The Waltons 3 - The Easter Story (9 page)

“Not yet. But it’ll come.” She dismissed the subject with a smile. “Well, I’ve given my performance for the day. Now it’s your turn. John-Boy, Erin told me you went to the college today. Did you get a catalogue?”

The question took John-Boy by surprise. “Well, yes. It’s in my room.”

“All right, we’ll look at it tomorrow. Jason, have you been practicin’?”

“Yes’m.”

Mary Ellen suddenly smiled at John-Boy. “You’re supposed to teach me to dance, John-Boy.”

“What?! Me? I don’t know anythin’ about dancin’.”

Olivia laughed. “All you have to do, John-Boy, is be her partner so she can practice.”

“But, Mama—”

“And I don’t see why we can’t start right now. Jason, why don’t you get your harmonica so we’ll have some music.”

It was clear that Mary Ellen wished she hadn’t brought up the subject. “Right now, Mama? With everybody watchin’?”

“Everybody’ll be watchin’ when you go to the dance. You might as well get used to it right now.”

Those not involved smiled, and Jason went for his harmonica.

“But, Mama,” Mary Ellen protested again, “it’s my turn to wash the dishes.”

Grandma got up and headed for the door. “Don’t worry about that, child, I’ll do ’em. Don’t know as I want to look at this anyway.”

As far as John-Boy was concerned, the whole dancing lesson was a disaster. His sister, he decided, was constitutionally incapable of following anybody else’s lead. Jason started with a waltz, and with John-Boy’s first effort to glide Mary Ellen across the floor she pushed his arm away. “Quit haulin’ at me!”

From there it got worse. When John-Boy turned one way, Mary Ellen turned the other, bringing a thudding collision. And trying to move her with a graceful swing was more like a contest at arm wrestling. When Jason’s laughter finally stopped the music Mary Ellen gave it up.

“It doesn’t make sense, Mama. How am I supposed to know when he’s gonna turn, or start backwards or frontwards, or somethin’?”

For the moment, Olivia had no explanation. But it had been good entertainment. “I think you’ve done very well for your first lesson, darling. And you, too, John-Boy.”

Earlier in the week, when Ben talked to his mother about becoming a magazine salesman, he had been bursting with confidence. He imagined himself going to every house in Walton’s Mountain—maybe even going down to Charlottesville—and walking away from every door with his pockets full of dimes and quarters. Even Ike Godsey, who was an experienced businessman, had told him he would make a cracker-jack salesman. Last summer Ben had caught a whopping big fish and sold it to Ike for fifteen cents. And Ike didn’t even like fish. So he should have no problems selling magazines.

But then, after he sent the letter to the magazine distributor, the doubts and uncertainty began. Did he really
sell
that fish to Ike? Or was Ike just being nice to him? Or was the fish worth more than fifteen cents, and Ike had turned around and made a big profit by reselling it? And magazines might be different from fish. Fish was food, and everybody needed food. But did anybody really need magazines?

Grandpa’s statement had been the clincher, sending tremors of doubt and fear down Ben’s spine. “With nobody havin’ any money, don’t know who you’re goin’ to sell ’em to,” he had said. People not having any money was something Ben hadn’t even considered before. Why would they buy magazines when they couldn’t even pay their light bills or buy food?

Ben had smiled through the clumsy efforts his brother and sister made at dancing, and then tried to shrug off his mother’s question.

“I reckon they’re sending me some magazines pretty soon. I don’t know when they’ll be here.”

“You told me they were comin’ tomorrow,” John-Boy said.

“Well, yes, that’s what they said. But sometimes the mail is late.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll be here.” Olivia smiled. “And I bet you’ll be the best salesman they ever had.”

Ben had nodded and tried to smile, but by the time he went to bed that night he found himself hoping the distributing company had forgotten about him, or that the mail arrived a week too late. Nobody could be expected to sell a week-old magazine. Or maybe they would come postage-due. Or maybe the magazine company would demand payment in advance—something he could not possibly do.

Other disastrous possibilities occurred to Ben as he trudged down to Ike’s store the next morning. The man who brought the mail to Ike’s might have car trouble and never get there. Or the freight train that brought the magazines from New York to Richmond could have gone off a bridge, or had a head-on collision with a northbound passenger train. As he moved up the steps of Ike’s store, Ben had a clear picture of a shattered freight car lying at the bottom of a deep ravine. Bundles of magazines were scattered down the mountain slope, and tongues of flame were just beginning to lick at them.

“Hey, Ben, how you doin’?”

Ike was behind the counter, transferring cans of soup from a carton to the shelf.

“Okay, Ike, how you doin’?’

“Real good. How’s your mama?”

“Feelin’ better. She’s sittin’ up now.”

“Hey, that’s good news! And what can I do for you this mornin’?”

Ben glanced at the caged area that served as the United States Post Office. As far as he could see, there were no packages on the counter.

“Oh, nothin’, Ike. Just thought I’d come down in case there was any mail.”

Ike put the last of the cans on the shelf and tossed the empty carton aside. “Well, let’s just take a look. Mail came in just a few minutes ago. Haven’t even looked at it myself.” He lifted a big rope-tied bundle from under the cash register and put it on the counter.

Ben’s heart sank. A large brown package made up most of the bundle. Ike cut the rope and smiled.

“Hey, look at that! To Benjamin Walton from the Seaboard Distributing Company. And it’s heavy.”

“Yeah. Well, it’s just some old magazines I ordered.”

“Oh, yeah?” Ike looked through the letters. “That’s all there is.”

“There’s no postage due on this is there, Ike?”

“Nope. It’s all yours, free and clear.”

Ben gazed at the package without touching it. There was no question about it being the magazines. And they had suffered from neither train wreck nor fire.

“What’s the matter, Ben? You don’t have to take it if you don’t want. I can mark it ‘Return to Sender.’ ”

“No. I reckon I’ll take it.” Ben dragged the package off the counter and headed reluctantly for the door. “I’ll see you later, Ike.”

It was a warm, sunny day outside. But to Ben it seemed like the gloomiest day of his life. At the first large tree, he sat down, plopped the package between his legs and undid the knots of twine.

The magazines were all there; six copies each of
Liberty, Colliers, The Saturday Evening Post,
and
Literary Digest.
There was also a canvas bag with a shoulder strap, along with a letter and a packet of literature. Ben silently read it all.

“Congratulations,” the letter began. “You have now taken your first step toward becoming an independent businessman. Enclosed are enough magazines to get you started—but remember, this is only the start! Set your goals high! Map out your territory and work it systematically! Don’t be discouraged by potential customers who say no—go back week after week! You’ll be amazed by the number of people who say
yes
on the second, third, or fourth call. Be industrious and persistent, and we guarantee your sales volume will rise and rise and rise week after week.”

The brochures were full of testimonials from other magazine salesmen, all telling how easy it had been to make sales, and how pleased they were with their growing bank accounts: “. . . can’t tell you how thrilled I am . . . expect to have enough profits to start college next year.” E. W., S
TAPELTON,
N
EBRASKA.
“. . . and when people heard I was the local salesman, they started calling me at home to order subscriptions!” A. H., T
YLER,
T
EXAS.
“I was discouraged at first, but repeat calls made all the difference. Thanks again for wonderful opportunity to become independent.” C.G.D., A
RLINGTON,
G
A.

Ben had some skepticism about those statements. They all might have been made long before the Depression. But the last brochure caught his attention, and he studied it closely.
The Art of Magazine Salesmanship,
it was entitled. “The magazines you now have in your hand” it began, “are beautifully bound collections of stories and articles and photographs, all printed on the best paper available. But this is not what you are going to sell!
No,
sir! You, Mr. Magazine Salesman, are selling
culture!
You are selling the most valuable collection in the world today—information, education, and wisdom!

“Ask your prospective customer if he is a community leader. Ask if he understands the government’s fiscal policy, if he knows what kind of rifle should be used for polar bear hunting in Alaska, or if he knows what Babe Ruth eats for breakfast. When questions such as these come up at social gatherings, who do people turn to for the answers? They turn to the alert, informed, well-read members of the community—those who subscribe to your magazines! And that, Mr. Magazine Salesman, is what you are selling! You are not selling a magazine—you are selling its benefits! For the small cost of a year’s subscription to these periodicals, you are giving your customers the respect, admiration, and approbation of their friends and neighbors.”

Ben wasn’t too sure he understood all that. He tried to imagine such ideas applied to his sale of the fish to Ike Godsey, but he had no success. Ike, he guessed, bought the fish because he was hungry—or because he thought he could make a profit selling it to someone else. He doubted if Ike’s friends respected or admired him any more for having bought it.

Still, magazines were different. Maybe people did buy them for those reasons. Ben got to his feet. He shoved all the magazines into the canvas bag and slung it over his shoulder.

The Claybournes? If anyone in Walton’s Mountain could afford to buy any magazines it would be them. On the other hand, the Baldwin sisters’ house was closer. And Ben wasn’t sure he could ask the Claybournes questions about polar bear rifles and Babe Ruth’s breakfast.

He took a fortifying breath and headed for the Baldwins’.

V

“W
hy look who’s here, sister,” Miss Emily exclaimed, “It’s young Benjamin Walton! Do come in, Benjamin. What a pleasure and delight to have you come a-callin’.”

Ben hated the name Benjamin. But he smiled and went in. “How are you, Miss Emily? And Miss Mamie?”

Miss Mamie was in the loveseat by the fire, a piece of needlepoint in her lap. “Oh, we’re just fine, Benjamin. We were just talkin’ about your dear mother and her tragic affliction.”

“Now, you just sit down right here, Benjamin, and tell us all about it. We only just heard two days ago. I declare, I just can’t tell you how distraught we’ve been.”

Ben hadn’t counted on the long questioning and the ladies’ tearful demands that he tell them every little detail of his mother’s condition. Then Miss Emily brought cookies and lemonade, and the two sisters told him about every illness that had ever been suffered by members of the Baldwin family. It was an impressive number.

“I declare,” Miss Mamie finally concluded, “sometimes I just can’t understand the intentions of the Lord at all. First, Papa died in the very prime of his life. He was only sixty-three, you know, Benjamin.”

“Sixty-four,” Miss Emily said with a smile.

“I do believe it was sixty-three, sister,” Miss Mamie smiled in return. “But no matter. If you could have seen him, Benjamin, you’d have sworn he was no more than fifty. Just as handsome and virile as any man you’ve ever seen. And the good Lord, just as mysterious as you can imagine, just struck him down in a most mystifyin’ manner. And now your poor dear mother!”

“Well,” Ben shrugged. “I reckon we can be real grateful it wasn’t worse.”

Miss Emily sighed. “Now isn’t that just like a Walton! Lookin’ at the brighter side of things. I’ve always said, Mamie, if everyone in the world was as cheerful in the face of adversity as the Waltons are, the world would be ever so much more—more cheerful.”

Ben smiled and nodded, not certain if this was exactly the right time to bring up the reason for his visit.

“Do have some more cookies, Benjamin.”

“And lemonade.”

“Well, I expect I’ve had about enough for right now.” He shifted his bag to his lap. “And, as a matter of fact, the reason I came out here was to—to show you somethin’.”

“Oh, look at that, sister, Benjamin has a magazine.”

“Are you sellin’ magazines, Benjamin?”

Ben glanced uncertainly at them. “Uh—well, as a matter of fact, no.”

“Oh,” they both said. They seemed disappointed.

“No, what I’m sellin’, Miss Mamie and Miss Emily, is culture. Uh—information and education and wisdom.”

“Oh, dear.” They both looked puzzled.

“For example,” Ben went on, “at a social gatherin’, a party, when somebody asks a lot of questions, who answers them?”

They thought for a minute. “Well, it seems to me it’s usually second cousin Homer Lee Baldwin. Wouldn’t you say so, Emily?”

“Yes, Cousin Homer Lee does talk a great deal. But I’d say Cousin Oswald is more likely to answer questions. He has an entire record of the family tree, you know.” She frowned. “What sort of questions did you have in mind, Benjamin?”

Ben had a feeling things weren’t going exactly the way they were supposed to. “Well, questions about the government’s fiscal policy. Or maybe what Babe Ruth ate for breakfast.”

They stared silently at him.

“Or what kind of rifles they use in Alaska,” Ben added weakly. “For shootin’ polar bears.”

“Oh, dear! You mean those beautiful animals with the lovely white fur?”

“Yes.”

“I think that’s just terrible. Don’t you, sister?”

Miss Mamie shook her head. “I declare, I can’t imagine anybody doin’ such a thing.”

Ben swallowed hard. He glanced at the magazine on his lap and those still in the bag. “Well—I reckon that isn’t what I really came to talk to you about. What I wanted to say is that I’ve got some magazines here, and they’re really very good magazines. In fact I was lookin’ at some of them on the way out here, and they’ve got some real good stories in them.”