The Waltons 2 - Trouble on the Mountain

by Robert Weverka

  “They’re fine, Grandpa.”

  “Is that so? Well, I’m mighty glad to hear that. Wouldn’t want them to be upset over anything.”

  “But everybody misses you, Grandpa.”

  “Hmph!”

  “We’re just having such a lovely sipping visit,” Miss Mamie smiled. “You just sit down right there, and I’ll get you some lemonade.”

  John-Boy sat on the edge of the chair. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but there was a half-empty mason jar on the table with three glasses beside it. “I think I’d better be getting on home, Miss Mamie. I thought I’d give Grandpa a ride.”

  “Oh, do you have to go, Zebulon?”

  Grandpa shook his head. “Nope. I reckon my time is my own. Ain’t no place I have to go.”

  “There now,” Miss Emily said cheerily, “you can both stay.”

  John-Boy looked at Grandpa and then spotted the package all wrapped with ribbons on the table. He wondered if that was what Grandpa came back for.

  “Now, how is your typing coming along, John-Boy?” Miss Mamie asked. “Surely you must be finished by now.”

  John-Boy’s heart leaped into his throat. He tried to swallow, but the words still came out squeakily. “Well, Miss Mamie, I wanted to tell you about that. Something has happened that . . .”

  “That’s right,” Grandpa interrupted. “By golly, I was going to tell the ladies about that, but the whole thing completely slipped my mind.”

  “Grandpa, I think I’d better . . .”

  “No, no, John-Boy, let me tell them.”

  “What on earth has happened?” Miss Emily said with alarm. “Surely it’s not papa’s typewriting machine!”

  “No, no, no, no,” Grandpa laughed. “I can assure you, ladies, that Judge Baldwin’s typewriting machine is perfectly safe. And in fine working order.”

  “Grandpa . . .”

  “Let me tell it, John-Boy. You see, ladies, poor John-Boy is embarrassed. But it is a matter of no concern.”

  “Whatever is it?” Miss Mamie asked.

  Grandpa took a deep sip from his glass and returned it to the table. “Ahh. I believe that is the finest batch you have ever made, ladies. I wouldn’t have believed you could have surpassed yourself, but you have.”

  “Why, thank you, Zebulon. But you were going to tell us about Papa’s typewriting machine?”

  John-Boy eased back in his chair with a sudden feeling of doom. Whatever Grandpa was going to say, he was certain it was just going to make matters worse.

  “Ahh, yes, the typewriting machine. It seems that when John-Boy put the paper into the machine, he put all of it in upside down.” Grandpa laughed, but the ladies were frowning. “So you see,” he went on, “when he got through typing his story, why, everything was wrong side up.”

  “Oh,” Miss Mamie said uncertainly.

  “So now he’s going to have to type the whole thing over again.”

  They appeared a little relieved, but gave John-Boy hesitant glances.

  “A matter of only two or three more days,” Grandpa smiled. “And I assured John-Boy that you ladies wouldn’t mind. After all, the story is about the Recipe, and I was thinking about how happy your papa would be to know it was written right side up.”

  “Yes,” Miss Mamie said. “But Zebulon, couldn’t you just turn the paper right side up again after the story was typed?”

  “Yes, yes we thought about that,” Grandpa said, “but then it seemed better to have it done right in the first place. I’d sure hate to have them New York Yankees forming the opinion that Virginia folks don’t know up from down.”

  “Well, yes,” Miss Emily said uncertainly. Then she smiled and sighed heavily. “I declare, I never did understand how that machine worked. And I don’t guess two or three days makes that much difference.”

  “But you’ll bring it back just as soon as you can, won’t you, John-Boy?”

  John-Boy nodded and tried to smile. Agreeing to her question was not exactly a lie. He would bring it back just as soon as he could.

  “There you are, John-Boy,” Grandpa said. “There was no reason at all to be nervous, was there?”

  John-Boy couldn’t look at the two ladies. He glared at Grandpa for an instant, then rose. “Grandpa, I’m going home. If you’re in a mind to come along, you’re welcome. If not . . .”

  “I’ll be coming along, John-Boy.” He struggled to his feet. “Ladies, you’ve been most charming, as usual. And I’m much obliged for the refreshments.”

  “You’re ever so welcome, Zebulon. And do give our very best to Esther and your lovely family.”

  “I will do that.”

  “Oh, and don’t forget your present.” Miss Emily laughed. “That’s why you came all the way out here in the first place.”

  “Now, now,” Grandpa said, pulling his coat on and taking the package. “That just might have been my excuse so’s I could visit the two most lovely ladies in Jefferson County.”

  “Oh, now you go along, Zebulon. I just bet you say that to just ever’body.”

  “Bye, Miss Emily, Miss Mamie,” John-Boy said before Grandpa could lay on any more of the syrup.

  Once they were down the steps, Grandpa put a hand on John-Boy’s shoulder. “Not so fast, John-Boy. It’s been a long day, and I’m weary.”

  “It’s sure enough been a long day,” John-Boy agreed.

  “And it’s not over yet,” Grandpa said.

  John-Boy wasn’t sure what he meant by that. But once he got the truck going John-Boy threw him an angry glance. “What’d you go and do that for, Grandpa?”

  “Do what?”

  “Tell that cock and bull story about the typewriter.”

  “I did it for you. We had to tell them something.”

  “But you just made it worse. I was going to tell them exactly what happened and get it all over with.”

  Grandpa shook his head. “Oh, you’d have broken their hearts, John-Boy.”

  “Well, maybe so, Grandpa, but they’ve got to be told some time. That typewriter is gone. Jake Levy sold it to some other junk man, and he’s driven off to Pennsylvania or someplace with it. So we just can’t go on lying to Miss Mamie and Miss Emily.”

  “Why not?”

  John-Boy looked sharply at him. But Grandpa seemed to be thinking about other things. The package was sitting squarely in his lap and he was gazing into the darkness through the far window.

  “Is that something for Grandma?”

  “That’s right. Perfume.”

  John-Boy felt a little relieved. At least Grandpa was having some guilt feelings too. Apparently he was ready to bury the hatchet.

  “How’d you know I was out at the Baldwins’, John-Boy?”

  “Ike Godsey told Grandma.”

  “You mean Esther went over to Ike’s?”

  “Yes, she did. She got all dressed up and was ready to apologize.”

  “And Ike told her I went out to the Baldwins’?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  A slight smile came to Grandpa’s face. “Oh-oh,” he said.

  “She wasn’t too happy about it.”

  “You mean she was mad, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes, she was mad. But you can see what she was thinking.”

  “I sure do know what she was thinking. It’s called jealousy, John-Boy. The old green-eyed monster.”

  “Well, all you have to do, Grandpa, is give her the perfume and explain how you left it out there.”

  “John-Boy, just like I said before, after fifty years I don’t feel a man has to explain his every move. I don’t ask where Esther is all day, and I don’t reckon she has any call to be asking me.”

  “But she’s always home.”

  “That’s beside the point. These matters go far deeper than you can understand at your age. Now turn left up here at the next road.”

  “What for?”

  “ ’Cause I’m going over to see my friend, Cornelius Zimmerman.”

  “Oh, no, Grandpa! Sup
per’s ready at home, and everybody’s waiting on us.”

  “Either turn, John-Boy, or just let me out and I’ll walk.”

  Grandpa was smiling at him. But it was a firm, determined smile. John-Boy slowed and turned.

  “Grandpa, you know what I think? I think you’re enjoying all this.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Grandpa gave him a hard look and then stiffened, glaring through the wind-shield. “You think I’m enjoying it, do you? You think a seventy-two-year-old man finds pleasure in sleeping on pool tables and begging food from his friends?”

  “Well, you know it’s all just a little misunderstanding, and all you have to do to end it is go home and explain everything to Grandma.”

  “John-Boy, you disappoint me. If you’ll just reflect on it a minute, you’ll realize that wars have started over little misunderstandings. You’ll also realize that sometimes little misunderstandings are just the tips of icebergs. No, your grandma and me’s got a lot in common. I reckon we’re both a little stubborn. But if she’s going to be jealous every time I make a move on my own, well, that’s hard to live with.”

  “You going to sleep at the Zimmermans’?”

  “If they’ll have me.”

  “I reckon they’ll have you, all right. But how about tomorrow night? And the night after that?”

  He considered the question. “I’ve got me a cousin over in Fluvanna County. Ain’t seen him in some time. Maybe after a couple of weeks there I’ll feel different about things.”

  John-Boy stopped the truck in front of the Zimmermans’. “This is all silly, Grandpa.”

  Grandpa placed the package on the seat and got out. “You give that to your grandma. And be sure and tell her I had to walk all the way out to the Baldwins’ just to get it for her.”

  “She ain’t going to come clear out here to apologize, Grandpa.”

  “Don’t expect her to, What she does is entirely her business. And what I do is entirely mine. I’m a forgiving person, John-Boy. But I’m also a man. And a man ain’t worth his salt if he ain’t got his pride.”

  John-Boy watched while Grandpa went to the door. When it opened and Mrs. Zimmerman invited him in, John Boy swung the truck around and headed home.

  John-Boy couldn’t remember ever having gone to bed when the “goodnights” everyone called to each other sounded so subdued. He particularly listened for Grandma’s and felt a pang of sympathy as her voice seemed to be bravely trying not to show any despair.

  When he arrived home from the Zimmermans’, they had all listened to his report in gloomy silence. And then his father had banged down his fork. “I’ve got a good mind to just go on over there and get him, Livvy. That old man’s just being cussed ornery for no reason at all.”

  But Grandma quietly vetoed the idea. “No, John. I reckon it’s best to just let him be for a while.”

  When John-Boy had given her the bottle of perfume and told her about Grandpa’s walking out to get it, she had simply nodded and taken the package to her room. At the supper table she didn’t mention it.

  “Well,” Olivia finally said with a forced smile, “I’m sure he’ll be back tomorrow.”

  John-Boy didn’t mention Grandpa’s remark about visiting his cousin in Fluvanna County for a couple weeks. And as far as telling the Baldwin sisters the truth about the typewriter, John-Boy’s father suggested he wait a day or two. By then maybe they would have forgotten about Grandpa’s wild story of the paper being upside down.

  VIII

  It was clear to Zebulon Walton that Edna Zimmerman was not happy about having late-evening callers. She was even less pleased with the idea of a seventy-two-year-old man spending the night instead of going home to his kith and kin where he belonged.

  “We got an extra room, and I reckon you can use it. Since Colin went down to Richmond looking for some kind of work, it ain’t been occupied. But I can’t see no sense to it when you got a perfectly good bed in your own house. I ain’t aiming to be a party to no spatting quarrels ’tween you and Esther. I count Esther as a fine woman and a good friend, and from me you get no sympathies.”

  She was a small woman, with narrow, suspicious eyes, and she delivered her pronouncement with her fists on her hips—one of those fists held a heavy chopping knife.

  The minute she let Zeb through the door she must have had an idea what was going on.

  “Ain’t asking for no sympathies,” Zeb told her. “And I ain’t looking to put you between Esther and me. But I’d be much obliged for the bed.”

  “You eat yet?”

  “There’s no need for you to be putting yourself out, Edna, I can get along fine without eating.”

  “Hmph! And go home and tell Esther I didn’t even give you a piece of bread, I suppose. Sit down to the table.”

  Old Cornelius Zimmerman used an ear-trumpet, but it didn’t serve him too well. Through the conversation he swung it back and forth, struggling to get the gist of things. He finally squinted at Zeb.

  “Where’s Esther?”

  “Home, I reckon.”

  Cornelius nodded his approval. “That’s where a woman belongs.”

  Edna banged the lids of pots and clanked food onto a plate with a heavy spoon. She thumped the plate down in front of Zebulon and went back to her vegetable-chopping. “Don’t surprise me none,” she said to no one in particular. “Don’t see a man in church on Sundays, won’t see him home on Mondays.”

  “Them’s from my garden,” Cornelius said, nodding at the mashed potatoes. “Had a good crop this year.”

  “They’re mighty good, Cornelius. Don’t think I ever tasted ’em as good as the way Edna fixes ’em.”

  “Fix ’em the same way as ever’one else in Walton’s Mountain,” Edna scowled.

  “Edna fixes ’em good, don’t you think, Zeb?”

  “Mighty good, Cornelius.”

  Zebulon felt better once his plate was cleaned. He pushed back from the table to give his stomach room, and smiled. “A fine meal, Edna. Much obliged. It’s a real pleasure to sit down to a good meal and eat in peace.”

  She took the plate, rinsed it, and left it on the sink. “Don’t know about you two,” she said untying her apron. “Suppose you’re going to sit up all night talking. But I got work to do in the morning.”

  “What’d she say?” Cornelius asked.

  “Said she’s going to bed.”

  Cornelius nodded and waved her off. “Get on to bed, old woman! Zeb and I are going to talk.”

  “Hmph!” she snorted, and disappeared.

  They talked about the weather for a while. Cornelius thought the winter of 1858 was the worst one he had ever seen. But ’93 was bad, and so was the one that had just passed. When that was all settled, Cornelius turned his ear-trumpet toward the bedroom and listened to Edna’s soft snoring for a minute.

  “Don’t reckon you’d be objecting to a little Recipe, would you, Zeb?”

  “Judge Baldwin’s Recipe?”

  Cornelius struggled to his feet and gave Zeb a sly smile. “Nineteen and aught-three. Finest batch the judge ever made. Give it to me personal, ten gallons of it.”

  Zeb was amazed, delighted, and speechless. He knew the Baldwin sisters had a small supply from before the judge’s death. But he had no idea there was any left going back thirty years. He watched Cornelius hobble over to the fireplace and work a stone out from the bottom. He came back with a mason jar two-thirds full.

  “Look at that color,” Cornelius said reverently. He got his ear-trumpet to hear Zeb’s response.

  “I declare, Cornelius, I ain’t ever seen anything like it.”

  Cornelius got two coffee mugs and filled them halfway. “Got a touch of cinnamon. Judge used to make it that way. Can’t hardly taste it, but it’s there.”

  Zeb sniffed it. He rolled it gently around his cup and took a small, tasting sip. It was a pure, soft, golden nectar, gathered by angels. It touched the tongue, caressed and soothed it, and then gently stung it with a faint whisper of cinnamo
n.

  “By golly, Cornelius, it’s plain sinfulness for anything to taste so good.”

  Cornelius’ eyes were sparkling. He lifted the cup to his mouth and then looked off, smacking his lips. “Ahh,” he smiled. He took a bigger sip and shook his head. “You know, Zeb, I’m going to be ninety-seven years old come my next birthday. I reckon if it hadn’t been for the good judge’s Recipe, I couldn’t have kept going past eighty.” He lifted his cup. “To Judge Baldwin!”

  “And to his two charming daughters,” Zeb added, and drank heartily.

  “Yep, they’s fine little fillies, that Mamie and that Emily,” Cornelius agreed, easing back in his chair. “If I’d have been a younger man, and if I hadn’t met Edna after Carolina died, I’d have been over there a-courting them ladies.”

  Zebulon thought about this. He took another drink to help his thinking, finally shook his head. “If I had it to do all over again, Cornelius, I don’t know as I’d have gotten married at all.”

  Cornelius emptied his cup and thought about that. “Lot to be said for bacheloring,” he agreed. He refilled both cups. “But I reckon bachelors don’t eat so good.”

  “There’s other things, Corny. There’s being independent. Ain’t no good eating good if a woman’s nagging at you all the time. Man’s got to have some independence. Man’s got to have his prideful right to be a man.”

  Cornelius nodded. “ ’Course a man’s got to have a woman around so’s he can be reminded he’s the man of the house and he’s got those prideful rights.”

  “So long as she remembers that, and knows it’s her bounden duty to be reminding him.”

  “That’s the pure truth, Zeb. It’s a natural law.”

  “A natural law,” Zeb agreed.

  They both gazed at the table for a while, and Zeb thought about those days back before the turn of the century when he was still single. He had good times then. Dances every Saturday night. He and his brothers taking the buggy down to Charlottesville. Getting in fights. Drinking that old mountain whiskey Clarence Buford used to sell them for a dollar a jug.

  “I ever tell you about Amy, Cornelius?”

  The ear-trumpet had slipped from Cornelius’ head. He got it back, and Zeb repeated the question.