The Waltons 2 - Trouble on the Mountain (11 page)

VI

I
t was chilly outside, and the only coat he had with him was packed in the suitcase. But he wasn’t going to take the time to stop and get it out. No sir, Zeb told himself, he wasn’t going to stop for anything.

There were a lot more things he could have told them—a lot more things he
should
have told them. They were all living on a piece of property that used to belong to Zeb Walton. All of Zeb’s brothers had sold off their parts of the mountain a long time ago. But Zeb had hung on. And he could have gotten a good price for it back in those days. Instead, he had struggled along, making sacrifices, sweating for ten years in the soapstone quarries down by Charlottesville. All just so’s he could pass on the land to his children and grandchildren.

People had no respect anymore. A man works all his life for his wife and children, so they can have it easy, with a nice home and electricity. Then they just want him to lie down and die. “Where you been, Grandpa?” “You could have told us you were going over to Charlottesville.”

Well, this time he’d show them. If he had to sleep on a couch in the house he helped build, on the land that he had handed over out of the goodness of his heart, well then, they could just have it their way, and he’d find someplace where he was welcome—and treated like a human being.

Zeb suddenly shivered from the cold and slogged on, shifting the suitcase to his other hand. Esther must have been pretty surprised when she saw him standing there with the bag in his hand. She’d sure start to do some thinking now. Through the fifty-one years they’d been married, there’d been more times than this when she took him for granted. His mistake had been not standing up to her before, not telling her to just back off a little, and thank the Lord for the blessings she had in life. And she had plenty. There weren’t many men who stuck by a woman, and clothed and fed and cherished her all that time. No sir, it was her lucky day when he stepped up in front of that preacher and vowed to be her husband.

Zeb could see no lights on in Ike Godsey’s store. But he must be in there. Except to go down and get supplies, Ike never went anywhere. Zeb shielded his eyes and peered in through the glass door. There was not even a glimmer of light. Zeb pounded on the door. “Ike!”

With his third pounding, a door finally opened somewhere in the back, and Ike came hurrying along. The locks and bolts clicked, and the bell finally tingled as he opened the door.

“Zeb! What’s the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter.”

Ike blinked at him. “What you doing out at this time of night?”

“Nothing. Just thought you might have a place I could sleep for the night.”

Ike opened the door wider. “Yeah. Sure, Zeb. I guess you can sleep on the pool table if you want. You having some trouble at your house?”

“Nope, no trouble. Things is just about as usual.”

Ike stared at him for a minute and then locked the door again. In the back room he turned on the light and started pushing pool balls off the table into the pockets.

“John-Boy was in looking for you earlier today. I guess they found you all right.”

“Yep, they found me.”

With the balls all cleared, Ike stepped back and nodded. Zeb surveyed his new bed and put his suitcase on a chair. “That’ll do just fine, Ike. I reckon it’s about as good a bed as a useless old man like me can find around Walton’s Mountain.”

Ike nodded and watched him get a nightshirt out of the suitcase. “Well, I expect I’ll be getting back to my own bed.”

Zeb started pulling off his clothes. “Ain’t no gratitude in the world no more, Ike. A fella’s lucky to have a friend like you. Somebody he can count on.”

Ike nodded. “You get any supper tonight?”

“Yes, I got supper. It wasn’t a whole lot, but I expect I should be thankful for getting that.”

“You like some crackers or something?”

“No, no. But I’m touched by the offer, Ike. It’s a real comfort to know there’s still people who are willing to share what they got.”

Ike watched him climb up on the table and stretch out. “I’ll get you some overalls. You can use them for a pillow.”

Zeb closed his eyes and sighed deeply. The pool table wasn’t at all bad. And they said sleeping on a hard surface was good for a person’s back.

Ike came back with a blanket and a stack of overalls.

“Ike,” Zeb said, getting himself comfortable, “you’re a lucky man being a bachelor. I don’t expect you really appreciate it.”

“Well, you got a fine family, Zeb.”

“Sometimes, Ike. Sometimes.”

“How long you reckon you’ll be staying here, Zeb?”

“How long? Oh, not long at all, Ike. I reckon I’ll be getting on down to Charlottesville first thing in the morning. Then push on from there. Be riding the rails, most likely. Lot of men riding the rails these days, Ike. Lot of old men who can’t find no decent place to stay.”

Ike waited a couple of minutes, but Zeb didn’t seem to have anything more to say. His eyes were closed. He smacked his lips a few times and then looked like he was asleep. Ike switched off the light and went back to his bed.

The most important thing for him to do today, John-Boy reminded himself when he got up the next morning, was to get that typewriter back to the Baldwin sisters. As much as he’d like to keep it a few more days, and maybe get another story typed, the risks were far too great.

It was a beautiful day. The sun was already streaming into his room, and he could smell the aroma of fresh coffee cooking down in the kitchen. Once he was dressed he took the stairs two at a time.

“Morning, everybody.”

Except for Grandpa, everyone was at the table. After they said good morning, John-Boy took his chair and got a hot piece of buttered toast. “Grandpa have his breakfast already?”

“No,” Grandma said flatly.

“Is Grandpa sick?” Elizabeth asked.

The question seemed to rub Grandma the wrong way. “No, he’s not sick,” she said. “Just eat your breakfast.”

Something was wrong. John-Boy looked at his mother, then his father. They both looked solemn, as if they were trying not to look at anybody.

“Mama,” Mary Ellen said, “do you think you could iron my yellow dress for the dance?”

“I think you can iron it yourself, Mary Ellen. You’ve got plenty of time till the dance.”

“Hmph,” Grandma snorted, “wouldn’t harm you any to do some ironing, whether you go to that dance or not.”

Grandma’s tone surprised Mary Ellen. “We
are
going to the dance, aren’t we, Mama? I mean all of us. There hasn’t been a dance here for months.”

“Mary Ellen, that dance isn’t for days yet, and I have other things on my mind right now.”

“How can she iron it with no electricity?” Erin asked.

“That’s right,” Mary Ellen said.

“You could heat the iron on the stove,” Jason suggested. “That’s what
you
used to do, isn’t it, Grandma?”

“It was a different kind of iron.”

Olivia was suddenly on her feet. She pulled an ancient flatiron from a drawer and placed it in front of Mary Ellen. “It was this kind of iron. So any ambition you have toward ironing, you go right ahead.”

John cleared his throat and rose. “Jason, how about you and Ben and me getting that truck loaded? I got to get that lumber over to Anker Barnes first thing.”

The atmosphere around the table was about as chilly as it could get, John-Boy decided. While his mother told Mary Ellen just exactly how the old iron was used, John-Boy gulped down the rest of his breakfast. “Well,” he said with a smile, and took his plate to the sink, “I’ve got to go see Grandpa.”

“What for?” Grandma asked.

“To get the money for the candles. I promised Ike Godsey I’d bring it down to him first thing.”

“Well, your grandpa, he’s . . . he’s not upstairs.”

Everyone was staring at Grandma now. She looked quickly down at her plate.

“He’s not upstairs? But where . . .”

“John-Boy,” Olivia said, “I’ll give you the money for Ike.”

By her tone, John-Boy decided he’d better not pursue the question of Grandpa’s whereabouts. Grandma quickly got up and headed for her room.

“What’s the matter, Mama?” Mary Ellen asked.

“Nothing you can do anything about. Here’s the money for Ike, John-Boy.”

Once he was out the back door, John-Boy hesitated, then walked over to the sawmill where they were loading the truck. They would be done in a couple of minutes. Then, as quickly as they left, he could get the typewriter out of the toolshed.

“Daddy,” he said, “what’s going on around here? Where’s Grandpa?”

“Truth is,” his father said, “your grandpa left here in a huff last night. Carrying his suitcase. Him and your grandma was spatting, and he just got fed up.”

“Where’d he go?”

“Darned if I know. Probably with some of his cronies.”

Jason and Ben had stopped loading. “When’s he coming back?” Jason asked.

“Hard to say. Depends on when he and Grandma get things settled, I reckon.”

“Daddy,” John-Boy said, “after you deliver that lumber, can I go over to Charlottesville with you?”

John tossed the last of the boards into the truck. “Don’t think I’ll be going to Charlottesville, John-Boy.”

“Aren’t you going to pay the electric bill?”

His father gave him a half-smile and climbed into the truck. “Your grandpa paid the bill yesterday. But he was too dam stubborn to tell your grandma.”

So that was it. Last night at the Baldwins’ Grandpa was trying to explain, and Grandma wouldn’t give him a chance.

John-Boy waited until the truck was out of sight and then went to the toolshed. After a glance at the kitchen window, he slipped inside and closed the door behind him.

Once before in his life, John-Boy had experienced a moment of what seemed like pure terror. It was only a few months ago, the night when he stood in front of the Pendletons’—the old house that was supposed to be haunted—and heard organ music coming from inside. But now, as he gaped at the corner of the toolshed where he had left the Baldwin sisters’ typewriter, he was even more petrified. His heart stopped, then raced wildly, and John-Boy put a hand on the wall for support.

It was impossible!

The corner was empty; there was not a thing in it. In fact, the entire toolshed was empty. For a minute John-Boy wondered if he were dreaming, or if he had gotten into the wrong room. He turned quickly and backed away from the door, then turned again, scanning the whole room. There was nothing; no boxes, no junk, no rags, and no typewriter!

“Oh, my God,” he said, scarcely breathing.

It couldn’t be gone. Nobody ever came into the toolshed. It must have been stolen. Someone must have come during the night and broken in!

John-Boy started to go out, but then stopped and put his hands to his head for a minute. He had to think. He had to figure out what to do. Was it possible someone had just moved it—taken those two boxes to the barn or to the sawmill? That must be it. That had to be it!

He left the toolshed and went quickly to the barn. But there was nothing. He searched every shelf and every corner, and even raked frantically through the hay. Then he did the same in the sawmill.

The only other possible place was in the house somewhere. But he had control himself. He had to find it without arousing suspicion. John-Boy took a deep breath, fortifying himself. Then, moving as casually as he could, he walked back to the house.

“John-Boy? I thought you went to Ike’s.”

His mother was at the sink. Mary Ellen was standing by the stove, waiting for her iron to warm up, and Erin and Elizabeth were still at the table.

John-Boy tried to smile. “I was just leaving, Mama. But there were a couple of old boxes out in the toolshed yesterday, and someone must have moved them. Do you know where they are?”

“We sold them,” Mary Ellen said matter-of-factly.

John-Boy’s heart dropped. “You sold them? You
sold
them? What do you mean you sold them?”

“The junk,” Erin said. “They were full of rusty old iron, and we sold them to Mr. Levy for a dollar.”

“And a tire and Grandpa’s old boots,” Elizabeth added.

Olivia suddenly frowned. “John-Boy? What’s the matter?”

For an instant John-Boy thought he was going to faint. He groped at the sink for support. Mr. Levy? The junk man? They had sold the typewriter to Mr. Levy. It was impossible. They couldn’t have!

They were all staring at him now. “What’s the matter, John-Boy?” Mary Ellen asked.

“But . . . didn’t you look in the box?” he stammered.

Erin and Mary Ellen glanced at each other. “It was just old pieces of metal. Mama said we could sell everything in the toolshed.”

“I don’t understand, John-Boy. Why are you so upset?”

“Mama,” John-Boy said, lowering himself into a chair, “I’m in trouble. I’ve never been in so much trouble in my whole life.”

It took John-Boy several minutes to get it all out. At first Olivia couldn’t believe he and Grandpa had even considered going out to the Baldwins’ to borrow a typewriter. Then, with his mother growing more incredulous with every word, he told them how he had hidden the typewriter in the box and covered it with pieces of junk. When he finished, they were all gaping at him, horrified.

“Maybe we can find him,” Mary Ellen said weakly. “I think he lives in Charlottesville.”

“And I’m sure he must have found the typewriter when he unloaded the boxes,” Erin added.

John-Boy shook his head, unable to place any real hope in finding Jake Levy or the typewriter.

Olivia had sat down and was holding her hands to her face. “John-Boy, I just can’t believe it. You and Grandpa borrowed a typewriter from the Baldwin sisters?”

“Yes, we did, Mama. And the worst part of it is the thing belonged to their papa. It was made in 1908, and it’s practically a museum piece.”

“Oh, dear Lord,” she groaned.

They all sat silently for a minute, still stunned by the enormity of the thing. John-Boy tried to picture Jake Levy driving off with the boxes in the back of his truck. Where did he go from here? Did he take the stuff home with him? Did he have a junkyard some place, where he just dumped everything? Or did he sell it to other junk dealers? Whatever he did, it all seemed hopeless. John-Boy looked at Mary Ellen. “When was Mr. Levy here?”