The Waltons 3 - The Easter Story (7 page)

“Damn!" he said when he brought the truck to a stop.

It took him almost an hour to repair it. He had a patch kit and an old tire-boot under the front seat, but he had to use three patches to cover the three-inch slit in the innertube. And then his rusty old pump leaked more air than it forced into the tube. Once he got the truck started again, John had grave doubts about how much longer either of the tires would last. But if he could get three more dollars from Stuart Lee he could probably make it down to Charlottesville and buy a couple used ones.

John parked in the back, and Dewey was at the door as quickly as he got his toolbox out. “Afternoon, Mr. Walton. Fine day, ain’t it?”

“Sure is, Dewey. Your rheumatism feelin’ better?”

Dewey had a silver platter in his hand, polishing it. “Gone away completely, Mr. Walton. Feelin’ fine now. How’s Mrs. Walton gettin’ along?”

“Good as can be expected, I reckon. You got some place I can wash up before I get started here?”

Dewey showed him to a small washroom off the pantry, and John scrubbed the grease and dirt from his hands. When he came out, Mrs. Claybourne was leaving the kitchen. She smiled. “Oh, Mr. Walton. Dewey told me you were here. Would you care to have a cup of coffee with me in the drawing room?”

“I’d appreciate that, Mrs. Claybourne, but I reckon I’d better get that part into your refrigerator.”

“Oh, I’m sure that can wait. And I do want to hear how Olivia’s getting along. I was shocked to hear about it, Mr. Walton.” She gave him a sympathetic smile. “I asked Dewey to serve coffee instead of tea. I know how you men prefer it.”

John smiled. “Well, in that case—”

It had been years since John had been in the Claybournes’ drawing room. That visit had been brief; only long enough to replace a pane of broken glass. It was an impressive room. One end was dominated by a white marble fireplace. Above it there was a huge oil painting of General Harlan McKelvey, Mrs. Claybourne’s grandfather. There were smaller portraits along the side wall, and all the brightly polished furniture stood on yellow carpeting that felt as soft as a down comforter. Mrs. Claybourne led them across to the two sofas in front of the fireplace.

“I’d forgotten how grand this room is, Mrs. Claybourne. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a room as pretty as this even in a magazine.”

“Yes, this room is my sanctuary.” She glanced around. “I always feel so much more secure surrounded by reminders of the past.”

John smiled. “I know. There’s the ruins of an old cabin up on the mountain that gives me the same feelin’. Course it never was quite like this.”

Dewey brought in a silver tray with coffee and cups, along with some pastries.

“Now, tell me about Olivia,” Mrs. Claybourne said once they were served.

John told her what the doctor said and about Olivia’s determination to bring some life back into her legs.

“Well, I hope she doesn’t get her hopes up too high,” Mrs. Claybourne commented. “Carter’s second cousin in Savannah got polio when she was fourteen years old and she’s never walked a step since, poor thing—and with the finest medical advice in the world. And the cost was appalling. I do hope the expense is not going to be too much of a problem for you.”

John was tempted to bring up the question of Stuart Lee’s payment for his repair services. But Mrs. Claybourne probably had less understanding about money than the boy did. “Oh, I reckon we’ll get through it somehow, Mrs. Claybourne. Stuart Lee doesn’t happen to be home today, does he?”

She smiled. “No. And I imagine you can guess where he is.”

“The Weatherbys’?”

“I do think he’s going to marry that girl.” She sighed. “And Amelia—nearly sixteen—off to college in another year. It’s really distressing to think about one’s children growing up and gallivanting around the world. But you must know all about that, Mr. Walton.”

“Yes, I do.”

She frowned. “Stuart Lee did pay you the other day, didn’t he?”

John hesitated. If he was going to bring up the subject, now was certainly the time. But it only seemed fair to confront Stuart Lee first. He smiled. “Yes, he did.”

“Oh, good. Stuart Lee told me it was all taken care of. But he’s been so distracted lately I thought he might have forgotten. I’m so glad he’s learning about money and financial matters. With so many people doing without these days, I think it’s in rather poor taste for us to indulge in any extravagances. Don’t you, Mr. Walton?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He wondered if Stuart Lee might have regarded paying a decent wage to someone as an extravagance. John emptied his cup and returned it to the tray.

“Oh, do have one of these cream puffs, Mr. Walton. Stuart Lee gets them for me in Richmond.”

“The coffee was fine. Nothing else, thank you, Mrs. Claybourne.”

“Oh, but these are especially delicious. Perhaps you’d like to take some of them home for your family. Children do love sweets, don’t they.” She put down her cup. “I’ll just have Dewey make up a package—”

John wasn’t sure why, but anger suddenly rose inside of him. His wife was lying in bed and was likely to be crippled the rest of her life; he had a truckoad of firewood that he couldn’t sell; and two tires that were so bad he probably couldn’t deliver the wood even if he could sell it. And Mrs. Claybourne, who had never missed a meal in her life, was offering him cream puffs to take home to his children. They probably cost ten cents apiece.

“Please don’t, Mrs. Claybourne. I really don’t want the cream puffs.” He put his napkin back on the tray. “And I’ve got lots of things to do today, so I think I’d better get started.”

He tried to keep the anger out of his voice. But for an instant she looked startled. Then her smile quickly returned. “How selfish of me. I sometimes forget how much providing for that big family of yours must take. I’m sure you must be the busiest man in the whole county, Mr. Walton.”

“Well, not quite, Mrs. Claybourne.”

She moved toward the door with him. “Will you be going past the post office on your way home, Mr. Walton?”

“You mean Ike’s store? Yes, I reckon I will.”

“I wonder if you would be good enough to mail some letters for us. Stuart Lee completely forgot them when he left this morning. I don’t know what’s gotten into that boy. But they say if you want something done, give the job to the busiest man around.”

“I’ll be glad to take them, Mrs. Claybourne.”

“I would appreciate it. I’ll give them to Dewey for you. And do give my best to Mrs. Walton.”

After she glided away toward the front of the house, he went to the kitchen.

Dewey had the whole sink full of silver now, moving it from one side to the other as he polished it. As far as John could tell, both sides looked clean and sparkling.

“Got a big party comin’ up, Dewey?”

The old man laughed. “No, just doin’ my regular polishin’, Mr. Walton. Rain or shine, party or no party, the silver gets polished every week. Ain’t been no parties around this house since long before Mr. Claybourne passed over. But this ol’ silver gets polished anyhow. I take it all down from the shelf, give it a good shine and put it all back again. Fact is, most of it hasn’t been used in years.”

John looked at the array of trays and goblets and candleholders, and then saw an equal supply in a walk-in closet next to the pantry. He smiled. “They ought to melt it down into silver dollars.”

“If somebody did that, I don’t reckon they’d even miss it, Mr. Walton. And it would sure save me a lot of work every week.”

John laughed and got his tools out. Now that he knew exactly what had to be done, the job wouldn’t take long. He pulled the refrigerator out and loosened the motor-mount bolts so he could get in behind it.

“You reckon Stuart Lee’ll be comin’ home pretty soon, Dewey?”

“Oh, that’s not likely, Mr. Walton. That boy, he goes racin’ all over the country with that Miss Weatherby. Lord, I’d just like to have the money he spends on gasoline.”

“So would I, Dewey.” While he worked, John thought about Mrs. Claybourne and the cream puffs Stuart Lee brought up from Richmond. It was strange how people spent money. And all that silver they never used. And the Packard roadster. But as the old saying went, “Easy come, easy go.”

There were several versions of how the Claybournes originally got their money—none of them very flattering. Apparently most of it came from old General Harlan McKelvey, whose noble portrait stood over the fireplace. The most frequently told story was that after the Civil War he worked with carpetbaggers from the north, and through some questionable legal tactics, took over a number of cotton plantations in South Carolina and Georgia. From there the McKelvey empire expanded into banking and cotton speculation, and somewhere along the way became respectable. There were plenty of families like that in the South, John supposed. There were plenty of families like that all over the country. Sometimes it seemed like all the great fortunes in the world got started with some kind of larceny. When you thought about it, maybe it wasn’t so surprising the country was in such bad shape.

Dewey was gone when John finished. The silver was all polished and standing neatly on the closet shelves, and a packet of letters was resting on the sink.

John got the refrigerator back in place. He tossed his tools back into his box and stood for a minute, wiping his hands, looking at the silver closet. There, sparkling in the soft light, the fifty or sixty pieces on those shelves represented about three years of cash income for the Walton family. And the Claybournes didn’t even use it.

John smiled. If he owned something that valuable it would already be on his truck, and he would be headed for a pawn shop. He tossed the dirty rag into the toolbox and snapped it shut. Then he looked at the silver again, thinking about Stuart Lee’s one-dollar payment for his work.

IV

J
ohn-Boy was amazed at the number of students there were milling around the college campus. Even more amazing was how carefree they looked. The girls all wore sweaters and pleated skirts and were remarkably pretty, and the boys had a rich casual air about them as they strolled to their classes or stretched out on the broad, tree-shaded lawns.

Sheriff Bridges had given him a ride down to the college. John-Boy had stopped by Ike Godsey’s to see if there was any mail, and Ep was just leaving for Charlottesville. He would probably be there a couple hours, he said, and he would be glad to leave John-Boy at the college and pick him up later.

“Kind of early in the year to be goin’ off to college, ain’t it, John-Boy?” Ep asked on the way down.

“I just want to find out what courses they got for next year. It was Mama’s idea mostly. Now that she’s sick I guess about the only thing she thinks about is gettin’ us all started out on some kind of career.”

“Well if your Mama’s decided you’re goin’ to go to college, John-Boy, I don’t guess there’ll be much doubt about it.”

John-Boy wondered just how much truth there really was in that statement. There were probably a million young men graduating from high school this year whose mothers wanted them to go on to college. And very few of them would make it. But for the time being, going through the motions and getting a catalogue would probably make his mother happy. And right now that was about the most important thing.

Sheriff Bridges left him a block from the administration building, and John-Boy made his way along the walk feeling conspicuously out of place in his faded coveralls. In addition to the problem of money, he found it hard to imagine himself as one of these confident, pipe-smoking young men. He strode purposefully along, hoping he at least looked like he halfway belonged, and made his way up the steps and into the admissions office.

A broad counter stacked with brochures greeted him. Behind that, four young ladies, apparently students, were busily typing. John-Boy glanced over the literature and smiled at the closest girl.

“Could you maybe help me, please?”

“Certainly.” She came quickly to her feet and looked him over. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

“Well, I’m not really here. I mean I’m not really here yet. I just wanted to talk.”

She leaned forward on the counter and smiled. “OK. What do you want to talk about? There’s a dance next Saturday night. You got a date yet?”

John-Boy felt blood creep warmly up his neck. Maybe he wouldn’t be so out of place here after all. She was an awfully pretty girl, with silky brown hair and greenish eyes. “Well, mostly I wanted to talk about how you register. And how much everythin’ costs and what courses there are and everythin’.”

The girl looked disappointed. But she quickly smiled and brought a catalogue from under the counter. “There you are. Everything’s in that catalogue—fees, tuition costs, schedules of classes, and an entrance application. And help yourself to any of these brochures.”

“Are they free?”

“Sure. Will you be starting in the spring?”

“Well, maybe. Or maybe in September. This is sort of long-range planning.”

“Huh. Well, I’m not sure I can wait that long. What’s your name?”

John-Boy blushed again. “John Walton, Jr.”

“OK, John Walton, Jr., we’ll look forward to seeing you. You think you’ll be free for the Halloween dance?”

John-Boy had never experienced such forthright friendliness. Especially from pretty girls. “Well, yes, I reckon.”

“OK, then it’s a date. I’ll see you in October.”

“OK—uh, thanks for the brochures.”

“You’re welcome.”

John-Boy hesitated at the door. The idea had been brooding in his mind for some time now—ever since that night Jason, Ben, and Jim-Bob came to his room. But he wasn’t sure he had the nerve to do it. Or if it would even lead to anything.

“What’s the matter?” the girl smiled.

“Well, I was just wondering. Do you have a medical school here?”

“A medical school. I would have guessed you were more of an Arts and Humanities type.”

“You’re right. I’m interested in a career in Journalism. But my mother’s sick, and I wanted to see if I could get to talk to somebody.”

“Your mother’s sick? How?”

“The polio.”