The Waltons 3 - The Easter Story

by Robert Weverka

  John had no illusions about the children’s doubts. But their fears, along with their wishful desires for their mother’s recovery, prevented them from asking questions that might bring answers they didn’t want to hear. After John-Boy led them off to school, Grandpa took care of cleaning up the kitchen, and John and Grandma returned to Olivia’s side.

  There had been no significant change. At times the flush disappeared from her face, and she seemed to awaken. She would smile and say she was feeling better, and request a drink of water, or ask what time it was. But then she would make some incongruous statement that indicated she was still only half conscious. Then her eyes dulled, the fever boiled, and once more she was in a gasping delirium.

  Grandma bathed her face and cooled her neck and arms with a wet cloth, but there was nothing more she could do.

  “John, there’s no use in your hangin’ around here pacin’ the floor,” she finally sighed, “You might as well go out and do some work. Get your mind off it.”

  “I don’t think I could do any work, Mama.”

  “Well, go try. Or take a walk or somethin’.”

  John left the room. But he didn’t go directly downstairs. For no particular reason he went into each of the children’s rooms and stood for several minutes. He looked at their toys and books, and at the odd little things that all children seem to collect. In each of them he saw part of Olivia. She had selected most of the toys and books. And she had remarked on each of the collected things; or suggested where it might be put; or tried to persuade them to get rid of it. And because of the children’s anxiety over her illness, the beds were made extra neatly this morning, and everything was picked up.

  “I think I’ll go out and see about that bad tire, Pa,” he said when he finally went down to the kitchen.

  “Afraid there’s not much left of it to see about.”

  “Well, I can put on the spare anyway.”

  “Want some help?”

  “No. I think I can handle it.”

  Olivia had little recollection of the last twenty-four hours. At the church she knew there was something seriously wrong with her. At first, during Reverend Fordwick’s sermon, there were waves of dizziness that prompted her to grab the edge of the pew, fearful that she was going to tumble forward onto the floor. As quickly as those left, her neck and back ached to the point of nausea. Once the service was concluded, she had hoped that standing up and walking would make her feel better. But on the front steps her legs had suddenly turned to unmanageable chunks of lead. She had grasped for Grandpa’s arm, but that had only partially stopped her fall.

  She hardly remembered going home in the truck. She had laughed, dismissing her fall at the church, telling them she must have tripped. But then the aches and nausea and dizziness came back. And even holding Grandpa’s arm she couldn’t make it to the back door of the house.

  The pain was almost unbearable—a throbbing shaft that ran from the back of her head through her hips and past her knees. And then came the chills, followed by searing heat that drenched her with perspiration. On top of that, her throat had closed, making breathing almost impossible.

  “Where’s the pain, Mrs. Walton?”

  The voice seemed to come from miles away. She smelled something sharp and pungent, and Dr. Vance was hovering close, holding something under her nose. In a hoarse, almost inaudible tone she told him about her neck and back. Then she felt his fingers brushing the side of her neck and examining her arms.

  The rest consisted only of swirling glimpses of her room. She once saw John sitting in a chair next to the bed. But he was asleep. After that she was a twelve-year-old girl again. She was at a church picnic, competing in a footrace. She was far out in front when suddenly she fell. She laughed at the accident, but she couldn’t get back on her feet. She lifted herself with her hands, but for some reason she couldn’t draw her legs up beneath her. She shouted for help, and the other girls ran past, laughing, paying no attention to her.

  There were other nightmares. She was in the delivery room of the Charlottesville hospital, and the pain was unbearable. She was screaming, but Dr. Shackleford was smiling down, quietly telling her she would have no trouble with the delivery because Jason was their second child. He didn’t seem to hear her screams. And then Jason was standing beside the doctor, smiling, saying, “Don’t worry, Mama.”

  Olivia knew these were crazy hallucinations caused by her high fever. But then another one would start and it seemed as real and terrifying as the last one. Her throat was sore and dry and seeing John beside her she asked for a glass of water. But before he could get it for her she was off somewhere else, transported by strange shapes and forms. Then she was gasping for breath, shivering, then suffocating from the heat.

  It seemed to Olivia that this went on for days. Sometimes she awakened to see John or Grandma hovering over her, sponging off her forehead. Sometimes the room was empty. She would lie exhausted, trying to catch her breath for a minute. And then the room would slide away and once more she would be writhing and gasping in a swirl of confused images.

  At last it seemed to be over. She was so tired she could not lift her head or arms, but the fever was gone. Grandma sat in a chair, half dozing, with a pot of tea beside her. The sun was shining crisply through the window and from out in the mill she could hear the muffled screech of John’s saw. She sighed and turned her head.

  “Mama?”

  Grandma’s head came up with a start and she gave her a questioning look. “Well! You feelin’ better?”

  “I think the worst is over. Except I’m awfully tired.”

  Grandma looked relieved. She moved over and sat on the bed. “This tea’s still warm. Think you could drink some?”

  Olivia smiled and nodded.

  Grandma propped her up with another pillow and poured the tea. “You want me to go get John?”

  “No, don’t bother him. I think I’ll just go back to sleep in a minute.” The tea tasted delicious. Grandma used sugar and milk and it seemed extra nourishing right now. Olivia smiled. “It’s funny, my legs feel numb. I guess they’re still asleep.”

  There was an odd look on Grandma’s face. “Well, you just get all the rest you can.”

  “Was the doctor here?”

  “Yes, and he’ll be back this afternoon.”

  Olivia nodded. It seemed a useless expense having Dr. Vance come all the way out to the house. But right now she was too weary to question it. She put the empty cup aside and slid back under the covers. She could breathe easily now, and the warm tea was already making her drowsy. “I’m sorry to be all this trouble, Grandma.”

  She was asleep before she heard any response.

  More than anything else, John dreaded telling the other children. Grandma and Grandpa, and even John-Boy, had seen enough of the world to know that disasters and tragedies were a part of life. But how did he tell the others? How could he explain a thing like this to children who had been told every Sunday that God rewarded people who were kind and generous and led good Christian lives? Nobody in the world was a better Christian than Olivia.

  For a long time John sat on the back steps, staring off at nothing. The dog seemed to understand. His tail didn’t wag, and his head rested heavily on John’s leg. John finally gave him a sympathetic pat and pulled himself to his feet.

  Grandpa was right about the front tire of the truck. There was nothing left of it to repair. John got out the jack and replaced the tire with the spare. He threw the shredded carcass into the back of the barn and came back to stare at the old truck.

  He would be lucky if that spare or the other front tire lasted another twenty miles. But that might not matter. There wasn’t much gas in the tank, and he had no money to buy anymore. Nor did he have any money for house paint, which he would be needing as quickly as spring came. Or money for new saw blades, or axes or wedges for splitting timbers. And now there would be doctor bills that were likely to go on for a long time.

  John sometimes wondered if
he hadn’t been foolish trying to support his family all these years by cutting wood. Had he been selfish choosing an occupation that he enjoyed because he was independent—all to the detriment of his family? If he had gone down to Charlottesville years ago and gone to work at the soapstone quarry, would they be comfortable now, with plenty of money for the doctor, and maybe enough to send John-Boy to college? A lot of men had been laid off at the quarry, but there were plenty of them still there, still getting their weekly paychecks.

  John turned and moved slowly into the sawmill. It was a waste of time thinking about things like that. There was no chance of getting a job in Charlottesville now. And no matter how little woodcutting paid, he had to go on doing it.

  He and Grandpa had spent the previous week hauling logs down from the mountain and stacking them at the side of the mill. George Halverson, a contractor in Charlottesville, had bid successfully on a contract for a new bridge on the Scottsville road, and John had agreed to supply the structural timbers at three dollars each. For the work involved, the job would not be very profitable. But the bridge was not scheduled to be built until late spring, so he’d figured on cutting the timbers during his spare time or on weekends. But right now he had no orders for firewood, nor anything else to do.

  He put on his gloves, and with an angry heave, tumbled the top log down from the pile. Normally it took three of them to drag the big tree trunks over to the saw. But by twisting, swiveling, and wrestling one end and then the other, he managed to get it into position with an end raised to the saw table. Then he cranked up the motor, hoisted the other end of the log and guided it through.

  With each successive cut the timber grew lighter. He trimmed it down, cut it smoothly to the precise rectangular measure, then sheared off the ends. Then he dragged the finished timber into the barn for storage.

  He had wrestled the second log over and raised one end to the table when he saw John-Boy and the rest of the children coming. They were moving fast, with none of the usual straggling and horseplay. John turned off the saw motor and braced himself.

  “How’s Mama?” Mary Ellen asked, “Can we go see her, Daddy?”

  John-Boy’s level gaze indicated that he had told them nothing. In a way, John almost wished he had.

  “I think you’d better wait until after the doctor comes. She’s been sleepin’ most of the day.”

  “Is she feelin’ better?”

  “A little.”

  “You need some help, Daddy?” John-Boy asked.

  “No, I reckon I can handle this.” He glanced off at the house and smiled. “But you can probably help your Grandpa with the ironin’. He was out takin’ clothes off the line a while back.”

  “I’ll do it,” Mary Ellen offered.

  “And I’ll start fixin’ supper,” Erin added.

  “And the rest of us can do some housecleanin’,” Jason said.

  “Fine. Just try to keep it quiet.”

  John felt better as he watched them all hurry into the house. Maybe they would be able to survive the bad news after all. On the other hand, he reflected, they might not be so enthusiastic when they found out those extra chores could become permanent duties.

  John finished another timber before he shut down the saw for the day. Theoretically, that meant he had earned six dollars for his labors. But that didn’t count cutting the trees and hauling them down from the mountain—nor the time it would take delivering them. And there would be no payment until May or June. Still, it gave him some satisfaction. At least he felt like he had earned a little credit on the future.

  In the house everyone was at work, and John went on up to the bedroom. Grandma was smiling.

  “Fever’s all gone. She’s been sleepin’ easy the past few hours.”

  John was relieved. He had no idea how the disease worked, but he assumed that the longer the fever lasted the more damage it was doing. He sat on the edge of the bed and took Olivia’s hand. It was cool and dry now.

  “Livvy?”

  She stirred and took a long, easy breath.

  “She had a cup of tea earlier.”

  John nodded. He gently stroked her hand and waited, and Grandma quietly turned on the lamp against the gathering darkness.

  When Olivia’s eyes opened, they were clear and bright once more, and she was smiling. “Hello, darling.”

  John grinned. No matter what the disease had done, it was still Olivia, and he still loved her very much.

  “I think I’ve been sick.”

  “Yes, I think you have.”

  She looked at the ceiling and closed her eyes. She was still smiling, but the words came out hesitantly. “John—when I woke up earlier, I couldn’t move my legs. I thought they were asleep—or that it was the fever. It isn’t that, is it.”

  John swallowed hard and glanced uneasily at Grandma. “Olivia—”

  “I still can’t move them. They’re numb. Does the doctor think I have polio?”

  John stared at her, shocked by the almost casual tone of the question.

  “Is it polio, John?”

  “Yes,” he finally managed, his voice almost inaudible.

  She smiled tightly. “I thought it was.” She gave him a sudden, anxious look. “The children. Are they all right? None of the children have gottin’ it, have they?”

  “No, they’re all fine, Livvy. Just worried about you.”

  She sighed with relief. “Thank heaven.”

  “Daddy?”

  John-Boy’s muffled voice came through the closed door. “Daddy, the doctor’s here.”

  John rose and Olivia quickly brushed her hair back. Dr. Vance was there with his bag, and John-Boy moved discreetly off.

  “Well, how’s our patient getting along today?”

  “Conscious,” Olivia smiled. Grandma quickly propped her up with a pillow.

  “That’s certainly a step in the right direction.”

  Dr. Vance got out his stethoscope and held Olivia’s wrist as he listened to her heartbeat. “Well, your heart still seems to be in the right place. How are you feeling?”

  “Except for my legs, just fine. I’m not sure how they feel.”

  Dr. Vance seemed to catch his breath. He looked questioningly at John. John nodded.

  “Well, it’s good that you know, Mrs. Walton. And I’m glad to see you’re facing it so calmly. Do you have any feeling at all below your waist?”

  “No.”

  The doctor reached down and squeezed her toes, her ankle, and then the calf of her leg. “Feel that?”

  “No.”

  He nodded. He got out a tongue depressor and had her open her mouth. That done, he checked her eyes.

  Olivia took a long breath and gazed evenly at him. “Doctor, what’s goin’ to happen?”

  Dr. Vance was not comfortable with the question. He thought about it and pursed his lips. “For a long time, nothing. Mostly you’re going to stay in bed and rest.”

  “I mean after that. Will I ever get any feelin’ back? Will I be able to walk?”

  He evaded a direct answer. “That’s hard to say, Mrs. Walton. People have recovered from polio. It depends on many things. In a day or two, if the feeling doesn’t come back, I’ll put some splints on your legs.”

  “Splints?” John asked.

  “Yes. The theory is that the affected muscles are weak. That being the case, the healthy ones are likely to pull the weak ones out of shape—which causes crippling.”

  “How long will I have to wear the splints?”

  Dr. Vance shook his head. “I’ve got to say it again: I just don’t know.”

  Olivia stared at him and then looked away, bringing her hand to her forehead. She was in pain, John realized.

  “You all right, Livvy?”

  She made an effort to smile. “I just think I’d like to lay back again.”

  Both John and Grandma got the extra pillow out and eased her down. Dr. Vance watched grimly. “It’ll probably be better if you don’t sit up, Mrs. Walton. As I said, the
important thing is not to tire yourself.”

  Olivia nodded and closed her eyes.

  After he returned his stethoscope to his bag, Dr. Vance motioned his head toward the door. John followed him out to the hall.

  “Considering her attitude, Mr. Walton, I think your wife is a very courageous person. This is good, and can help her recovery. But it can also be dangerous. It’s hard for anyone to believe they’re really going to lose the use of their arms or legs. Consequently, they struggle to get them back to normal, thinking their hard work will be rewarded. Unfortunately, in the case of polio, this is the worst thing they can do. The struggling, or any kind of exercise, is more likely to distort the muscles and limbs rather than make them stronger. And that includes trying to sit up. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “That she should lie as still as she can?”

  “Exactly. And I hope you can convince her of that.”

  John nodded.

  “Good,” Dr. Vance smiled.

  “Doctor?” John asked before he could go. “Can the children come up now?”

  Dr. Vance considered the question. “I think we’d better be on the cautious side and wait another day.”

  “Is there any doubt about your diagnosis? I mean, is it possible Olivia might have somethin’ else?”

  He shook his head. “After what I’ve seen today, there’s no doubt whatsoever, Mr. Walton. I’m sorry.” He gave John a sympathetic pat on the arm. “I’ll see myself out.”

  John stood for awhile outside the closed door. He heard the doctor’s footsteps down the stairs, and then the soft clunk of the front door closing. He finally took a deep breath and headed for the stairs. There was no point in putting it off now.

  They seemed to know that it was coming, and that it was bad news. John walked quietly into the kitchen and sat down. Without a word they all moved to the table. Mary Ellen brought him a cup of coffee, and he looked at each of them as they sat down.

  He had often wondered at the fact that he and Olivia had produced such a diversity of children, and that each in some way had his own talents, or strength, or beauty. If anything should ever happen to him, John suspected that John-Boy could rise to the occasion. As head of the family he could certainly do a better job than Stuart Lee Claybourne seemed to be doing. Jason, too, had those talents, and probably suffered only because he was the second child and had less opportunity now to develop them.