The Waltons 2 - Trouble on the Mountain (5 page)

“It’s one of our proudest possessions.”

John-Boy reached out to touch the keys, then, at a sharp gasp from the ladies, quickly drew back his hand.

“Don’t touch it, John-Boy,” Miss Mamie said, and then smiled warmly. “But you may look at it all you like.”

“This machine was purchased in nineteen hundred and eight,” Miss Emily said.

“New, of course, when Papa bought it. I daresay this was probably the first typewriting machine ever brought into Jefferson County.”

John-Boy glanced hopelessly at Grandpa. It seemed obvious that the two sisters saw no connection between the machine they were all looking at and John-Boy’s desperate need for a typewriter.

“Yes,” Grandpa said thoughtfully, “it surely is a fine-looking machine, ladies.”

Miss Mamie smiled. “It was on this machine that Papa composed the letter to Mr. Woodrow Wilson—telling him how to save the League of Nations.”

“Mr. Wilson was born in Staunton, you know. Papa knew him quite well.”

“And in 1920 Papa wrote a series of brilliant letters to the editor of the
New York Times
protesting the Eighteenth Amendment.”

“Was that the one that gave us ladies the right to vote, Sister?”

“No, it was the one prohibiting the right to sell alcoholic beverages. Papa was quite concerned!”

They all gazed at the machine for another minute, and then John-Boy’s hopes sagged as Miss Mamie reached up to close the desk.

“Miss Mamie . . . Miss Emily,” he said desperately, “I don’t suppose . . . I mean, you wouldn’t ever consider . . . well, lending this typewriter to anyone, would you?”

“To whom, John-Boy?”

“To me?”

The ladies looked so startled, John-Boy almost wished he hadn’t asked.

“John-Boy, we’re very fond of you and know you’ve been raised responsibly. We do know that, don’t we, Mamie?”

“Indeed.” Miss Mamie smiled sympathetically but shook her head. “However, a chapter of Virginia history was recorded on this machine, and it should properly be housed in a museum. Was there someone you wanted to show it to, John-Boy?”

“No, ma’am. I had in mind using it. To type my story for the magazine.”

“You see, ladies,” Grandpa suddenly said, “John-Boy’s story is about the family, and something that happened right here in Walton’s Mountain. Now, if that magazine prints it, and all those millions of people read it, why I expect it’ll make Walton’s Mountain and Jefferson County about the most famous place in the world.”

Miss Emily smiled. “Oh, but Papa already did that, Zebulon. Why, those letters he wrote to the
New York Times,
I expect just millions of people read them.”

“And Papa was very forceful. I don’t expect anybody in the world ever forgot those letters. And at the end of each one he signed them, ‘The Honorable Judge Morely J. Baldwin, Walton’s Mountain, Jefferson County, Virginia.’ ”

Miss Mamie smiled conclusively. She pulled down the top of the desk and got the key down again. “Your story sounds just delightful, John-Boy. I do hope you’ll let us read it sometime.”

“Yes’m.”

“About something that happened right here in Walton’s Mountain, you say? I just can’t imagine anything happening in this peaceful place that you could write about.”

John-Boy watched the key slide out of the lock and return to the cabinet. “It’s about how I went looking for Daddy one time,” he said absently. “I stopped by here.”

They all moved toward the door. “Well, I declare,” Miss Mamie said, “I don’t recall that at all. But then I’m sure it must have happened if you wrote about it.”

Grandpa suddenly stopped. “As I recall, John-Boy, it was a very cold night, and these dear ladies gave you a small sip of the Recipe. Isn’t that right?”

Grandpa seemed to have something in mind, but John-Boy had no idea what it was.

“That’s right, Grandpa.”

“Oh, yes,” Miss Emily smiled, “the Recipe just does marvels for anyone who’s cold and shivering.”

“Remember that night, Sister, when Mr. Beasely came? Why, that must have been the coldest night ever in all Walton’s Mountain.”

“And that Recipe,” Grandpa broke in. “John-Boy tells all about it in his story.”

It took a moment for the sisters to appreciate what he was driving at. They looked at each other and then frowned at John-Boy. “You mean to say you mention the Recipe in your story, John-Boy?”

John-Boy, too, saw what Grandpa was driving at.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said emphatically. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course we don’t mind,” Miss Mamie said. “The whole world should know about the Recipe.”

Miss Emily’s face darkened. The whole thing was now becoming clear to her, and her anger was rising. “How dare those magazine people turn down a story about the Recipe.”

Miss Mamie’s eyes had suddenly narrowed. “Yankees, probably.”

John-Boy’s hopes rose cautiously. “Yes, ma’am.”

“New York people,” Grandpa added. “No doubt the same ones who took no heed of your dear papa’s letters.”

Miss Mamie glared with indignation. “Am I to understand, John-Boy, that these treacherous Yankees might be persuaded to accept your story about the Recipe if it were written on a machine?”

“I sure think it would stand a better chance, Miss Mamie. At least they’d read it.”

That seemed to settle it. The two sisters looked at each other.

“What would the judge say, Mamie?”

Miss Mamie smiled coldly. “I do believe the judge would say that nothing is more important than the nurturing of artistic endeavor.”

“I can just hear him saying it,” Miss Emily said, and then smiled dreamily. “Papa had such an authoritative voice!”

“Uh, Miss Mamie, Miss Emily,” John-Boy said, “does this mean you’re going to let me use the typewriter?”

The two ladies glanced at each other, then over at the desk. “You must keep it covered whenever it’s not in use,” Miss Mamie said and headed back for the key. “And it must be properly lubricated at all times.”

“I promise to love it,” John-Boy nodded, “and take good care of it. Miss Emily and Miss Mamie, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

The wooden box they found to put the typewriter in was almost as heavy as the machine. On the way home, John-Boy and Grandpa took turns carrying it, but neither of them minded the burden. Twice they stopped to rest, and each time they examined the machine more closely, touching the keys and watching the spindly rods move the small metal letters upward.

“By golly,” Grandpa said, “those ladies might be right. This thing is so old it might be worth a fortune at that.”

“Looks in good condition though.”

“Well, we just better be real careful with it.”

John-Boy couldn’t help wondering if the ladies had had second thoughts about the whole thing when they watched him carry it out of the house. They had followed him silently to the door and then seemed to hold their breaths as he went down the steps. But nothing would happen to the machine, John-Boy told himself. If necessary he would take it to bed with him. And stand guard over it every minute of the day.

Once they were within sight of the house, John-Boy waited by the trees while Grandpa scouted ahead. Grandpa walked casually up to the front and then disappeared around the far side. When he reappeared again, he grinned and waved John-Boy forward. “Better put it in the toolshed for now,” Grandpa said when John-Boy reached him. “Give you some time to figure out where you’re gonna do the typing.”

The toolshed was rarely used anymore. Mostly it was a place to toss old pieces of metal and furniture and truck parts that John-Boy’s father thought he might have some use for in the future. There were boxes full of scrap iron, a couple of broken saw blades, a worn-out tire, and some broken gardening tools—all of them thick with dust and cobwebs.

Once John-Boy was inside, he realized he could very easily do his typing right here. All he needed to do was turn two wooden boxes up on end to serve as a table and a chair. And there was plenty of light coming from the window. John-Boy smiled. It was perfect—at least for the day or two it might take him to type the story.

He dug into a box of rags until he found some clean ones, and placed them carefully over the typewriter, protecting it from dust. Over that he carefully placed a few pieces of rusty scrap iron to disguise the whole thing, and then placed another box of scrap iron and an old tire on top of all of it.

It was perfectly disguised. No one would ever suspect a typewriter was hidden beneath all that junk. John-Boy smiled to himself, slipped out, and headed for the back door. “ ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave,’ ” he thought. But sometimes art demanded deception.

“What’s for supper, Mama?” he asked lightly once he was in the kitchen.

His mother was kneading dough for bread. “Meatloaf,” she smiled. “How was Mr. Zimmerman?”

In his excitement over getting the typewriter, John-Boy had forgotten all about their supposed visit to the Zimmermans. “He was fine. Just fine.”

“Was Mrs. Zimmerman there?”

John-Boy’s heart sank. Had she already talked to Grandpa? And had he told her Mrs. Zimmerman had not gone to Richmond? “Well, I didn’t see her, Mama. I just saw Mr. Zimmerman.”

She gave him a curious look. “Did Grandpa give him the sweet potatoes and the recipe?”

He and Grandpa had been crazy not to work out some kind of story before they got home. Now things were getting out of hand. “Uh huh,” John-Boy said and quickly stuck his nose in the refrigerator.

“Don’t eat anything now, John-Boy. Supper’ll be pretty quick.”

“Okay, Mama.” John-Boy swung the door shut and headed for the living room.

“John-Boy?”

“Yes, Mama?” He stopped, holding his breath.

“Would you take these pillow cases up to the girls’ room?”

“Sure.”

He got the pillow cases, but didn’t dare look at her. Crossing the kitchen he could feel her watching him.

“John-Boy?”

Again he stopped.

“Are you feeling all right?”

“Yes’m. I feel fine.” He gave her a quick smile and hurried out.

After he delivered the pillow cases he found Grandpa reading a seed catalogue on the porch.

“Grandpa, this whole thing’s setting deeper and deeper. Mama just asked me about the Zimmermans, and I’m terrible at lying.”

“I told Esther neither of the Zimmermans was home. What’d you say?”

“I said we talked to Mr. Zimmerman, but I didn’t see Mrs. Zimmerman.”

“Oh-oh,” Grandpa said.

“What’d you say you did with the sweet potatoes?”

“I didn’t say. Plumb forgot about ’em.”

“What’re we going to do?”

Grandpa thought for a minute, then smiled. “Nothing, John-Boy. I reckon what a man does with his time is nobody’s business but his own. You just get your story typed.”

“But, Grandpa . . .”

Grandpa lifted a hand, stopping him. “ ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,’ John-Boy. Now, let me read my catalogue.”

III

O
livia sometimes regretted the beginning of summer. When the children were in school, there was always a hectic hour or two in the morning when they all fought for the use of the bathroom and then came pouring downstairs for breakfast. But it was all over quickly, and then they were off to school. During summer the whole process was extended through another hour. They took an extra few minutes in bed and straggled down one at a time, making breakfast a complicated procedure. But she couldn’t blame them. Nor did she feel any urge to hurry them up. Compared to the other families in Walton’s Mountain—and she guessed everywhere else in the country—the Waltons were lucky. They had no mortgage that could be foreclosed, and they had enough to eat. How many times had she thanked the good Lord for that?

John’s alarm clock had not awakened her this morning. But he was gone from the bed, and through the window she could see the first pink of dawn dissolving the darkness. Then she heard the screen door bang downstairs, and she knew John had already started the stove fire and was headed for the barn to milk the cow. Olivia smiled and quickly got up. Her malingering was getting to be worse than the children’s.

Zebulon Walton stretched his arms high out of the bed. Then, with a sigh of satisfaction, he folded his hands over his chest and looked over at his wife. Her cheek was on the pillow, and there was a faint smile on her face as she slept. A lock of hair hung loosely down her forehead and over her eye, for a moment reminding Zeb of how she looked forty years ago. “Sissy,” everyone called her then, and she was the prettiest girl, and the biggest flirt, in Jefferson County. Zeb grinned and gently shook her arm.

“Hey, old lady, you going to sleep all day?”

She came abruptly awake. “What?”

“You must be dreaming about that Fred Hansen.”

“What? What’re you talking about?” She turned her back and closed her eyes again.

“There you go—smiling again.”

“Zebulon Walton,” she said, “everytime you go talking like that, I know you got a guilty conscience.”

“Me? A guilty conscience? Why should I have a guilty conscience?”

She smiled at him. “I don’t know.”

Zeb wondered for a minute if that were true. Did he really start teasing her about her old boyfriends when he had a guilty conscience? He decided he had better drop the whole matter. “I hear Livvy in the kitchen. Expect we’d better be getting up.”

“You ain’t even given me a kiss yet.”

Zeb looked at her. She was smiling, waiting. He wondered for a minute if she really had been dreaming about Fred Hansen. She didn’t generally ask to be kissed in the morning. He leaned across, gave her a quick kiss, and got up. The whole thing was getting too complicated. He decided he’d best not speculate on it.

“Daddy?” John-Boy asked at breakfast, “do you mind if I don’t help you with the wood this morning? I’ve got something I’d like to do.”

“What kind of thing?” Olivia asked. The last of the children had made it to the table, and she finally had a chance to sit down.

“I’ve got another story I been writing, and I’d like to finish it up.”

“What’s the use of writing stories if you can’t type ’em?” Ben asked.