John-Boy was hardly conscious of the car stopping. But he stumbled out and followed the Sheriff into the Pendleton house.
“She might have come back,” Ep said.
But the house was empty. John-Boy went from room to room, calling her name, and then did the same upstairs. Sheriff Bridges searched the backyard and came back empty-handed.
“You ain’t got no notion of where she might have gone, John-Boy?”
John-Boy shook his head, but then had a remote thought. Could she have gone up on the mountain? Might she have run blindly up to those charred ruins—the place where she and John-Boy had first found each other?
“You got an idea?”
“No. I was just thinkin’. Maybe I’d just better start workin’ my way back toward home.” If Jenny was on the mountain he wanted to be with her—alone, just the two of them.
“Okay. I’ll go the other way. And if you find anythin’ you let me know, John-Boy.”
“I will.”
John-Boy waited until the Sheriff drove off before he looked up at the mountain. He knew she was up there. She had to be there. Let her be there, he prayed as he headed out across the dark fields.
John-Boy stopped the minute he came within sight of the old house. In the darkness he could see only the black silhouette of the chimney rising from the ruins, and there was no movement in the shadows. For a minute fear stopped him from moving closer. If Jenny wasn’t there he didn’t know what he would do, or if he could bear it. To the anguish and despair that already gripped his heart would be added the painful knowledge that her flight had taken her away instead of closer to him.
And then he saw her. It was a small, almost invisible shadow crouched close to the chimney.
“Jenny!”
He was running, arms outstretched, almost to the house before the cry came from his throat. He half stumbled over the foundation, and then he was beside her, holding her, lifting her in his arms. “Jenny! Jenny, my love!”
He was crying, repeating her name, kissing her on the face and forehead, and then he held her tight, rocking her gently back and forth as he cried. And then his heart stopped beating.
John-Boy drew back, holding her at arm’s length and stared into her face. She was looking back at him, but the face was expressionless, and her eyes seemed to be focused on something far beyond him.
“Jenny?”
She seemed not to hear. Her eyes drifted away, and she came limply forward as John-Boy drew her into his arms again. “Oh, my God,” he breathed.
X
“Physically, there’s not a thing wrong with Jenny,” Dr. Shackleford said. “And there’s no medicine I can prescribe that will do her much good. But I’ll leave you some mild sedatives.”
“Is she goin’ to be all right?” John-Boy asked.
Dr. Shackleford sat on the edge of a straight-backed chair and stuffed his stethoscope into his black bag. He had been with Jenny for almost an hour before he came downstairs.
“That’s hard to say, John-Boy. These things can be very complicated. Basically it’s a case of shock. To a certain extent all of us shut out the rest of the world when we encounter extremely painful situations. It’s a form of self-protection. We fear we can’t cope with the problem, so we deny its existence. In most cases, however, we recover quickly. We take a deep breath, and one by one we accept the facts, knowing that time will eventually heal the wounds.” He placed a small bottle on the table and snapped his bag shut.
“You think that’ll happen with Jenny?”
Dr. Shackleford thought for a minute. “I hope so,” he finally sighed. “But we have to appreciate the fact that Jenny has had more than her share of troubles. I understand she lost her mother not too long ago. No doubt that made her attachment to her father that much stronger. It’s hard for us to imagine the emotional impact his death must be having on her. You say she hasn’t spoken at all since you found her last night?”
“Not a word,” John said. He and Olivia were sitting on the couch. The others were scattered around the room, with most of the children hovering by the kitchen door. Dr. Shackleford nodded.
“It could be a long process, I’m afraid.”
The next question was hovering darkly in all of their minds. Mary Ellen asked it. “What if she never comes out of it?”
John-Boy almost wished it hadn’t been asked. He looked quickly at Dr. Shackleford.
“There’s that chance,” he said. “If it goes on too long she will eventually lose touch with reality altogether.”
John-Boy caught his breath. The thought of Jenny never speaking again, or spending the rest of her life in a mental institution, was inconceivable.
“But there certainly must be somethin’ we can do,” Olivia said.
Dr. Shackleford gave her a sympathetic smile. “I imagine you’re already doing it. There’s only one medicine I know of that can be any help at all. And you’ve got plenty of it right here.”
“What’s that, Doc?” John asked.
“It’s all of you. Love. Jenny needs love and kindness more than anything. And I don’t know where she can get more of it than right here.” He picked up his bag and rose. “Well, I’ve got a long road ahead of me. I’ll stop by again tomorrow if I get a chance.”
John quickly got up and escorted him out the door. When they were gone Olivia smiled bravely. “Now, why don’t you children all go outside for a while. We’ll let you know if Jenny’s any better.”
Grandpa pulled himself to his feet. “Yeah. How’s that frog farm of yours comin’ along? Any of ’em ready to eat yet?”
“No, they’re still tadpoles, Grandpa.”
“Well, let’s take a look. Maybe you’re not feedin’ ’em right.”
The children reluctantly followed Grandpa through the kitchen and out the back door.
“John-Boy, you’d better get some sleep. Why don’t you go up in the boys’ room and lie down? Grandma and I can sit with Jenny.”
The words took a minute to penetrate John-Boy’s dazed consciousness. She was right; he was exhausted. “Okay, Mama,” he murmured. He got up and moved wearily toward the stairs.
He fell asleep the minute he dropped onto Jason’s bed. Bringing Jenny down from the mountain, all his efforts to get her to speak, or cry, or even recognize his existence, and then the hours of sitting by her bed, talking to her, holding her hand, the long wait for the doctor, and then his disturbing statement that she might become a mental case; all these despairing frustrations suddenly numbed John-Boy into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Jenny was no better the next day. John-Boy, Grandma, and Olivia sat with her during the night, and after she nibbled at some breakfast they brought her down to a chair on the front porch. But Jenny still seemed lost somewhere behind her glazed, indifferent eyes. She might have been a hundred-year-old woman whose mind had receded into ancient memories.
They talked to her about her stepmother, telling her she would be home from the hospital the next morning. And when they were alone John-Boy held her hand and told her he loved her. But nothing seemed to penetrate. For long periods she stared vacantly toward the mountain, and then her eyes would close and her head droop as if in sleep.
John-Boy helped his father cut wood and the children did their chores or tended their tadpoles in subdued silence. The mood of the household was governed by Jenny’s affliction, and when Dr. Shackleford came late in the afternoon, they all gathered silently on the porch while he talked to her.
Eula would be home in the morning, he said, and needed her very much. Then he talked about her father, and what a fine man he was, and how, more than anything, he wanted Jenny to have a rich and happy life. He spoke to her in a gentle voice, and pointed out that she was surrounded by very dear friends who loved her and needed her love in return.
For an instant, John-Boy thought Jenny was going to respond. While the doctor was talking, her eyes moved sharply to him and she seemed to be listening. But then they grew hazy and drifted away again.
Dr. Shackleford finally rose, and John-Boy and his father followed him to the car. “It’s just going to take time,” he repeated. “I talked to a friend of mine in Richmond this morning, and he said that in cases like this they’ve had some luck with electric shock treatments. But I’m not sure I’d recommend that just yet. Still, if it keeps up too much longer it would be wise to put her under the full-time care of specialists.”
John-Boy shuddered at the words. They clearly meant an institution.
“Well, we’ll keep tryin’,” John said.
Dr. Shackleford nodded grimly and closed the car door. “Yes, that’s all any of us can do. I’ll come by when I can.”
John-Boy filled several pages of his notebook that night. For a while he sat beside Jenny, holding her hand, telling her of the house he would build when they got married, and how all of their children would look like her. And the children would raise tadpoles and sell frogs’ legs, and they would have a dog named Not-So-Reckless. He rambled on and on, sometimes laughing at the things that came out of his mouth, altogether surprising himself that he could talk so long without a pause. But Jenny’s distant silence finally brought him to a stop. Then he moved to his desk and got out his notebooks.
He was surprised to see how little he had written since the entry of the word Jenny. So much had happened since then. So many happy things, and so many sad things. John-Boy skipped several pages and wrote:
I fell in love with Jenny the moment she jumped up from that organ and ran out of the empty house. I didn’t know I loved her then. That wonderful feeling was not to come until the next day. But right now, Jenny is lying on the bed next to me. Her eyes are closed and her arm is resting across her forehead. She is more beautiful than ever, and yet she is not here. Her thoughts are torn and twisted with grief and fear, and she has withdrawn into some darkly secure corner of her mind. She does not know I am here, nor that I am writing these things about her. In a few minutes I will leave her alone and go downstairs to sleep. She . . .
John-Boy couldn’t go on. He took a deep breath and lifted his head for a minute in an effort to collect himself. And then Erin’s voice came softly from the next room.
“Goodnight. John-Boy.”
John-Boy looked over at the wall. “Goodnight, Erin.”
“Goodnight, Jason.”
“Goodnight, Erin.”
The good-nights were soft and touched with sadness as they echoed through the house. John-Boy put his notebooks and pencil away and moved to the edge of the bed. “Goodnight, Jason,” he called as he picked up Jenny’s hand.
“Goodnight, John-Boy.”
Jenny’s eyes were open now, but they still had that vacant, faraway look.
“Goodnight, Elizabeth. Goodnight, Mary Ellen.”
Elizabeth and Mary Ellen answered, and John-Boy responded to his mother’s and Ben’s voices.
Silence finally came. Bedsprings creaked in the next room, and then came his father’s distant yawn. But John-Boy didn’t move. He lifted a hand and touched Jenny’s forehead, gently brushing back a stray hair. “Goodnight, Jenny,” he murmured. He gazed at her for a minute, touching her cheek, and then his hand froze.
For an instant John-Boy distrusted his own senses. Through the past two days he had gazed into her eyes a thousand times, and each time he had seen nothing past the dull film of insensibility. But now the eyes were glistening. They were focused directly on him, and great wells of tears were beginning to tumble down her cheeks.
“Jenny!” he choked.
Her eyes closed tightly, her face contorted, and she was reaching for him, her body suddenly trembling with sobs. John-Boy drew her quickly into his arms. “It’s all right, Jenny. It’s just fine. Oh, dear Jenny, it’s fine, it’s fine.”
“Hold me, John-Boy,” she sobbed. “Please hold me.”
He held her. He stroked her hair and kissed her on the forehead and on her damp cheeks and held her some more.
He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He wanted to wake up the whole household with a shout of joy, at the same time he didn’t want to move from her side ever again. He held her tightly, rocking her gently from side to side, and then he smiled as he looked over at the door.
His mother was there, blinking back the tears as she watched them.
XI
Dave Pendleton’s funeral was held at the church the next day. In spite of his long absence from Walton’s Mountain the mourners filled the pews and spilled out over the front steps. Dave Pendleton was greatly respected, and it was well known that except for his first wife’s illness he would never have left the Mountain.
For John-Boy it was both a sad and a reassuring occasion. While the minister spoke of Dave Pendleton’s warmth and love and humor, John-Boy couldn’t help thinking of that night on the porch when they laughed so hard, and Dave Pendleton said there was nothing in the world that could make him any happier than he was then. John-Boy made no effort to stop the tears from running down his cheeks.
But seeing Jenny, and her efforts to console Eula through the service, brought him a renewed feeling of relief and joy.
She had left the house early that morning. She apologized for the troubles she had caused everybody, but everyone in the family had hugged and kissed her and told her how much they loved her. And then John-Boy’s father had driven her home.
Dr. Shackleford permitted Eula to attend the funeral, but as quickly as it was over he drove her and Jenny back to their house. The others quietly dispersed, and Sheriff Bridges walked along with the Waltons.
“Too bad,” he said, “Dave was a good man.”
“You ever find out exactly what happened, Ep?” John asked.
It was just one of those things, the Sheriff told them. Dave and Eula were on a narrow dirt road, apparently taking the long way home, enjoying the ride, and a farmer came around a blind curve in his truck. The farmer didn’t have a scratch on him. But he drove Dave and Eula to the hospital as quickly as he could.
“Say, John-Boy,” Ep asked after a pause, “I don’t s’pose you’ve been out to the Baldwins’ in the last couple days, have you?”
“No,” John-Boy told him.
“Well I’d sure like to know what’s goin’ on out there. Been so busy I haven’t had much time to keep a lookout for Cousin Homer. I don’t s’pose you could run your truck out there and check for me, could you?”
John-Boy looked at his father, who glanced at Olivia.
“John-Boy doesn’t have a driver’s license, Sheriff. And I’m not too fond of his being around bootleggers anyway.”
“Well, Miz Walton, John-Boy’s a good enough driver. I’ve seen how he handles that truck of yours. And I don’t reckon Cousin Homer’s all that dangerous at all.”
Olivia gave the Sheriff a dark look. She didn’t approve of John-Boy driving without a license, and she approved even less of a sheriff who helped young men break the law. And her objections to John-Boy being around the Baldwins’ had nothing to do with the possibility of Cousin Homer being dangerous.
“Let him go, Livvy.” John smiled. “If he’ll be helpin’ Ep round up a bootlegger I reckon we shouldn’t stop him.”
“Very well,” Olivia sighed. “But I don’t see why Ep can’t just go out there and arrest the whole bunch of ’em.”
John-Boy was pleased with the decision. He could make his visit to the Baldwins’ very short—just long enough to establish that Cousin Homer was still there—and then he could stop by the Pendletons’ to see Jenny. When they all got home he changed quickly, wheeled the truck out to the road, and shoved the gas pedal to the floor.
The Baldwin sisters had heard about Dave Pendleton’s death and Jenny’s period of shock. As quickly as John-Boy turned off the motor they were hurrying across from the porch.
“My, it’s just the saddest thing I ever heard, John-Boy.”
“And poor little Jenny. I do hope she’s mendin’ satisfactorily. And Mrs. Pendleton. Just imagine, a new bride, and this terrible thing. I
just sometimes wonder at the good Lord’s way of managin’ things.”
One on each arm, they escorted John-Boy into the parlor where they insisted he sit down and tell them every detail of the last three days. They regretted very much that John-Boy hadn’t brought Jenny with him so they could console the poor girl, and then they told him about their papa’s funeral, and how people came from as far away as Baton Rouge to pay their respects.
John-Boy was preparing to ask about Homer Lee when he suddenly came into the room. His white suit was sparkling clean today, and he strode gravely across and took John-Boy’s hand.
“My deepest sympathies, John-Boy. My dear cousins informed me of your loss, and of dear little Jeanie’s distressful ordeal. A shame, a shame. The dear Lord works in mysterious ways, to be sure.”
“Jenny,” John-Boy corrected him.
“Of course. And a lovely thing she is. I trust that she has fully recovered, and poor Mrs. Pendleton is no longer sufferin’?”
The Baldwin sisters smiled with admiration at their cousin’s courtly manners. John-Boy nodded.
“I think they’re both gonna be all right.”
“Thank the good Lord for that.”
Cousin Homer lowered himself into a chair and shook his head. “That such misfortune should befall us at a time when the Baldwin family is about to celebrate a joyous reunion is indeed an ill contrivance of fate. But as the poet said, ‘Sorrow’s crown of sorrow is rememberin’ happier things.’ ”
“Now, isn’t he just somethin’,” Miss Emily said. “I declare, the way Cousin Homer can turn a phrase.”
“Ah, bless you, dear Emily. And it is to happier things I think we should now address ourselves. Nature’s greatest healer is good cheer. Don’t you agree, John-Boy?”
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