The
Waltons
THE EASTER STORY
It was a bitter winter on the mountain.
Olivia lay stricken with a desperate illness that crippled her legs and sent the whole family into a crisis.
Money was scarce.
Doctor bills piled up. There was nothing to pay for food or gas.
Then, as Olivia struggled to walk by Easter—the season of renewal and hope—John stood suddenly accused of a crime, and the whole mountain wondered how the family would survive this winter ordeal.
UNDER A CLOUD OF GUILT
“What’s going on, Grandpa? I’ve never seen Daddy act like this.”
Grandpa shook his head. “I reckon he’s had a lot to worry about lately. This thing just hit him at the wrong time. Your Daddy’s a proud man, John-Boy. But it’s the kind of pride that sure wouldn’t let him steal anything.”
“But how come he didn’t just tell Sheriff Bridges where he went that day?”
Grandpa shook his head, as baffled as John-Boy. “I reckon maybe it was partly the sheriff’s fault. He got your Daddy’s back up right from the start.”
“But it sounded like he thought maybe there was a chance Daddy did take those goblets.”
Grandpa nodded. “That’s what I mean. But it’ll work out, John-Boy.”
Bantam Books by Robert Weverka
APPLE’S WAY
MOONROCK
SEARCH
THE STING
THE WALTONS
THE WALTONS: TROUBLE ON THE MOUNTAIN
THE WALTONS: THE EASTER STORY
THE WALTONS: THE EASTER STORY
A Bantam Book / published February 1976
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1976 by Bantam Books, Inc.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. For information address: Bantam Books, Inc.
Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada
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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
THE
WALTONS
THE EASTER STORY
I
“Come on, John-Boy! Can’t sleep all day!”
The voice seemed to come from miles away. After a single knock on the door, the footsteps faded away.
John-Boy opened his eyes for only a moment. On the table next to his bed he saw his pencil and writing pad. But they quickly faded away and he promptly returned to sleep.
“Time to get up, John-Boy.”
This time it was his mother’s voice, and her footsteps also continued down the hall.
John-Boy blinked at the table again. Then, almost reluctantly, the groggy world of sleep slowly dissolved. He rolled over, keeping the feather quilt tight around his neck, and gazed at the window. After a minute, he smiled.
It was a cold, dark, blustery morning. Gusts of wind were throwing bits of hail and snow against the window. But they were sporadic gusts. One minute everything was whirling and thrashing. Then, as quickly, it was all silence, with soft snowflakes drifting quietly down.
John-Boy loved this kind of weather. As long as the house was warm and cozy, it was like watching a great battle of the elements from a protected cocoon.
He finally rolled to his back and for several minutes enjoyed the luxuriant warmth of his bed. It was Sunday. From downstairs he could hear the voices and muffled laughter of the rest of the family, and he wondered if they would be going to church today. He could remember going when there were deep snowdrifts, and during heavy rainstorms. But those were on special occasions like Christmas or Easter. As far as he knew, there was nothing unusual going on today. But he hoped they would go. He felt good—like this was a good day for going to church.
He slid quickly out of bed. The floor was icy, and even before taking off his pajamas he put on some wool socks. Then, shivering a little, he pulled on his pants and shirt, peering more intently out the window.
Off to the east the sky looked pale enough to suggest the storm would be passing quickly. Good, he thought. He laced on his heavy winter shoes and headed for the kitchen.
He was the last one down. Most of the family had already finished eating, and they had a guest for breakfast.
“Mornin’, everybody. Hi, G. W.”
“Mornin’, John-Boy.”
G. W. Haines was a gangly, freckled-faced boy, the same age as Mary Ellen. The two of them had been spending a great deal of time together lately, most of it throwing a baseball, trying to “burn” the other’s hands with hard pitches. But this morning G. W. looked like he was dressed for church.
John-Boy warmed himself by the stove before he sat down.
“How late were you up last night, John-Boy?” his father asked.
“Oh, ’bout midnight, I reckon, Daddy.” It had been well past one o’clock before John-Boy finally put his notebook aside. But he didn’t think his mother would be too pleased to hear that.
“Don’t see why people can’t write stories in the daylight,” Grandma commented.
John-Boy smiled. “Can’t do that and chop wood at the same time, Grandma.”
“Well, anyway,” Grandpa said, apparently finishing up a story he’d been telling when John-Boy came in, “Old Harvey, he just took the tires off that Stanley Steamer, drove it up on the railroad tracks and highballed it into Richmond. Beat them other racin’ cars by twenty minutes—Barney Oldfield included.”
The others laughed, but Ben was skeptical. “Is that really true, Grandpa?”
“Course it’s true. You don’t think I’d go makin’ up a story like that, do you?”
“But on a standard gauge railroad the tracks are four feet, eight and a half inches apart. I don’t think the wheels of a Stanley Steamer would fit.”
“I think he’s got you there, Pa,” John smiled.
Grandpa shook his head, unruffled. “People made do in those days, Ben. Not like today when everythin’s conveniently worked out. Of course the wheels didn’t fit. But Harvey done it anyway. You don’t think I’d go makin’ up untrue stories when we got a guest in the house, do you? You believe it, don’t you, G. W.?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There you are, Ben. Pass me some more of them hotcakes, would you, Livvy?”
Ben frowned, but gave it up.
“We goin’ to church this mornin’, Mama?” Mary Ellen asked.
“We’ll see, dear. If the weather clears up.”
“Be cleared up and the sun shinin’ in forty-five minutes,” Grandpa said, “Gustin’ winds like this means the tail end of the storm.”
“I think Grandpa’s right,” John-Boy agreed. “Clouds are breakin’ up in the east.”
“Red sky in the mornin’, sailor’s warnin’; red sky at night, sailor’s delight.”
“Nobody said anythin’ about a red sky, Grandpa.”
“Didn’t say they did. Just tryin’ to pass on a little learnin’ about the weather to you kids.” Grandpa grinned and handed John-Boy the platter of hotcakes. “Afraid that’s the last piece of bacon, John-Boy.”
Olivia pushed her chair back. “I’ll cook up some more.”
“No, I’ll do it,” Grandma quickly said. “You just finish your breakfast, daughter. No use in tirin’ yourself out any more.”
“You ailin’, Livvy?” John asked.
John-Boy, along with everyone else, looked closely at her. She did look tired.
<
br /> “Now, don’t everybody start makin’ a fuss. It’s just a headache, and a touch of the usual winter rheumatism.”
“And I say she’s got a fever,” Grandma said from the stove. “Feel her forehead, John.”
John reached a hand across. “Well, maybe a little.”
“My head’s always warm,” Olivia said.
“I say it’s the grippe,” Grandma went on, “Everybody’s gettin’ it. This damp weather seeps right through your bones.”
Grandpa nodded. “I reckon we been lucky around here. Ike was tellin’ me Fanny Tatum’s been in bed for a week. And all the Coverdales got it.”
“Maybe you ought to lie down, Mama,” Erin suggested.
“I can drive everybody to church,” John-Boy offered.
Olivia shook her head. “Now, let’s just drop the subject. If I’m gettin’ the grippe, I don’t reckon a short ride over to church is goin’ to make any difference one way or the other. And if I’m gonna be sick, I think I’d rather have the Lord on my side anyway.”
As if in response to her statement, a shaft of sunlight suddenly broke through the kitchen window, brightening the room. “There you are,” she smiled, “The Lord obviously agrees with me.”
An hour later, when they started for church, the dark clouds had all passed far to the west. The sun was bright and clear, but it provided no comfort against the raw cold of the buffeting winds. Going out to the truck, the thin layer of snow crunched softly underfoot.
John drove, with Olivia and Grandma bundled up in the cab beside him, while all the others, including G. W. Haines, huddled beneath heavy blankets in the back.
Their first stop would be the old Claybourne house—or Claybourne Hall, as the Claybourne family called it. There, they would leave John-Boy’s father, and John-Boy would drive the rest of them on to church.
“You’re goin’ to fix the Claybournes’ refrigerator on a Sunday?” Grandma asked when John suggested they drop him off.
“We gotta eat on Sundays, Mama. If the Lord don’t provide us enough food from my workin’ six days a week, I reckon He’ll understand my workin’ on the seventh.”
“The least you could do is go to church first and pay your respects. How about you, old man? You goin’?”
Grandpa’s church-going was sporadic, depending on his frame of mind. But whatever his decision, he always followed it through with determination and enthusiasm. He either stood his ground and flatly refused, or agreed to go and acted surprised that anyone should have asked him about it. This morning he chose the latter course. “Why I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Esther!”
Through the next hour he sang hymns in a booming bass voice, and once they got settled and the blankets all arranged in the back of the truck, he thrust one hand out in the cold air and led everyone through three verses of “Rock of Ages.”
John-Boy sang with the rest of them, but his thoughts drifted aimlessly. Except for the cold, it was a beautiful morning. To the north, the pine trees on the mountain looked like they’d all been dusted with powdered sugar. In the foothills and meadows below, the barren trees were spindly wrought-iron figures against the frozen earth.
“Should my tears for ev-er flow,” they all sang. “Should my zeal no languor know.”
John-Boy was relieved at how much better his mother looked when they started for church. After breakfast and the sun came out, the color returned to her cheeks and she seemed to be more like herself. Her inspection of ears and hands and fingernails had been as rigorous as usual, and she had even spotted the baseball mitt Mary Ellen had tried to smuggle into the truck. This was promptly sent back to the house, and Mary Ellen informed that there would be no playing catch with G. W. after church.
“Blest be the tie that binds,” Grandpa sang, starting another hymn. “Our hearts in Jesus’ love: The fellowship of . . .”
“Grandpa,” Jason shouted from beneath the blanket, “We’re goin’ to be all sung out before we even get to church.”
“. . . of Christian minds is like to that above,” Grandpa boomed on.
John-Boy smiled, then grabbed for the railing as the truck swung sharply to the left and came to a stop.
“OK, John-Boy,” his father said jumping out, “Hand me my toolbox there.”
John-Boy got the toolbox and jumped down. “You sure you don’t want us to pick you up after church, Daddy?”
“Nope. No tellin’ how long this’ll take. And you watch out for that front tire, John-Boy.”
“OK, Daddy.” Almost all the tires on the truck were bad, but the one on the right front was down to the fabric.
“And take care of your mother. She starts ailin’ again, you just get her on home.”
“I’m all right, John.”
“Bye, Daddy.”
After he banged the door shut, John watched them circle around and head back down the road.
“Before our Father’s throne,” Grandpa’s singing resumed. “We pour united prayers.”
As the voices faded John smiled and looked up at the Claybourne house. Aside from Judge Morley Baldwin’s original place, which had been burned during the Civil War, Claybourne Hall was unquestionably the grandest home ever built in Jefferson County.
It stood at the top of a broad, lawn-covered slope: a huge mansion with stately white columns and gracious verandas. Even on this bitterly cold morning, it wasn’t hard to imagine the days when fancy carriages filled its big driveway, and southern belles crowded the verandas. But now, under the patches of snow, the lawn looked like it hadn’t been trimmed all winter.
John turned up his collar and headed up the broad slope. The Claybournes were still about the richest family in the county, he guessed. But like everyone else, they had experienced their share of bad luck. Carter Claybourne, who was only fifty-two years old, had a heart attack and died about a year ago. So that left only Mrs. Claybourne and the two kids—Stuart Lee and Amelia.
Essentially, as far as Walton’s Mountain was concerned, the Claybournes had always been a quiet family. Carter Claybourne was said to have a variety of financial interests, and spent most of his time in Richmond or up in Baltimore. The family’s social life took place pretty much in the big cities, sometimes taking them as far away as Atlanta and Birmingham. So the Claybournes didn’t mix a whole lot with the farmers and working people of Walton’s Mountain. Still, they were always polite and friendly enough, and on occasion Carter Claybourne had been very generous with the other residents. None of the Claybournes ever attended the Baptist Church. But ten years ago Carter Claybourne had surprised them with a gift of two thousand dollars. And the three or four times John had come out to repair an appliance or fix drainpipes, Carter Claybourne had always handed him a sealed envelope containing at least twice what he normally would have charged.
Now, John presumed, twenty-one-year-old Stuart Lee was the head of the family, and he guessed the boy would be paying for the work he would do. He wondered if Stuart Lee would be as generous as his father. Considering how slow the woodcutting business had been lately, he certainly could use the money.
Dewey Hamilton, the old Negro butler, answered the door. Dewey had been with the Claybournes as long as John could remember. But old age was catching up with him now, and he moved slowly.
“Mornin’, Dewey, how you gettin’ on?”
“Mornin’, Mr. Walton. Come in, come in. We been expectin’ you. I’m gettin’ along tolerable, I reckon. How’s your family?”
“Fine, thank you.”
The inside of the house always reminded John of a museum. There was a heavy smell of floor wax and furniture polish, and everyone always seemed to tiptoe and talk in whispers. It was also chilly this morning.
Dewey led him past the big circular staircase and down a long hallway. “This cold weather sure enough aggravates a man’s rheumatism, Mr. Walton. Be glad when it’s summertime again. Don’t think this old body o’ mine can tolerate much more of this blowin’ and snowin’.”
He moved across
the kitchen shaking his head. “Miz Docksteader, the cook, she’s been gone a few days, but right here’s the refrigerator. Just stopped hummin’ the day before she left, and there was no more cold.”
“I reckon with weather like this, a person don’t need a refrigerator much, Dewey.”
“Ain’t it the truth.”
There was a soft bong and a red light flashed on a wall panel.
“That’ll be Miz Claybourne wantin’ her tea,” Dewey said. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Walton.”
John nodded and watched the old Negro pick up a huge silver tray and hobble out the door.
Repairing refrigerators was not exactly John Walton’s specialty. Washing machines, gasoline motors, and most small electrical appliances were relatively simple, and could be figured out with a little common sense. But refrigerators with their compressors and liquid coolants and thermostats could be tricky. After an hour and a half, he found the trouble. It was simple enough. The automatic shut-off device controlled by the thermostat had been shorted by a frayed wire and the metal connector had melted completely apart. John fashioned a new one by drilling holes in a piece of scrap metal and bent it to fit the necessary connections. Once it was in place he plugged in the cord and smiled with satisfaction. The motor promptly hummed into action.
“Hi, Mr. Walton.”
Amelia Claybourne came bouncing into the kitchen carrying a tray of empty breakfast things. She was a pretty sixteen-year-old with long blonde hair and an impish smile.
“Mornin’, Amelia. How’s it goin’?” John worked the refrigerator back into place.
“You get it fixed already?”
“Temporarily.”
“Daddy never could fix anything. He’d just call somebody in and have them do it.”
“Well, I reckon your Daddy always had more important things to do.”
“Yeah, I guess.” She made a sour face. “Stuart Lee’s just like him.”
John smiled and wiped his hands. “Well, like they say, Amelia, ‘Like father like son.’ ”
Mrs. Claybourne glided airily into the kitchen. She was a handsome woman in her late forties, with elegantly fixed hair. If John hadn’t seen her before in the same kind of gauzy gown, he would have guessed she was dressed for a party. She greeted him and looked sternly at her daughter.
The Waltons 3 - The Easter Story Page 1
