Once they had made a broad turn, which carried them through a weed patch and back onto the road, Miss Mamie operated the vehicle as if she believed her only obligation was to keep her hat in place and keep a tight grip on the wheel to avoid falling out. Left to its own devices, the car angled to one side until its wheels caromed into a ditch or a plowed field. At that point Miss Mamie, smiling benignly, made a sharp correction and they angled slowly across the road toward the opposite shoulder.
“You’re just goin’ to love Cousin Homer Lee, John-Boy,” Miss Emily said. “It’s so rare to encounter a true gentleman these days. And my, how he enjoys Papa’s Recipe! I do so enjoy seein’ a man eat and drink with such vigor, don’t you, Mamie?”
Miss Mamie struggled with the wheel, straightened her hat, and sent them back on a leftward course. “It truly is a pleasure, sister. I just can’t hardly remember the last time we had a man around the house.”
John-Boy held his breath each time they approached the edge of the road. But what concerned him even more was the possibility that he might be seen with the Baldwin sisters, and he kept a sharp lookout for anyone in the fields or walking along the road.
He had no idea what kind of work they had in mind for him, or if it was just for the day or would require him to return several times. If whatever it was could be completed in one afternoon, he could very likely tell his mother about it without her getting too upset. The job would be done and she would see that he had not been corrupted or enticed into evil ways by their famous Recipe.
“Isn’t the springtime lovely,” Miss Emily was saying. “I just love to see all the little flowers a-blossomin’ and the birds singin’. It’s a joy to drive through the countryside again. Don’t you think so, John-Boy?”
“Yes, ma’am,” John-Boy said. Then for the tenth time he caught his breath as Miss Mamie fought the wheel and set them back on a starboard course.
The original Baldwin mansion had been destroyed in the Civil War. All that remained of the four Grecian columns and gracious verandas were a few stumps protruding from the weed-covered foundations. In a shady grove a few hundred yards beyond the original site Judge Baldwin had constructed a miniature replica of the mansion, and Miss Mamie carefully aimed the car at an open garage attached to the side. She stiffened, her foot against the brake pedal, and the car groaned, shuddered, and bucked, then choked into silence as they came to a perfectly positioned stop inside.
“Well!” Miss Mamie sighed, “wasn’t that a delightful drive?”
“I declare, sister, you’re gettin’ better every time we go out. Don’t you think so, John-Boy?”
“Yes’m.”
From the garage, a door opened into a comfortable room, half of which was filled with coils of copper tubing, cauldrons, a wood-burning stove, and cupboards. The other half was furnished with leather chairs and low tables, giving it the appearance of a gentleman’s study.
“This is our Recipe room, John-Boy.” Miss Mamie smiled. “Did you know we still make Papa’s Recipe? It’s such a comfort to us, and people come from all over Walton’s Mountain just to taste it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You can bring the supplies in here, and then just come on in and meet Cousin Homer Lee.”
The ladies went through a second door, removing their hats, and John-Boy brought the supplies in from the car. He had heard so many stories about the Baldwin sisters’ Recipe room he was pleasantly surprised by its homey appearance. He had expected something more like a medieval dungeon with mossy walls and torture racks.
When he finished unloading the car, John-Boy went through the kitchen and followed the sound of voices into the living room, where he had his first view of Cousin Homer Lee.
He was an impressively handsome man, standing casually by the fireplace. His silvery hair reached almost to his collar, and his goatee and string tie reminded John-Boy of pictures he had seen of famous southern senators. He was holding a silver goblet in his hand, chuckling softly as the two ladies giggled.
“Oh, Cousin Homer Lee, you say the nicest things. I declare, I just can’t for the life of me understand why you all haven’t married in all these years. Can you, Mamie?”
“Ah, the joys of wedded bliss I fear have escaped me,” Cousin Homer crooned. “Had I met a young lady with half the charm and beauty of either of my two favorite cousins, no doubt I would today be engulfed in a sea of happy grandchildren.”
“Oh, no, I think you’re just teasin’, Cousin Homer.” Miss Mamie blushed. “But I declare those are just the sweetest words to hear.”
“ ’Scuse me, Miss Mamie,” John-Boy said. “I got all the supplies put away. Is there anythin’ else you’ll be wantin’ me to do?”
“There certainly is, John-Boy. You can just come right in here this minute an’ meet Cousin Homer Lee Baldwin from Buckin’ham County! Cousin Homer Lee, this is John-Boy Walton. He’s goin’ to be a writer!”
“Indeed!” Cousin Homer Lee said. He quickly crossed the room and shook John-Boy’s hand. “An honor, sir, an honor. I have always held the profession of journalism in the highest regard.”
John-Boy nodded, but Cousin Homer continued to pump his hand. “And what line of work are you in, sir?”
“My line of work? Of late, sir, I have been a traveler. A sojourner pursuing commercial activities of varied and diverse natures.”
“I didn’t know that, Homer Lee!” Miss Mamie exclaimed.
Miss Emily was equally surprised. “A sojourner! How romantic! But how anybody could bear to leave Buckin’ham County is beyond me!”
“Oh, it’s been twenty years since I was in Buckin’ham County, Miss Emily.”
“I vow! Twenty years away from Buckin’ham County and we never knew!”
“You must be dyin’ to see everybody, Cousin Homer.”
“Ah, yes. The absence from my dear family has been a constant ache to my heart, Miss Mamie.”
Miss Emily patted the cushion beside her. “John-Boy, you just come over here and sit down. Doesn’t Cousin Homer just say things in the most poetic way? He so reminds me of Ashley Longworth.”
“Ashley Longworth,” Cousin Homer reflected. “As I recall he was the young man your father had to shoot, wasn’t he?”
“Oh, no,” Miss Emily corrected, “Papa never shot him. He just shook the gun at Ashley and suggested he leave the premises.”
“And he left.” Miss Mamie smiled. “Like a flash.”
“Ah, yes. The young man took liberties as I recall.”
Miss Emily blushed. “Kissed me. Right out there under the maple tree.”
“With no talk of marriage?”
“None whatsoever!” Miss Mamie said indignantly.
“Well, I’m sure he would have gotten around to a proposal sooner or later.” Miss Emily smiled. “If nothin’ else, Ashley Longworth was a gentleman.”
“No doubt. And a gentleman with superior tastes, I might add,” Cousin Homer smiled.
John-Boy wondered how long their reminiscing would go on, and if the Baldwin sisters had any other work for him. The ladies didn’t seem to mind, but it appeared to him that Cousin Homer overdid the compliments and sweet talk a little.
“Wouldn’t it be lovely,” Miss Emily sighed, “if Ashley would come back and visit again. And if we could have a grand party like we used to have when Papa was alive?”
“Why don’t we just do that?” Miss Mamie said. “Why don’t we just have a family reunion!”
“What a fine idea!” Miss Emily exclaimed. “A family reunion! And a big party so Cousin Homer Lee could see the whole family all at once!”
Cousin Homer looked doubtful. “Are there any Baldwins left after all these years?”
“Oh, my, yes! Why there must be hundreds of them!”
“Well, now, let me think,” Miss Mamie said. “Cousin Cora moved to Washington, or some such outlandish place. And a good many of the others are dead. But never you mind, we’ll round up what’s left!”
“And we�
��ll make just oceans of the Recipe!” Miss Emily said.
Cousin Homer seemed to perk up with the last statement. He emptied his goblet and smiled his approval. “Indeed, it would be a good idea to make an abundant supply of the Recipe, ladies. I must say, with due respect to the memory of your dear, departed father, I am inclined to judge that your efforts have resulted in a nectar of even superior quality.”
“Oh, no,” Miss Mamie protested. “We’ve followed Papa’s Recipe precisely to the letter. We wouldn’t dream of changin’ it.” She smiled at Miss Emily. “Perhaps Cousin Homer Lee would like a sip more.”
“Ah,” Cousin Homer Lee said. “A small portion, perhaps, to moisten the throat.”
“You’ll help us with the reunion, won’t you, John-Boy?”
John-Boy hesitated, startled by the sudden question. Helping with the reunion meant he would have to spend considerably more time at the Baldwins’.
“Of course John-Boy will help,” Miss Emily said. “He has to earn enough money to pay for the new washin’ machine.”
“Splendid!” Miss Mamie cried, “Oh, what a grand party it will be! And Emily, we’re goin’ to have to buy more supplies. John-Boy, if we make a list, can you give it to Mr. Godsey?”
For the second time today John-Boy felt trapped. Somehow, the Baldwin sisters’ enthusiasm seemed to sweep him inevitably into impossible situations. He nodded politely. “Yes’m, I can do that.”
After lunch John-Boy spent the remainder of the afternoon clearing weeds from in front of the house, and then standing around while the sisters tried to figure out how furniture could be moved to provide room for a houseful of guests. Cousin Homer Lee took a nap, but he suddenly appeared from the side of the garage just as John-Boy was starting home.
“Beautiful country around here, isn’t it, John-Boy,” he remarked as he fell into step.
“Yes sir.”
“Ah, how I envy you. A young man, springtime, the world at your doorstep. My dear cousins tell me you’re the smartest boy in all Walton’s Mountain.”
“Well . . .” John-Boy shrugged.
“Don’t be modest, son.” He put an arm on John-Boy’s shoulder. “The moment you stepped in that door I could see what an alert young man you are. You’ll go far in this world, John-Boy. In the field of journalism you have a very high callin’, and I look forward to seein’ your name emblazoned in literary history alongside those of Mark Twain and my dear friend, Sinclair Lewis.”
John-Boy felt a flush of embarrassment. He glanced at Cousin Homer Lee, wondering if the man really did know Sinclair Lewis.
Homer Lee frowned, his lips pursed. “Now let me see—what was it I wanted to speak to you about, John-Boy? Ah, yes, the list. I believe my dear cousins entrusted you with a list of additional supplies they might require for their forthcoming family reunion.”
“Yes sir.” John-Boy brought the list from his pocket.
Cousin Homer Lee stopped and gave the sheet careful study. “Ah, yes, just as I feared. Bless their dear souls, the last thing I should like to see happen to Cousin Emily and Cousin Mamie is to be accused of a lack of hospitality. As the daughters of the honorable Morley Baldwin, you can appreciate the pride they take in being gracious hostesses, can’t you, John-Boy?”
“Yes sir.”
“Of course you can. You are a bright boy. But in this list I foresee the possibility of a most awkward situation. You can imagine a horde of Baldwins swarming over the dear ladies’ home and the unfortunate outcome of such a gathering if there should turn out to be an insufficiency of Recipe on hand for the pleasure of the guests.”
“Yes sir.”
Cousin Homer drew a pencil from his coat and touched it to his tongue. “Very well, John-Boy. We can insure against such a calamitous contingency by a very simple act, John-Boy, a mere stroke of the pen. Shall we say we double these figures? Twelve dozen jars instead of six dozen? And the same with grain and malt, of course. Or do you think we should triple the order?”
“Well, I—”
“No, you are quite right. Double should provide an amply comfortable margin.” He handed the sheet back. “And now we can both sleep more easily, eh? You’d better hurry along, John-Boy, it’ll be dark shortly.”
A quarter of a mile down the road John-Boy looked back. Cousin Homer Lee was still standing on the crest of the hill. His hands were in his pockets and he seemed to be smiling. He waved, and John-Boy waved back.
John-Boy smiled to himself as he approached Ike Godsey’s store. In spite of their strange behavior, Miss Emily and Miss Mamie were certainly sweet and generous old ladies. But Cousin Homer Lee was odder yet. If everyone in the Baldwin family was like the Baldwin sisters and their cousin, the upcoming reunion should be quite a sight. And twelve dozen bottles of Recipe would likely turn it into the social event of the decade.
Ike Godsey was curled over the pool table lining up a shot when John-Boy came in. Behind him, Ep Bridges, the Sheriff, was watching with a Coke in his hand.
“How you keepin’, John-Boy?” Ep asked.
“Fine. Just fine.”
“Been keepin’ on the right side of the law?”
The sheriff’s narrow look made John-Boy uneasy for a minute. Helping the Baldwin sisters could probably be worked around to some kind of criminal activity if Ep Bridges wanted to make something of it.
Ep Bridges had been the Sheriff in Walton’s Mountain as long as John-Boy could remember, and he was well aware of the Baldwin sisters’ Recipe-making activities. But the only time he paid much attention to it was when one of the husbands of the church ladies came home a little overindulged, and the lady complained to him. On those occasions Ep drove out to the Baldwins’ for a visit and then informed the aggrieved lady that it would never happen again. As long as nobody was hurt and no illegal profits were being made, Ep Bridges’s philosophy was “Live and let live.”
“Yes, sir,” John-Boy murmured, “I been keepin’ on the right side of the law.”
“Glad to hear it, boy. Hate to have to arrest the only writer we got in this part of the country.”
Ike missed his shot. A look of disgust came to his face and he slowly straightened.
“You’re tryin too hard, Ike.” Ep grinned. “You gotta take it slow and easy like.” He put his Coke down and studied the balls.
“Ike?” John-Boy asked. “Can I see you a minute?”
“Sure, John-Boy.” Ike put down his cue and moved to the front of the store. “How’d the job work out?”
“Okay. I’d like to put a deposit on that washer. A dollar.”
“Fine. I’ll give you a receipt.”
“You’ll hold it for me now, won’t you, Ike?”
Ike scribbled out a receipt. “John-Boy, if times were better, I’d hold it till doomsday for you. But I’ve got to sell that machine to the first bidder.”
“But I’ve put a dollar down!”
“What that means is you’ve got nineteen to go. Somebody else buys it, you get your dollar back.”
Ike was right, he supposed. He had no real claim on the machine until he paid up in full. He glanced over at Sheriff Bridges, then handed Ike the note from the Baldwin sisters. “Miss Mamie and Miss Emily want to order some more stuff.”
Ike blinked at the list. “Twelve dozen jars! You sure they want that many?”
Ep Bridges must have heard, but he showed no sign of it. He moved around the pool table to line up another shot.
“They’re gonna have company, Ike. A big reunion of the whole family.”
“Whew,” Ike breathed, “that’s gonna be some reunion. Okay, John-Boy, you can tell ’em I’ll have it all in a day or two.”
It had been a long day for John-Boy, but he was pleased with himself as he started home in the darkness. If he earned a dollar a day he would have seven or eight dollars before school started again. And maybe after the reunion the Baldwin sisters would still have some work for him. Or maybe Ike would have something by then. Between now and summertime he co
uld certainly find some way to earn the balance of the twenty dollars. John-Boy turned up his collar and smiled as he walked, picturing his mother’s surprise when he gave her the washer.
He would tell his father about it after the washer was all paid for. Then they could drive over and pick it up in the truck and hide it out in the barn somewhere. He could clean it up and polish it until it looked like new and then maybe at night, after she had gone to bed, they could sneak it into the kitchen so she would see it the first thing in the morning. Or maybe he could give it to her at suppertime, when everybody was there. He could make up a little speech about how much they all loved her and wanted her to have something nice because they appreciated how hard she worked. And they weren’t doing it because it was her birthday, or Christmas, or any other special day; she was special to them every day. John-Boy could picture her confusion and curiosity, and saying, “What in the world are you all talking about?” And then he and his father and Grandpa would go to the back door and carry it in.
The anticipation of that day gave John-Boy a rush of warmth, and redoubled his resolve to somehow get the money. He turned the corner at the old Pendleton house, and then, an instant later, all thoughts of money and washing machines fled from his mind.
It was the sound that first caught his attention—the low, almost imperceptible, vibrating notes of a pipe organ. John-Boy stopped, listening, and then once again his heart leaped into his throat as he found himself staring across the weed-covered yard of the old Pendleton house.
Was his mind playing tricks on him again? He stared, the dark silhouette of the house barely visible against the gray-black sky.
The sound came again, this time a chord—a strident, off-key dissonance in a higher register. John-Boy had no doubts now. The sounds were from an organ and they were coming from inside the house. The notes held for a moment, then went silent again.
John-Boy’s heart pounded. He didn’t believe in ghosts. Nor did he believe an organ could play by itself. For a full minute he stared at the dark shutters, scarcely breathing, waiting, listening intently for the sounds to resume. But now there was only silence.
The Waltons 1 Page 3
