The Waltons 2 - Trouble on the Mountain (6 page)

“You know, John-Boy,” John said, “I been thinking about this typewriter business. Seems to me there ought to be someone down in Charlottesville with a typewriter. I don’t see why they couldn’t lend it to us for a day or two so you could type that story.”

John-Boy tried to smile. “Yes, I expect there might be someone like that.”

“I know where there’s a typewriting machine,” Grandma suddenly said with distaste. “Those two old ladies who make that bootleg whiskey got one. Least they used to have one.”

John-Boy gave her a sharp look but quickly looked away. Apparently Grandma’s memory was better than Grandpa’s.

“Well,” Grandpa said, “I don’t see how using the Baldwins’ typewriting machine’s going to hurt John-Boy. I expect they’d be glad to let him have it.”

“We’ll just not talk about it, Grandpa. Thinking it’s not going to hurt any is the first step toward sin and corruption.”

John was smiling, amused by Olivia’s obstinacy. He didn’t think there was much chance of the Baldwin sisters leading John-Boy down the path to perdition. But borrowing their typewriter was still likely to give Olivia apoplexy.

John-Boy wished Grandma hadn’t mentioned the Baldwins’ typewriter. Now, with his mother’s warning, it made the whole thing worse. “Can you get along without me this morning, Daddy?”

“Oh, I think so. Jason, how about you and Ben coming along? There’s another nice oak tree on the mountain I think we can handle.”

After the three of them left, John-Boy quickly slipped away, and Grandma took Erin, Elizabeth and Jim-Bob upstairs to get the sheets off the beds for washing.

Mary Ellen helped clear the table. “Mama, I’ve got to earn some money somehow.”

“Darling, I’m afraid you’re in the same situation as everybody else in Walton’s Mountain.”

“But I really need it.”

Olivia gave her a sympathetic smile. “Mary Ellen, I don’t think there’s five dollars cash anywhere between here and Charlottesville. Unless Ike Godsey has some.”

“I already asked him for a job. He said he can’t even pay the bills he’s already got. Isn’t there something I can do around here?”

“Well, we’re worse off than Ike is. All together I think we have twenty cents in this house.”

Mary Ellen dropped into a chair. “Grandpa, have you got any ideas?”

Zeb scratched at his ear for a minute and shook his head. The only people in Walton’s Mountain who might have any cash were probably the Baldwin sisters. But he certainly wasn’t going to bring up their name again. Then he had another thought. “What day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“Ain’t that the day Jake Levy usually comes around?”

Mary Ellen’s face brightened. “The junk man? You’re right, Grandpa.” She sagged again. “But I’ve already sold him everything I could find.”

“Oh, there must be something left around here.”

“In the meantime, young lady,” Olivia smiled, “I’d appreciate some help with these dishes.”

Elizabeth saw it first. It was a green truck with signs on the side, and it was coming down the road heading directly for their house.

“Look, Grandma.”

After they had washed the sheets and got them on the line, Grandma had taken Erin and Elizabeth out to the front porch to show them cross-stitching. Trucks and cars didn’t often come along their road.

“Probably a salesman. We don’t want any.”

The man stopped the truck about a hundred feet away, facing them, so they couldn’t read the lettering on the side. He was carrying a clipboard when he got out, and there were all kinds of tools dangling from his belt.

“Morning, ma’am.”

“Morning to you,” Grandma said. She gave him only a short nod, letting him know right off she was not in a mind to buy anything.

He looked at his clipboard. “Is this the Walton house, ma’am?”

“Has been for thirty years.”

“I’m from the Jefferson Electric Company, ma’am. Your bill is way past due.”

Grandma stared at Mm for a minute, then nodded at Elizabeth. “You better get your daddy, honey.” To the man she said, “Expect ever’body’s electric bill is past due.”

“Well, that’s just about true.”

Olivia came out the front door just as John came around the side of the house. She had heard Elizabeth’s urgent voice telling John there was a man with a truck out front, and she held her breath all the way to the front door. She knew who it must be, and in her mind she expected the man to be accompanied by Sheriff Bridges, or maybe a policeman from Charlottesville. But he was a nice-looking young man, no more than twenty years old, and he didn’t appear to be enjoying his task any more than they did.

Still, it was embarrassing. As many times as they had been unable to buy enough food or clothing, or gasoline for John’s truck, their problems had always been their own, and not exposed to the world. Now, as if a gavel were being struck in some great public court, their troubles were to be made known to all.

“The bill is two dollars and seventeen cents,” the young man was saying to John.

Olivia had never seen John look quite so helpless. He had come striding around from the sawmill, but then stopped abruptly at the sight of the truck. “Yes, I know,” he said.

“I got lots of rounds to make, Mr. Walton. If you don’t have the money . . .”

“We don’t have the money, son. If you have to, I reckon you’d better turn it off.”

The boy nodded. “Sorry,” he said and went around to the side of the house.

“What’s going on here?” Grandpa said, coming through the door.

“We can’t pay our electric bill. The man’s shutting it off.”

“He can’t do that.”

“I’m afraid he can,” John said.

It took the young man only half a minute. When he headed back for his truck Grandpa followed him. “Now, see here. We got a houseful of little ones. What’s going to happen when it gets dark?”

The man tossed his clipboard inside and opened the door. “Mister, I’m sorry, but I just work for the company, I don’t set its policies. When you get the money—two dollars and seventeen cents—you just turn it in to the office. We’ll turn your power on the very next day.” He smiled, shut the door and was backing away before Grandpa could say another word.

“It’s a shame,” Grandma said, “a shame and a disgrace.”

Olivia nodded, then watched John as he turned and headed for the truck.

“John?”

He stopped and half turned. “Anker Barnes,” he said. “He’s owed me now for that lumber over three weeks.”

“He’s in the same fix we are, John. Nobody’s got any cash.”

John seemed to soften. “Well, I can ask him, anyhow. If he can come up with something, I might pay up in time to get the power back on tomorrow.” He headed for the truck again. “Jason, Ben, you want to come along?”

Olivia knew there was little chance of John getting any money from Anker Barnes. The way things were, they were likely to be without electricity for some time. And they had no candles in the house.

“Well,” Grandpa said as he followed Olivia back to the kitchen, “it won’t be so bad. I was kind of getting tired of listening to the radio anyhow.”

“It’s not that so much, Grandpa. It’s the washing-machine, and the lights, and the electric iron.”

“Yes, well, I never thought about them things. What you doing?”

Olivia got the coin jar down from the shelf and counted out the nickels and pennies. “We have exactly twenty-two cents to our name. Here, Grandpa, take it.”

“Me? What you want me to take it for?”

“For candles. We’ll need some light tonight.”

“Oh. Good idea, daughter.”

“And don’t you be spending it on any foolishness like those slot machines down there,” Grandma said from the door.

Grandpa grinned. “Say, that’s not a bad idea. Them jackpots pay five dollars. Pay our electric bill for two months with that much.” He was out the door before Grandma could reply.

Olivia smiled. At least Grandpa had kept his sense of humor. She guessed she really knew this was going to happen all the time. A week ago she had started doing the ironing early each morning in case the man came. At least this morning they had gotten all the sheets washed. “I’ve been fearing this day for a long time, Grandma.”

Grandma snorted. “If you fear a thing enough, you’re just askin’ for it.”

Olivia looked at her and smiled. There was probably some truth in that. “Well, let’s get our chores done while the sun’s still shining.”

Anker Barnes was about the best carpenter in Walton’s Mountain. But like everyone else with any skills, there was little opportunity to use them these days. Anker was a wiry little man with knotted hands and a perpetual wad of chewing tobacco shifting around his mouth. When John and the two boys arrived in the truck he was leaning against the railing of his pigpen.

“Hey, John. How you doing? Jason. Ben.”

They all went over and leaned on the pigpen. “Fair,” John said, “fair. How you getting on?”

Anker spit tobacco toward the pigs and shook his head. “Can’t pay you, if that’s what you come for, John. Jim Clayborne ain’t paid me for that last job, and I don’t expect he’ll be paying for a while. He took his mama over to the hospital in Charlottesville last week.”

“She ailing bad?”

“Pretty bad.”

John nodded, and they looked at the pigs for a while. “Turned off my electricity today.”

Anker spit again. “Turned mine off last Thursday.”

“Looks like about everybody’s getting shut off.”

“Yep. Things are bad, John. And don’t look like they’re going to be getting any better.”

“What’d you build for Jim Clayborne?”

“Built him a smokehouse. Jim figures to do a lot of hunting this year. Smoke down venison for the winter.”

“Good idea. How much he owe you?”

“Eleven dollars. John, I know you need that money, and I’m real sorry I ain’t got it to give you.”

“I appreciate it, Anker. You sure can’t pay me if you ain’t got it.”

“I took a couple of my best hogs down to Charlottesville the other day, but they ain’t buying. They say they got too many already and nobody’s buying at the markets. Last ones they bought, they paid only three cents a pound for. Prices like that, a man can’t afford to sell ’em. Better off to keep ’em and eat ’em himself.” Anker spit again. “And these are Berkshire hogs. Not them old Durocs and Chester Whites they been buying down there.”

John shook his head. “Three cents. That’s about the lowest I heard yet.”

“I can give you one of them hogs, John. Take your choice if you want. But I don’t guess it’s going to do you any good if you need cash.”

John nodded. There were six hogs in the pen each of them fine-looking animals, about two hundred pounds. They were unusual looking. They were all black with white on their faces, legs, and the tips of their tails. Most of the pigs he had seen were pink or reddish in color. John didn’t know a lot about raising hogs, but he knew if times were normal they would bring at least thirty or forty dollars each.

It was funny how everything backed up when times were bad, John reflected. Jim Clayborne’s mother got sick, so he couldn’t pay Anker Barnes. Anker couldn’t pay for the lumber he had bought, so the Waltons couldn’t pay their electricity bill. He wondered who the electric company owed money to. He guessed they were backing up into somebody too.

But at least Jim Clayborne had his new smokehouse. John smiled, thinking about that. He wouldn’t mind having some smoked venison himself right now. Years ago he used to smoke a couple hundred pounds of it every season. He used his own special hickory knots mixed with peach pits to get just the right flavor into the meat. And then he’d always take about twenty pounds of it over and give it to Percival Crocker in Charlottesville. “You ought to go into business,” old Percy used to say. “Ain’t nobody can get the taste into venison you get, John.”

John frowned for a minute, thinking about old Percival Crocker. Then he looked at the hogs. “Anker, maybe I got an idea. You got anything you got to do today?”

Anker laughed. “I expect I’ll just go on standing here looking at these hogs.”

John grinned. “You think we can get one of them pigs into my truck?”

“Don’t know why not. What you got in mind?”

John looked over at his truck. He had hoped—if Anker had any money—he might be able to sell him some more lumber, and he and the boys had loaded up a good supply. “We’re going to make ourselves some money, Anker. Go get your carpentering tools while the boys and I wrestle with one of these pigs here.”

Percy Crocker was a banker when John used to give him the smoked venison. But two or three years ago, when things were good, he had sold out and retired. He and his wife lived in an old house about three miles from Charlottesville, and it was said that Percy was about the only businessman in the county who had not lost everything he had. In fact, Percival was known to be buying up defaulted mortgages at ten cents on the dollar.

Once the truck was loaded, John took a narrow back road that led through the hills and would come out directly behind Percy’s place.

“Where we going?” Anker asked.

“Percy Crocker’s old place. I think we can do some business with him.”

Anker shook his head. “You might do some business, but you ain’t going to make us money from Percival Crocker.”

John smiled. Anker might be right. Percy didn’t get rich by throwing money away foolishly. But people placed different values on different things. “We’ll see.”

“You going to sell him that hog, Daddy?” Jason asked.

“Maybe.”

Anker snorted. “If they’re paying three cents a pound in Charlottesville, Percy’ll want it for a penny and a half.”

“Probably,” John answered.

John wasn’t positive they could squeeze any money out of Percy, and he wasn’t too sure how he was going to go about trying. He gave it a lot of thought through the twenty-minute ride.

Percy’s place was a white, two-story house with a gabled roof and a couple of miles of bric-a-brac strung around the porch and windows. Percy’s old Packard was parked at the side, and John spotted Percy himself sitting under a big oak tree around back. The old man’s hair was white now, and he squinted hard to see who was coming. John parked the truck next to the Packard.