The Waltons 2 - Trouble on the Mountain

by Robert Weverka

  Zeb could see no lights on in Ike Godsey’s store. But he must be in there. Except to go down and get supplies, Ike never went anywhere. Zeb shielded his eyes and peered in through the glass door. There was not even a glimmer of light. Zeb pounded on the door. “Ike!”

  With his third pounding, a door finally opened somewhere in the back, and Ike came hurrying along. The locks and bolts clicked, and the bell finally tingled as he opened the door.

  “Zeb! What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing’s the matter.”

  Ike blinked at him. “What you doing out at this time of night?”

  “Nothing. Just thought you might have a place I could sleep for the night.”

  Ike opened the door wider. “Yeah. Sure, Zeb. I guess you can sleep on the pool table if you want. You having some trouble at your house?”

  “Nope, no trouble. Things is just about as usual.”

  Ike stared at him for a minute and then locked the door again. In the back room he turned on the light and started pushing pool balls off the table into the pockets.

  “John-Boy was in looking for you earlier today. I guess they found you all right.”

  “Yep, they found me.”

  With the balls all cleared, Ike stepped back and nodded. Zeb surveyed his new bed and put his suitcase on a chair. “That’ll do just fine, Ike. I reckon it’s about as good a bed as a useless old man like me can find around Walton’s Mountain.”

  Ike nodded and watched him get a nightshirt out of the suitcase. “Well, I expect I’ll be getting back to my own bed.”

  Zeb started pulling off his clothes. “Ain’t no gratitude in the world no more, Ike. A fella’s lucky to have a friend like you. Somebody he can count on.”

  Ike nodded. “You get any supper tonight?”

  “Yes, I got supper. It wasn’t a whole lot, but I expect I should be thankful for getting that.”

  “You like some crackers or something?”

  “No, no. But I’m touched by the offer, Ike. It’s a real comfort to know there’s still people who are willing to share what they got.”

  Ike watched him climb up on the table and stretch out. “I’ll get you some overalls. You can use them for a pillow.”

  Zeb closed his eyes and sighed deeply. The pool table wasn’t at all bad. And they said sleeping on a hard surface was good for a person’s back.

  Ike came back with a blanket and a stack of overalls.

  “Ike,” Zeb said, getting himself comfortable, “you’re a lucky man being a bachelor. I don’t expect you really appreciate it.”

  “Well, you got a fine family, Zeb.”

  “Sometimes, Ike. Sometimes.”

  “How long you reckon you’ll be staying here, Zeb?”

  “How long? Oh, not long at all, Ike. I reckon I’ll be getting on down to Charlottesville first thing in the morning. Then push on from there. Be riding the rails, most likely. Lot of men riding the rails these days, Ike. Lot of old men who can’t find no decent place to stay.”

  Ike waited a couple of minutes, but Zeb didn’t seem to have anything more to say. His eyes were closed. He smacked his lips a few times and then looked like he was asleep. Ike switched off the light and went back to his bed.

  The most important thing for him to do today, John-Boy reminded himself when he got up the next morning, was to get that typewriter back to the Baldwin sisters. As much as he’d like to keep it a few more days, and maybe get another story typed, the risks were far too great.

  It was a beautiful day. The sun was already streaming into his room, and he could smell the aroma of fresh coffee cooking down in the kitchen. Once he was dressed he took the stairs two at a time.

  “Morning, everybody.”

  Except for Grandpa, everyone was at the table. After they said good morning, John-Boy took his chair and got a hot piece of buttered toast. “Grandpa have his breakfast already?”

  “No,” Grandma said flatly.

  “Is Grandpa sick?” Elizabeth asked.

  The question seemed to rub Grandma the wrong way. “No, he’s not sick,” she said. “Just eat your breakfast.”

  Something was wrong. John-Boy looked at his mother, then his father. They both looked solemn, as if they were trying not to look at anybody.

  “Mama,” Mary Ellen said, “do you think you could iron my yellow dress for the dance?”

  “I think you can iron it yourself, Mary Ellen. You’ve got plenty of time till the dance.”

  “Hmph,” Grandma snorted, “wouldn’t harm you any to do some ironing, whether you go to that dance or not.”

  Grandma’s tone surprised Mary Ellen. “We are going to the dance, aren’t we, Mama? I mean all of us. There hasn’t been a dance here for months.”

  “Mary Ellen, that dance isn’t for days yet, and I have other things on my mind right now.”

  “How can she iron it with no electricity?” Erin asked.

  “That’s right,” Mary Ellen said.

  “You could heat the iron on the stove,” Jason suggested. “That’s what you used to do, isn’t it, Grandma?”

  “It was a different kind of iron.”

  Olivia was suddenly on her feet. She pulled an ancient flatiron from a drawer and placed it in front of Mary Ellen. “It was this kind of iron. So any ambition you have toward ironing, you go right ahead.”

  John cleared his throat and rose. “Jason, how about you and Ben and me getting that truck loaded? I got to get that lumber over to Anker Barnes first thing.”

  The atmosphere around the table was about as chilly as it could get, John-Boy decided. While his mother told Mary Ellen just exactly how the old iron was used, John-Boy gulped down the rest of his breakfast. “Well,” he said with a smile, and took his plate to the sink, “I’ve got to go see Grandpa.”

  “What for?” Grandma asked.

  “To get the money for the candles. I promised Ike Godsey I’d bring it down to him first thing.”

  “Well, your grandpa, he’s . . . he’s not upstairs.”

  Everyone was staring at Grandma now. She looked quickly down at her plate.

  “He’s not upstairs? But where . . .”

  “John-Boy,” Olivia said, “I’ll give you the money for Ike.”

  By her tone, John-Boy decided he’d better not pursue the question of Grandpa’s whereabouts. Grandma quickly got up and headed for her room.

  “What’s the matter, Mama?” Mary Ellen asked.

  “Nothing you can do anything about. Here’s the money for Ike, John-Boy.”

  Once he was out the back door, John-Boy hesitated, then walked over to the sawmill where they were loading the truck. They would be done in a couple of minutes. Then, as quickly as they left, he could get the typewriter out of the toolshed.

  “Daddy,” he said, “what’s going on around here? Where’s Grandpa?”

  “Truth is,” his father said, “your grandpa left here in a huff last night. Carrying his suitcase. Him and your grandma was spatting, and he just got fed up.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Darned if I know. Probably with some of his cronies.”

  Jason and Ben had stopped loading. “When’s he coming back?” Jason asked.

  “Hard to say. Depends on when he and Grandma get things settled, I reckon.”

  “Daddy,” John-Boy said, “after you deliver that lumber, can I go over to Charlottesville with you?”

  John tossed the last of the boards into the truck. “Don’t think I’ll be going to Charlottesville, John-Boy.”

  “Aren’t you going to pay the electric bill?”

  His father gave him a half-smile and climbed into the truck. “Your grandpa paid the bill yesterday. But he was too dam stubborn to tell your grandma.”

  So that was it. Last night at the Baldwins’ Grandpa was trying to explain, and Grandma wouldn’t give him a chance.

  John-Boy waited until the truck was out of sight and then went to the toolshed. After a glance at the kitchen window, he slipped inside
and closed the door behind him.

  Once before in his life, John-Boy had experienced a moment of what seemed like pure terror. It was only a few months ago, the night when he stood in front of the Pendletons’—the old house that was supposed to be haunted—and heard organ music coming from inside. But now, as he gaped at the corner of the toolshed where he had left the Baldwin sisters’ typewriter, he was even more petrified. His heart stopped, then raced wildly, and John-Boy put a hand on the wall for support.

  It was impossible!

  The corner was empty; there was not a thing in it. In fact, the entire toolshed was empty. For a minute John-Boy wondered if he were dreaming, or if he had gotten into the wrong room. He turned quickly and backed away from the door, then turned again, scanning the whole room. There was nothing; no boxes, no junk, no rags, and no typewriter!

  “Oh, my God,” he said, scarcely breathing.

  It couldn’t be gone. Nobody ever came into the toolshed. It must have been stolen. Someone must have come during the night and broken in!

  John-Boy started to go out, but then stopped and put his hands to his head for a minute. He had to think. He had to figure out what to do. Was it possible someone had just moved it—taken those two boxes to the barn or to the sawmill? That must be it. That had to be it!

  He left the toolshed and went quickly to the barn. But there was nothing. He searched every shelf and every corner, and even raked frantically through the hay. Then he did the same in the sawmill.

  The only other possible place was in the house somewhere. But he had control himself. He had to find it without arousing suspicion. John-Boy took a deep breath, fortifying himself. Then, moving as casually as he could, he walked back to the house.

  “John-Boy? I thought you went to Ike’s.”

  His mother was at the sink. Mary Ellen was standing by the stove, waiting for her iron to warm up, and Erin and Elizabeth were still at the table.

  John-Boy tried to smile. “I was just leaving, Mama. But there were a couple of old boxes out in the toolshed yesterday, and someone must have moved them. Do you know where they are?”

  “We sold them,” Mary Ellen said matter-of-factly.

  John-Boy’s heart dropped. “You sold them? You sold them? What do you mean you sold them?”

  “The junk,” Erin said. “They were full of rusty old iron, and we sold them to Mr. Levy for a dollar.”

  “And a tire and Grandpa’s old boots,” Elizabeth added.

  Olivia suddenly frowned. “John-Boy? What’s the matter?”

  For an instant John-Boy thought he was going to faint. He groped at the sink for support. Mr. Levy? The junk man? They had sold the typewriter to Mr. Levy. It was impossible. They couldn’t have!

  They were all staring at him now. “What’s the matter, John-Boy?” Mary Ellen asked.

  “But . . . didn’t you look in the box?” he stammered.

  Erin and Mary Ellen glanced at each other. “It was just old pieces of metal. Mama said we could sell everything in the toolshed.”

  “I don’t understand, John-Boy. Why are you so upset?”

  “Mama,” John-Boy said, lowering himself into a chair, “I’m in trouble. I’ve never been in so much trouble in my whole life.”

  It took John-Boy several minutes to get it all out. At first Olivia couldn’t believe he and Grandpa had even considered going out to the Baldwins’ to borrow a typewriter. Then, with his mother growing more incredulous with every word, he told them how he had hidden the typewriter in the box and covered it with pieces of junk. When he finished, they were all gaping at him, horrified.

  “Maybe we can find him,” Mary Ellen said weakly. “I think he lives in Charlottesville.”

  “And I’m sure he must have found the typewriter when he unloaded the boxes,” Erin added.

  John-Boy shook his head, unable to place any real hope in finding Jake Levy or the typewriter.

  Olivia had sat down and was holding her hands to her face. “John-Boy, I just can’t believe it. You and Grandpa borrowed a typewriter from the Baldwin sisters?”

  “Yes, we did, Mama. And the worst part of it is the thing belonged to their papa. It was made in 1908, and it’s practically a museum piece.”

  “Oh, dear Lord,” she groaned.

  They all sat silently for a minute, still stunned by the enormity of the thing. John-Boy tried to picture Jake Levy driving off with the boxes in the back of his truck. Where did he go from here? Did he take the stuff home with him? Did he have a junkyard some place, where he just dumped everything? Or did he sell it to other junk dealers? Whatever he did, it all seemed hopeless. John-Boy looked at Mary Ellen. “When was Mr. Levy here?”

  “About five o’clock yesterday afternoon.”

  John-Boy stood up. “Mama, I guess it’s possible Mr. Levy could still have it.”

  Olivia nodded, but her expression was grim. “I reckon you’re going to have to go down to Charlottesville. But I don’t guess you can do anything until your father gets back with the truck.”

  That was true.

  “You might as well take that money to Ike, John-Boy.”

  John-Boy didn’t want to. But it might be hours before his father got back.

  Mary Ellen suddenly brought a crumpled dollar bill from her pocket and placed it on the table. “John-Boy, we want you to have that.”

  “What for?”

  “That’s the dollar we got for the junk.”

  John-Boy’s first reaction was angry disbelief. Did they really think a dollar would make up for what they had done? Was the dollar supposed to pay for a new typewriter? He stared at it for a minute and then looked at their stricken faces. Jim-Bob looked like he was about to cry, and the two girls were gazing fearfully at him. John-Boy shrugged. “You might as well keep your dollar.” He turned quickly and went out the door.

  To John-Boy, as he headed for Ike’s, it seemed like the whole world was suddenly falling part. First, his story had come back unread. Then Grandpa had disappeared, only to leave again when he was found. And now, the worst thing of all: the Baldwin sisters’ typewriter in a junk yard, or sold to some antique dealer. Or worse yet, maybe ground up into scrap metal somewhere.

  What could he possibly tell the Baldwin sisters? And after he had promised them over and over again that he would take good care of it and guard it with his life.

  His grandmother had once told him about traveling gypsies who told fortunes by people’s birth dates and the positions of the stars. He wondered if all the stars and planets and constellations that governed his life had suddenly met each other in a massive collision. Before going up the steps of Ike’s porch, he threw a quick glance at the sky, half-expecting to see a burst of heavenly fireworks. But the sky was clear and blue, and the bell over Ike’s door gave its usual tinkle.

  “Morning, John-Boy.”

  Ike was putting money into his cash register and had a cup of steaming coffee on the counter.

  “Hey, Ike. I brought you the money for the candles Grandpa was supposed to buy.”

  “Oh, well thank you, John-Boy. I’m certainly mighty glad to see you this morning.”

  “You afraid I wasn’t going to pay you?”

  “It’s not that, John-Boy. It’s that.” He tossed his head toward the back of the store.

  John-Boy blinked for a minute, then realized that the blanket-covered mound on the pool table was Grandpa. His head was resting on a pile of overalls, and he appeared to be sleeping peacefully. John-Boy felt relieved, but Ike didn’t look too happy.

  “I don’t mind him sleeping here, John-Boy. But it’s about time for customers to start coming in.”

  “You want me to wake him up?”

  “I’d be obliged.”

  John-Boy couldn’t help smiling as he went to the back room. Grandpa’s suitcase was resting on a chair, and he was wearing his faded blue nightshirt. John-Boy gave his shoulder a gentle nudge.

  “Grandpa?”

  After two more nudges, Grandpa’s eyes op
ened and he jerked himself up. “What? What’s the matter, John-Boy? What you doing here?”

  “Time to get up, Grandpa. Customers coming in pretty quick.”

  Grandpa finally realized where he was. He blinked a couple of times, looked around, cleared his throat, and then stretched as he swung his legs off the table.

  “Have a good sleep?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

  “You hungry?”

  Grandpa looked at him, then seemed to remember why he was here. His face hardened, and he started dressing.

  “If I am, I’ll just have me a soda pop and maybe a cookie from Ike.”

  “That’s not much breakfast, Grandpa.”

  “Your grandma send you down here?”

  “No, sir. Nobody knew you were here.”

  “Hmph. Just as well.”

  “Grandpa, something terrible has happened.”

  Grandpa stopped dressing, holding one of his overall straps over his shoulder.

  “You know the Baldwin sisters’ typewriter? Well, I left it out in the toolshed there, with some junk on top to hide it.” John-Boy glanced out at Ike and lowered his voice. “Yesterday Mary Ellen and the others sold it to Jake Levy for junk.”

  “What?” Grandpa stared at him, and John-Boy nodded.

  “It was in a box, and nobody looked inside.”

  Grandpa shook his head and hooked the strap. “Well, you do have a problem, John-Boy. But to tell you the truth, by the things that happen around that house sometimes, I’m not surprised.”

  “It wasn’t really their fault, Grandpa.”

  “No, it’s never anybody’s fault. It’s just that people around there sometimes don’t have much regard for other people, and for other people’s property. You tell your grandma where we got that typewriting machine?”