The Waltons 3 - The Easter Story

by Robert Weverka

  “Amelia, darling, I hope you haven’t been pestering Mr. Walton.”

  “She’s good company, Mrs. Claybourne. And the fact is I’m all finished anyway.”

  She gave the refrigerator a look of surprise. “Now isn’t that a miracle! Humming like brand-new. You’re a wizard, Mr. Walton.”

  John smiled. “Don’t see many of these electric refrigerators. They’re a little more complicated than ice boxes.”

  “Amelia, go fetch your brother so he can settle accounts with Mr. Walton.”

  “OK.”

  “Darling, please don’t slouch. Good posture is so important to a lady. And I find the term ‘OK’ quite unsuitable, dear.”

  “Bye, Mr. Walton.”

  It seemed to John that Amelia’s posture was as good as any other teenaged girl’s he’d ever seen. But she straightened into exaggerated stiffness as she left.

  Mrs. Claybourne shook her head. “I’m afraid there is simply no hope for this new generation, Mr. Walton. In my day we took pride!”

  John nodded and smiled to himself as he remembered the first time he ever saw Adelle Claybourne. It must have been twenty-five years ago when he was still a small boy, and the Claybournes were out riding in the first automobile he had ever seen. He was dazzled by the car. But he was even more impressed by the Claybournes’ fancy clothes, and the proud way they sat on those high seats.

  “Mrs. Claybourne, what I’ve done here is just temporary. There’s a part inside that needs replacin’.”

  “A part? Oh, dear.”

  “It’s no problem. I can have one of Ike Godsey’s suppliers pick it up over in Charlottesville.” He smiled as Stuart Lee came in. “Mornin’, Stuart Lee.”

  The young man was tall and slender, with an uncertain manner—as if not yet comfortable with his position as head of the family. He extended his hand with formality. “Mr. Walton.”

  Mrs. Claybourne moved toward the door. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Walton. Now, Stuart Lee, you be especially generous with our good neighbor. And please remember me to your lovely family, Mr. Walton.”

  “I’ll do that, Mrs. Claybourne.”

  John gathered his tools and put them in the toolbox. “The temporary part I put in ought to hold fine until the new one comes, Stuart Lee. Then it’ll only take a couple minutes to put it in.”

  “I see. I don’t think I noticed your truck outside, Mr. Walton.”

  “No. The family brought me over on the way to church. I reckon I can walk home all right.”

  “I’ll be happy to drive you. In fact I’m going right by your place.”

  “Well, I’d sure appreciate that, Stuart Lee. This box gets a little heavy sometimes.”

  The car Stuart Lee got out of the garage was a shiny Packard roadster. It was three or four years old now, but still about the nicest car John had ever ridden in. He especially appreciated the heater that was turning out fresh warm air as quickly as they reached the road.

  “How you been gettin’ along since your daddy passed on, Stuart Lee?”

  “We—it’s been difficult. Particularly for mother.”

  “Well, your daddy was a fine man. And I reckon your mama’ll be all right in time. She’s a strong lady.”

  Stuart Lee nodded, but didn’t seem inclined to pursue the subject. They stopped by Ike Godsey’s to order the refrigerator part, and then Stuart Lee drove in silence until they got to the house. He drew a sealed envelope from his jacket and handed it over. “Thank you very much, Mr. Walton.”

  “Thank you.” John couldn’t help smiling. Stuart Lee was handling the payment the same as his father had always done—as if counting out money was a distasteful act. The only difference was that his father usually invited John into his study for a taste of good bourbon before he gave him the envelope.

  “You sure you don’t want to come in and say hello? The family’d enjoy seein’ you.”

  “No. The truth is, Mr. Walton, I’m on my way over to visit the Weatherbys.”

  John grinned. “Can’t blame you for that. Blanche Weatherby’s a handsome young lady. Give my best to her daddy.”

  “I’ll do that, Mr. Walton.”

  “Say, Stuart Lee, as long as you’re over there, I wouldn’t mind your suggestin’ to Creighton Weatherby that I got some fine firewood for sale. Some good hard oak.”

  Stuart Lee didn’t look too enthusiastic. “I wouldn’t think it’d be worth your while to make deliveries that far.”

  “Be glad to. The way business is, I’ll deliver it, stack it, and chop it into kindlin if he wants.” John grinned. “In fact, if it’ll help make a sale, you tell him I’ll come over and light his fire every mornin’ and get his coffee goin’.”

  Stuart Lee forced a smile and nodded impatiently.

  “How about yourself?” John asked, “I reckon you’ve about used up that last load I brought you.”

  “No, I think we have enough for the present.”

  John nodded. “Well, you let me know. Much obliged for the ride.”

  John watched the roadster drive off and then headed for the sawmill. He felt a little sorry for Stuart Lee Claybourne. The boy seemed to have twenty things on his mind all at once, and wasn’t able to cope with any of them. Maybe being rich didn’t make life so easy after all.

  “Daddy!”

  John stopped short. There was a note of urgency in Ben’s voice and he was flying across the back yard at full speed.

  “Daddy, Mama’s real sick! She fell down at church and we had to carry her up to bed!”

  “What d’you mean she fell down?”

  “It was like she fainted or something. She said her legs just gave out on her. And then it happened again when we got home. Grandpa and John-Boy had to carry her up the stairs.”

  It might be nothing serious—just the start of a bad case of the grippe. But Olivia generally wasn’t hit hard by the usual sicknesses. John left his toolbox outside the door and went quickly into the kitchen.

  Mary Ellen was at the stove, waiting for water to boil. “Grandma told me to make some tea.”

  At the table the other kids had worried looks. John took the stairs two at a time. He shouldn’t have let her go to church, he told himself. In weather like this, the grippe could easily turn into pneumonia. And even Olivia wasn’t strong enough to fight off something like that.

  The door was open. Grandma and Grandpa were beside the bed, and John-Boy was curled forward in the corner chair.

  “She’s got a bad fever, John,” Grandpa said.

  “Strangest thing I ever saw,” Grandma added.

  John eased down on the edge of the bed and picked up her hand. Her eyes were closed, and he was startled by how drawn and weak she looked. This morning she was pale and looked a little tired. But now there was no doubt about her being sick. Her face glistened with moisture, and the deep red splotches left no doubt about the intensity of her fever. John touched her forehead and pushed aside a sticky strand of hair.

  “Olivia?”

  She didn’t seem to hear him.

  “How long has she been like this?”

  “Just the last five minutes,” Grandma said.

  Grandpa shook his head. “She laughed about it when she fell down leavin’ the church. Said she must have tripped on somethin’. Then it happened again comin’ in the house.”

  “We got her right to bed and she went to sleep. Then, just a few minutes ago she started shakin’ and the fever came on real bad.”

  “John-Boy, you’d better go for the doctor.”

  Grandpa rose. “I’ll go with him.”

  “Daddy, that front tire is about flat. It was gettin’ low on the way home from church, but I didn’t want to stop and change it.”

  John groaned inwardly. This was about the worst time in the world to get a flat. “Never mind, go anyway. There won’t be any loss if you tear up that tire.”

  “What do you think Mama’s got, Daddy?”

  “I don’t know. Just hurry, son.”
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  The next hour and a half seemed like an eternity for John. After Mary Ellen brought up the tea. Olivia awakened for a couple minutes. But it was hard to say if she was really awake. She blinked uncertainly at John, and then smiled and pushed back her damp hair.

  “I feel so silly. Did they tell you I fell down at church?”

  “Yes, they did. You feel like havin’ some tea?”

  “I feel like I ought to be up gettin’ supper ready. Where’s your ring, John?”

  The question puzzled him until he realized she was holding his left hand, her fingers working over his.

  “It’s in my pocket. I take it off when I’m workin’—so it won’t get scratched.” He smiled, but then looked more closely at her. She was looking at him, but her eyes were not focused.

  “Are they comin’ for supper?” she asked.

  John glanced across the bed. Grandma shrugged and shook her head.

  “Who, sweetheart?”

  “The Claybournes. I’d better get supper started if they’re comin’.”

  John wasn’t sure how to respond. There was no question about her being delirious from the fever. She blinked again and closed her eyes.

  “But my legs ache. I don’t think I can get down the stairs.” Her voice trailed off. “I do wish you’d wear your ring, John.”

  Her breathing became heavy again. She turned her head, gasping for breath, and was once more asleep.

  While they waited, John alternated between sitting at her side and standing at the window. He was worried. He’d never seen Olivia quite so bad from any kind of a fever. On the other hand—as Grandma had said this morning—it could still be something as common as the grippe.

  He smiled when he thought about her mentioning his ring. Standing at the window, he fished it from his pocket and slipped it back on his finger. There was nothing fancy about the ring. It was a heavy gold wedding band with no decorations. It had been his idea to get it in the first place. But now she never wanted him to take it off.

  Dr. Vance was a tall slender man in his midforties, and his rimless glasses and stiff posture gave him a stern, businesslike manner. He had opened his office only two years ago—closer to Charlottesville than Walton’s Mountain, and most of his patients came from the larger community. But since Dr. Shackleford had retired, there wasn’t any choice for those in Walton’s Mountain.

  When he finally arrived he came directly up.

  “You say she fell down twice?” he asked as he checked her pulse.

  “Yes.”

  He nodded and got out his stethoscope. For several minutes he shifted the instrument around, listening to her heartbeat, but he said nothing. He put the stethoscope away and brought out a flashlight to look at her throat. When this was done, he gently worked his fingers under her chin, feeling her neck. In her feverish sleep, Olivia was oblivious to his probing.

  Grandma finally rose and moved toward the door. “I think I’ll go downstairs, John.”

  “All right, Mama.”

  John could tell nothing from the doctor’s thoughtful frown. After he had finished with her neck he sat back in a chair and gazed at her through a full minute of silence. He finally rose and pulled off his jacket.

  “Would you mind waiting outside for a couple minutes, Mr. Walton?”

  “What do you think it is, Doc?”

  The doctor shook his head. “I’m not sure.”

  Olivia had polio.

  There was probably no way in the world for a doctor to make such an announcement in a gentle way. Nor can anyone ever be fully prepared to hear such news.

  It took Dr. Vance ten more minutes to complete his examination. His suspicions were strong, and they were quickly confirmed. When he opened the door for John he smiled grimly and asked him to sit down. The doctor took the chair facing him and leaned forward, his voice as gentle as he could make it.

  “I could be wrong, Mr. Walton. Sometimes these things are tricky and hard to diagnose. But in your wife’s case, the symptoms are almost classic. She has the tremors, and the stiffness and pain in the neck and back. But even more significant is the flaccid paralysis of the voluntary muscles.”

  From the doctor’s tone John Walton knew it was bad. “I don’t think I understand,” he said thickly.

  “I’m afraid, Mr. Walton, that your wife has anterior poliomyelitis. It’s more commonly known as polio. Infantile paralysis.”

  Polio. As far as John Walton knew there had only ever been one case of polio in Walton’s Mountain. It was tragic—a little six-year-old girl who had been full of energy and laughter before it happened. He could remember her now; sitting in a wheelchair at the side of Miss Hunter’s classroom. Her legs were no more than tiny stems—both heavily shackled in steel and leather. But mostly he remembered her eyes. They had the vacant, faraway look of suffering and hopeless, unattainable dreams. John closed his eyes for a minute, then looked over at Olivia.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Walton. I wish I had some doubts.”

  John nodded, his voice barely audible. “Shouldn’t we take her to a hospital?”

  “No. The strain really wouldn’t be worth it. Complete rest is the best thing. I don’t think she should leave her bed.”

  “I see.”

  “Are you all right, Mr. Walton?”

  John took a deep breath and looked at the doctor. He nodded. “Yes, I’m all right.”

  “It’s also very important that the children don’t go near her. The disease is contagious.”

  “I understand.”

  After a minute the doctor rose and put his jacket back on.

  “Doc—is there anything you can give her? Anything that’ll help?”

  The doctor sighed. “No. That’s the terrible thing about polio. There’s no known medicine that can help. We just have to hope the damage won’t be too great. The disease spreads through the nervous system, eventually reaching the spinal cord or brain. If the cells are destroyed completely, it’s impossible for them to regenerate.”

  John closed his eyes. What the doctor was saying was that she would be crippled. Why, he wondered. Why Olivia?

  “Mr. Walton, I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can do. I should be going.”

  John nodded.

  “If you would like, I can—explain it to the rest of the family.”

  John looked at him, then shook his head. “No. No, I’d better do that.”

  “Yes, that’s probably best. And maybe you’d better walk me out to the car.”

  John understood the request. If the doctor went out alone, everyone would want to question him. “Yes,” he nodded. He finally pulled himself to his feet and went to the bed.

  Olivia. Please, God, help her, he thought, please help her.

  It was dark outside now. The ground was frozen and the stars were shining through a brittle black sky.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Walton. I’ll be back again tomorrow. Just try to help her rest. And be sure the children don’t go near her.”

  John nodded. The doctor started his car and the tires crunched softly away.

  For several minutes he stood in numbed silence, looking off at the frosted silhouette of the mountain and the emptiness beyond. He wondered if there really was a God. And he wondered if in His scheme of things Olivia was destined for something like this. If that was so, this was the crudest, most unjust world imaginable.

  “Daddy?”

  John-Boy’s voice was soft and came from only a few feet behind him. John turned.

  In the reflected light from the house, John-Boy could clearly see his father’s face. He could see the despair, and the sagging shoulders, and the tears standing in his eyes. His father’s voice was thick and barely audible.

  “John-Boy, your mother has polio. Infantile paralysis.”

  John-Boy’s mouth opened, but quickly closed, his throat clogged. Oh, my God, he thought. Oh, my God! The words kept repeating themselves in his head.

  “It’s gonna be hard on your grandpa and grandma, John-Boy. And worse
for the kids. Until tomorrow I think we’d better just tell ’em she’s got a bad fever and it will probably be down in the mornin’.” He took a deep, unsteady breath. “You and me’ll have to help ’em face it. I’m gonna need your help, son.”

  John-Boy nodded, unable to speak.

  His father looked off to the side. “If you feel like stayin’ outside for awhile, go ahead. I reckon I’ll be doin’ some cryin’ tonight myself.”

  John-Boy felt a hand on his shoulder. It slipped away and his father’s heavy footsteps moved up the porch. When the door closed John-Boy clamped his eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears. “Mama,” he said softly. He turned to the bannister post and buried his face in his arms.

  II

  The following day became a long, weary vigil-waiting and hoping for some change in Olivia’s condition. Through breakfast and going off to school, John-Boy stoically answered the questions of his anxious brothers and sisters. They couldn’t see their mother, he told them, because she wasn’t awake yet. She needed all the sleep she could get. The doctor had said nothing definite, but he was sure the fever would go down sometime during the day. And yes, if she was feeling better, they could see her when they got home from school. He tried his best to sound hopeful, but he doubted if he was very convincing. Long before they reached school the questions ceased, and they trudged on in grim silence.

  John had told Grandma and Grandpa what the doctor had said as quickly as he went back in the house the previous night. He took them into their own room and, using the same preparatory request as the doctor, asked them to sit down.

  How hard it had hit them, John couldn’t be sure. They were silent for a long moment. The tears slowly formed in his mother’s eyes. Then, with a thick voice, Grandpa asked questions about Olivia’s chances for recovery, what they could do to help, and how certain the doctor was about his diagnosis. Grandma didn’t say a word. Her eyes drifted off to an empty place on the wall, and then Grandpa told John they would be out in a few minutes.