The Waltons 2 - Trouble on the Mountain

by Robert Weverka

  “No. But I told Mama, and I guess she’ll be telling her soon enough.”

  Grandpa snorted and shook his head. “You can bet your life those two’ll have a grand time talking about that.”

  “But what am I going to do about the typewriter, Grandpa?”

  Grandpa snapped his suitcase shut and gave the question some thought. “Jake Levy took it, eh? Well, I reckon that’s the end of that.” He sighed and shook his head. “The only thing I can figure, John-Boy, is for you to tell the Baldwin ladies I stole it.”

  “That you stole it? I couldn’t do that, Grandpa.”

  “Why not? I’m the villain every place else in Walton’s Mountain. Might as well make it a hundred percent.”

  “Aren’t you planning on going home, Grandpa?”

  He moved over to a mirror with a soda pop advertisement on it and combed his hair with his fingers. “Not under certain conditions.”

  “Oh.”

  “They turn the electric on yet?”

  “Wasn’t on when I left.”

  “Well, it should be soon.”

  “I know. Daddy told me how you paid it.”

  Grandpa nodded. “After Esther knows the truth, she’ll have a change of heart.”

  “I sure hope so, Grandpa.”

  He turned from the mirror and gazed absently at the floor for a minute. “But then when she hears about us getting that typewriting machine from the Baldwins, I expect she’ll be mad all over again.”

  “But you did it for me, Grandpa. She’ll understand that.”

  “You think so? Well, you may be right. In that case, I don’t see no harm in your telling certain folks where I am. If she wants to come down here and make her peace, I don’t see any reason to stop her.”

  “You mean apologize? Grandma?”

  Grandpa shrugged and smiled, heading for the front of the store. “It’s up to her. I’ll let her conscience be her guide. Good morning, Ike, good morning.”

  “Morning, Zeb.”

  Grandpa pulled some change from his pocket. “I’ve got me sixteen cents and an appetite. Think you can fix me up?”

  “Just look around, see what suits your fancy, Zeb. And John-Boy, here’s your change.”

  Grandpa moved over to the shelves of crackers and canned goods, and John-Boy smiled at Ike. “Just apply the change to Grandpa’s bill, Ike. He just might need it.”

  “You mean he ain’t going home?”

  “I reckon not just yet.”

  “John-Boy, I’d greatly appreciate it if . . .”

  “I know, Ike. I’ll try.”

  VII

  As far as Ep Bridges knew, Jake Levy lived somewhere on the west side of Charlottesville. With these vague directions, John and John-Boy headed for town with no more than a sliver of hope.

  John Walton’s reaction to the borrowing and disappearance of the typewriter had been a quiet, almost inward groan. And then he agreed that they should at least make an effort to find Jake Levy.

  “I know your mama’s feelings toward the Baldwin ladies are blown up all out of any sensible proportion,” he said once they got started, “but you got to appreciate in her mind it’s a humiliating thing, John-Boy. She’d just as soon be caught skunk-drunk on that Recipe of theirs as she would have people know we borrowed something from them.”

  “I know, Daddy.”

  “And you should have told me about it. We could have found someplace better’n that box of junk in the toolshed to hide it in.”

  John-Boy nodded. Looking back on the whole thing, he realized how foolish he had been about everything.

  John gave a short laugh. “The only hope I see of your ever paying for that thing is if you sell that story of yours. And even then I don’t guess a brand new typewriting machine will satisfy them much.”

  John-Boy knew very well it wouldn’t satisfy them. Because it was their papa’s and had been the sacred machine used to type his letters to Woodrow Wilson and the New York Times, it was impossible to replace. “Can we talk about something else, Daddy?”

  John looked at him and suddenly laughed. “Oh, it’ll all be forgotten someday, John-Boy. I reckon it’s going to be about the most painful thing in your life to go out there and tell them about it. But those two old ladies are getting forgetful in their old age.”

  John-Boy nodded again. His father’s efforts to comfort him were having the opposite effect. It was true the Baldwin sisters were forgetful about things. But it seemed to John-Boy that was only because they were so preoccupied with remembering everything about their papa.

  “You know what we could do,” John went on, “we could tell them we took it over to the cemetery and buried it next to the judge’s grave. That might make them happy.”

  “I’d rather not, Daddy. I expect one more lie is about all I need to get myself sent off to jail or the crazy house.”

  “No,” John said, “I reckon you’re right. Best thing is to take your medicine and try to forget it.”

  “I’ll take my medicine, but I’ll never forget it.”

  They got Jake Levy’s address at the Charlottesville police station. They should go out to the end of town, the officer at the desk told them, and then follow the dirt road that angled off toward the hills. A couple of miles out, they would see Jake’s sign in front of his house—they couldn’t miss it.

  They didn’t miss it. The paint on the sign was peeling and almost illegible, but the sign itself was almost as big as the house: AUTO PARTS, IRON & JUNK, it said, JACOB S. LEVY, PROP.

  The house looked like it was an assemblage of wood planks and old corrugated metal Jake had collected on his rounds and then whitewashed. His truck was parked in front, and there was smoke coming from the tin pipe on the roof. The truck, John-Boy noted, was empty, and there were no wooden boxes lying around to give him hope.

  There was piano music coming from inside the house; an amazing rush of notes that made John-Boy think of water tumbling and bouncing down a rocky fall. His father banged on the door twice before the music finally stopped and the door opened.

  “Well, well, well,” Mr. Levy said with smiling surprise. “John Walton! And John-Boy! Come in, come in! For what am I being honored by the visit of two such distinguished gentlemen? And all the way from Walton’s Mountain!”

  “Afternoon, Jacob.”

  “Mr. Levy,” John-Boy nodded.

  The room was about the size of John-Boy’s bedroom, but made more crowded by the presence of an ornate upright piano and bench. Mr. Levy picked up old papers and clothing from the only two chairs and tossed the pile in the corner. “Sit down, be comfortable. I’ll make us some tea.”

  They sat down, but John held up a protesting hand. “No, no tea, thank you, Mr. Levy. We’re much obliged, but I reckon we won’t be here long.”

  “Rush, rush, everybody’s in a rush. So why can’t we enjoy life for a few minutes? You’re on business maybe?”

  “Sort of,” John smiled. “That you playing the piano when we come up?”

  “Ahh, yes. Scarlatti. Did you enjoy it? My father was a pianist in the old country.”

  “That’s a fine-looking piano.”

  “Yes. It is old, but a good instrument. Pianos are like people, huh? Age develops character.”

  John smiled. “I reckon so, Jake. And I reckon it’s something old and with a lot of character we’ve come to ask you about.” He explained about the Baldwin sisters’ typewriter and its ultimate fate.

  Mr. Levy looked like he was going to faint. He put a steadying hand on his piano and lowered himself to the bench. “The typewriter was in one of those boxes?! The ones I bought from your children?”

  “Afraid so, Jacob.”

  He shook his head. “Ahh, it is hopeless. They are gone, gone forever now. I sold them to Davidson. The boxes, the old clothes, the tires, everything. For practically nothing, I sold them to Davidson.”

  “Just who is Mr. Davidson, Jake?”

  “A junk man too. But not like me. He is a very big ju
nk man. He travels in a huge truck—from Texas to Florida to Vermont. A very lucky man! The boxes, everything, he threw over the side into the truck. We had tea, we talked business, Davidson was on his way. To where is known only by God.”

  John-Boy’s heart sank to its lowest level yet. Until now, that sliver of hope had sustained him; the tiniest chance that Mr. Levy had found the typewriter and still had it, or that he had set the boxes aside without knowing what was in them. But now, even if it were possible to trace the man named Mr. Davidson, it seemed doubtful that the typewriter was still in one piece.

  “What does Mr. Davidson usually do with the junk?” John asked.

  Mr. Levy shrugged. “They put it on ships? They weigh it, put it in furnaces to be melted into steel? They dump it around pilings to anchor piers? Who knows? About junk nobody writes history books.” He looked sadly at John-Boy. “And this you must tell those poor old ladies?”

  “I’m afraid so, Mr. Levy.”

  If only he hadn’t covered the typewriter with that junk, John-Boy told himself on the way home. If only he had hidden it in his room instead of the toolshed. If only Mary Ellen hadn’t been so eager to get that stupid beauty kit. It was all such a crazy series of coincidences that John-Boy couldn’t help wondering if somebody was conspiring to punish him. Was it God’s way of showing him what happened when he started telling lies?

  “I was thinking,” his father said, “I can deliver firewood to the Baldwin sisters without charging them. It might help some.”

  John-Boy shook his head. “I reckon giving them a million dollars’ worth of firewood wouldn’t make any difference. They’re just going to feel like they betrayed their daddy, and they’re never going to trust me again. I don’t reckon they’ll ever trust anybody again. At least not with any of their daddy’s things.”

  His father nodded and then suddenly straightened and hit the brakes of the truck. “Ain’t that your grandma up ahead there?”

  It was Grandma. They had just passed Ike Godsey’s store, and she was walking toward home, moving along at a fast, angry pace. She was wearing her best hat, and looked like she was all dressed up.

  “Hey, Mama!” John called as he pulled up alongside her. “What’re you doing out here?”

  John-Boy got out to let her climb into the truck. She looked like she was ready for dragon-fighting again.

  “I’m going home, that’s what I’m doing. I’m going home, and I’m staying there!”

  John started the truck again.

  “What happened? Where’s Grandpa?”

  “Don’t even mention that man’s name to me!”

  John drove in silence for a minute, giving her a chance to calm down. “Did you talk to him?”

  “No, I didn’t talk to him.”

  “You mean you walked all the way down to Ike’s and then didn’t talk to him?”

  “Hmph!” she snorted. “I walked all the way down to Ike’s all right. The electricity came on today. The man came out and turned it back on, and Livvy told me all about what happened. A lot of foolishness, that’s what it was. I’ll grant you, I done my part of the foolishness, not letting him tell me why he was over to Charlottesville yesterday. But it was just plain orneriness for him not to let anybody else tell me about it.”

  “Yes, I’ll agree to that, Mama.”

  “But I got to feeling guilty anyway. In spite of the fact that he spent the whole day with those two women, and in spite of the fact that he snuck out there with John-Boy and borrowed their typewriting machine the day before—in spite of all that, I still got to feeling sorry for that old man. Some of the foolishness was mine, and I was ready to apologize for it. So I got myself dressed, and I walked all the way down there to show him I was ready to give in and to forgive. Hmph!”

  Her face reddened again and she glared narrowly through the windshield.

  “What’d he say?”

  “Didn’t say nothing! Didn’t say nothing, ’cause he wasn’t even there!”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Where do you think he went? Same place he’s been going for the past two days—out to see those two women!”

  John-Boy groaned inwardly. When he’d gotten home from Ike’s this morning he had told his mother what Grandpa had said, and he thought that would be the end of it. Once the lights were turned back on, he was sure Grandma would go apologize. Grandpa would accept, they would come home, and the matter would be forgotten.

  “How do you know he went out to the Baldwins’?” John asked.

  “ ’Cause Ike told me so, that’s how! The old man said something silly about how he bought something in Charlottesville and he forgot and left it in their car. So he was going back out there to get it.”

  John sighed. “It might be true, Mama.”

  “Hmph! It might be true there’s a Santa Claus, too. But I ain’t never seen him. And I ain’t never seen Mr. Zebulon Walton have any trouble making up stories when he feels like going out and galavanting with a couple of sinful old ladies who make bootleg whiskey!”

  John made no response. The way she looked at it, Esther Walton had been deceived, swindled, and mocked just one too many times for her pride to endure. There was no sense trying to convince her otherwise. He parked the truck by the sawmill, and as quickly as they got out, Mary Ellen, Erin, Elizabeth and Jim-Bob came racing out the back door.

  No, John told them, they didn’t find the typewriter. And, no, they weren’t going to try to find Mr. Davidson, the man who bought the junk from Jake Levy. It was gone, John told them, and the best thing to do was to forget about it.

  Grandma moved directly through the kitchen and on to her room before anyone realized she had come home alone. Then John had to explain that disaster.

  Olivia took it the hardest. “And she spent an hour and a half getting herself all dressed up,” she said wearily. “John, do you think it might be true—that he left something out at the Baldwins’?”

  “Livvy, I got beyond trying to figure out what’s in Papa’s head. And to tell you the truth, I’m almost beyond caring much anymore. In my mind, this whole thing’s getting to be purely childish.”

  He got himself a cup of hot coffee from the stove. When he came back to the table, he was being regarded by eight anxious faces.

  “Now look,” he said defensively, “I ain’t saying I don’t want Grandpa to come home. I do. But I don’t see any reason for everybody to be moaning and groaning, or to get all teary about this thing. They’re just having a misunderstanding and a little spat, just like everybody else in the world has at some time or another. And it seems to me, the more we keep out of it, the faster they’ll be getting together again.”

  “But what if Grandpa really did leave something out at the Baldwins’?” Mary Ellen asked.

  “What if he did?”

  “Maybe it’s something he bought for Grandma.”

  “Okay, maybe it is. Then I expect that after he fetches it he’ll bring it on home to her.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Jason said.

  John gave him a hard look. Now it appeared that everyone in the family was going to start taking sides. “Why wouldn’t you?”

  “Well, I think Grandpa’s right. He went out and worked to earn money so we could get the electricity turned on. And the only reason he went over to the Baldwins’ that first day was to help John-Boy out by getting him a typewriting machine.”

  “But he could have told Grandma that,” Erin said defiantly.

  “That’s right,” Mary Ellen agreed. “And it’s just plain stubbornness for him to sleep on Ike’s pool table all night. He’s just making himself miserable so Grandma’ll feel sorry for him.”

  “Well, she’s the one that told him to get out,” Ben countered.

  “She did not! She just told him to sleep on the couch!”

  “Why should he?!”

  John had his hand in the air. “Hold it. Everybody just please hold it for a minute.”

  The warriors eased back in their chairs, an
d John smiled wearily. “If you all don’t mind, I’d rather this battle just be limited to Grandpa and Grandma.”

  “Well, Jason started it. He said Grandpa shouldn’t come home.”

  “I did not!”

  John dug into his pocket and brought out the truck keys. “John-Boy, will you drive on over to the Baldwins’ and find your grandpa? Tell him he’s got to come home because everyone here’s fighting with each other.”

  “Don’t tell him that,” Olivia said quickly.

  “Why not?”

  “If he thinks everyone’s fighting, I don’t think he’ll ever come home.”

  John nodded, ready to agree to anything if it would bring peace. “Okay, John-Boy. Tell him anything you want, but just get him home.”

  “Tell him we all love him, and we miss him very much,” Olivia said. “And be sure to tell him Grandma walked down to Ike’s to apologize.”

  “Okay, Mama.”

  “And while you’re there,” John added, “you might as well tell the Baldwin ladies what happened to their typewriting machine.”

  The suggestion sent a stab of apprehension into John-Boy’s stomach. It seemed to have the same effect on the girls and Jim-Bob.

  “Can’t we wait a couple of days?” Mary Ellen asked.

  “What for?”

  “Well . . . maybe it’ll turn up somewhere.”

  “There’s no use making John-Boy do it if we find the typewriter,” Erin added.

  John shook his head. “That typewriting machine is gone. Now I don’t want to hear anymore talk about it. I don’t even want it mentioned around here anymore. John-Boy, you’d better get going.”

  “Why, John-Boy Walton!” Miss Mamie said at the door. “You and your grandpa are just getting to be steady callers! What a delight!”

  “Come on right in,” Miss Emily said. “I’ll just bet you’ll never guess who’s sitting right here in our living room!”

  “I reckon it’s my grandpa. Hey, Grandpa.”

  He was sitting in one of the love seats, his arms spread across the back.

  “ ’Lo there, John-Boy. How’s everybody at home?”