The Waltons 2 - Trouble on the Mountain

by Robert Weverka

  Erin gave Jason a triumphant smile. “See, I told you!”

  “Let him open it!” Mary Ellen cried impatiently.

  John-Boy grinned. It was a nervous, unaccountable grin that came from confused emotions. But his heart was pounding steadily faster. It was a moment he guessed he had been waiting for most of his life.

  John-Boy turned the envelope over. He slipped his thumb under the corner of the flap and carefully worked it under, tearing the sealed end loose. There would probably be a letter inside—comments about the story, or maybe instructions on what to do with the contracts. John-Boy got a firm grip on the bundle of papers and slowly drew them out. Then his heart stopped.

  There had been an instant, while he was carrying the envelope home, when he considered the possibility of his story being flatly rejected—that the envelope might contain a short letter saying it was not good enough. But on the strength of Miss Hunter’s enthusiasm and his own firm belief in the quality of the story, he had quickly dismissed the idea. Now, that brief moment of fear returned and came crashing down on him like an avalanche.

  The bundle of papers was his own manuscript—and nothing more.

  “What’s the matter, John-Boy?”

  “What is it?”

  John-Boy shook his head, barely able to speak. “There’s nothing here. It’s just my story.” He looked at the last page and then back at the front. “They sent it back.”

  “Sent it back! What do you mean they sent it back?” Grandpa grabbed the manuscript.

  “Why would they send it back?” John asked.

  Jason searched through the envelope John-Boy had dropped on the floor. “Here’s something. A little piece of paper.”

  John-Boy took it, his hopes lifting for an instant. But they were quickly dashed. “ ‘We are very sorry,’ ” he read aloud, “ ‘but we cannot consider handwritten manuscripts.’ ”

  “For heaven’s sakes!” Grandma said with disgust.

  “You mean they sent it back without even reading it?” Jason said.

  John-Boy shook his head. “I reckon so.” He read the message again, feeling his heart sink even deeper. After waiting almost three weeks, and imagining dozens of editors reading the story, and expecting at least a comment, or some kind of criticism, this seemed like the worst possible thing that could have happened. He felt silly—embarrassed—foolish—stupid. How could he have been so dumb—so naive?

  “That’s crazy,” Mary Ellen was saying. “How in the world do they expect something to be written?”

  John had taken the slip and passed it on to Olivia. “I reckon they expect it be be written on a typewriter.”

  “But John-Boy’s handwriting is so clear,” Olivia protested.

  John-Boy looked at her, feeling grateful for all their anger and indignation. But he guessed he could understand the magazine’s position. At least he could partially understand it. He shook his head. “I guess clear handwriting isn’t good enough, Mama.”

  “Huh!” Grandma said, “Spend all that schooling teaching young ’uns to write, and it ain’t good enough for them folks in New York. You’d think they’d at least have the courtesy to read something you went to all that trouble writing out. I guess they just never heard of good manners up there.”

  “It’s just not fair,” Erin said.

  Olivia shook her head. “I’m so sorry, John-Boy.”

  “Well, I guess it could be worse, Mama. At least it isn’t a rejection. I mean, they didn’t say the story’s no good.” John-Boy really didn’t believe it. At least if they had read it and turned it down it would be all over with. This way, he was right back where he started three weeks ago.

  “Well, how will they ever know if it’s any good if they don’t read it?” Jason muttered. “It’s probably the best story anybody ever wrote for their dumb magazine. And they’re so dumb they don’t even know it. If I were you, John-Boy, I wouldn’t even let ’em have it if you get it typed.”

  “If they don’t take handwritten stories,” John said, “I don’t reckon any of the magazines do.”

  “Well, that’s stupid,” Ben said.

  It probably was stupid, but John’s statement had a sobering effect on all of them.

  “Do you know how to write on a typewriting machine, John-Boy?” Jim-Bob asked.

  John-Boy shrugged. “I reckon I could learn. But I don’t expect there’s any typewriters in Jefferson County.”

  “I’ll bet we could find one over in Charlottesville.”

  John shook his head. “Finding one is one thing but buying one is something else again, Jason. John-Boy, I know it’s a big disappointment to you. I reckon we all got our hopes up a little too high.”

  “I’ll bet if it was typed they would have bought it right away,” Mary Ellen said.

  “And it would be the best story they ever printed,” Ben added.

  John-Boy smiled, appreciating their efforts to cheer him up. But his father was probably right—he particularly had gotten his hopes too high. “Well, I reckon if I’d sold my first story to a magazine that big it would have been some kind of a miracle anyway.”

  Grandpa gave him a stern look. “Just don’t you go giving up, John-Boy. You got lots of good writing ahead of you. And there ain’t no Walton ever born that let a little setback like this get him down.”

  “Come on, all you children,” Grandma said, pulling herself up. “We got to wash up them berries you picked if you expect ’em for dessert tonight.”

  Olivia gazed quietly at John-Boy after the others had filed out. In the long run she knew he would recover, and some day he would sell all the stories he could write. But her confidence and certainty were no help for the pain she knew he was feeling right now. She smiled warmly at him, and in a soft voice quoted from the Book of James. “ ‘Behold, the husbandman waiteth for the precious fruit of the earth, and hath long patience for it.’ ”

  John-Boy smiled. “Mama, I’m just happy you’ve all got long patience with me.”

  “Well, I reckon the sun’ll come up again tomorrow, and probably a lot of times after that. But I’m not so sure that kitchen stove’s going to stay hot without some more firewood.”

  John-Boy laughed. “Coming right up.”

  John-Boy didn’t know if it was deliberate or not, but at the supper table there was no more talk about his misfortune with Collier’s Magazine. After Grandma said grace and the food was passed, Mary Ellen glanced at her mother and made a casual request.

  “Mama, would it be all right with you if I didn’t do any dishwashing anymore? I mean if I traded with someone and wiped the dishes twice as often?”

  Olivia blinked at her for a minute, then shrugged. “It’s all right with me—if you can get someone to trade. What do you have against washing dishes?”

  “Nothing. I’m just tired of it.”

  “Me too,” Grandpa agreed. “Can’t think of anything worse than slimy dishwater all over my hands.”

  Grandma snorted. “The last time you washed any dishes William McKinley was President of the United States.”

  “That’s right, old woman. And you saw what happened to him. He got shot to death. So I ain’t taking any risks like that anymore.”

  They all laughed, and then Jason gave Mary Ellen a sly smile. “That ain’t the reason Mary Ellen don’t want to wash dishes.”

  “All right,” Mary Ellen said, “if you’re so smart, what’s the real reason?”

  “You really want me to tell?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Olivia said. “If Mary Ellen wants to trade chores with someone, she doesn’t have to give a reason.”

  “It’s because of her Super Deluxe Beauty Kit,” Jason blurted out.

  “It is not!”

  “What in the world is a Super Deluxe Beauty Kit?” Grandpa asked.

  “Ask her,” Jason smiled. “She bought it.”

  Mary Ellen’s face reddened and she quickly picked up the bowl of mashed potatoes and banged more onto her plate. “I didn’t buy it. I
just gave Ike a deposit.”

  “Same thing. And it costs two dollars and ninety-five cents.”

  John Walton had paid little attention to the conversation until now. He looked up sharply. “Two dollars and ninety-five cents! For that much they ought to turn you into Jean Harlow and Myrna Loy all rolled in one.”

  “That’s just what it is, Daddy!” Erin beamed, coming to Mary Ellen’s defense. “It’s really great. Everything in it is personally endorsed by Hollywood stars. There’s perfumes from Paris, France, and stuff for your eyes, and things to make your hands soft, and everything!”

  “ ’Peers to me the best way to make your hands soft is by washing dishes,” Grandma said.

  “No,” Mary Ellen protested, “that’s the worst thing you can do. They get all soft and squishy, but after they dry they’re all rough and ugly.”

  “I never noticed your Mama’s hands being rough and ugly.”

  “Weil, that’s because she’s just naturally beautiful, Daddy. And this kit can help me look like Mama.”

  Olivia didn’t look too happy about Mary Ellen paying all that money for something that was probably worthless. But Mary Ellen’s last statement effectively disarmed her. “Darling, you’re a very pretty girl already, and someday you’ll be a beautiful woman. I really don’t think you should spend a lot of money for something like that.”

  “It was only a dollar, Mama. And it was my money. It was the dollar Grandpa gave me last Christmas.”

  Grandpa looked up. “Well, in that case I don’t see why she shouldn’t have it, Livvy. Sounds like a nice Christmas present to me.”

  John-Boy smiled to himself. He knew his mother was fighting a losing battle and in the end Mary Ellen would get her beauty kit. What surprised him was Mary Ellen’s sudden interest in her appearance. Usually it was Erin who was so concerned about things like that, while Mary Ellen spent her time throwing baseballs and thinking up new business schemes with Ben. Apparently Mary Ellen had suddenly realized she was a girl, and that girls are different from boys. Either that or she had read somewhere how much money Hollywood movie stars made and she was preparing to storm the place.

  “But where will you get the other dollar and ninety-five cents?” Olivia asked.

  “I can earn it. I can sell my bead kit. Half the beads are lost anyway. And I’ve got some old dresses I could sell.”

  Olivia gave John a questioning glance. The Walton family was in no position to be selling clothing. When Mary Ellen grew out of her dresses, they were ready for Erin, and some of those even lasted long enough to be set aside for Elizabeth. “I think you’d better find some other way to raise money, Mary Ellen,” John smiled. “Or else your sisters’ll be running around this house naked.”

  Olivia ignored the snickers. “And I’m afraid we had something else in mind for your bead kit.” What she had in mind was Elizabeth’s birthday coming up next month.

  “Well, how can I earn some money? I have to have it fast.”

  “What’s the hurry?” John smiled. “You already got your bus ticket for Hollywood?”

  “The dance is only a week from Saturday!” Erin blurted out.

  Mary Ellen reddened again, making it clear why she wanted the beauty kit.

  “What dance is that?” Grandpa asked.

  Erin dug into the pocket of her dress and came up with a battered circular which she passed along the table. “It’s a big barn dance down at the livery stable. With real music and everything.”

  “Well, isn’t that something,” John said when it got to him. “Liv, how long’s it been since we went dancing?”

  “Oh,” Olivia smiled, “I’d say it was back around the turn of the century.”

  “Still remember how?”

  “If someone should ask me, I think I could manage.”

  “Can we go, Mama? All of us?”

  “Well,” she said after a minute, “we’ll talk about it. We’ve got plenty of time.”

  “Does it say who the caller’s going to be, John?” Grandma asked.

  “Man named Oglethorpe Hansen.”

  Grandma nodded. “Best caller in the country.”

  “Never heard of him,” Grandpa said.

  “Oglethorpe is just his professional name. Don’t you remember Fred Hansen?”

  Grandpa snorted. “That skinny bean pole. Thought he’d have dried up and got blown away by this time.”

  “Best dancer this side of the James River,” Grandma said defiantly.

  John-Boy glanced at each of them and smiled. It was apparent that Fred Hansen was not one of Grandpa’s favorite people. “Did you know him, Grandma?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said smugly. “Quite well.”

  “Quite well! Hah! Should’ve seen the two of ’em. Sashaying around the dance floor, showing off fancy steps. That’s all they ever done.”

  “Now, Zeb,” Grandma said gently, “I may have danced a lot with Fred, but I always saved a special waltz for you.”

  “And you were so worn out by that time you couldn’t keep up with me.”

  John-Boy wasn’t certain if Grandpa was really irritated or just feigning indignation for the fun of it. But Olivia quickly put an end to it.

  “I expect we’d better get these dishes cleaned up. And we could use more wood in the stove-box, John-Boy.”

  In his room that night John-Boy made only a brief entry in his notebook: Rec’d story back from Collier’s Magazine. They do not read handwritten manuscripts.

  It seemed like some kind of milestone in his writing career—at least it was his first practical lesson on how to prepare a manuscript.

  “John-Boy?”

  John-Boy looked up. The door was open a few inches, and his grandmother was peering in.

  “Come on in, Grandma.”

  She smiled. “Just thought I’d come up and talk, if you had a mind to.”

  “Sure. Sit down.”

  She took the chair in the corner and looked around as though she had never seen the room before. “I truly feel bad about their sending back your story, John-Boy. I’m sure it’s a fine story.”

  “Thank you, Grandma.”

  “What is it you wrote about?”

  John-Boy gave her a brief outline of the story. It was based on a true incident—one Christmas Eve when his father was late getting home and everyone was worried about him. There had been a heavy snowstorm, and Olivia was afraid he might be out drinking somewhere. But that had not been the case at all, and when he finally came he had presents for everybody. It was about the best Christmas any of them could remember.

  When John-Boy finished, Grandma shook her head. “I just don’t know why they wouldn’t print a beautiful story like that.”

  “Well, maybe they will, Grandma. Some day I reckon I can get it typed and send it to them again.”

  She nodded, then fidgeted with a piece of ribbon in her hand, suggesting there was something else on her mind.

  “John-Boy, your Grandpa has already given you what you’ll inherit from him.”

  John-Boy nodded. “The meadow. And I treasure that, Grandma.” The entire mountain and some of the surrounding land had once been owned by Zebulon Walton and his brothers. But John-Boy’s grandfather had been the only one to hold on to his share of the property.

  “I won’t be leaving you anything like that when I die, John-Boy. Land or money.”

  “Well, I’ve always thought of the meadow as being from both of you, Grandma. Besides,” John-Boy smiled, “I’ve known you. That’s about as nice a present as anybody could ever get.”

  The answer pleased her. “You know, John-Boy, my family were always storytellers. Long before we had the luxuries like electric lights and radios, and all this modernism, we used to sit by the fireplace and take turns telling stories. Ghost stories, witch stories, and way-back stories of Indians and long-ago wars. Things that happened in the history of our family. I’ve kept them all, and now they’re mellow in my mind and ready to tell again.”

  “Grandma, Miss
Hunter said that the talent of writing is a gift. Maybe now I know where that gift came from.”

  “All those stories I remember. I’ll tell ’em to you, John-Boy. That will be my inheritance to you.”

  John-Boy couldn’t help thinking about the many times he had taken his grandparents’ presence for granted. She and Grandpa were always there, and they were old, and it was easy to forget they had lived full, rich lives, and had experienced more trials and hardships, and more joys and happiness than it was possible for him to imagine. And now she was offering to share it all with him.

  “Grandma, I cherish you.”

  “And I you, boy.” She gazed at him for a minute, then got to her feet. “And John-Boy, I’m just as certain as that I’m an old woman that God’s going to provide a typewriting machine for you to write all them stories.”

  “I sure hope so, Grandma.”

  After all the “Goodnights” were exchanged, John Walton held Olivia’s hand and gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling for a while. “Well, I reckon John-Boy’s recovered all right. I don’t know whether they’d buy them stories of his or not, but I sure wish we had the money to buy him a typewriting machine, Livvy.”

  “Ummm,” Olivia murmured. “I reckon we’d best think about where we can get two dollars and seventeen cents first. You know it’s been eight days now.”

  “What’s been eight days?” John knew very well what she was talking about, but he didn’t want her to think he was worried about the whole thing.

  “Since we got the notice. They said if we didn’t pay they’d turn off the electricity in five days.”

  “Well, they’re three days late already. Maybe they’ll never do it. I don’t expect it costs them much to leave it on.”

  “But what if they do shut it off?”

  John gave her a look of mock concern. “Well, Livvy, I expect we’ll just have to go back to living in a cave somewhere. I’ll have to get me a club and go hunting dinosaurs. And while I’m gone you’ll have to protect the babies from them saber-toothed tigers attacking.”

  Olivia couldn’t help smiling. John was right, of course. People had survived for thousands of years without electricity. And half the people in Walton’s Mountain were getting the same threatening notices.