The Waltons 2 - Trouble on the Mountain (8 page)

“Um,” Grandma grunted. “I sure wish I knew where that old man has gotten himself off to.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure he just got to talking with Ike, or playing pool down there.”

“Well, that may be. But he better be gettin’ home before it’s dark around here.”

John-Boy was almost to Ike’s store before the full import of his mother’s words finally registered with him. Until then his thoughts were totally absorbed by the complicated web of lies and half-truths he had woven to hide the fact that he had borrowed the Baldwins’ typewriter. As quickly as he mailed off the manuscript he would go home, get the typewriter, and return it to the two sisters. Then it would be over. There would be no need to lie anymore, or to sneak out to the toolshed, or to hide envelopes under his overalls. Then, when he heard from
Collier’s,
he could confess everything. And if there were a contract and a check, he doubted if there would be much fuss over where he had gotten the story typed. With the money he would be able to buy his own typewriter. With the money from the story he would be able to buy all kinds of things.

John-Boy smiled at these thoughts and then, suddenly, he frowned. His mother had sent Grandpa to get candles? And they needed candles tonight because their electricity had been turned off?

That seemed impossible. But then he realized it was probably true. In the past week or two he had heard several remarks about people in Walton’s Mountain being foreclosed by the bank. And everyone was talking about not having any money. John-Boy suddenly felt very guilty. He had been so preoccupied with his own problems, he wasn’t even aware of how bad off his own family was.

“Hey, John-Boy,” Ike said as quickly as the bell over the door tingled.

Ike was sitting on a stool behind the counter, curled over a newspaper. It didn’t look like Ike was doing any business these days either. Nor was John-Boy’s grandfather anywhere in sight.

“Ike, you seen my Grandpa around today?”

Ike shook his head. “Nope. Ain’t seen your Grandpa in three, maybe four, days. What you got there?”

John-Boy had removed the envelope from his overalls. He handed it over. “I’d like to mail this.”

Ike’s smile broadened. “Well now, look at that. You got yourself a typewriter, huh? Mary Ellen told me what happened. Where’d you find yourself a typewriter around here?”

It seemed like this was about the last straw for John-Boy. It hadn’t occurred to him that Ike would notice the typed address and ask about it. But Ike was waiting for an answer, gazing at him with a questioning smile.

“Ike, can you keep a secret?”

“Well, I reckon I can. ’Course if you stole yourself a typewriter somewhere, I reckon I’d have to answer the truth if Ep Bridges started asking me any questions.”

John-Boy told him the whole story, with Ike finding it more amusing with every word. “John-Boy,” he finally said, and took the envelope behind the post office cage to weigh it, “I reckon every great writer had to resort to cutting a few corners and telling a few little lies to make himself famous. And I ain’t going to be the one to ruin your career before it’s even started. Now, let’s see here. This particular masterpiece weighs just about four ounces exactly. Same as your first one. Twelve cents.”

John-Boy felt relieved. He had exactly twelve cents in his pocket.

“You can send it registered if you want. Only ten cents more.”

John-Boy smiled and shook his head. He handed over the dime and two pennies.

“No, John-Boy, I’m going to keep your secret, and nobody’s going to see this envelope ’cept me and the other officially authorized post office people. But I want you to do me a favor in return.”

“Sure.”

“Don’t you come in here two hours after this is mailed and start asking me if I’ve got a letter for you.”

John-Boy smiled. “Okay.”

“You give us at least a week to get this up to New York and back.”

John-Boy nodded, then watched as Ike placed the stamps on the envelope.

“Ike, there’s one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, the reason I was looking for Grandpa is Mama sent him down here to buy some candles.”

“I got ’em.”

“Yeah, well, we . . . uh, need them.”

“Uh-huh. Lots of folks are needing candles around here these days. But your Grandpa didn’t come in. Not today, John-Boy.”

Ike climbed back on his stool and gave John-Boy a shrugging smile.

“Uh . . . Ike, we sure need those candles. And I’m sure my Grandpa’s got some money with him. Could I take the candles now and bring you the money soon as I find him?”

The question seemed to catch Ike a little by surprise, and John-Boy was glad he had used his twelve cents for the stamps and Ike had already put the stamps on the envelope. But then Ike smiled. “Well, I don’t see why not. How many you need?”

“About seven or eight, I reckon.”

Jacob Levy had very little to show for his efforts to collect junk today. In the back of his Reo truck there were two old, threadbare army cots, one burnt-out car battery, several bundles of coat hangers, and a large box filled with old coats and dresses.

Jacob hadn’t wanted the coats and dresses—they were really worthless. But Mrs. Brosnin had given them to him for nothing. In her mind they were something of great value, and it would have been rude for Jacob to tell her otherwise.

Jacob smiled as he maneuvered the truck over the deeply ratted back roads of Walton’s Mountain. Altogether, his collections for the day would amount to just enough to buy himself dinner, and maybe breakfast tomorrow morning. But he was not disappointed. Of all the routes he took out of Charlottesville each week, he enjoyed the trip to Walton’s Mountain the most. There was beautiful scenery, and he always enjoyed talking to the people.

The Waltons’ house was next—his last stop in Walton’s Mountain. Jacob turned off the narrow road and circled down to the front of the house. He banged his bell three times, waited a second or two, and banged it again.

Good people, the Waltons—a fine family with seven children. But Jacob felt a little disappointment at not seeing John’s truck. Nor did he hear any noise from the sawmill. After a minute he put the truck in gear and started moving.

“Mr. Levy! Mr. Levy!”

He stopped abruptly. The youngest of the Walton girls was bounding down the stairs and racing toward him. “Wait a minute, Mr. Levy! Please.”

“Ahhh, let me see now. You are Elizabeth, aren’t you.”

“Yes. And we’ve got some good stuff for you. My sisters and Jim-Bob are around in back. Can you come and get it?”

Jacob turned off the key and swung down from the truck. “Why not? So you’ve found a treasure chest in the backyard, eh?”

“We’ve got a pair of boots, and an old tire, and all kinds of good stuff.”

Jacob smiled. If anyone wanted to sell boots these days you could bet they were worthless. And old tires were worth a dime at the most.

Elizabeth led him past the sawmill to what looked like a toolshed. The oldest girl was inside struggling with a box while the others waited. “Hi, Mr. Levy,” they smiled.

“You’re Erin, and this big boy is Joe-Bob, and inside is Mary Ellen.”

“Jim-Bob,” Jim-Bob corrected.

“Ahh, my apologies, sir. And to make amends, please accept this.”

A piece of red cellophane-wrapped candy magically appeared in his hand.

Jim-Bob’s eyes widened. “Gee, thanks.”

“And where is your papa today? He’s not at home?”

“They turned off our electricity,” Erin said. “Daddy’s trying to get some money somewhere.”

“Ahh, times are bad, times are bad. And what are these treasures you’ve found?”

The tire and boots were already outside the shed. Mary Ellen placed a wooden box next to them and went back inside. The box was filled with scrap metal—rusty gears, broken tools, nuts, bolts, and a couple of broken saw blades. Mary Ellen came out with a second box that appeared to be filled with the same material. Jacob smiled and knelt by the boots. The leather in them had dried out and hardened beyond recovery, and the soles were gone. The tire was worn through, with huge holes in it. The only things of any value at all were the two boxes of scrap iron. Jacob felt each of them for weight, then shook his head.

“If I buy the whole lot of it by the pound, you’ll end up with fifty cents.” He shrugged. “I’ll give you seventy-five.”

They obviously had expected more. People always expected more.

“A dollar,” Mary Ellen said.

The defiance in her voice suggested that this wasn’t the first time Mary Ellen Walton had engaged in the business of selling things. Jacob smiled. “So someone told you maybe you should bargain with old Jake?”

“We need the money, Mr. Levy. Every cent counts.”

“Ahh, so you’re going to pay for the electricity, eh?”

“No, it’s for a Super Deluxe Beauty Kit. Ike’s got it down at his store, and we still need a dollar and ninety-five cents.”

“Oh, well, that’s different. A beauty kit every young girl should have.” He glanced around at the anxious faces. “But I don’t see what any of you beautiful young ladies would do with it.”

“Please, Mr. Levy” Erin said.

“And how about your papa? He says it’s all right to sell these wonderful things?”

“Mama said it was all right. Nobody’s used any of this stuff for years.”

“It’s just worthless old junk,” Erin added, and quickly got a dark look from Mary Ellen.

Jacob rubbed his chin and gave them a sly smile. “Well, you want a dollar. I could offer you, say, eighty cents, and then you would ask ninety-five. But who has all day? A man of my heavy responsibilities must be tending to business.” He drew out his wallet. “One dollar—so be it!”

Their faces instantly brightened.

“But there’s one condition,” Jacob said, rising. “For an old man you’ve got to help me carry the merchandise out to the truck.”

Mary Ellen was delighted with the deal. She couldn’t imagine what anyone could do with a worn-out tire or boots and a couple of boxes full of rusty iron. At best, she had hoped to get fifty or sixty cents.

Once they had heaved the boxes up on the truck bed and waved good-bye to Mr. Levy, all four of them rushed into the house to announce the good news.

Olivia listened patiently through a complete recounting of the conversation and bargaining, and then smiled. “I think that’s wonderful, and you’re all very good businessmen and women. But I wish you’d all go outside again and try to be quiet. Grandma’s lying down.”

“What’s the matter? Is Grandma sick?”

“No, she’s just worried about your grandpa.”

“Do you think he got lost somewhere?” Elizabeth asked, “or that somebody kidnapped him?”

“No, I don’t think that at all. I think he just went visiting somewhere and forgot how late it was getting. As soon as your Daddy and John-Boy get home they’ll go out and find him. Now you all run along.”

Olivia went back to chopping vegetables after the children left, but her thoughts stayed on Grandpa. It was possible, she supposed, that he had gone visiting and forgotten the time. But she didn’t think that was likely, considering that he knew how much they needed those candles.

The fact was, Olivia told herself, for a man Zebulon’s age, he worked far too hard. Sometimes, through the kitchen window, she had seen him lifting the ends of logs that must weigh two hundred pounds. And when John had to deliver wood in a hurry, Grandpa was always out there loading up the truck as if he were an eighteen-year-old boy. It was things like that that caused old men to drop dead from heart attacks.

Olivia scraped the vegetables from the chopping board into a pot and set them on the stove. Then she dried her hands and went to the front door where she could see the road. But there was nobody coming.

“The good Lord ain’t going to take me,” Grandpa always laughed. “He don’t want nobody so mean an’ ornery to upset ever’body up there in heaven. No sir, he’s going to wait till I’m so old and tired and weak I can’t give him no trouble. And that’ll be about twenty, thirty years from now, I reckon.”

Olivia smiled grimly as she turned away from the door. She certainly hoped it would be twenty or thirty years from now.

V

“W
hy, Mr. Walton, I do believe we’ve bought just so many lovely things we won’t be able to get them all in the car.”

“Perhaps two of us should sit in the back, and we can put all these packages in the front.”

“No, no, we’ll manage, ladies.”

It was the third stop they had made in Charlottesville, and this time Zebulon had to make two trips into the store to carry out all their purchases. After the millinery shop there had been the lingerie emporium, and then Moffat’s Department & Ladies’ Fashion Store. At the millinery shop they had bought several bolts of material to make themselves new dresses. At the lingerie emporium Zeb had waited discreetly in the car, and he had no idea what they had bought. But after an hour they came out with a dozen boxes and bags. An hour later, when they saw the gowns at Moffat’s, they decided not to make their dresses after all, but to buy them ready-made. So then there were hats and scarfs and a lot of other doodads to go along with the dresses.

It was getting awfully late. At each stop Zeb had tactfully suggested that they ought to be starting for home, but the ladies had gone merrily about their business, oblivious to his concern. But now, with not one square inch of space left in the car, they would have to be on their way. It was already after supper time, and Zeb knew they would be worrying at home. But he expected it had all been worth it.

Earlier in the day, Zeb had gotten only halfway to Ike’s store when the brilliant idea had hit him. Instead of getting candles and having everybody sitting around a half-dark house—with no radio or washing machine or electric iron—it would be a lot simpler for him to get two dollars and seventeen cents somewhere and just pay off the electric bill. And Zeb knew exactly where he could get the money. When the thought occurred to him, Zeb turned abruptly off the road and headed directly for the Baldwin sisters’ house.

“Why, I declare,” Miss Emily said when she answered the door. “Look who’s here, Sister. It’s Zebulon Walton. And I’ll just bet he’s brought back Papa’s typewriting machine!”