The Waltons 2 - Trouble on the Mountain

by Robert Weverka

  “No. He had to take some more wood over to Anker Barnes. You want some lunch?”

  “No, I reckon I’ll just go up to my room for a while.”

  Mary Ellen looked like she was about to burst into tears after John-Boy left. “Mama, it’s all my fault and I feel just terrible. I think I could kill myself. I’m just the stupidest person in the whole world.”

  “No, you’re not, Mary Ellen. It’s just as much my fault as it is yours.”

  “But you didn’t hand over that box to Mr. Levy without even looking in it. And all because of that dumb beauty kit.”

  Olivia moved to the table and sat down. Was it possible for things to get any worse, she wondered. Of all the difficulties and disasters she could remember the Walton family having experienced, she couldn’t think of a more depressing time than right at this minute. The loss of a silly typewriter, and an even more silly misunderstanding on the part of Grandpa and Grandma, and it suddenly seemed that they were no longer a family. It was as if the whole world had suddenly come to a stop.

  “Mama,” Mary Ellen said, “would you mind taking the sandwich up to Grandma? I really don’t feel much like it.”

  “I don’t feel much like it either, sweetheart.”

  “Would you, though? I think I’d just like to take a walk.”

  Olivia gave her a sad smile. “Go ahead. After I talk to Grandma, I may just go take a walk myself.”

  After Mary Ellen left, Olivia sat for a while, listening to the vacant silence of the house. It seemed more like a funeral parlor than a home belonging to four adults and seven energetic children. And the empty afternoon silence had the feel of people waiting for some new kind of disaster to strike.

  Well, there was nothing she could do about it, she supposed. Grandma would go on waiting, John-Boy would go on suffering, and Mary Ellen would feel guilty every time she looked at John-Boy. Olivia sighed and looked over at the sandwich Mary Ellen had prepared. On the other hand, maybe there was something she could do about it—at least Grandma’s part of the suffering.

  Olivia fixed a smile on her face as she delivered the sandwich to the room. “Mary Ellen made you some lunch, Grandma.”

  She was in her rocker, gazing silently out the window. “Tell Mary Ellen I’m much obliged. But I’m not hungry.”

  “Well, I’ll put it on the dresser here. You might be hungry later.” From the dresser Olivia came back and sat on the bed. A ribbon and a piece of crumpled wrapping paper lay on the floor, and then she spotted the perfume bottle in Grandma’s lap.

  “Is that the present Grandpa sent home for you?”

  Grandma’s hand went to the bottle, lightly grasping it. “This is the first real gift Zeb has given me in years,” she said softly. “Always before it was something necessary—for the house, or something I needed to wear. One Christmas when we had real bad weather he gave me a set of long underwear.” She smiled faintly. “But never toilet water.”

  “You should be telling all that to Grandpa.”

  “Would if he were here. Just can’t go out looking for him again.”

  “We could send John-Boy.”

  “To say what? Esther Walton is sorry she got jealous? Well, I’m not sorry. I’m jealous of Zeb because I love him.”

  “I know that.”

  “You think I’m to blame, Livvy?”

  “No. Guess I’d be the same way about John.”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  Olivia smiled. It was the question she hoped Grandma would ask. “I think you should get to work on your hair while I iron your blue dress.”

  Grandma stared at her. “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the dance tonight. I think it’s time we all quit moping around in this house. Particularly you, Grandma.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t go to a dance.”

  “Yes you can. And you will. And so will everybody else. Including Grandpa.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s simple. The reason they have dances is so people can have a good time and forget their troubles. And Oglethorpe Hansen will be doing the calling. Maybe it’s time Grandpa learned that jealousy is a two-way street.”

  Grandma gaped at her, horrified. “Why, I couldn’t do a thing like that.”

  “You certainly can, Grandma. And with that nice new perfume I think you can do it very well.”

  “But . . . well, now, I declare.” She smiled and looked at the perfume. “You really think Zeb’ll come?”

  “I think he’ll come if he knows you’re coming. And we’ll send John-Boy to find him and make sure he knows.”

  “Mary Ellen? Mary Ellen!”

  Sheriff Bridges had caught only a glimpse of her, but he was certain it was Mary Ellen. He had just turned off the main road, heading for the Waltons’ house when he saw the yellow shirt and the long brown hair moving through the woods.

  He honked his horn and shouted again.

  The yellow shirt reappeared. Mary Ellen stared at him for a minute, then came striding down the slope.

  “What’s the matter, Sheriff?”

  “Nothing. You just get in the car here. You and me got to get on down to Charlottesville.”

  “What for?”

  Ep Bridges grinned. “Never mind. Just hop in and let’s go.”

  They were all grinning when Mary Ellen and the Sheriff arrived at the Charlottesville police station.

  “Hey, Ep, you found her, huh!” the man at the desk said. “How you doing, Mary Ellen?”

  Mary Ellen smiled, but Sheriff Bridges hustled her on past the desk and into a little office where the other police officer was seated. Then Mary Ellen gasped and stopped short.

  The man’s back was turned, and she hadn’t noticed him at first. But there was no question about it—he was the same unshaven, ferocious-looking man who had been sitting in the corner the other day, wearing handcuffs. There were no handcuffs on him today, and he wasn’t staring at her so he didn’t look quite so ferocious. But she still didn’t want to get too close to him.

  “Sit down, Mary Ellen,” the officer smiled. He nodded toward the hairy man. “This is Homer Cross.”

  Mary Ellen sat down in the chair at the far side of the desk. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Cross.”

  “Homer’s got something to tell you, Mary Ellen. Go ahead, Homer.”

  The man’s eyes suddenly turned to the floor, as if he were afraid to look at her. Then he curled forward in the chair and cleared his throat. “Well,” he said hesitantly, “I seen ya there yesterday . . . you and them other kids. I seen ya talking to the cop out front, and . . . well, I heard ya talking about that typewriting machine. And . . . well, I knew where it was all the time.”

  “You did?” Mary Ellen gasped. “Where?”

  The man glanced cautiously from Sheriff Bridges to the policeman. “Well . . . I stole it.”

  “You did? From the junkyard?”

  “No. From a pawn shop.”

  Ep Bridges and the policeman were grinning.

  “I don’t understand,” Mary Ellen said. “Where’s the typewriting machine now?”

  “Well, let me explain,” the policeman smiled. “Homer here got picked up for breaking into a market over on Third Street the other night. We didn’t know he’d stolen something from Harry Stern’s pawn shop earlier in the day. In fact, Mr. Stern had the typewriter sitting out in front, and that’s the only thing Homer took, so Mr. Stern didn’t even bother reporting it. But last night Homer voluntarily confessed to us that he’d stolen the typewriter and he had it at his house.”

  Homer Cross gave Mary Ellen a sheepish glance and nodded. “I felt sorry for ya.”

  “Yeah,” Ep grinned, “he saw all you kids in the station yesterday and heard us talking about the Baldwin sisters’ machine and everything, and he knew where it was all the time. We went out and got it from his house this morning.”

  “Gee,” Mary Ellen said and looked at the man. She felt so good she w
anted to cry. They had found the typewriter! They had found it, and they had it right here in the police station! “Gee,” she said again and looked at the man. He didn’t look ferocious at all now. All hunched forward, and with his eyes all bloodshot, he just looked like a sad, hungry old man. “Will Mr. Cross have to go to jail?”

  “Well, that’s not up to us, Mary Ellen. But I’m sure Judge Hammond’ll take into consideration what he’s done to help us out.”

  “Gee,” Mary Ellen said again. She felt like kissing the man. But she wasn’t sure if she could bring herself to do that—or if the man would really like it. She stood up and held out her hand. “We’re sure obliged to you, Mr. Cross. And if I can do anything to help you, I sure will.”

  The man seemed to be surprised by the outstretched hand. But then he suddenly got to his feet and smiled as he shook her hand. There were about four teeth missing from the front of his mouth. “I ’ppreciate that, Miss. And I sure hope I didn’t cause you too much trouble. I sure wouldn’t have took it if I’d knowed.”

  “Gee,” Mary Ellen said. Tears suddenly tumbled down her cheeks as she grinned at all of them.

  John-Boy had a hunch Grandpa’s visit to the Zimmermans’ had only been a short one. As friendly as he and Cornelius were, Grandpa never did get along too well with Edna. So John-Boy headed for Ike’s.

  He was just as happy to get out of the house. In fact, right now he felt like he could just keep on walking—maybe until he reached California and the Pacific Coast. And there maybe he could sign on to a freighter as a deckhand and keep going to China.

  The last thing he wanted to do was go to the dance tonight. But his mother had insisted. Come the devil or high water, she said, the whole family was going to get bathed and cleaned up and dressed in their best clothes, and they were going to the dance and have fun. John-Boy couldn’t remember seeing her quite so determined. But it would be a long time, John-Boy guessed, before he would regard anything as fun.

  Ike was giving himself a haircut when John-Boy came in—twisted around, trying to see the back of his head in the mirror. “He’s in the back,” he said as soon as he saw John-Boy. “Say, how’s this look? Have I got it even on both sides, John-Boy?”

  “Looks good to me, Ike.”

  “I sure hope you’re taking your Grandpa home, John-Boy. I enjoy his company, but I ain’t got no license to run no hotel here.”

  “I’ll try, Ike.”

  In the kitchen, Grandpa was awake, but just barely. He blinked at John-Boy a couple of times, then yawned and placed the small cushion back on the seat of Ike’s chair. “Well, how’s everything at home, John-Boy?”

  “Pretty busy, Grandpa.”

  “Busy? Doing what?” He rose and turned on the fire under the coffeepot.

  “Everybody’s getting ready to go to the dance.”

  “The dance, huh? Well, I hope they all have a good time. What’s your grandma going to do?”

  “She’s going too. Everybody’s going. Don’t guess anybody wants to miss Fred Hansen’s calling.”

  Grandpa glared at him for a minute, then turned back and rattled the coffeepot over the flames. “Is that so? Grandma’s fixing to see Fred Hansen again, is she?”

  Ike came in, finished with his haircut. “You going to the dance, Ike?” John-Boy asked.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Didn’t realize it was getting so late.” Ike got a can of soup from the shelf and searched the drawer for an opener.

  “So Esther’s getting herself all dolled up to see that squirt,” Grandpa said, nodding to himself.

  “I don’t guess you’ll be going, will you, Grandpa?”

  Grandpa turned sharply. “Who says I won’t? I ain’t ever missed a dance in Walton’s Mountain in my whole life. Ike, I’ll be having some of that soup. You’d better be opening another can.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And I think I’ll be having a haircut too. Ain’t going to no dance all shaggy.”

  Ike stared at him. “Aw, Zeb, come on. I ain’t got no time to—”

  “It’ll only take a minute. Now, John-Boy, you’d better be getting on out of here. Ike and I got things to do.”

  John-Boy smiled.

  “Shall I tell them you’re coming, Grandpa?”

  “There’s no need for you to tell anybody anything. When there’s a dance in Walton’s Mountain, ever’body knows Zebulon Walton’s going to be there. Now scoot!”

  X

  When he saw Sheriff Bridges’ car parked in front of the house, John-Boy deliberately headed around for the back. He didn’t feel much like talking to anybody. And from the kitchen he could get upstairs without being seen. It would also give him a chance to get cleaned up and dressed before the bathroom got crowded.

  Reckless barked and jumped around, his whole body squirming with a greeting. John-Boy gave him a scratch on the neck and went quietly through the door.

  From the noise in the living room it sounded like they were having a party. Mary Ellen was talking excitedly, and everyone else seemed to be asking questions at the same time. John-Boy listened for a minute, but decided not to join them. Whatever they were enjoying so much, his presence would unquestionably dampen the fun.

  “Are you sure that’s the same one, Mary Ellen?”

  It was his father’s voice, and John-Boy stopped on his way to the stairs, listening.

  “It must be, Daddy. But the only ones who ever saw it were John-Boy and Grandpa.”

  “And the Baldwin sisters,” Sheriff Bridges said. “I reckon we could go out there and ask them.”

  “Oh, no,” Olivia protested. “From what John-Boy said, those two ladies have already got broken hearts. I don’t think we’d better risk it until we’re sure.”

  “Where’d John-Boy go, Mama?”

  “He went searching for Grandpa.”

  John-Boy edged closer to the door. Was it possible? He didn’t dare let his hopes rise again. But what else could they be talking about?

  “Imagine that burglar feeling sorry for you,” Grandma was saying. “I declare, it just restores your faith in human nature, don’t it?”

  “But we had to pay six dollars to the man at the shop,” Mary Ellen said. “Sheriff Bridges paid it, Daddy.”

  “Well, don’t worry about that. Here, Ep, I’ll give it to you right now.”

  No, it couldn’t be the typewriter. Or could it? Maybe it was some kind of beauty kit. But for six dollars? John-Boy’s heart began throbbing faster. If he was wrong, and they were talking about something else, he wasn’t sure he could take the disappointment. But neither could he stand not knowing.

  John-Boy took a deep breath, preparing for the worst. He took his hands from his pockets, squared his shoulders, and strolled as casually as he could into the living room. “Hi, everybody.”

  His voice came out tighter and higher than normal, and his smile felt like it was going to crack his lips. For an instant everyone gawked at him. And then Mary Ellen was squealing, grabbing his arm, pulling him forward.

  “John-Boy, we found it! We found it!”

  John-Boy guessed he would have passed out if Mary Ellen had said anything different. His heart almost exploded out of his ribs as he staggered forward. Everyone was grinning, making room for him, and it was there—the Baldwin sisters’ typewriter—sitting squarely in the middle of the coffee table. For a minute he thought he was going to pass out anyway. He moved slowly toward it and got down on his knees, grinning, touching it.

  “Is that it, John-Boy?” his father asked.

  He couldn’t speak. His throat was suddenly clogged with relief and joy and disbelief. It was as if someone had just lifted a thousand-pound-weight from his back. He nodded.

  “We found it over in Charlottesville,” Mary Ellen said.

  “Mary Ellen, Erin, and Elizabeth, and Jim-Bob,” Sheriff Bridges said. “We all tracked it down.”

  “And this old man—he looked so terrible when we first saw him at the police station, he—”

  John-Boy had a
hard time following the story. But he didn’t worry about it. He nodded and grinned, and looked up at each of them as they told bits and pieces. But his thoughts were mostly on the Baldwin house, and the two distraught ladies who occupied it.

  Two hours later John-Boy decided that the Baldwin sisters were far more resilient than he had thought. Just as their reaction to his announcement that the typewriter had been lost was controlled and without hysterics, they received the good news with similar restraint. But deep inside, John-Boy suspected their hearts were turning cartwheels.

  Miss Emily saw it first. John-Boy carried it back in a box, and when she answered the door she blinked down as it for what seemed like a full minute.

  “Why, John-Boy, whatever have you got there? I declare, if you hadn’t told me it was lost, I’d just swear that was Papa’s typewriting machine!”

  “It is, Miss Emily.”

  “Well, I declare. I do declare! Come in, John-Boy. Sister! Mamie, John-Boy Walton’s here. He’s come a-calling, and he’s returned Papa’s typewriting machine! Do sit down, John-Boy. You can put the box right there on the table. You’ll have some Recipe, won’t you, John-Boy. Maaamieee!”

  “I don’t reckon I’d better have any Recipe, Miss Emily.”

  “Oh, of course not. What am I saying? Oh, dear me, I’m just all a-flutter for some reason. Mamie!”

  Miss Mamie hesitated at the door, then went directly to the box and looked inside. She looked at John-Boy, then back at the machine. “Well, I do declare,” she breathed and then bit at her lip, controlling the sudden joy that leaped into her heart. “Why, John-Boy Walton, aren’t you just the limit! Telling us Papa’s typewriting machine was off in some junkyard in Philadelphia, and then bringing it right back to us the very next day. Why, John-Boy Walton, you’re just a caution.”

  “It was in two junkyards, Miss Mamie.”

  “Two junkyards! Well! Did you hear that, Emily? Well, I’m just not surprised the proprietors of those two establishments saw right clearly that this machine is a far cry from the merchandise they usually deal with.”

  “Yes’m,” John-Boy smiled.