The Waltons 2 - Trouble on the Mountain (4 page)

John-Boy stared at him for a minute. He knew Grandpa had been struggling all morning to remember something, and there was some kind of plan in his mind. But the last thing John-Boy would have guessed was that it had something to do with his writing.

“Come on, come on,” Grandpa urged.

John-Boy shuffled quickly through the papers, then stopped at a yellowed envelope. It was addressed to Zebulon Walton, and it was typed. “You’re right, Grandpa.”

“Who’s it from?”

“The Honorable Morely J. Baldwin,” John-Boy read.

“Uh-huh, just as I thought.”

“But what . . . ?”

Grandpa held up his hand, silencing him. “John-Boy, them Baldwin sisters is just like me. They never throwed anything away in their lives. I’ll bet you my supper tonight and my breakfast tomorrow they still got that old typewriting machine out at their place. They kept everything else that belonged to their papa.”

John-Boy’s heart almost leaped from his chest. A typewriter! He couldn’t believe it. Right here in Walton’s Mountain! “You really think they have it, Grandpa?”

“We’re sure going to find out, John-Boy. But we gotta keep this secret. You know what your mama and your grandma would say about our having anything to do with those old ladies.” He stuffed the papers back in the trunk and shoved it to the rear of the closet again. John-Boy watched him, his excitement suddenly checked by Grandpa’s warning.

Miss Mamie and Miss Emily Baldwin were known in half a dozen of the surrounding counties. They were very kind and generous old spinsters, but their fame did not stem from that. Their father, the late, Honorable Judge Morely J. Baldwin, had developed a recipe for distilling bourbon that had gained an extraordinary reputation before he died. In honor of the judge, and to carry on his tradition of gracious hospitality, the two ladies continued to manufacture what they called “The Recipe,” and fired up the still every Saturday to replenish the supply. There was some question whether or not the two sisters knew the Recipe contained alcohol and that its manufacture was illegal. But there was no question in the minds of any of the church-going ladies of Walton’s Mountain. Miss Mamie and Miss Emily were referred to as “Those two women,” and at least three or four times a year a delegation—often including Olivia and Esther Walton—marched over to Sheriff Bridges’ house and demanded that he fulfill his sworn obligation to enforce the law and go out there and put an end to godless and corrupting activities.

In his mother’s eyes, for John-Boy to borrow a typewriter from the Baldwin sisters would be like asking for a loan of the devil’s pitchfork.

“I don’t know, Grandpa.”

“You don’t know what?”

“Maybe Daddy’ll be going down to Charlottesville or Richmond soon. We might be able to get someone there to type the story.”

“John-Boy, are you a Walton, or ain’t you? Your daddy might not be going to Charlottesville for months. And then we might not have the money.” He put his arm around John-Boy’s shoulders and smiled. “You want them people in New York City to read your story or not?”

“I want them to read it, Grandpa, I truly do.”

“All right then, you just leave it to me. What your mother and Grandma don’t know ain’t going to hurt ’em.”

“Okay,” John-Boy said doubtfully.

It was about a mile walk out to the old Baldwin place. When lunch was finished, Grandpa winked at John-Boy and stretched lazily. “Well, I thought I might just go over and see Cornelius Zimmerman this afternoon. You want to come along, John-Boy?”

“What you going over to see that old German for?” Grandma asked before John-Boy could answer.

Cornelius Zimmerman was close to a hundred years old, one of the early settlers of Walton’s Mountain. He had lost his hearing and spent most of his time sitting on his porch, but Grandpa still made periodic visits and talked over old times with him.

“Want to talk to him,” Grandpa said defiantly. “See how he’s getting along. Man ought to look in on his friends once in a while.”

“We’ve got some extra sweet potatoes you could take along,” Olivia said. “I’m sure Mr. Zimmerman would appreciate them. And I have a recipe I promised to give Edna. You might as well take that too.”

Grandpa frowned. “Seems to me, as I recall, Edna Zimmerman went down to Richmond to visit her sister, Livvy. No use taking it if she ain’t there.”

Olivia was already searching through a drawer. “Well, you can just leave it with Cornelius, Grandpa.”

John Walton watched this exchange with interest. After all Grandpa’s mysterious behavior this morning, it seemed fairly clear that he was up to something, and that whatever it was would not meet with Grandma’s or Olivia’s approval. But John decided he was better off not knowing what it was. He smiled to himself as Grandpa took the slip of paper with the recipe and jammed it into his pocket.

“Can I go too, Grandpa?” Elizabeth suddenly asked.

It took a minute for Grandpa to dodge this. “Well, sure you can, Elizabeth. Except old Cornelius is getting on now, and what with his bad hearing and everything, he’s a little ornery with little children around.”

John came to the rescue. “I’m going to be cleaning up sawdust this afternoon, Elizabeth. I got to put it over in that garden of yours, and I surely would appreciate some help.”

When they finally got away from the house and headed for the Baldwins’, Grandpa chuckled and shook his head. “ ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.’ ”

“I don’t think we’re going to get away with it, Grandpa.”

“Well, it’s for a good cause, John-Boy. They can’t fault us too bad on that. No, our only problem now is getting that typewriting machine from them Baldwin ladies. They might not be too inclined to borrow out something that belonged to their daddy.”

John-Boy knew that was true. Judge Baldwin had been dead almost ten years now, but they still regarded all his personal possessions with worshipful reverence. They had once unlocked the glass-covered bookcase to let John-Boy look more closely at the judge’s
Collected Works of Sir Walter Scott.
But John-Boy’s inspection was limited to admiring only the leather bindings. They thought it best not to remove any of the volumes from the shelves—where the judge had last placed them.

“John-Boy,” Grandpa said, “Tell me what this here story you wrote is all about.”

The original Baldwin mansion stood on a grassy hill overlooking a fertile valley that was once thick with corn, tobacco and potatoes. The house was burned to the ground during the Civil War, and through the subsequent years the soil was gradually depleted until farming was abandoned and the land returned to its naturally wild state. The new house Judge Baldwin had built in 1870 was a modest duplicate of the original, set back a few hundred yards from the top of the hill. It was now thick with vines and heavily shaded by the saplings the judge had planted seventy years earlier. In this remote and peaceful setting, the two Baldwin sisters lived in a manner that had changed very little through the decades, and they had little knowledge of, or interest in, the activities of the outside world. The late judge had wisely left his fortune in government bonds, which remained unshaken by the Depression, and the two ladies were scarcely conscious of the hardships being endured by their neighbors.

John-Boy finished telling about his story, and Grandpa smiled as they came within sight of the Baldwin house. The two ladies were sitting on the veranda with a pitcher of lemonade on the table between them. When they saw callers approaching, they burst into happy smiles and quickly rose from their rocking chairs.

“Why, Zebulon Walton! I do declare, what a pleasurable surprise!”

Except for the church ladies of Walton’s Mountain, there was no one indelicate enough to mention the known fact that Miss Emily and Miss Mamie had been born in the late 1860s. Still, there was a unique charm and beauty in their delicate ways, and no matter at what hour callers came, they were always impeccably dressed.

“And John-Boy Walton too!” Miss Emily exclaimed. “Now, isn’t this nice, sister. Just sitting here talking about how lovely it would be to have someone come a-visiting, and just out of the blue we have callers!”

“Afternoon, Miss Mamie, Miss Emily. My, don’t you ladies look like the picture of springtime. I declare . . .” Grandpa stopped abruptly on the steps. “Why I do believe you two ladies are preparing to go out somewhere, all dressed up that way!”

They both blushed and touched their dresses, smoothing them. “Why, these ol’ things, Mr. Walton! They’re just our every day sitting-on-the-porch dresses.”

“Could have fooled me. I don’t guess there’s a prettier-decorated porch in all Virginia.”

“Oh, Zeb, you do carry on. I reckon there just ain’t anybody more charming than a Walton man. And how are you, John-Boy? My, aren’t you just sprouting up like anything!”

“I’m just fine, Miss Mamie.”

“And how’s your mama and daddy? I declare, we haven’t seen hide nor hair of either of them for ever so long.”

“They’re fine, Miss Emily.”

“Now, you gentlemen just pull up a chair, and I’ll run get some more glasses for lemonade. You would enjoy some refreshment, wouldn’t you?”

“We certainly would, Miss Emily,” Grandpa smiled. “And you might take this small gift Olivia sent along—a few sweet potatoes for your pleasure.”

The ladies were surprised and delighted. “Oh my, Emily, just look at that! And sweet potatoes are our very favorites! John-Boy, you be sure and tell your mama we’re just thrilled by her thoughtfulness.”

“I will, Miss Mamie.” John-Boy had a dark feeling that the tangled web Grandpa was weaving was getting bigger and more tangled every minute.

Grandpa and Miss Mamie talked about the weather until Miss Emily returned with the glasses. When they were filled, Grandpa drank deeply and sighed with pleasure. “A refreshment surpassed only by the ambrosial delights of your famous Recipe, ladies. I thank you.”

“Oh, would you like some Recipe, Zebulon? Sister, could you . . .”

“No, no,” Grandpa protested. “For a warm afternoon, this more than suffices.”

When Miss Emily settled in the rocking chair, she sighed happily and smiled at John-Boy. “And how is your writing coming along, John-Boy? I do hope you’re still working at it and writing wonderful things.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, Miss Emily . . .”

“As a matter of fact,” Grandpa interrupted, “John-Boy has sent a story to
Collier’s Magazine
just this very month.”

The ladies gaped at John-Boy. “Why, I declare! Congratulations, John-Boy!”

“Your family must be terribly proud!”

“Well, I did send a story in,” John-Boy said. “But . . .”

“Isn’t that lovely, sister!” Miss Emily exclaimed. “This boy has attained fame and fortune in one fell swoop and look how modest he is about it. Why I’d think you’d just be bursting, John-Boy. Just bursting.”

“Yes’m. But you see . . .”

“Our cousin Raymond was a writer. It was Raymond, wasn’t it, sister?”

“Oh yes. He left right after the scandal.”

“He just adored basket weaving.”

“Papa would never allow us to read any of Cousin Raymond’s books.”

“Said they were too risqué.”

“However, Papa read them. I found them in his desk after he died.”

“Well, congratulations on your success, John-Boy. I think that’s just about the most exciting thing I’ve ever heard.”

John-Boy glanced at Grandpa, who had smiled patiently through their joyful exchange.

“John-Boy sent the story to the magazine,” he said gravely, “but they sent it back.”

“Sent it back? I don’t believe I understand. Why on earth would they do a thing like that?”

“I wrote it out by hand,” John-Boy explained. “They said they can’t consider handwritten manuscripts. They have to be typed on a typewriter.”

“Why I never heard of such a thing! Have you, Sister? What magazine was it?”

“Collier’s.
In New York City.”

Miss Mamie banged her lemonade glass on the table. “Well, I declare! John-Boy, I just wouldn’t let them have my story if I were you. The very idea! And I just don’t believe I ever heard of a magazine called
Collier’s.”

“And John-Boy has such lovely handwriting. Remember, Sister, when he helped us address envelopes for our family reunion?”

Grandpa cleared his throat. “John-Boy tells me it is one of the largest magazines in the country. It was his hope that somewhere in Walton’s Mountain we might find a typewriting machine.”

The ladies stared at Grandpa for a minute, then looked at each other. “We have a typewriting machine,” Miss Mamie said.

“You do?!”

“Yes, we do. One of the finest machines ever made. It belonged to Papa.”

Grandpa set back as if amazed. “Well now, ain’t that a coincidence, John-Boy! A typewriting machine right here under our very noses!”

“Would you like to see it?”

“We surely would, Miss Emily.”

The ladies jumped up, and Grandpa winked at John-Boy as they followed them into the house.

John-Boy always had the feeling that he should walk on tiptoe when he was in the Baldwin living room. It was crowded with delicate furniture, tasseled lamps, and all manner of knick-knacks that were as fragile as the two old sisters. From the living room they went into the small study where they had once let John-Boy look at the judge’s books.

Miss Mamie got a key from the top of a high cabinet, and they all waited while she carefully inserted it into a huge rolltop desk. She returned the key to its hiding place, and then, very slowly, with Miss Emily holding her breath, she rolled back the top of the desk.

John-Boy had seen pictures of typewriters in the Sears & Roebuck catalogue. But he had never seen one like this. The roller into which the paper was inserted stood almost a foot above the rest of the machine, with a mass of spindly metal rods seeming to support it. In addition to the letter-keys there were a dozen other knobs and ratchets and adjusting wheels. Still, John-Boy was certain he could type his story on it. In spite of its age, the machine appeared to be in perfect condition.

“Isn’t it beautiful!” Miss Mamie exclaimed.