Grandpa’s singing resumed.
“We pour united prayers.”

As the voices faded John smiled and looked up at the Claybourne house. Aside from Judge Morley Baldwin’s original place, which had been burned during the Civil War, Claybourne Hall was unquestionably the grandest home ever built in Jefferson County.

It stood at the top of a broad, lawn-covered slope: a huge mansion with stately white columns and gracious verandas. Even on this bitterly cold morning, it wasn’t hard to imagine the days when fancy carriages filled its big driveway, and southern belles crowded the verandas. But now, under the patches of snow, the lawn looked like it hadn’t been trimmed all winter.

John turned up his collar and headed up the broad slope. The Claybournes were still about the richest family in the county, he guessed. But like everyone else, they had experienced their share of bad luck. Carter Claybourne, who was only fifty-two years old, had a heart attack and died about a year ago. So that left only Mrs. Claybourne and the two kids—Stuart Lee and Amelia.

Essentially, as far as Walton’s Mountain was concerned, the Claybournes had always been a quiet family. Carter Claybourne was said to have a variety of financial interests, and spent most of his time in Richmond or up in Baltimore. The family’s social life took place pretty much in the big cities, sometimes taking them as far away as Atlanta and Birmingham. So the Claybournes didn’t mix a whole lot with the farmers and working people of Walton’s Mountain. Still, they were always polite and friendly enough, and on occasion Carter Claybourne had been very generous with the other residents. None of the Claybournes ever attended the Baptist Church. But ten years ago Carter Claybourne had surprised them with a gift of two thousand dollars. And the three or four times John had come out to repair an appliance or fix drainpipes, Carter Claybourne had always handed him a sealed envelope containing at least twice what he normally would have charged.

Now, John presumed, twenty-one-year-old Stuart Lee was the head of the family, and he guessed the boy would be paying for the work he would do. He wondered if Stuart Lee would be as generous as his father. Considering how slow the woodcutting business had been lately, he certainly could use the money.

Dewey Hamilton, the old Negro butler, answered the door. Dewey had been with the Claybournes as long as John could remember. But old age was catching up with him now, and he moved slowly.

“Mornin’, Dewey, how you gettin’ on?”

“Mornin’, Mr. Walton. Come in, come in. We been expectin’ you. I’m gettin’ along tolerable, I reckon. How’s your family?”

“Fine, thank you.”

The inside of the house always reminded John of a museum. There was a heavy smell of floor wax and furniture polish, and everyone always seemed to tiptoe and talk in whispers. It was also chilly this morning.

Dewey led him past the big circular staircase and down a long hallway. “This cold weather sure enough aggravates a man’s rheumatism, Mr. Walton. Be glad when it’s summertime again. Don’t think this old body o’ mine can tolerate much more of this blowin’ and snowin’.”

He moved across the kitchen shaking his head. “Miz Docksteader, the cook, she’s been gone a few days, but right here’s the refrigerator. Just stopped hummin’ the day before she left, and there was no more cold.”

“I reckon with weather like this, a person don’t need a refrigerator much, Dewey.”

“Ain’t it the truth.”

There was a soft
bong
and a red light flashed on a wall panel.

“That’ll be Miz Claybourne wantin’ her tea,” Dewey said. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Walton.”

John nodded and watched the old Negro pick up a huge silver tray and hobble out the door.

Repairing refrigerators was not exactly John Walton’s specialty. Washing machines, gasoline motors, and most small electrical appliances were relatively simple, and could be figured out with a little common sense. But refrigerators with their compressors and liquid coolants and thermostats could be tricky. After an hour and a half, he found the trouble. It was simple enough. The automatic shut-off device controlled by the thermostat had been shorted by a frayed wire and the metal connector had melted completely apart. John fashioned a new one by drilling holes in a piece of scrap metal and bent it to fit the necessary connections. Once it was in place he plugged in the cord and smiled with satisfaction. The motor promptly hummed into action.

“Hi, Mr. Walton.”

Amelia Claybourne came bouncing into the kitchen carrying a tray of empty breakfast things. She was a pretty sixteen-year-old with long blonde hair and an impish smile.

“Mornin’, Amelia. How’s it goin’?” John worked the refrigerator back into place.

“You get it fixed already?”

“Temporarily.”

“Daddy never could fix anything. He’d just call somebody in and have them do it.”

“Well, I reckon your Daddy always had more important things to do.”

“Yeah, I guess.” She made a sour face. “Stuart Lee’s just like him.”

John smiled and wiped his hands. “Well, like they say, Amelia, ‘Like father like son.’ ”

Mrs. Claybourne glided airily into the kitchen. She was a handsome woman in her late forties, with elegantly fixed hair. If John hadn’t seen her before in the same kind of gauzy gown, he would have guessed she was dressed for a party. She greeted him and looked sternly at her daughter.

“Amelia, darling, I hope you haven’t been pestering Mr. Walton.”

“She’s good company, Mrs. Claybourne. And the fact is I’m all finished anyway.”

She gave the refrigerator a look of surprise. “Now isn’t that a miracle! Humming like brand-new. You’re a wizard, Mr. Walton.”

John smiled. “Don’t see many of these electric refrigerators. They’re a little more complicated than ice boxes.”

“Amelia, go fetch your brother so he can settle accounts with Mr. Walton.”

“OK.”

“Darling, please don’t slouch. Good posture is so important to a lady. And I find the term ‘OK’ quite unsuitable, dear.”

“Bye, Mr. Walton.”

It seemed to John that Amelia’s posture was as good as any other teenaged girl’s he’d ever seen. But she straightened into exaggerated stiffness as she left.

Mrs. Claybourne shook her head. “I’m afraid there is simply no hope for this new generation, Mr. Walton. In my day we took pride!”

John nodded and smiled to himself as he remembered the first time he ever saw Adelle Claybourne. It must have been twenty-five years ago when he was still a small boy, and the Claybournes were out riding in the first automobile he had ever seen. He was dazzled by the car. But he was even more impressed by the Claybournes’ fancy clothes, and the proud way they sat on those high seats.

“Mrs. Claybourne, what I’ve done here is just temporary. There’s a part inside that needs replacin’.”

“A part? Oh, dear.”

“It’s no problem. I can have one of Ike Godsey’s suppliers pick it up over in Charlottesville.” He smiled as Stuart Lee came in. “Mornin’, Stuart Lee.”

The young man was tall and slender, with an uncertain manner—as if not yet comfortable with his position as head of the family. He extended his hand with formality. “Mr. Walton.”

Mrs. Claybourne moved toward the door. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Walton. Now, Stuart Lee, you be especially generous with our good neighbor. And please remember me to your lovely family, Mr. Walton.”

“I’ll do that, Mrs. Claybourne.”

John gathered his tools and put them in the toolbox. “The temporary part I put in ought to hold fine until the new one comes, Stuart Lee. Then it’ll only take a couple minutes to put it in.”

“I see. I don’t think I noticed your truck outside, Mr. Walton.”

“No. The family brought me over on the way to church. I reckon I can walk home all right.”

“I’ll be happy to drive you. In fact I’m going right by your place.”

“Well, I’d sure appreciate that, Stuart Lee. This box gets a little heavy sometimes.”

The car Stuart Lee got out of the garage was a shiny Packard roadster. It was three or four years old now, but still about the nicest car John had ever ridden in. He especially appreciated the heater that was turning out fresh warm air as quickly as they reached the road.

“How you been gettin’ along since your daddy passed on, Stuart Lee?”

“We—it’s been difficult. Particularly for mother.”

“Well, your daddy was a fine man. And I reckon your mama’ll be all right in time. She’s a strong lady.”

Stuart Lee nodded, but didn’t seem inclined to pursue the subject. They stopped by Ike Godsey’s to order the refrigerator part, and then Stuart Lee drove in silence until they got to the house. He drew a sealed envelope from his jacket and handed it over. “Thank you very much, Mr. Walton.”

“Thank
you.”
John couldn’t help smiling. Stuart Lee was handling the payment the same as his father had always done—as if counting out money was a distasteful act. The only difference was that his father usually invited John into his study for a taste of good bourbon before he gave him the envelope.

“You sure you don’t want to come in and say hello? The family’d enjoy seein’ you.”

“No. The truth is, Mr. Walton, I’m on my way over to visit the Weatherbys.”

John grinned. “Can’t blame you for that. Blanche Weatherby’s a handsome young lady. Give my best to her daddy.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Walton.”

“Say, Stuart Lee, as long as you’re over there, I wouldn’t mind your suggestin’ to Creighton Weatherby that I got some fine firewood for sale. Some good hard oak.”

Stuart Lee didn’t look too enthusiastic. “I wouldn’t think it’d be worth your while to make deliveries that far.”

“Be glad to. The way business is, I’ll deliver it, stack it, and chop it into kindlin if he wants.” John grinned. “In fact, if it’ll help make a sale, you tell him I’ll come over and light his fire every mornin’ and get his coffee goin’.”

Stuart Lee forced a smile and nodded impatiently.

“How about yourself?” John asked, “I reckon you’ve about used up that last load I brought you.”

“No, I think we have enough for the present.”

John nodded. “Well, you let me know. Much obliged for the ride.”

John watched the roadster drive off and then headed for the sawmill. He felt a little sorry for Stuart Lee Claybourne. The boy seemed to have twenty things on his mind all at once, and wasn’t able to cope with any of them. Maybe being rich didn’t make life so easy after all.

“Daddy!”

John stopped short. There was a note of urgency in Ben’s voice and he was flying across the back yard at full speed.

“Daddy, Mama’s real sick! She fell down at church and we had to carry her up to bed!”

“What d’you mean she fell down?”

“It was like she fainted or something. She said her legs just gave out on her. And then it happened again when we got home. Grandpa and John-Boy had to carry her up the stairs.”

It might be nothing serious—just the start of a bad case of the grippe. But Olivia generally wasn’t hit hard by the usual sicknesses. John left his toolbox outside the door and went quickly into the kitchen.

Mary Ellen was at the stove, waiting for water to boil. “Grandma told me to make some tea.”

At the table the other kids had worried looks. John took the stairs two at a time. He shouldn’t have let her go to church, he told himself. In weather like this, the grippe could easily turn into pneumonia. And even Olivia wasn’t strong enough to fight off something like that.

The door was open. Grandma and Grandpa were beside the bed, and John-Boy was curled forward in the corner chair.

“She’s got a bad fever, John,” Grandpa said.

“Strangest thing I ever saw,” Grandma added.

John eased down on the edge of the bed and picked up her hand. Her eyes were closed, and he was startled by how drawn and weak she looked. This morning she was pale and looked a little tired. But now there was no doubt about her being sick. Her face glistened with moisture, and the deep red splotches left no doubt about the intensity of her fever. John touched her forehead and pushed aside a sticky strand of hair.

“Olivia?”

She didn’t seem to hear him.

“How long has she been like this?”

“Just the last five minutes,” Grandma said.

Grandpa shook his head. “She laughed about it when she fell down leavin’ the church. Said she must have tripped on somethin’. Then it happened again comin’ in the house.”

“We got her right to bed and she went to sleep. Then, just a few minutes ago she started shakin’ and the fever came on real bad.”

“John-Boy, you’d better go for the doctor.”

Grandpa rose. “I’ll go with him.”

“Daddy, that front tire is about flat. It was gettin’ low on the way home from church, but I didn’t want to stop and change it.”

John groaned inwardly. This was about the worst time in the world to get a flat. “Never mind, go anyway. There won’t be any loss if you tear up that tire.”

“What do you think Mama’s got, Daddy?”