“I’ll give you fifteen dollars for the whole thing, including the cost of the lumber, and for your coming over here with your burnin’-wood to show me how to do it. And fifteen dollars for the pig. Now that’s my last offer, because the fact is I’m not so convinced this smoked pig is gonna taste as good as you say it is.”
“You ever tasted smoked pheasant, Mr. Crocker?”
“Yes.”
John spread his hands and shrugged. “Anker, you want to leave the pig and all that lumber for that price?”
Anker rubbed his chin and glanced from Percy to John. “Well, yes, I reckon.”
Percy smiled and drew a small purse from inside his coat. “Fifteen dollars now, and fifteen dollars when the smokehouse is done.” He pulled out three five-dollar bills, but held them back, waiting for confirmation.
“All right,” John agreed. “Fair enough.”
They unloaded the lumber and the pig, and Anker nailed up a temporary fence to hold the animal until he could come back and make a proper pen.
When they finally got in the truck and headed home, Anker grinned and shook his head. “John, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I don’t think I’d have believed it.”
Even John was a little surprised at how easy it had been. “Well,” he laughed, “I guess we hadn’t ought to look a gift pig in the mouth. Old Percival can afford it. And you’ll be needing some more wood to finish up both the smokehouse and a pigpen.”
“Yep, I reckon I will. I think I’m gonna build Percy the fanciest smokehouse in the whole county.” Anker reflected on it a minute and then frowned. “John, what are we going to do when Percy cooks up that pig and tastes it?”
“We’re going to wait for him to thank us. Percy’s just as sure as anything that that pig is going to taste better’n anything he ever tasted before. And when anyone’s that sure, you can bet it’s going to taste good to him. Besides, you said Berskshire hogs were better’n other hogs.”
Anker smiled. “I don’t guess they’re that much better. Fact is, I was thinkin’ of getting some of them Poland China pigs they got up in Ohio.”
John looked at him, then couldn’t help laughing. “Well, I reckon we shouldn’t feel too bad, Anker. I guess I’ve given Percy about fifty dollars worth of smoked venison over the years.”
IV
John-Boy was unaware of the crisis over the electricity being turned off. While the others were still at the breakfast table he got his manuscript and some blank paper from his room, and slipped out the front door and around to the toolshed.
The old typewriter sat perfectly on the upturned wooden box. For a chair he brought in a short log from the sawmill. He inserted the first sheet of paper, centered it, got the margins all set, and then carefully typed each letter of the first sentence. When it was finished, he held his breath for a minute, read it and then smiled broadly. It was perfect. And the precisely printed letters and neat spacing seemed to magically transform his words into profound and enduring thoughts. He pulled his log-chair closer and with mounting excitement went on with the task.
During the morning he paused several times and listened with alarm to the sounds outside. He heard Erin and Elizabeth and Grandma hanging up clothes, and he stopped typing until they were gone. And then, when his father came home with Jason and Ben, he waited until they got the saw going before he resumed the typing. And then he heard Elizabeth calling urgently for her father. A few minutes after that the truck drove away, and he worked on.
John-Boy had only six pages left to type when he heard his mother, and then Mary Ellen calling him for lunch. He was hungry and would have liked to eat, but he didn’t dare risk going into the house and then trying to slip back to the toolshed unseen. He waited until they gave up, and then continued with the laborious task.
Two hours later he was finished. The eighteen handwritten sheets had now become fourteen pages of neat, precisely typed manuscript. John-Boy folded a large envelope so it would fit into the typewriter and typed the address on the front. This time, without even opening the envelope, they would know that the contents were typed. Suddenly all the excitement he had experienced two weeks ago returned. They would read it for sure this time. And it was good. As he glanced over it one more time before sealing it into the envelope, he was more convinced than ever that it was a fine story.
He replaced the typewriter in the box, covered it carefully with the old rags, and buried it beneath the other box and the tire. Then, with the envelope hidden under his shirt, he slipped out the door and moved past the sawmill. And then his heart stopped.
John-Boy’s path had been clear, and he was certain he could make it to the road without being seen. What he had not counted on was Reckless, their old hound dog, who was suddenly bounding across the yard, yelping happily. And then his mother was at the opened back door. “John-Boy?”
He had reached the corner of the house, but there was no use trying to escape. “Yes, Mama.”
“Where’ve you been? You haven’t had any lunch.”
“I’m not hungry, Mama.”
“Well, you just come on in here and eat something, young man.”
John-Boy turned and moved stiffly toward the door. It would be impossible for her to see the envelope under his overalls. But without pressing his arm to his stomach, he wasn’t sure how long he could keep it from falling down into his pants.
“I declare, I don’t know what’s going on in this house,” Olivia said as she held the door for him. “You disappearing all day, and now your Daddy and Grandpa have both gone off somewhere. Where’ve you been, John-Boy?”
“No place. Just out walking.”
“Well, they’ve shut off our electricity and Grandpa went off to get candles at Ike’s three hours ago.”
John-Boy nodded, his hand thrust strategically into his pocket.
“There’s a sandwich on the table there. You want some milk?”
“No, that’s fine, Mama. I’ll just take the sandwich with me.” With his free hand he got the sandwich from under the waxed paper and moved toward the door.
“Where you going now?”
“No place.”
“Well, I wish you’d go down to Ike’s and see if you can find your Grandpa. We’re going to need those candles tonight.”
John-Boy smiled, suddenly relieved. “I’ll be glad to, Mama.” But as quickly as he got to the door she stopped him again.
“John-Boy?”
“Yes, Mama?”
“Is something wrong? You’re acting so strange.”
“No, nothing’s wrong, Mama.”
“I thought you were going to write a story this morning.”
It seemed to John-Boy that from the moment Grandpa decided they should go borrow the Baldwins’ typewriter, he had been unable to speak one word that wasn’t a lie. Briefly, he was tempted to put an end to all of it and confess everything. “I’ve been walking all morning thinking about the story, Mama.” He gave her a quick smile and was out the door before she could reply.
Olivia stared at the closed door for a minute. Then she saw John-Boy’s head bobbing quickly past the kitchen window.
There certainly was something strange going on around this house, she decided. First it was Grandpa’s odd behavior at lunch yesterday—before he and John-Boy went off to visit the Zimmermans. And then, when they got back, she had seen the two of them sneaking around the backyard. And now people were disappearing for hours at a time. Olivia shook her head, then got herself a cup of coffee and took it to the table.
“What’s the matter?” Grandma asked, coming in from the living room.
“I don’t know,” Olivia smiled. “Sometimes I have the feeling everyone around here’s going plumb crazy.”
Grandma nodded and got coffee for herself. “I know what you mean. Those three daughters of yours are going through every drawer and closet in the house looking for somethin’ to sell to that junk man.”
“All three of them?”
“Yep. They all decided to become movie s
tars. And Jim-Bob’s helping ’em. I don’t know what he hopes to get out of it.”
Olivia sighed. “Well, I don’t expect they’ll find much.”
“I let ’em have an old pair of boots they found in Zeb’s trunk. But I drew the line at Matthew’s war medals.”
Olivia sipped her coffee and thought about her own teenage years and how desperately she had once wanted a frilly yellow bonnet she had seen in a Charlottesville store window. Somehow, she thought that bonnet would change her whole life and she would be the envy of every girl in the world. She did extra chores for two months to earn the money to buy it, and then she had only worn it once. Suddenly, after she bought it, the bonnet seemed childish and immature—something suitable only for a girl half her age. But until she had it no one in the world could have convinced her that it wasn’t the most glamorous hat in the world. “Well, I expect Mary Ellen’s got to have that beauty kit sooner or later.”
“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.
El
izabeth 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.”
The Waltons 2 - Trouble on the Mountain Page 6