The
Waltons
A NEW NOVEL STARRING
JOHN-BOY WALTON, BASED ON
THE TELEVISION SERIES
CREATED BY EARL HAMNER, JR.
John-Boy had no special plans for spring vacation.
Then he saw a flicker of light in the deserted old Pendleton house. That was how it all began . . .
He fell in love.
He got mixed up with the law.
He got involved in a wholesale bootlegging operation.
Where would it all end?
JENNY PENDLETON
There was no question of her being about the prettiest girl he had ever laid eyes on. He had been struck by this the minute he saw her standing out in that backyard with the lantern light on her face. And then, after they got home, he had caught himself staring at her in the kitchen. And when she looked back at him he felt a crazy kind of embarrassment he had never experienced before.
Later, he slowly wrote her name on a blank pad, Jenny. It was an important day in his life. He finally returned the pad to the desk drawer, climbed into bed and switched off the lamp. He listened but could hear no sounds from the girls’ room. He smiled, picturing Jenny’s hair spread across the pillow as she slept. He hoped she liked it here . . .
Bantam Books by Robert Weverka
GRIFF
MOONROCK
SEARCH
THE STING
THE WALTONS
THE WALTONS
A Bantam Book / published December 1974
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1974 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
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayed of a bantam, is registered in the United States Patent Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, Inc., 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10019.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
THE
WALTONS
I
It had been an unusually cold winter. From Christmas through the middle of March the ground was frozen and the barren trees stood like charred skeletons in the biting frost. It was a difficult time for Olivia Walton. Washing had to be strung across the kitchen and back porch to dry, and the weather forced the children inside and underfoot most of the time.
The demand for firewood was brisk, and John Walton kept busy. But hauling logs down from the mountain was a cold and finger-numbing task, as was delivering it after it was cut. John-Boy helped, and Grandpa Walton bundled himself up and pitched in as much as he could. The days were short, but seemed long, and in those bitter mornings John Walton no longer bothered looking at the thermometer.
Still, the evenings were pleasant and cozy. With the smells of damp wool and Grandma Walton’s pastries in the oven, the children did their homework by the fire while Olivia sewed and Grandpa chuckled quietly or carried on one-sided conversations with the voices on the radio.
The first signs of spring came in early April. Crocuses seemed to magically appear in full blossom; the first buds of green became visible on the alder and mulberry trees, and farmers could be seen plowing their fields under bright sunshine. John-Boy Walton watched, and marveled at the incredible power of nature in the changing season. How many millions of seeds were responding to this first warmth of spring? And how many billions of leaves would be coaxed and drawn from their frozen hibernation into the lush green landscapes of summer? And like the trees and the flowers, the people of Walton’s Mountain shed their protective mittens and heavy coats and once more seemed alive.
Spring vacation came in the second week of April. On the last Friday of school Miss Hunter was lenient with those who had not fully prepared their lessons. She overlooked the daydreaming and giggles and restless talking, and when the hour for dismissal came she wished them all a happy Easter and stood carefully away from the door to avoid the squealing, clattering rush into the sunshine.
John-Boy Walton had no special plans for the week. The last thing he expected to do was fall in love, or get mixed up with the law and a wholesale bootlegging operation. As far as John-Boy knew there would only be the usual chores, and he would help his mother start a vegetable garden. And he would do some writing. Springtime seemed particularly suited for poetic thoughts. And he would read—Mike Timberlake had agreed to trade his copy of The Good Earth for John-Boy’s The Deerslayer.
“Beats me why you wanta read a book about China,” Grandpa observed when John-Boy set out for Mike Timberlake’s house, “ ’pears to me all them Chinamen ever do is grow rice and have more babies.”
“The book won the Pulitzer Prize, Grandpa.”
“Won the Pullet Surprise, did it? Well, can’t be much of a book if the best it can do is win a chicken.”
It was one of Grandpa’s favorite jokes and he was always delighted with an opportunity to use it.
It was growing dark when John-Boy started home from the Timberlake house. The nights were still chilly, and with the book clamped under his arm and the collar of his jacket turned up he hurried past the church and up the road toward the old Pendleton house.
John-Boy had only a dim recollection of the Pendleton family. Eight or nine years ago when he was about Jim-Bob’s age, everyone always moved very quietly past the Pendleton house, and spoke only in whispers. Mrs. Pendleton was sick and permanently confined to her bed, which made her existence seem frighteningly mysterious to their immature minds. And the Pendleton girl was extremely shy and never spoke of her mother, which heightened the mystery. It also stimulated fertile imaginations: Mrs. Pendleton had two heads, each with a single eyeball in the middle of the forehead. Others claimed to have peered through the window and seen a raving beauty with long blond tresses—her arms and legs securely chained to the bedposts.
The fact was, John-Boy learned years later from his father, Mrs. Pendleton was a very nice woman who suffered from a lung disease, and her husband had finally moved her to the warmer climate of Florida. But with the house vacant all these years, and with the weeds growing thicker and the paint now totally gone, the place still served as a perfect setting for tales of witches and ghosts and goblins. John-Boy smiled at those recollections as he hunched his shoulders against the cold and glanced up at the shuttered windows of the old house. It was easy to imagine creaking doors and rattling chains and wisps of vaporized spirits floating up the dusty stairways. After all these years there could be thousands of ghosts inside, crowded into dark closets, bumping into each other, laughing and planning—all anxiously waiting for Halloween to go out and terrorize the children of Walton’s Mountain.
John-Boy’s upward glance was brief. It swept vaguely across the upper windows and then back to the dark road in front of him. Then his heart leaped into his throat and he stopped breathing for a moment.
Had he seen something in the window? John-Boy stopped and looked again.
On the far left, one of the shutters had been partly torn loose and now dangled crookedly from an upper hinge. It was there, in that narrow triangle of exposed glass, that he’d seen the flicker of light.
Or had he? Of course he hadn’t—it was impossible.
He stood perfectly still for a minute, staring, his eyes focused narrowly on the dark window. It was ridiculous to think anyone was in that old house. Still he didn’t move. He watched the window, his senses alert, listening. But there was nothing.
In the bushes at the side of the house a cricket chirped furiously and then stopped as abruptly as it started. But the house stood dark a
nd lonely and silent, displaying no evidence of light or movement inside.
Could it have been a reflection? John-Boy glanced down the road and at the fields behind him. There were no house lights that might have flickered off the windowpane. Nor were there any flashing headlights from automobiles.
John-Boy stared at the house for another minute and then laughed to himself as he turned and headed for home again. The light he had seen in the window was clearly a product of his own imagination. Thinking about creaking doors and rattling chains and vaporized ghosts, it was not surprising that he should imagine the spirit of Mrs. Pendleton floating through bedrooms with a candle in her hand. Ten years ago he had half believed all of those wild stories. And now that he was old enough to know better, those childhood fears were coming back to play tricks on him. John-Boy gave the house one more backward glance and then smiled as he continued along the road.
While John-Boy was hurrying home that night, the topic of heated discussion at the Walton supper table was tadpoles. It was not a theoretical discussion, for standing squarely in the middle of the supper table was an old gallon-sized pickle jar containing a countless mass of the squirming creatures. With Olivia’s kitchen strainer Mary Ellen had scooped them all out of the nearby pond and into the confinement of the jar, and they had been placed on the table for the purpose of observation and safekeeping.
Reactions to their presence were sharply divided. Thirteen-year-old Erin, who always arrived at the table with immaculate hands and fastidious manners, protested the most vehemently.
“I don’t see how anyone can be expected to have an appetite with those slimy things staring at him all the time. Yuccch!”
“They’re not slimy things, and you don’t have to look at them.”
“How can anybody avoid lookin’ at them when you put them right in front of our faces?”
“I think they’re fun,” Jim-Bob countered. Along with Ben and Elizabeth he had helped Mary Ellen at the pond, and was unable to keep his eyes off the slithering mass.
Seated next to him, Grandma had the opposite problem. After one shuddering glance she avoided looking at them at all costs. “I don’t see why we have to have the nasty things at the table.”
“They’re not nasty, Grandma.”
“Huh! If those things aren’t nasty, I don’t know what is.”
“If you like them so much, why don’t you just put them on your plate with your supper,” Erin said with disgust.
After ten minutes of such debate Olivia decided it was time for compromise. “Mary Ellen, I really don’t think it’s necessary to have them on the table. Couldn’t you put them out of sight until we’re through?”
“Aw, gee, Mama—” but she quickly gave up the protest in the face of Olivia’s firm smile. She placed the jar at her feet and contented herself with surreptitious downward peeks, along with some sharply disapproving glances at Erin.
Grandpa had finished his meatloaf and pulled back his cuffs for the ritual of cutting his corn from the cob. “What’re you goin’ to do with all them polliwogs anyway, Mary Ellen?”
“Start a bullfrog farm.”
“I never heard of such a thing. You gonna plant ’em?”
“Of course not, Grandpa. We’re gonna let ’em grow into frogs and get rich. Just like Elwood P. Fairweather.”
“Never heard of a rich frog,” Grandpa smiled. “You say his name is Elwood P. Fairweather?”
“Oh, Grandpa!” Mary Ellen said over the laughter.
John Walton had smiled with amusement through the initial controversy. Now he looked curiously at Mary Ellen. “Who in the world is Elwood P. Fairweather?”
“Elwood P. Fairweather just happens to be one of the richest men in the world. And he made about six hundred million dollars sellin’ bullfrogs’ legs to restaurants. I read about him in Liberty magazine.”
“I don’t believe it,” Erin said haughtily.
“You’ll believe it when all the people with restaurants in Charlottesville and Richmond come beggin’ us to sell ’em frogs’ legs.”
“We’re gonna make a million dollars,” seven-year-old Elizabeth said gravely.
Ben nodded. “We’ve already caught almost a hundred of ’em.”
“And we’re goin’ to get another hundred tomorrow,” Mary Ellen added.
“If you think you’re goin’ to keep a hundred bullfrogs in our room,” Erin said, “I’m movin’ out.”
“I’m just gonna keep the tadpoles there till they turn into bullfrogs.”
“Yes, and they’ll probably be hoppin’ all over the room. Suppose I have to get up in the middle of the night. You want me to step on one?”
“I just told you, I’m only—”
“All right,” Olivia said gently, “I think it’s time we called a truce. And I think it would be a good idea if you kept the pollywogs outside somewhere, Mary Ellen.”
Any protest was cut short by Reckless’s sudden barking outside the back door. It was not the sound of alarm, but his half-moaning, half-squealing bark of happy welcome. A moment later the screen door slammed and John-Boy came in.
Olivia rose to get the warming meatloaf from the oven. “I don’t appreciate your bein’ late for supper, young man. Get yourself washed up.”
“I’m sorry, Mama.”
“Where you been, son?” John asked.
“I was over at Mike Timberlake’s gettin’ a book. I guess I didn’t see how late it was.”
“Get that chicken winner, did ya?” Grandpa asked.
“Yes, I did, Grandpa.” John-Boy washed quickly, then spotted the tadpole jar as he sat down. “What’re those for?”
“That’s dessert,” Grandpa laughed. “For the last person to finish supper.”
“We don’t need no more talk like that, old man,” Grandma said and rose to help clear the table.
“Daddy?” John-Boy asked, filling his plate. “Do the Pendletons still own that old house down the road?”
“Far as I know Dave Pendleton still owns it. His wife died a few years ago. Why?”
“I just wondered.” Now that he was home John-Boy was more certain than ever that his eyes had been playing tricks on him. “Seems crazy to leave that house empty and let it just fall apart like that.”
“Well, I guess Dave figured to come back sometime. I been keepin’ an eye on it for him all these years.”
“The place is haunted, you know,” Grandpa said.
John grinned. “That’s what they say. Guess that’s as good a way as any to keep people away from it.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” Grandma sighed, “considerin’ all the tragedy that house has seen. That poor Laura Pendleton all consumptive an’ everythin’. It was a mercy she died.”
John-Boy ate in silence while the others finished clearing the table.
“You could bring in some wood for the stove after supper, John-Boy,” John said. “And I expect you and me could be gettin’ another half cord cut up before bedtime, Grandpa.”
Grandpa nodded, but neither of the men made a move to rise. They had worked hard all day, and nobody questioned a man’s right to relax a few minutes after supper before he returned to work.
Much of the wood they cut now would be stacked and allowed to dry out for next winter, while the better logs would be fine-cut for building purposes. Not that there was much building going on in Walton’s Mountain, or even over in Charlottesville. The way things were, a man was lucky he wasn’t being foreclosed and evicted, much less planning on building something new. But barns and fences and roofs had to be repaired, and John Walton liked to have lumber stock on hand if the opportunity arose to sell it.
Grandpa stretched, sat back, and gazed thoughtfully over at Olivia, who had returned to scrubbing clothes. “John,” he said. “When you goin’ to buy Livvy one o’ them new washin’ machines?”
The question was asked casually, as if Grandpa didn’t really expect a serious answer. But John-Boy saw the quick shadow pass across his father’s eyes. C
onsidering that an accumulation of four or five dollars cash at any time was a rarity, a new washing machine was out of the question. John glanced at Olivia and smiled grimly.
“Grandpa, it’s about all I can do right now to put food on this table.”
Olivia laughed and picked up another dirty shirt. “I wouldn’t know how to work one of those things anyway, Grandpa.”
“You could learn, couldn’t you, Mama?” Jason asked from the sink.
“Oh, I reckon I could, Jason. But what’s the use wishin’ for things you can’t have?”
John-Boy suddenly felt a pang of sympathy for his father. Grandpa had meant nothing by the question—he was only making conversation. But John-Boy could feel his father’s embarrassment and the frustration at not being able to buy his family all the things he might have wished.
When the new Sears & Roebuck catalog came just before Christmas, the whole family had gone through it page by page marveling at the clothes and appliances and toys and machinery. But none of them—except maybe Elizabeth—seriously expected to get any of those things. The brand name of the washing machines was Water Witch, and they had all looked admiringly at the gleaming white pictures of the Good, Better, and Best models until his mother insisted they move on. Olivia Walton, more than any of them, knew the foolishness of hopeless dreams.
“Well,” Grandpa said, “as long as we’re wishin’, I think I’ll take one o’ them new Packard motorcars. With yellow paint. How ’bout you, John?”
John Walton was thoughtful for a minute, then he pushed his chair back. “I think I’ll take Livvy, Grandpa.” He grinned and crossed the room. “Why, scrubbin’ clothes ain’t so bad. How do you think this pretty little girl keeps so skinny? Look at her! After givin’ us seven thoroughbred children, why she’s still got a figure like an eighteen-year-old!”
“Oh, John, don’t be silly! John, you’re gonna get yourself all wet!”
He lifted her hands from the tub of soapy water and hoisted her from the floor, swinging her by the waist.
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