The Waltons 2 - Trouble on the Mountain (19 page)

“Esther!” he said, holding out his hands.

Grandma smiled, but John-Boy couldn’t help admiring her cool composure. “Hello, Fred.”

Everybody, including the Baldwin sisters, was watching now. Fred Hansen held her hands and stood back. “You have grown more beautiful than I remember you, Esther. Why, I thought you were the most magnificent flower on God’s earth forty years ago. And now you’re a rich bouquet of sweet red roses.”

“Oh, pshaw,” Grandma snorted. “It was fifty years ago, and it wasn’t true then or now. But I’m obliged to you for saying it.” She smiled at John and Olivia. “Fred, this is my son and my daughter-in-law. And most of the young ’uns around here is my grandchildren.”

John stuck out his hand. “How do, Mr. Hansen.”

“A pleasure, Mr. Walton. Say, do you mind if I borrow this pretty little lady for a dance?”

“It’s up to her.”

Grandma nodded. “It’s been a long time, Fred.”

“And in all those years I’ve never had as good a partner as you, Esther.” Fred Hansen lifted her hand and guided her away.

“I don’t know, Livvy,” John grinned. “You might have started something here you can’t finish.”

Olivia sat down and smiled. “Or maybe I’m ending something that never should have started.”

John-Boy paid little attention to it at first. Over the music he was conscious only of slightly raised voices near the entrance of the stable. But then, moving through the crowd, someone was calling greetings to everyone, and in resounding tones.

“Carl! How’s it going? Hey, Rupert! Who’s that beautiful lady you’re escorting there? Mary Mae, you’re looking sweet as angel cake!”

It was Grandpa. And with his haircut and dark blue suit he looked as spiffed up as a carnival barker. He moved airily through the crowd, shaking hands, throwing out compliments to the ladies as if he were a politician.

“ ’Lo there, John-Boy,” he finally said. “And Olivia. John, how you getting on?” Then he stopped abruptly, gaping with exaggerated amazement at the Baldwin sisters. “Well, I do declare! With two ladies as pretty as this, how’s a man going to make a choice? The only fair thing, I reckon, is to go alphabetical.” He gave a sweeping bow. “Miss Emily, would you do me the honor of allowing me this dance?”

“Why, Mr. Walton, I’d just be thrilled!”

“I am honored beyond words, fair princess.”

They moved regally into the crowd. Then Grandpa stretched her arm out to the limit and swung her authoritatively through the steps, oblivious to the other dancers—including Grandma and Fred Hansen.

“Livvy,” John said, “I think you’ve made a mistake.”

Olivia smiled confidently. “We’ll see.”

Grandpa and Miss Emily made about four complete circuits of the dancing area. His style was strong and forceful, and didn’t fail to get anyone’s attention. But Fred Hansen was clearly the more polished of the two. He guided Grandma through dramatic turns and low dips that looked like someone dancing in a Hollywood movie. Neither couple, however, seemed to be aware of the other’s existence.

When the music stopped, Fred Hansen brought Grandma back with a big smile. “I reckon I’d better be getting back to work now, Esther. But you be sure and save me another dance.”

“Mr. Hansen,” John said before he could get away, “I wonder if I could make a special request?”

“Be proud to do it, Mr. Walton.”

John-Boy couldn’t hear what the request was. His father leaned close and whispered it into Fred Hansen’s ear.

When Grandpa returned he kept his back to Grandma and the rest of the Waltons. “Thank you, Miss Emily,” he said with a bow. “And now, Miss Mamie, I believe you’re next.”

“Me?” Miss Mamie said as though surprised. “Why, Mr. Walton, how divine!”

“That Fred Hansen,” Grandma said, finding her chair, “I declare, dancing with him, it just seems like you’re the only ones on the floor.”

It seemed to John-Boy that Grandma spoke far louder than was necessary. But Grandpa paid no attention. He led Miss Mamie to the edge of the crowd and held both her hands, waiting for the music.

It was not a country square dance song. Fred Hansen talked to each of the musicians for a minute and then moved quietly to the front. “We have a special request, ladies and gentlemen. I think it’s about one of the prettiest songs ever written, and I hope you all like it.”

It took a minute or two of the introduction before John-Boy recognized the music. Then he looked sharply at Grandpa. It was
The Tennessee Waltz
—the song Grandpa always sang at home when it was Grandma’s birthday or their anniversary. As he sang it, he always insisted that she dance with him.

John-Boy’s heart sank for a minute. Grandpa seemed unaware of what the music was. He smiled at Miss Mamie, drew her closer and started moving slowly around the floor.

But then, almost as if someone had grabbed his arm, he stopped. He glanced quickly toward the chairs and then smiled, murmuring something to Miss Mamie as he escorted her back to the side.

John-Boy couldn’t tell if Grandma was going to smile or break into tears. But there was no question about her knowing what the song was as she stared fixedly out at the dancers.

“I do hope you will forgive me, Miss Mamie,” Grandpa was saying. He smiled warmly and moved two steps over to Grandma.

“Sissy,” he said with a bow, “I hope I may have the honor of dancing with the most beautiful girl in all Virginia. You see, this is my favorite song, and I wouldn’t enjoy dancing it much with anyone but my favorite girlfriend.”

Grandma was almost bursting in her efforts to hide her joy. John-Boy half-expected her to smile and say, “Oh, shut up, old man!”

But she didn’t. She rose gracefully and gave him her hand. “And it’s a dance I always saved for a special boyfriend,” she smiled.

“Esther, you’re a grand lady.”

“And you’re a right handsome man, Zebulon.”

They smiled at each other for a minute. And then Grandpa led her away as if she were the Queen of England.

Everyone in the crowd seemed to sense that this was something special for Grandpa and Grandma. Maybe it was some kind of radiance in the way they looked at each other while they danced. People edged away, giving them more room, while others stopped dancing entirely and watched from the side.

For John-Boy it just seemed like the end of a perfect day. Or more accurately, he guessed with a smile, it was a wonderful ending to an imperfect week.

When they all got home that night, there was a clear indication of how Grandpa expected the evening to turn out. His suitcase was standing just inside the front door.

“Well,” Grandpa smiled when they all looked at it, “you’ll notice it ain’t unpacked. If things didn’t turn out to my liking, I was still ready to go.”

“What do you mean, not to your liking?” John asked.

“Well, if it turned out that I was so stupid I didn’t realize Esther’s the prettiest girl in the county, that wouldn’t have been to my liking. As it is, I found I’m a pretty smart fella. I saw right off that nobody could hold a candle to her. So I’m staying home.”

All of them except Grandma laughed. She just shook her head until Grandpa grabbed her and planted a big kiss on her mouth.

“Oh, say, John-Boy,” Grandpa said and turned back to the suitcase. “I got something for you here. It came in the mail this morning, and I plumb forgot to give it to you when you was down at Ike’s.”

John-Boy’s heart skipped a beat, but he quickly cautioned himself. He was not going to let his hopes get all out of control the way he did last time.

It was a big brown envelope, the same as before. And it was about the same thickness. “I reckon they sent it back again.”

Olivia eased herself down on the couch, and the others watched solemnly as he tore open the flap.

It was his manuscript. John-Boy knew that before it was halfway out of the envelope. He took a deep breath and flopped it over to the front page, expecting the worst. But then he frowned curiously.

Instead of the brief, unsigned note that accompanied the story the last time, there was a letter.

“What is it, John-Boy?” Erin asked.

“A letter.” John-Boy tried to scan it quickly, but then went back to the top, reading it aloud.

“Dear Mr. Walton: We have read your manuscript with great interest
—
and, I might add, great pleasure. It is extremely well organized and well written. You have a very unique style, and your characters are well defined and entirely believable—qualities we are always looking for at
Collier’s.

“Regrettably at this time we have an ample supply of stories in this particular vein. However, we would be very pleased to read any other manuscripts you may have, and hope you will consider us. Yours very truly, Margaret Coughlin, Assistant Editor”

It was a rejection—there was no question about that. But John-Boy felt far more joy than disappointment. In fact he suddenly found himself grinning. It was a wonderful letter!

“What’s it mean, John-Boy?” Grandma asked.

“Well, it means they’re not going to buy it. But they liked it, Grandma. They liked the way it was written.” He read the first paragraph again, and felt even better yet. “They really liked it. And they’d like to see anything else I’ve written.”

“Hey, John-Boy!” his father smiled, “I reckon that means you really are a writer.”

“I reckon so, Daddy.”

“Well, I declare!” Grandpa exclaimed. “We better get on over and get that typewriting machine back first thing in the morning!”

“Now, just one minute,” Olivia said.

John-Boy laughed. “No, Grandpa. I reckon I better write the stories first. Then maybe I can find somebody down in Charlottesville I can pay to type them.”

“I’ve got two dollars to help,” Mary Ellen cried. “Ike gave me back my dollar deposit on the beauty kit.”

“And we can probably sell more junk to Mr. Levy,” Elizabeth said.

Everyone gave her a startled look. Then Jason laughed. John stared at him, and then he too started laughing. A minute later, everyone, including Elizabeth, was laughing.

“Goodnight, Mama.”

“Goodnight, Jason.”

“Goodnight, John-Boy.”

“Goodnight, Erin.”

“Hey, John-Boy, you writing another story?”

“Yes, I am.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s about a writer who borrows a typewriting machine and his sister sells it to a junk man.”

“Hah!” Mary Ellen snorted. “Nobody could ever be that stupid.”

There was silence for a moment, and then John-Boy heard her giggling.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

R
OBERT
W
EVERKA
was born in Los Angeles and educated at the University of Southern California, where he majored in economics. His other novels include:
Griff, Search, The Sting, Moonrock, The Widowed Master, One Minute to Eternity, Apple’s Way, I Love My Wife
and his stories of the Walton family;
The Waltons, The Waltons: Trouble on the Mountain
and
I Love My Wife
He and his family currently live in Idylwild, California.