The Waltons 3 - The Easter Story

by Robert Weverka

  “I’m sorry, Sheriff. I’m afraid my mother is more overwrought than the situation warrants.”

  “I’ll agree with you there, Stuart Lee. But I’m tellin’ you right now, John Walton didn’t take those goblets.”

  The boy forced a smile and nodded. But his heart didn’t seem to be in it. Ep left him at the door and went down the steps to his car.

  Was it possible, he wondered as he drove off and headed back toward Ike’s? Was it even remotely conceivable that John Walton might have taken those goblets? As Amelia said, could he have done it in a moment of desperation and despair, and then regretted it five minutes later?

  No, Ep told himself. If John Walton wasn’t an honest man, then the good Lord hadn’t gotten around to making any yet. No. Before John Walton ever stole from anyone, he’d walk into the poorhouse with empty pockets. And he’d do it with his head high.

  Ep shook his head. He hoped to God he was right about that. The frightening part of the whole thing was that after being a law officer for so many years, Ep knew there was no way for certain of predicting human behavior. Under enough stress just about any human being could do things that would shock the Lord himself. And Ep really had no choice. As ridiculous as the accusation was, he had to check it out.

  VIII

  “You sure these’ll bloom by Easter, Daddy?”

  “Well, the man said if the weather stays warm there’s a good chance.”

  “But they’re so small!”

  Crocuses were Olivia’s favorite flowers, and they were John’s recommendation as the perfect present for her. With the twenty cents Elizabeth and Jim-Bob brought along, and the eighty cents their father contributed, they brought more than a hundred sprouting bulbs home from Charlottesville. On the way home they had agreed that the best place to plant them was in front of the porch where Olivia could see them from her bedroom window. Grandpa was supervising the planting, while Grandma, John, and John-Boy watched from the porch.

  “Crocuses are always small,” Grandma pointed out. “But so many of ’em, they’re goin’ to be awful pretty.”

  “If they bloom,” Jim-Bob said doubtfully.

  “They’ll bloom all right,” Grandpa said. “Now get the hose, Elizabeth, and we’ll give ’em a good soakin’.”

  “You’re not supposed to give ’em a good soakin’,” Grandma said, “They’re only supposed to be damp.”

  “They gotta have water to grow, old woman.”

  “That soil’s got plenty of water in it already. You soak ’em any more and the roots ain’t got nothin’ to grab ahold of.”

  “I didn’t say to flood ’em. I said soak ’em. That means just a light sprinklin’.”

  John-Boy never got to hear the end of the dispute. His father nudged him and laughed. “C’mon, John-Boy. I reckon we’d better get a fire goin’ for your mother’s treatment.”

  Olivia’s treatments had now become a smooth, methodical operation. This afternoon, the compresses and then the massaging was all done with musical accompaniment. Jason’s success at getting into the amateur contest had delighted Olivia. She made him tell the whole story twice, and then had him play her “Ironing Board Blues” over and over while the others worked on her legs.

  At least once each day Grandma had been putting Olivia through a series of tests, watching carefully to see just how much movement she could accomplish in her legs. It seemed to John-Boy that the improvement—if there was any at all—was scarcely noticeable. The only change, it seemed, was that her efforts were getting progressively more painful.

  “Daddy?” he asked later when they were working in the sawmill, “Do you think the treatments are really helpin’ Mama any?”

  “It’s hard to say, John-Boy. It’s only been a week now.”

  From the tone of his answer it seemed clear that his father was also disheartened.

  “Do you think because it’s hurtin’ more that maybe there’s some improvement?”

  “Yes, that may be. I hope so.”

  “And these things sometimes happen in spurts,” Grandpa added. “It’s like them crocuses we planted out there. Now, I reckon they’re just goin’ to sit there awhile and do nothin’, cause they get kind of a shock from bein’ transplanted. The same thing’s probably happenin’ with your mother. It’ll take her legs a while to get adjusted to the treatments.”

  John gave him a sly smile. “Maybe we should be puttin’ more water on Livvy’s legs, Pa.”

  John-Boy laughed. “How much water did you end up puttin’ on the crocuses, Grandpa?”

  “Well, we soaked ’em real good. I’d say about one drop of water for each of ’em.”

  Laughing about the crocuses distracted them from the subject of Olivia’s progress, but John-Boy knew that his father and grandfather were as concerned as he was. After they had run another log through the saw, Grandpa squinted toward the front of the house and smiled.

  “Well, look who’s here.”

  Ben was striding up the road, his canvas bag dangling from his arm. From his manner he looked like a determined young businessman on his way to an important meeting.

  “Hey, Ben! Ain’t you talkin’ to us?”

  Ben detoured from his path and came over. “I gotta write a letter real fast,” he grinned. “I sold almost all my magazines and I gotta get some more.”

  “Did you deliver the Baldwin sisters’ copies?”

  “Sure. First thing. And I sold four more subscriptions to Ike Godsey.”

  “Well, I declare,” Grandpa laughed, “I didn’t even know Ike could read.”

  Ben gazed thoughtfully at him for a minute. “Grandpa, do you know who the secretary of state is?”

  “The secretary of state? The secretary of what state?”

  “Do you know who are the three most promisin’ young American writers?”

  “Ben, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. What are these young writers promisin’ to do?”

  Ben dug some pamphlets out of his bag. “This week only, Grandpa, I’ve got a special offer that only a few people in this community are goin’ to have an opportunity to take advantage of. Now it just happens that you, Mr. Zebulon Walton, are one of those special few that have been selected. You are one of the leaders in this community who we feel will appreciate and benefit most from the subscribin’ to all four of these wonderful publications. Now, what I’m goin’ to do—”

  John and John-Boy were laughing, and Grandpa shook his head. “Ben, you just better get on into the house and write that letter.”

  Ben grinned and headed for the door.

  “Someday,” Grandpa said, “that boy’s goin’ to be the richest man in the world. I just hope I’ll still be around to help him spend all that money.”

  If John-Boy knew of any way in the world he could set back the clock—or even eradicate a half hour entirely from his life—he guessed he would have chosen to do it late that afternoon when Sheriff Bridges showed up at the house. There had been times before when his father’s behavior puzzled him—either for his lack of concern over what seemed like serious matters to John-Boy, or when his father was gravely worried about what appeared to be trivial questions. But the problem presented by Sheriff Bridges, and the manner in which his father handled it, left John-Boy completely dazed.

  They were cutting the last log of the day, trimming and squaring it into a timber for Mr. Halverson, when the sheriff’s patrol car rolled to a stop next to their old truck. There was nothing unusual about his coming out for a visit. Among his father’s friends, John-Boy guessed Ep Bridges was one of the closest. But as quickly as he got out of his car, John-Boy had an ominous feeling. The sheriff moved slowly and his smile had a tightness that John-Boy had never seen before.

  His father didn’t seem to pay much attention. “Hey, Ep? How’s it goin’?” he called.

  “Fair, John. How you doin’, Zeb? John-Boy?”

  “Oh, we’re gettin’ along,” Grandpa smiled, “What brings you out here at this time of day?”
>
  John laughed, cleaning the last of the sawdust off the table. “I reckon he figures it’s suppertime, Pa. Ep don’t get a whole lot of good home cookin’, you know.”

  Ep smiled politely and glanced off at the house. “How’s Livvy gettin’ along?”

  “Livvy’s doin’ real good,” Grandpa answered, “Says she’s goin’ to walk by Easter time.”

  “That’s good. I’m real glad to hear that.”

  “Then how come you’re so down at the mouth?” John smiled. “You look like your best trackin’ dog just died, Ep.”

  John-Boy hadn’t said a word. He knew from the start that something was on Sheriff Bridges’ mind. Now the sheriff looked more uncomfortable than ever.

  “John, there’s somethin’ I’d like to talk to you about. Somethin’ I think maybe we’d best talk about in private.”

  John-Boy moved quickly. He was behind the saw table and he started around the side. Grandpa also turned to go.

  “Now, wait a minute,” John said. He laughed. “John-Boy’s sixteen years old, Ep. And Pa’s almost twice that. I don’t reckon you can say anythin’ that’ll embarrass ’em.”

  “John, it concerns you, and it concerns the law. I’m not sure you’d want ’em to hear it.”

  John-Boy saw his father stiffen. He guessed Sheriff Bridges couldn’t have said anything stronger to guarantee their staying.

  “I’m not sure what you’re talkin’ about, Ep. But I reckon now they’d better stay.”

  Sheriff Bridges knew he’d made a mistake. But it was too late to change it now.

  “OK, John. I’ve got a simple question. I’d just like to know where you went after you left the Claybournes’ a week ago Friday.”

  John-Boy saw the look of surprise on his father’s face, and he tried to remember the day himself. His father had gone to fix the Claybournes’ refrigerator. It was also the day John-Boy had gone to the college and talked to Dr. Miller. He could remember nothing special aside from that. But his father’s surprise had suddenly turned to wary anger.

  “That’s a strange question, Ep. And that was more than a week ago.”

  “That’s right. You head toward Charlottesville that day? Or maybe down to Richmond?”

  “Ep, what’s this all about?”

  “John, I’m not makin’ any accusations. In fact, I think it’s probably all some kind of misunderstandin’. But I’ve just come from the Claybournes’ house. They’ve got a couple of silver goblets missin’.”

  John-Boy could hardly believe he had heard right. But the sheriff’s meaning was clear. “Sheriff,” he blurted out, “if you’re sayin’ that—”

  “Ep,” his father interrupted, “why are you askin’ me about this?”

  “I gotta ask, John. Accordin’ to Mrs. Claybourne, you’re the only caller that’s been to the house since they last saw those goblets. So she sent for me this mornin’.”

  John-Boy knew his father was furious. But he was holding it in, trying to control himself. “Ep, I don’t like what you seem to be gettin’ at.”

  “Now, John—” Grandpa said.

  “I wanta hear this, Pa! What’re you sayin’, Ep?”

  “Now, take it easy, John. I don’t like this any more than you do. And there’s only one thing you gotta tell me. Where did you go that day after you left the Claybournes’?”

  John-Boy wondered if his father even remembered where he had gone. But if that was the case, his father was too mad to say so.

  “It’s none of your business, Ep.”

  “All right, maybe it isn’t. But I have to tell the Claybournes somethin’. You tell me what to tell ’em.”

  “Tell ’em I don’t have to talk to anybody about my private business.”

  John-Boy almost felt sorry for Ep Bridges. As much as he knew his father was innocent of anything, it would have been simple for him to say so and prove it. Sheriff Bridges shook his head.

  “I don’t think that’ll satisfy ’em, John.”

  Grandpa was suddenly mad, too. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Ep means I’m coverin’ up somethin’,” John said, “Lyin’.”

  “Now, John—I’m just tellin’ you that Mrs. Claybourne has decided you must have taken the goblets. She figures you’re short of cash because—because of doctor bills and all—and maybe you took them goblets out of desperation and hocked ’em.”

  John-Boy felt himself churning inside. That Mrs. Claybourne would even think of such a thing was infuriating. He couldn’t imagine his father stealing anything under any circumstances.

  “Ep,” his father said more calmly, “that isn’t what happened. This is crazy. You know that.”

  “Yes, I think I know that. But all I’m askin’ is for you to clear yourself.”

  “I don’t have to tell you anythin’, and I’m not goin’ to, Ep.”

  John-Boy couldn’t restrain himself. “You know my daddy didn’t take those goblets, Sheriff. And that’s all that matters.”

  Ep sighed wearily. “John-Boy, I’ve known your daddy longer than you have, and almost as long as your Grandpa. But I wouldn’t have believed any man could say he was a thief without John lettin’ him have it.”

  John-Boy wasn’t sure what that meant. Did the sheriff think that because his father hadn’t hit him he was hiding something?

  “Ep,” John said coldly, “you’d better leave now.”

  Sheriff Bridges gazed silently back at him for a minute. He shook his head. “I don’t like this, John. But you gotta appreciate the spot I’m in. Won’t you please say somethin’ to protect yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Daddy—”

  “Get in the house, John-Boy. I don’t want any more talk about this, Sheriff. And I think it’s time we said goodnight.”

  “John—”

  “I got nothin’ more to say.”

  Sheriff Bridges shook his head and turned away. “Goodnight, John. I’m around if you need me.”

  “Goodnight.”

  John-Boy had moved from the sawmill halfway to the house. He watched now as the sheriff got into his car and drove off.

  “John—” Grandpa said, but he got no farther.

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Pa. And John-Boy, I told you to get in the house!”

  John-Boy didn’t know if it was hurt or anger that stabbed deepest at him as he went into the house. But he knew he was confused. He was almost trembling as he went through the kitchen and up to his room.

  For almost an hour he stood numbly at the window staring out at the darkness. He found himself going over and over the entire conversation just to convince himself it had really taken place.

  His father certainly hadn’t taken those silver goblets. But why hadn’t he said so? Why didn’t he just tell Ep Bridges where he had gone that day after he left the Claybournes’?

  But what confused and frightened him, and had left him totally speechless, was his father’s sudden anger and the way it had turned on himself and Grandpa. In all the years. John-Boy could not remember him ever doing a thing like that.

  After he had moved to his bed and lay down, a soft knock came on his door. It was Grandpa. He smiled as he came in and sat down, but he looked equally confused.

  “You all right, John-Boy?”

  “I reckon, Grandpa. But what’s goin’ on? I’ve never seen Daddy act like that.”

  Grandpa shook his head. “I reckon he’s had a lot to worry about lately. This thing—whatever it is—just hit him at the wrong time.”

  John-Boy nodded, but it didn’t seem like a very satisfactory answer.

  “Your daddy’s a proud man, John-Boy. But it’s the kind of pride that sure wouldn’t let him steal anythin’ from the Claybournes.”

  “I know that, Grandpa. 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 Ep’s fault. Bein’ a sheriff he gets used to puttin’ questions to people k
ind of harsh. He got your daddy’s back up right from the start.”

  “But it sounded like Ep thought maybe there was a chance Daddy did take those goblets.”

  Grandpa nodded. “That’s what I mean. Ep knows better. He shoulda made it clear he knows better right off. But it’ll work out, John-Boy. You know, your daddy doesn’t let on to you kids much—or even to Olivia. But he’s got plenty of problems these days. After you go off to school, he’s been out every day tryin’ to sell firewood, or hustle up money any way he can. And I mean honest money, John-Boy. But that ain’t easy these days. And I guess there ain’t nothin’ that can make a man feel like he ain’t a man at all any more than not bein’ able to feed his family.

  “But Ep and your Daddy’ll be gettin’ together again. They’ll be laughin over this whole thing soon enough.”

  From the anger he’d seen in his father’s face, John-Boy wasn’t too sure about that.

  “What I wanted to say, John-Boy, is we shouldn’t mention this to your mother or the rest of the kids. Livvy’s feelin’ good now, and workin’ real hard at gettin’ better. We don’t want nothin’ like this disturbin’ her.”

  “No,” John-Boy agreed.

  Grandpa rose and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “And don’t you worry about it too much. Things like this always work themselves out in time.”

  “I hope so, Grandpa.”

  “Supper’ll be ready in a couple of minutes.”

  Neither John-Boy nor his father looked at each other at the table. But from his short answers, and the determined way he ate, John-Boy knew his father was still upset. After the dishes were cleared, his father said he would take care of chopping the kindling tonight. Then he disappeared through the back door.

  John-Boy found his anger shifting heavily to the Claybournes—or at least to Mrs. Claybourne. Not only was it vicious and unfair of her to accuse his father of stealing, it was even worse to do it when his mother was sick with polio. How could anyone be so stupid and heartless at the same time? He found himself considering the possibility of marching over to her house and telling her exactly what he thought of her.