The Waltons 2 - Trouble on the Mountain (16 page)

Mary Ellen could hardly believe it. While Sheriff Bridges drove, she held the slip with the address, trying to control her excitement. She could imagine the look on John-Boy’s face when they came driving up to the house with the Sheriff—and got out of the car with the typewriter. And probably the happiest of all would be her mother.

“This must be it,” Ep finally said. He pulled over to the curb in front of an old wooden house. They all tumbled out and hurried up the walk.

The woman who answered didn’t open the screen door. She stood behind it listening to Sheriff Bridges’ story with a bored look on her face.

“Yes, I had that old typewriter,” she finally said. “I had it for about ten minutes—just long enough until I heard the junk man coming by. Alex gave it to me for a birthday present. Now, what kind of a birthday present is an old thing like that? At least I got two dollars for it.”

“You sold it to a junk man? You sold it to Jake Levy?”

“No. His name’s Coleman.” She opened the screen door and pointed up the street. “Just follow this road about two miles.”

“We’re much obliged,” Ep Bridges said, and all of them except Jim-Bob headed back to the car. Jim-Bob stood there, staring at the woman for a minute before he followed along.

“Happy birthday, ma’am.”

For the first time she smiled. “Well, bless your soul, young man. Thank you very much.”

“I declare,” Ep Bridges laughed as he pulled away from the curb, “if everybody’s goods moved as fast as that typewriting machine, this here Depression’d be over in five minutes. But I reckon we’ve got it this time.”

Sheriff Bridges’ judgment was premature. Later, looking back on it, Mary Ellen supposed that the fact that the typewriter had found its way back to a junk yard for the second time was probably some kind of a bad omen.

Mr. Coleman brought their search to an abrupt and hopeless end.

He was a tough-looking, muscular man. They found him behind a tin shack that served as an office, tossing pieces of junk off a truck, a cigar stub in his mouth.

“Yeah, I remember it,” he said. “We sold it.”

That was their first hint of disaster. The rest came in with the same short, cryptic answers.

“Who’d you sell it to?” Sheriff Bridges asked.

“I don’t know. Kid I had watching the place sold it.”

“Can we talk to him?”

“If you can find him. Worked for me a couple of days and took off.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Nope.” He jumped down from the truck and headed for his office.

“Mr. Coleman,” Ep said, following him, “it’s real important we find that typewriting machine. It would help if you could tell us who the boy sold it to, or where we could find him.”

The man stopped at the office door. “Listen, I appreciate your problem. But I got problems too. I don’t know who the kid was. All I know is he said something about heading for California. They come and they go around here. And he sold the typewriter while I was out collecting stuff.”

“You think he sold it to someone in town?”

The man shook his head. “Sheriff, people are coming out here all day dumping stuff off, or trading it, or buying other stuff. I ain’t got no idea who most of them are, or where they came from. Charlottesville’s a big town.”

“Is there
anything
you can tell us that might help?”

The man shook his head again. “Forget it. There ain’t no chance of your seeing that typewriter again.”

With that he closed the door to the tin shack, and to the last of their hopes.

It was a long ride home.

IX

J
ohn-Boy took a deep, fortifying breath, but even that didn’t seem to be enough. He leaned forward in the chair and squeezed his hands tightly together. “You see, Miss Mamie and Miss Emily, the thing is, I wanted to put the typewriting machine in a safe place . . . somewhere people wouldn’t even see it.”

The two ladies were sitting in the love seat, smiling, nodding, pleased to hear he wanted to talk to them about their daddy’s typewriting machine.

“Oh, yes,” Miss Mamie beamed, “we never took it out of Papa’s desk, and we always keep the desk locked up and we always hide the key.”

“Yes. Well . . . well, I left it in that box—the one you gave me to carry it in—and I put some rags over it so nobody could see it. And I put another box on top of that.”

“John-Boy, I do hope you’re not going to tell us something broke on the machine.”

“No, no. Well, I mean, no, nothing broke on the machine.”

“I’m certainly glad to hear that, John-Boy. It’s just so awfully fragile and must be handled with the utmost care.”

Miss Emily nodded. “Papa never let us touch it before he died.” She suddenly smiled at her sister. “Do you remember that time, Mamie, when fourth cousin Homer Lee Baldwin was visiting and he used the machine without Papa’s permission?”

“And Papa was just beside himself. Cousin Homer was using Papa’s paper that said ‘Judge Morley Baldwin’ on it, and he was signing Papa’s name.”

“He was writing letters to people saying he was a very wealthy businessman from Louisiana, and because he was a good friend of Papa’s they should give him credit and money and all the hospitalities they would give Papa himself.”

“Papa never let Cousin Homer in the house again.”

“But I do think it was all just a misunderstanding, don’t you, Sister?”

“Oh, yes. Cousin Homer’s been to visit us lots of times since Papa passed away. I don’t think anybody in the world appreciates the Recipe more than Cousin Homer.”

John-Boy nodded. “Well, about the typewriting machine . . .”

“Did you finally get your story all typed up, John-Boy?”

“Yes’m, I did, but . . .”

Miss Mamie lifted her hands and brought them together. “Then you’ll be bringing the machine back! John-Boy, we just can’t tell you how happy that’s going to make us.”

Miss Emily sighed with relief. “John-Boy, we’re going to tell you a little secret. You know that day you and your granddaddy walked out of here with Papa’s machine? Well, I declare, the minute after you were gone, Sister and I were just ever so upset about what we had done. Why, we just didn’t sleep that entire night, did we, Mamie?”

“Not one solitary wink.”

“Miss Mamie, Miss Emily—”

“But we finally said to each other that John-Boy Walton is just the very soul of responsibility, and Papa’s typewriting machine will be as safe in his hands as it is in our very own house.”

“Miss Mamie, Miss Emily,” John-Boy said quickly, “I’ve lost the typewriting machine.”

Either he said it too fast, or they weren’t listening. Miss Mamie was still smiling, nodding to her sister’s words. “So once we made that decision, we went straight to bed and just slept like angels.”

“The typewriting machine’s gone, Miss Mamie. It’s lost.”

The smiles were suddenly frozen, and they blinked silently at him for a minute. “What did you say, John-Boy?” Miss Mamie finally asked sweetly.

“It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” John-Boy said miserably. “I hid the typewriting machine in the box out in the toolshed, and when I went to bring it back it was gone. Mary Ellen and the other kids sold it to Jake Levy the junk man because they didn’t look in the box and they thought it was full of junk.”

They were still smiling stiffly, and it seemed like an hour passed before either of them spoke. “You put Papa’s typewriting machine in your toolshed?” Miss Emily asked. Her voice was calm and soft, as if the matter were of only passing interest.

John-Boy couldn’t tell them the real reason he put the machine in the toolshed. “Well, yes. You see, nobody ever uses the toolshed anymore. Nobody even goes in it.”

They nodded politely, not understanding at all. John-Boy wished he could suddenly fall out of the chair, dead.

“Daddy and I went after Mr. Levy . . . to his house. But Mr. Levy sold the machine to another junk man. His name was Davidson.”

It seemed like a skyrocket could explode in the room without changing the frozen smiles of the two ladies.

“I’ll do anything to make it up to you, Miss Mamie and Miss Emily. I can work all summer raking leaves and washing your windows, and anything you want me to do. I know how much you loved your papa’s typing machine. And I know how valuable it was for all those letters to Mr. Wilson and the
New York Times
newspaper. Miss Emily and Miss Mamie, I’m really sorry. I’d rather have killed myself than let a thing like this happen.”

John-Boy wasn’t sure what kind of reaction he expected from them. But the last thing he was prepared for was the stony silence. They could be two statues, each wearing the same sad smile and looking like their thoughts were a million miles away.

Miss Mamie suddenly rose, gliding softly to the window. “They say there’s no use in crying over spilt milk,” she said airily.

Miss Emily responded from the love seat, speaking as if she were reciting from a book, “Frequently people own treasures for only a short time. This has been the case with many of the world’s great paintings.”

“Have you noticed our new curtains, John-Boy?” Miss Mamie asked from the window.

Miss Emily smiled from the love seat. “Mamie made them from the material we bought in Charlottesville the day your grandfather took us there. He was very kind to us. Your grandfather is a fine man, John-Boy.”

“Emily made a scarf from the same material. It looks just lovely with her new dress. But I don’t expect we’ll be going to the dance, do you, Emily?”

“No,” Miss Emily smiled, “I just don’t think it would be appropriate.”

“Yes,” Miss Mamie said sadly. “Everyone will be so gay. I’m sure we’d just spoil it for them.”

“Miss Emily, Miss Mamie,” John-Boy said, but then stopped. Suddenly, with a stab of horror, he realized that the two ladies were in some kind of shock. They understood that the typewriter was gone and could not be recovered, but they really didn’t want to accept it.

The realization plunged John-Boy into deeper despair. He had heard of things like this causing people to lose their sanity. He didn’t think he could bear the idea of having been responsible for such a thing.

“Miss Mamie and Miss Emily, I’m going to keep looking for your papa’s typewriting machine. The man Mr. Levy sold it to must have seen what was in that box by now, and I’m sure it hasn’t been thrown away. Nobody would throw away a beautiful machine like that. And wherever it is, I’ll find it somehow.”

“Now, now, John-Boy,” Miss Mamie said, “you mustn’t be so distressed. We loved the typewriting machine. But it was only a thing. A material thing.”

Miss Emily nodded. “It’s a loss we can suffer. After all, the judge left us a great deal more to remember him by.”

Somehow their attempts to console him only made things worse. He had the feeling that more than anything else they wanted him to leave so they could be alone in their agony. John-Boy rose. “I’m still going to look for it. If it takes my whole life, I’m going to find that machine and bring it back to you.”

They nodded. “You be sure to say hello to your mother for us, John-Boy.”

“And your grandma and Zebulon.”

John-Boy’s father had told him this was going to be about the most painful thing he’d ever do in his life. It was far worse than that. The whole thing made him feel like some kind of monster who had subjected two helpless old ladies to unbearable torture.

A hundred feet from the house John-Boy stopped and looked back. He didn’t know what he expected to see, but there was nothing. The house looked the same as always—peaceful, pretty, and silent under the big shade trees.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, and with head down, started for home.

“You always have this for lunch?” Zeb asked.

“Usually,” Ike said. “Something the matter with it?”

Zeb chewed on the dry bread and tasteless bologna, trying to manufacture enough saliva to swallow it.

“No, nothing the matter with it. I just reckon a man ought to have something hot during the day.”

“Esther always give you something hot for lunch?”

“Usually.”

“Then you ought to eat your lunch at home.”

Zeb ignored the suggestion. He’d heard too much of that kind of talk all morning from Edna Zimmerman. It was amazing how everybody thought going home was the best thing in the world for a man to do. People seemed to have no conception of dignity and pride anymore. Zeb took another bite of sandwich and looked yearningly through the door at the pool table in the back of Ike’s store. Right now, more than anything in the world, he would like to climb up on that pool table and have a nap. But he didn’t guess Ike would let him do it in the middle of the day.

Edna Zimmerman had gotten Zeb out of bed about an hour before the roosters crowed this morning. “You’re going to eat and sleep here, Zebulon Walton, you’re going to be doing chores. I’ll be needing some logs split up for stove-wood; the cows gotta be milked and the hogs fed. Then, when you be getting the wood in, I’ll be making you some breakfast.”

Zeb had staggered out into the cold and darkness with Judge Morely Baldwin’s thirty-year-old Recipe still making his head throb. And then, after the chores were done and she gave him hot coffee and breakfast, she still wouldn’t let him go back to bed. She was two months late with her spring cleaning, she told him. But now that she had a strong man around the house it was a good time to haul the rugs out and give them a good beating. When that was done, Zeb refused her offer of lunch and headed for Ike’s. Now, forcing down the dry bologna sandwich, he wondered if he might not have been wiser to take one more meal from Edna Zimmerman.

“Seen John-Boy around lately, Ike?”

“Nope.”

“John, or Olivia, or any of the other young-uns?”

“Nope. Last Walton I saw was your Esther. Came in here all dressed up, looking for you.”

Zeb nodded. “John-Boy told me. What dress was she wearing?”

“Blue one. Had white lace all down the front. Looked pretty as a picture.”

Zeb forced another mouthful past his throat. “Then you ain’t heard nothing since she was here?”

“Like what?”

“Like if there’s any trouble or anything. Like somebody getting sick, or something bad happening? I was thinking it might be hard on them if I wasn’t there to help.”