The Waltons 3 - The Easter Story

by Robert Weverka

  Dodge dropped another ball. “You don’t have to get so touchy, Sheriff. It’s pretty common knowledge around. And it don’t look like you got no other suspects. Don’t see why you’re holdin’ back on arrestin’ him. Course now he’s your friend, ain’t he.”

  Ep nodded and watched him make another shot. “As I recall, Dodge, you get your firewood from John Walton.”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  Dodge finally missed. Ep moved around the table and lined up a shot. “You wouldn’t happen to be a little behind in payin’ him, would you?”

  “Well, now, I reckon everybody owes somebody these days, Sheriff.”

  Ep made a smooth bank shot. He straightened and gave Dodge a cool smile. “That’s true enough, Dodge. But not everybody’s so quick to look for a way never to have to pay up.”

  Dodge seemed to have no answer for that. He finally grinned and shrugged. Then they both looked up as the bell tinkled on Ike’s door. Ep smiled to himself and lined up another shot. It was John Walton.

  He heard Ike and John’s greetings, but they were short. Then John was standing in the pool room, a determined look on his face.

  “Dodge, I saw your flivver parked out front. I been callin’ around on all my owin’ customers. Your bill’s four dollars, and you’ve owed since November.”

  Ep glanced over at Dodge. But the man was suddenly cocky again.

  “Well, John,” he smiled, “Maybe I should just send the money on to your lawyer.”

  The movement came fast. But the angry twitch in John Walton’s mouth was warning enough, and Ep got between them. He caught the wrist at the same moment John’s hand clamped onto Dodge’s shirt front. Dodge Evenhauer was lucky. If John Walton had thrown a punch, there would have been no way for Ep to stop it.

  “Take it easy, John,” Ep said.

  There was a tense moment when Ep wasn’t sure what was going to happen. Then the hand came off the shirt and Dodge backed away, his face pale.

  “Dodge,” Ep said, “Maybe it’s you who better be gettin’ a lawyer. Not payin’ your debts is against the law, too. Now get out of here and get on with your business.”

  Dodge stood for a minute, as if groping for some kind of a face-saving remark. Then he scooped up his jacket and strode away.

  “I should have hit him,” John muttered when the door finally banged shut.

  “That man ain’t worth skinnin’ your knuckles on, John.” Ep moved slowly around the table retrieving balls from the pockets. “John, I got a phone call early this mornin’. Seems like you was seen in Charlottesville the day you fixed the Claybournes’ refrigerator.”

  “Is that against the law?”

  “No. And don’t take me wrong. I still ain’t sayin’ you stole nothin’.” Ep put his pool cue in the rack. The whole situation was delicate, and he didn’t want to get John’s blood boiling again. But he’d also like some information. “John, in times like these a man sometimes has to do things he never thought he’d do under other circumstances. And a man’s family comes first. If I had a wife who was sick—well—I can see myself having to—I can see myself bein’ tempted.”

  Ep didn’t expect any sudden confession from John Walton. But he thought this might at least soften him up a little. The last thing he expected was the easy smile that came to John’s face.

  “That’s a funny thing for you to say, Ep. Because, frankly, I can’t see you bein’ tempted by anythin’.”

  It took Ep a minute to digest the statement. But that time, John Walton was already passing by Ike and going out the front door. But Ep continued staring after him, wondering—certain now that he was right in what he had told Mrs. Claybourne.

  But damn it, he thought, that still didn’t tell him who took all that silver.

  Mary Ellen’s remark about their father having come home with the new bed jacket the same day the silver was supposedly stolen had given John-Boy’s memory an unpleasant jolt. There had been more than a new bedjacket. That was also the day the truck suddenly had two new tires.

  “You sell some firewood, Daddy?”

  John-Boy distinctly remembered Jason’s question. But what had his father answered? It was something about the Claybournes. He had said, “No, but I got the Claybournes’ refrigerator fixed.”

  What did that mean? It really meant nothing. If the Claybournes had paid him enough to buy the tires and the bedjacket, he would have said so. Wouldn’t he?

  John-Boy wrestled with the questions all through the afternoon and past supper. Of all the children, he guessed he was the least successful at maintaining a cheerful face in front of his mother. But she didn’t seem to notice.

  G. W. Haines made an appearance late in the day and stayed for supper. Nothing was mentioned about the Claybournes’ missing silver, but John-Boy had the feeling G. W.’s visit was his way of showing the Waltons he was on their side. John-Boy felt grateful.

  After G. W. went home and all the paraphernalia from their mother’s treatment was cleaned up, John-Boy wandered out to the barn. For awhile he watched Chance munching quietly in her feed bin. Then he moved to the barn window and gazed out at the mountains.

  It was a chilly, moonlit night. A scattering of high clouds drifted silently across the sky, and their shadows made big blotches that slowly crept up and slid past the tops of the hills. Farther away, the mountains seemed to have a phosphorescent lining along their ridges.

  John-Boy had an ominous feeling about how things were going to turn out.

  His father certainly couldn’t have taken that silver. But where did he get the money for the tires and the bedjacket? Had he made some collections from people who owed him for firewood? Or, maybe, had he won it in a poker game and he was ashamed to admit it? John-Boy had heard stories about big poker games going on down in Charlottesville. But his father couldn’t have been down there more than an hour or two.

  Why did all this have to happen now, John-Boy wondered miserably. Everybody couldn’t keep slinking around trying to keep it a secret from their mother forever. And he was already having doubts about her recovery. It was possible, he was now coming to realize, that they could go on and on with the treatments, only to have her legs finally wither away into lifeless stumps. There was no God looking after them, and there was no immutable law of justice that guaranteed any reward in return for their mother’s persistence and suffering.

  John-Boy leaned heavily on the window sill and closed his eyes, trying to deny this conclusion. If she didn’t recover, he had the dark feeling that the whole family might be doomed far worse than the misfortune of his mother being crippled. It seemed like there were already signs of it.

  “John-Boy?”

  The voice was soft, and almost directly behind him. He turned sharply.

  His father must have been standing there for some time. His hands were in his back pockets and he was gazing distantly through the window.

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  His father moved up and leaned on the sill. “Pretty night.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  His father took a deep breath and looked at his hands. “I shouldn’t have sent you in the house the other night.”

  His father’s harsh command that night hadn’t really bothered John-Boy that much. He knew the anger was mostly directed at Sheriff Bridges. “I trust you, Daddy. And I believe in you. But—but sometimes I’m not even sure you want me to.”

  “I didn’t take the Claybournes’ silver, John-Boy.”

  “You know I didn’t think that, Daddy. But it’s—it’s as if you don’t trust me the way I do you.”

  “I’m sorry, John-Boy. I know it looks that way. But I did somethen’—somethin’ I’m not too proud of.”

  “Then why can’t you trust me? If somethin’ was botherin’ me, you’d expect me to tell you about it.”

  His father gazed at the mountains for a long time. “It doesn’t directly concern you, John-Boy. It doesn’t concern anybody but me—and one other person. And that person doesn’t even kno
w about it.”

  John-Boy felt a flash of anger. His father was talking in riddles, paying no attention to what he had been trying to tell him. But he quickly choked off any responses, remembering his mother’s anxious words. “Help your daddy, John-Boy. He’s a strong man and he likes to solve all his problems by himself. But even he needs help sometimes.”

  “Daddy, I don’t think I know what you’re talkin’ about. But I’ll do anythin’ in the world you want me to. I guess I love you and Mama so much—so much I can’t even say it in words. And I want to help.”

  There were suddenly tears standing in his father’s eyes. “John-Boy, there’s nothin’ you can do any more than you’ve just done. What you’ve said means a whole lot to me.”

  They stood for a long time, John-Boy wishing he could think of something more to say—or that his father would tell him something to do. His father finally sighed heavily. He put a hand on John-Boy’s shoulder, then moved away.

  “Better be comin’ up pretty soon, son.”

  Dr. Vance came late the next afternoon. He spent almost an hour upstairs. When he came down he accepted a cup of coffee, and everyone except Olivia and Erin gathered at the kitchen table.

  “So far, the removal of the splints appears to have caused no damage,” he said. “But it may be too early to tell. Unfortunately, there also appears to be no change in her reflexes. In light of that, I’m afraid I’m not optimistic.”

  “But Livvy says she’s got some feelin’ in the legs now,” John protested, “A lot more than a week ago.”

  Dr. Vance nodded. “That may mean nothing, Mr. Walton. Our sensory nerves can very easily deceive us. Many times people who lose a hand or a leg still have the sensation of feeling, as if they still had the limb. I’m inclined to think that is what your wife is experiencing.”

  “But how about the movement?” Grandpa said, “Sometimes Livvy can turn her ankles or lift her knees right up off the bed. We’ve seen it.”

  John-Boy knew the statement was only partially true. She had moved her ankles and knees. But just as often he had seen her struggle painfully with no results at all.

  “We have to be careful about drawing any conclusions,” Dr. Vance said. “If they are not totally destroyed, some of the nerves will recover to a certain degree. That generally happens with all polio patients. But you should understand, the recovery will be limited by the extent of the nerve damage. In other words, her progress could come to a complete standstill at any time.”

  “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t keep on tryin’,” Grandma said defiantly.

  Dr. Vance gazed solemnly across the table at John. “From what I can tell, it’s still not too late to put the leg braces back on, Mr. Walton. The worst possible damage can still be avoided. And I noticed a fine looking wheelchair standing in the hall up there.”

  “Mama doesn’t want to use a wheelchair!” John-Boy almost screamed. He was as surprised as everybody else by the anger in his words.

  “That’s right,” his father said more calmly, “I don’t think Livvy’ll even consider it until she’s tried everythin’ else. And I agree with her.”

  Dr. Vance nodded thoughtfully. He seemed to come to some kind of decision, and brought some papers from his pocket. “I’ve been aware of your decision, of course. And I suspected that no matter what I said today you wouldn’t change it. With that in mind, and thinking that as long as you’re going to continue the treatments, I had Dr. Pierce wire this woman in Australia.”

  “Sister Kenny!?”

  “Yes. It occurred to me that her techniques might have advanced some since those brochures were printed. In any case, here’s what she sent.” Dr. Vance smiled, aware of the shocked reaction his contradictory actions had created.

  “Doc,” John said, “that’s awful nice of you to go to all that trouble.”

  “And we appreciate it,” Grandma added.

  Dr. Vance rose and got his bag. “Well, if you’re going to do something, I guess you should do it exactly the way you’re supposed to.”

  John got quickly to his feet. “I’ll see you out to your car.”

  Dr. Vance was parked in front. As they passed through the living room and out the front door, John realized that up until a couple of minutes ago he had not liked Dr. Vance very much. From that moment two weeks ago when the doctor told him to sit down, and then announced that Olivia had polio, it had seemed like Dr. Vance’s only interest in Olivia was to get her into braces and a wheelchair as quickly as possible. But it was clear enough now that he was not as stubborn and narrow-minded as he appeared.

  “Doc,” John said when they reached the car, “I think maybe I owe you an apology. Your sendin’ off for those instructions was a generous thing to do.”

  Dr. Vance nodded as if he had been fully aware of the antagonism. “We all make mistakes, Mr. Walton,” he said quietly. “And maybe I was wrong.” He put his bag in the car, but stood for a minute, frowning thoughtfully. “I’m concerned about your wife. But I’ll confess, I’m also a little puzzled.”

  “How so?”

  “There are a lot of unusual aspects to her case. In fact, I talked to Dr. Miller at Boatwright College the other day, and he agreed with me. For one thing, her being able to sit up so quickly after the initial sickness. Generally, the attack is so severe the patient is left almost totally helpless for a considerable length of time.”

  “You mean it’s possible she doesn’t have polio?”

  “No, I don’t think there’s any question about her having had the disease. But it could be a matter of degree. It’s like any other disease—some people’s natural defenses fight off the invasions more successfully. It is possible, and there have been instances like this, where the attack on the nervous system stopped just short of doing permanent damage. Such cases are rare, but they happen.”

  “But wouldn’t she be better by now?”

  “Not necessarily. The attack could still have been severe enough that it would take some time for the nerves to recover. It’s like getting a hard blow on an arm or leg. The bones might not be broken, or the ligaments torn. But the muscles could be so bruised and swollen the limb would still be useless. In that case the recovery would be only a matter of time.”

  John’s hopes rose cautiously. My God, he thought, what wouldn’t he do to have Olivia be one of those rare cases.

  “It’s hard to know what is the right thing to do,” Dr. Vance went on, “If the nerves are destroyed—and in most instances this is the case—then the best thing is to put the splints back on and protect the limbs from excessive deformity. If the nerves are not destroyed, it still wouldn’t hurt to have the splints on. That’s why I feel it would be the safest procedure. On the other hand, if the nerves aren’t destroyed, the Sister Kenny treatment won’t hurt either. In fact it would probably be good for her.”

  “But there’s no way of telling for certain if the nerves have been destroyed?”

  Dr. Vance thought a minute and shook his head. “Perhaps in a hospital more delicate tests could be made. But even then it would be hard to tell if a nerve is really dead, or only temporarily numbed. No, I think it’s a matter of time, Mr. Walton. And maybe prayer. But what we’ll be praying for is something that’s already happened.” He smiled. “I guess it’s like waiting for the results of a baseball game that was played two weeks ago. We’re not praying for them to win, but to hear that they won.”

  “You mean what we do now won’t make any difference?”

  “It’ll make a great deal of difference if she was lucky two weeks ago. If the nerves are still alive, I think the Sister Kenny treatments will help them come out of shock, so to speak.” He got in the car and smiled. “I’m going to pray that she was lucky.”

  John watched him drive off—uncertain if he was encouraged, or more depressed than before. They were gambling. And from what Dr. Vance said, the odds were heavily against them. But for the sake of everyone else in the family, John could see no other choice but to gamble th
at Olivia had won.

  The papers the doctor had left contained detailed instructions for the massaging of the legs, along with day-by-day schedules for heat applications. Altogether, they were not a great deal different from what they were doing already. But they swept away any doubts, and gave everyone a new sense of determination.

  Although no one mentioned the subject out loud, it was clear that everybody at school knew about Mrs. Claybourne’s accusations. What relieved John-Boy was that almost everyone seemed to be on their side. “That Amelia Claybourne is stupid,” kids would remark casually. Or, “Martha Rose Coverdale is over there shootin’ off her big mouth again.”

  These indirect expressions of support were reassuring for the Waltons. But they still didn’t solve the problem. And what made it worse, the only place they could discuss it with any freedom was walking to and from school.

  “What’re we gonna do, John-Boy?”

  “I don’t know. I reckon we’ll just have to wait till Sheriff Bridges finds out what happened to the silver.”

  “What if he never finds out?”

  That was the worst thing that could happen, and the question that nagged at John-Boy.

  “If you ask me,” Jim-Bob said, “the Claybournes probably got all that silver hidden in their basement or something.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Because they’re mean,” Elizabeth said.

  “Nobody’d be that mean.”

  “Amelia would,” Erin said. “I wish she’d never come to our school. Why didn’t she just stay in her old fancy private school down in Richmond?”

  “They probably kicked her out.” Jason muttered.

  “Yeah, she’s so dumb,” Ben added.

  It was odd, John-Boy reflected, that the Claybournes had taken Amelia out of private school, particularly in the middle of the school year. That might be something to think about.

  X

  “I don’t know, John-Boy. I’m not sure I can go through with this.”