The Waltons 3 - The Easter Story

by Robert Weverka

“I wonder if you would be good enough to mail some letters for us. Stuart Lee completely forgot them when he left this morning. I don’t know what’s gotten into that boy. But they say if you want something done, give the job to the busiest man around.”

  “I’ll be glad to take them, Mrs. Claybourne.”

  “I would appreciate it. I’ll give them to Dewey for you. And do give my best to Mrs. Walton.”

  After she glided away toward the front of the house, he went to the kitchen.

  Dewey had the whole sink full of silver now, moving it from one side to the other as he polished it. As far as John could tell, both sides looked clean and sparkling.

  “Got a big party comin’ up, Dewey?”

  The old man laughed. “No, just doin’ my regular polishin’, Mr. Walton. Rain or shine, party or no party, the silver gets polished every week. Ain’t been no parties around this house since long before Mr. Claybourne passed over. But this ol’ silver gets polished anyhow. I take it all down from the shelf, give it a good shine and put it all back again. Fact is, most of it hasn’t been used in years.”

  John looked at the array of trays and goblets and candleholders, and then saw an equal supply in a walk-in closet next to the pantry. He smiled. “They ought to melt it down into silver dollars.”

  “If somebody did that, I don’t reckon they’d even miss it, Mr. Walton. And it would sure save me a lot of work every week.”

  John laughed and got his tools out. Now that he knew exactly what had to be done, the job wouldn’t take long. He pulled the refrigerator out and loosened the motor-mount bolts so he could get in behind it.

  “You reckon Stuart Lee’ll be comin’ home pretty soon, Dewey?”

  “Oh, that’s not likely, Mr. Walton. That boy, he goes racin’ all over the country with that Miss Weatherby. Lord, I’d just like to have the money he spends on gasoline.”

  “So would I, Dewey.” While he worked, John thought about Mrs. Claybourne and the cream puffs Stuart Lee brought up from Richmond. It was strange how people spent money. And all that silver they never used. And the Packard roadster. But as the old saying went, “Easy come, easy go.”

  There were several versions of how the Claybournes originally got their money—none of them very flattering. Apparently most of it came from old General Harlan McKelvey, whose noble portrait stood over the fireplace. The most frequently told story was that after the Civil War he worked with carpetbaggers from the north, and through some questionable legal tactics, took over a number of cotton plantations in South Carolina and Georgia. From there the McKelvey empire expanded into banking and cotton speculation, and somewhere along the way became respectable. There were plenty of families like that in the South, John supposed. There were plenty of families like that all over the country. Sometimes it seemed like all the great fortunes in the world got started with some kind of larceny. When you thought about it, maybe it wasn’t so surprising the country was in such bad shape.

  Dewey was gone when John finished. The silver was all polished and standing neatly on the closet shelves, and a packet of letters was resting on the sink.

  John got the refrigerator back in place. He tossed his tools back into his box and stood for a minute, wiping his hands, looking at the silver closet. There, sparkling in the soft light, the fifty or sixty pieces on those shelves represented about three years of cash income for the Walton family. And the Claybournes didn’t even use it.

  John smiled. If he owned something that valuable it would already be on his truck, and he would be headed for a pawn shop. He tossed the dirty rag into the toolbox and snapped it shut. Then he looked at the silver again, thinking about Stuart Lee’s one-dollar payment for his work.

  IV

  John-Boy was amazed at the number of students there were milling around the college campus. Even more amazing was how carefree they looked. The girls all wore sweaters and pleated skirts and were remarkably pretty, and the boys had a rich casual air about them as they strolled to their classes or stretched out on the broad, tree-shaded lawns.

  Sheriff Bridges had given him a ride down to the college. John-Boy had stopped by Ike Godsey’s to see if there was any mail, and Ep was just leaving for Charlottesville. He would probably be there a couple hours, he said, and he would be glad to leave John-Boy at the college and pick him up later.

  “Kind of early in the year to be goin’ off to college, ain’t it, John-Boy?” Ep asked on the way down.

  “I just want to find out what courses they got for next year. It was Mama’s idea mostly. Now that she’s sick I guess about the only thing she thinks about is gettin’ us all started out on some kind of career.”

  “Well if your Mama’s decided you’re goin’ to go to college, John-Boy, I don’t guess there’ll be much doubt about it.”

  John-Boy wondered just how much truth there really was in that statement. There were probably a million young men graduating from high school this year whose mothers wanted them to go on to college. And very few of them would make it. But for the time being, going through the motions and getting a catalogue would probably make his mother happy. And right now that was about the most important thing.

  Sheriff Bridges left him a block from the administration building, and John-Boy made his way along the walk feeling conspicuously out of place in his faded coveralls. In addition to the problem of money, he found it hard to imagine himself as one of these confident, pipe-smoking young men. He strode purposefully along, hoping he at least looked like he halfway belonged, and made his way up the steps and into the admissions office.

  A broad counter stacked with brochures greeted him. Behind that, four young ladies, apparently students, were busily typing. John-Boy glanced over the literature and smiled at the closest girl.

  “Could you maybe help me, please?”

  “Certainly.” She came quickly to her feet and looked him over. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

  “Well, I’m not really here. I mean I’m not really here yet. I just wanted to talk.”

  She leaned forward on the counter and smiled. “OK. What do you want to talk about? There’s a dance next Saturday night. You got a date yet?”

  John-Boy felt blood creep warmly up his neck. Maybe he wouldn’t be so out of place here after all. She was an awfully pretty girl, with silky brown hair and greenish eyes. “Well, mostly I wanted to talk about how you register. And how much everythin’ costs and what courses there are and everythin’.”

  The girl looked disappointed. But she quickly smiled and brought a catalogue from under the counter. “There you are. Everything’s in that catalogue—fees, tuition costs, schedules of classes, and an entrance application. And help yourself to any of these brochures.”

  “Are they free?”

  “Sure. Will you be starting in the spring?”

  “Well, maybe. Or maybe in September. This is sort of long-range planning.”

  “Huh. Well, I’m not sure I can wait that long. What’s your name?”

  John-Boy blushed again. “John Walton, Jr.”

  “OK, John Walton, Jr., we’ll look forward to seeing you. You think you’ll be free for the Halloween dance?”

  John-Boy had never experienced such forthright friendliness. Especially from pretty girls. “Well, yes, I reckon.”

  “OK, then it’s a date. I’ll see you in October.”

  “OK—uh, thanks for the brochures.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  John-Boy hesitated at the door. The idea had been brooding in his mind for some time now—ever since that night Jason, Ben, and Jim-Bob came to his room. But he wasn’t sure he had the nerve to do it. Or if it would even lead to anything.

  “What’s the matter?” the girl smiled.

  “Well, I was just wondering. Do you have a medical school here?”

  “A medical school. I would have guessed you were more of an Arts and Humanities type.”

  “You’re right. I’m interested in a career in Journalism. But my mother’s sic
k, and I wanted to see if I could get to talk to somebody.”

  “Your mother’s sick? How?”

  “The polio.”

  “Oh. Then you should see Dr. Miller in Experimental Medicine. Just go out the door, turn left and keep walking. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

  John-Boy followed the directions to a building that was newer than the one he had just left. In the lobby a listing of faculty members directed him to a small third-floor office where he found the door open. The man behind the desk looked huge, with muscular shoulders, disheveled hair and his necktie loosened and hanging crooked. He was only about thirty-five, John-Boy guessed, and he was scrawling notes across what looked like students’ papers. John-Boy knocked lightly.

  “Sir? Do you mind if I come in?”

  The man didn’t look up. “Door’s open, you can come in. Door’s shut, you can’t.”

  John-Boy moved hesitantly to the desk. “My name is John Walton, sir. I’m not a student here.”

  The man continued marking papers. “Well, you’re not alone, Walton. I’ve got a lot of people coming to my classes who aren’t students either.” He gave John-Boy a sharp glance. “Sit down, you’re making me nervous.”

  John-Boy sat down. “I just wanted to ask you a couple questions, sir. The girl at the admissions office told me you might know something about polio.”

  “She did, huh.”

  “Yes, sir. And I wanted to find out if there are any new treatments, or any kind of medicine that can help somebody who’s got it.”

  “Who’s got it?”

  “My mother.”

  The man stopped marking papers and gave him a long look. “What’s your name again?”

  “Walton, sir. John Walton.”

  “And you say you’re not a student here?”

  “No sir. I’m still in high school. But I’d like to come here some day—if we can get the money together. I thought you might talk to me anyway. You see—”

  “Where you from?”

  “Walton’s Mountain. It’s a little—”

  The man grinned. He tossed his pen down and sat back. “Walton’s Mountain!” He laughed. “You don’t have to tell me where that is. My wife and I drive up there every fall to see the turning leaves. Mr. Walton, I want to thank you for giving us both a great deal of pleasure.”

  John-Boy relaxed a little. He’d never seen such a stern and gruff man undergo such an abrupt change. “Well, I don’t reckon I can take credit for the turnin’ leaves. But the dogwoods and red-buds’ll be bloomin’ soon. And the trees freshenin’ green. Springtime.”

  “I know. I come from Crabtree Falls.”

  John-Boy nodded. “Well, anyway, as I was sayin’, my mother got polio about a week ago. She’s over the fever now, but I think she’s still got a lot of pain. I mean she tries to be cheerful and hide it from us, but sometimes—”

  Dr. Miller was nodding. “She’s in pain, all right. And it’s going to hurt for a long time. Tell me the details. How long did the fever last, and how much can she move now?”

  John-Boy told him everything he knew, including her efforts to sit up by herself. Dr. Miller listened thoughtfully, and then John-Boy had the shock of his life.

  John-Boy hadn’t noticed anything unusual when he came in. Just as Dr. Miller was a large man, so was his desk, and John-Boy had paid little attention to the chair behind it. But the doctor’s hands suddenly dropped out of sight and then he swivelled and was propelling himself around the desk in a wheelchair. John-Boy knew his mouth must have dropped open a foot.

  Dr. Miller frowned curiously at him, then laughed. “Oh, you didn’t know?”

  “No. I thought—I mean you were behind the desk.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed, Walton. I’m not.”

  “But you looked so big. So strong.”

  “I am strong. At least half of me is.”

  In spite of the doctor’s casual attitude toward his affliction, John-Boy was still flustered. He didn’t know what to say.

  “I’ve been scootin’ around in this little buggy for sixteen years now,” Dr. Miller smiled. “It keeps me in shape. But I know exactly what your mother’s going through. I was eighteen when it happened to me.” He laughed. “The hottest halfback on any football field in Virginia. And probably the cockiest. Then, one Saturday, after another Miller triumph, I had these strange pains in my back. Sunday I was completely paralyzed from the waist down.”

  “That’s how it was with my mother.”

  “That’s the pattern. And we stand by helplessly and hope for the best. What’s your mother’s doctor done so far?”

  “Well, he says there isn’t any medicine. He put splints on her legs today.”

  “He’s right about the medicine. And leg splints are the accepted approach. Nobody knows whether it really helps.” He smiled ruefully and rubbed his chin.

  “Dr. Miller, my teacher in Walton’s Mountain, Miss Hunter, she says she read in the newspaper about a new treatment a woman has—someone called her Sister Kenny.”

  “Oh, yes, the Australian nurse. We’re just starting to check into her methods. She claims an extraordinary recovery rate. But so far there’s been no scientific verification of her claims. This doesn’t mean her treatment doesn’t work, of course. Only that she hasn’t conducted them under scientific controls that would prove her claims one way or the other. She’s attracted quite a bit of controversy.”

  “Is there any place I could find out more about her and the treatment?”

  “Well, the fact is nobody knows a whole lot about it yet.”

  “Do you know where she is in Australia? Some place I could write to her?”

  Dr. Miller thought for a minute, then suddenly swung the wheelchair and moved back behind his desk. “Tell you what—you leave me your name and address. I’ll try to get hold of a couple pamphlets that detail her procedures and mail them to you. At least you can show them to your doctor and see what he thinks.”

  “I’ll be endurin’ grateful to you, Doctor.”

  “No trouble. We’re all in this together. I just wish I could get up there and examine her myself. You say she can sit up already?”

  “Almost. She’s workin’ hard at it.”

  “Mrs. Walton sounds like quite a lady.”

  “She is.”

  Dr. Miller smiled and stuck out a big calloused hand. “And I think you’re quite a young man, Walton. I’m glad you came in. And I’m going to look forward to seeing you around the campus here.”

  John-Boy felt good when Sheriff Bridges picked him up. He knew he shouldn’t let his hopes about the Sister Kenny treatment get too high. But at least he was doing something. The worst part of the last few days had been the feeling of helplessness—that there was nothing they could do but sit by and watch their mother suffer.

  And he was also pleased with what he had seen of the Boatwright College campus. He didn’t feel nearly so out of place when he came out of the medical building and crossed the campus again. Imagine that girl in the admissions office asking him if he had a date for the dance!

  “What you smilin’ about, John-Boy?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I just got a feelin’ things are goin’ to get better, Sheriff.”

  Ep nodded. “Well, maybe you’re right. Can’t see how they can get any worse.”

  John-Boy was a little disappointed not to see his father’s truck when Sheriff Bridges dropped him off at home. Grandpa and Ben had the saw going, pushing a huge log through, and Jason was sitting on a woodpile plucking his guitar.

  “Hey, John-Boy,” Grandpa said, “you’re just the man we’re lookin’ for. These logs are heavy.”

  John-Boy put his catalogue and brochures aside and stepped in beside Ben. “How about Jason? He don’t look so busy.”

  When they finished the cut, Grandpa shut down the saw motor and sighted along the smooth edge. “Oh, we can’t expect a great musician and guitar player to risk gettin’ splinters in his f
ingers. No sir, Jason Walton’s done all the hard labor he’s ever gonna do in his life. So don’t anybody go askin’ him to pick up a broom or carry in any stovewood.”

  They all grinned and Jason struck a loud chord on his guitar. “I’m gonna win that contest, Grandpa. Then I’ll carry all the wood you want.”

  Grandpa snorted. “You win that contest and you’ll be expectin’ breakfast in bed.”

  “Yeah, at ten o’clock in the mornin’,” Ben said. He smiled at John-Boy. “I got an answer from the magazine company today, John-Boy. They’re sendin’ me two dozen magazines, and they should be here tomorrow.”

  “Hey, that’s great!”

  “With nobody havin’ any money, don’t know who you’re goin’ to sell ’em to,” Grandpa muttered. “OK, let’s run this log through again.”

  They slid the log back and made a second cut. “Where you been, John-Boy?” Grandpa asked when they finished.

  John-Boy told them about his conversation with Dr. Miller, and that the man was going to send them pamphlets.

  “You say this fella’s crippled himself?”

  “Yes, but he got the polio twenty years ago, Grandpa. Sister Kenny’s only been doin’ her treatments a few years. And even Dr. Miller thought it was a good idea to find out what she does.”

  “You mean maybe Mama can be cured and walk again?” Ben asked.

  “Well, now we shouldn’t get too excited about this,” Grandpa cautioned. “And it might not be a good idea to let your mother hear about it until Dr. Vance looks at them pamphlets. I reckon you’d better talk it over with your father first, John-Boy.”

  “How’s Mama feelin’?”

  “She hates those splints,” Jason said.

  Ben nodded. “And she’s gonna hate gettin’ in a wheelchair even more.”

  “Well, those are things everybody’s just goin’ to have to face,” Grandpa said. “We can hope for some kind of miracle cure, and maybe it can even happen. But don’t forget your Mama’s havin’ a lot of pain. Let’s not encourage her to do a lot of exercises, or take treatments that are gonna make it worse for her.” Grandpa suddenly had a gravely serious look. “And there’s somethin’ else I think every one of us ought to reflect on. Nothin’ would break your mother’s heart faster than havin’ everyone expect her to come out of this all healthy and walkin’ again—and then her not doin’ it. She’d figure she let us all down.” He gave each of them a solemn look and then smiled. “Now, how about if we get this log cut up?”