The Waltons 1

by Robert Weverka

  “Cousin Homer took every drop of the Recipe, eh?” Grandpa asked when they all finally settled down with coffee and lemonade.

  “Every single drop, Mr. Walton.” Miss Emily laughed. “And I just hate to think how disappointed all the Baldwins might have been if they’d come. I declare, maybe it’s a blessin’ disguised by the Lord.”

  “Hallelujah!” Grandma smiled.

  “He just cleared those shelves clean as can be,” Miss Mamie said. “Would you all like to see?”

  Grandpa quickly put his cake aside. “Sure would, Miss Mamie.”

  Olivia suggested that it wasn’t necessary for everyone to go look at the Recipe room, but her words were lost in the clatter of plates and eagerly rising children. Miss Emily and Miss Mamie led the way, and Olivia and Grandma reluctantly brought up the rear.

  The shelves were indeed all empty. But as an academic exercise—in the interests of discerning just how thorough Cousin Homer had been—Grandpa and John searched all the dark corners, peered into empty milk cans, checked the closet, and felt deep into the crevices of the two overstuffed chairs.

  “Yes sirree,” Grandpa finally sighed, “You’ve got to hand it to Cousin Homer. He sure didn’t miss a drop.”

  “ ’Pears that way,” Grandma said dryly from the door.

  “I must say,” Miss Mamie smiled, “on those occasions when Cousin Homer took it into his mind to do somethin’, he always did a fine job of it.”

  “Well, Grandpa,” John grinned, “shall we go have some more lemonade?”

  “I do believe that would hit the spot, John. You ladies do make fine lemonade.”

  After more lemonade was served, the party took a turn more to Olivia and Grandma’s liking. Grandma played the piano, and for an hour and a half they all sang songs. Grandpa danced his Irish jig again, and John-Boy attempted a Virginia reel with Jenny, to the accompaniment of great laughter and advice from the Baldwin sisters.

  The party was a great success, and by ten o’clock everyone was stuffed with goodies and exhausted, and they all bid the happy ladies goodnight.

  There was one more surprise for everybody that night. When the Waltons arrived home, the old truck was parked back by the barn and Ike Godsey was waiting for them on the front porch.

  “Yep, they caught ol’ Cousin Homer down by Danville.” He laughed. “Guess he was makin’ for Greensboro, and he still had a hundred jars of Recipe left.”

  “You mean that old truck got all the way to the state border?” John asked, and they all looked at the dusty truck with admiration.

  “Sure enough did. Cousin Homer left a trail of Recipe jars clear across the countryside. That’s how Ep followed him. Found Cousin Homer sellin’ the stuff right off the back of the truck at the Danville County Fair. Homer claimed it was genuine, certified, bonded patent medicine guaranteed to cure rheumatism, corns, and fallin’ hair. He was also winkin’ at the crowd and tellin’ ’em it contained only sixty percent alcohol. Ep Bridges arrested him himself and confiscated all the Recipe that was left. For evidence, of course.”

  Ike grinned and followed the family into the house. “So Ep had some young fella drive yer truck back, John, and then I drove her out here for you. She’s in fine shape.”

  “I sure do appreciate that, Ike.”

  “All right, children,” Olivia said, “time for everybody to be in bed.”

  “Uh, Miz Walton,” Ike suddenly said, “could the kids stay up a little bit longer. Just a few minutes?”

  It was an odd request that brought an immediate silence from the family.

  “What do you mean, Ike?” Olivia asked, “I don’t understand.”

  Ike smiled again. “You’ll understand in a minute, Miz Walton. If everybody’ll just come in the kitchen.” Ike glanced slyly at Grandpa and gave his head a toss.

  Grandpa seemed to understand the gesture and took John-Boy’s arm. “Come on, John-Boy.” He smiled. “You gotta help me a minute out here.”

  “What in the world’s goin’ on?” Olivia protested.

  “You just wait in the kitchen,” Grandpa said, and took John-Boy out the back door.

  “Grandpa, what—?” John-Boy caught his breath as the door banged behind them. There, standing by the back steps, was the secondhand washing machine he’d been buying from Ike. An old blanket half covered it, but there was no question about what it was. And now it was cleaned up and as shiny as a new one. “What’s goin’ on, Grandpa?”

  “All paid for, John-Boy. Your ten dollars and my ten dollars makes twenty.”

  “You paid Ike ten dollars too?”

  Grandpa shrugged. “Well, it was my fault the whole thing came up in the first place. And I earned a little money out at the Baldwins’ while you was taken care of Jenny. Now you just get ahold of that side over there.”

  Ike held the door open. Grandpa made sure the blanket was pulled down far enough to disguise the whole thing, and they edged their way through the door and set the thing in front of the refrigerator.

  “What on earth?” Olivia exclaimed. “What are you two doin’?”

  “You do it, John-Boy,” Grandpa said and stepped aside. “Unveil her!”

  John-Boy smiled at Jenny and then over at his mother. Only his father, Grandpa, Jenny, and Ike Godsey knew what was under the blanket. The others all wore puzzled looks. John-Boy grasped the middle of the blanket and swept it off.

  There was a gasp of surprise and pleasure from everyone but Olivia. She looked as if she had been struck dumb. Her mouth dropped open and she stared at the machine, but no words came out.

  “Oh, Mama, it’s beautiful!” Erin cried.

  “A washin’ machine!” Elizabeth squealed and ran forward to touch it.

  The others were all grinning, looking at Olivia, but she still seemed paralyzed.

  “What’s the matter, Mama,” Mary Ellen said. “It’s a real washin’ machine.”

  “None of it came out of the house money, Livvy,” John said. “John-Boy and Grandpa earned every cent of it themselves.” He sat down and put an arm around her, grinning.

  But still Olivia was speechless. Tears suddenly filled her eyes and she shook her head, trying to swallow. “I . . .” but she couldn’t go on.

  “We can take it back, Livvy.” Grandpa grinned. “Get you a different color if you want.”

  Then she was laughing and crying all at once, shaking her head. She put her hands over her face for a minute and then sniffled back the tears. “This . . .” she choked, “this has been the nicest day of my whole life,” and then the tears came pouring down. She lifted her arms for John-Boy and he felt his own throat clogging as he crossed to give her a kiss.

  XIII

  It was a week John-Boy would never forget. There was still the name Jenny in his notebook, and several pages later the sad words he had written when she lay numbed and silent in the bed next to his desk. In the following weeks John-Boy wrote a great deal about the Baldwin sisters and Cousin Homer, and about the night Mama got the washing machine. But it was a long time before he wrote anything more about Jenny. The ending was too abrupt. And too difficult and painful to put into words.

  It had come exactly a week after the party at the Baldwin sisters’ house. Eula Pendleton had recovered rapidly, and looking back on it, and the fact that Jenny didn’t enroll in school the next week, John-Boy guessed he should have known other plans were being made for her. But Jenny had said nothing until that Friday night when she asked him to meet her up on the mountain the next day. John-Boy had laughed at the request. Why should he meet her there? If Jenny wanted to go up to the mountain, they could go up together. But Jenny had insisted—another clue that should have warned him.

  The next day, as soon as John-Boy saw her waiting for him he knew it was all over. She was sitting on the hearth of the old fireplace, and her sad smile made words unnecessary. When he sat next to her she handed him a polished dulcimer she was holding tightly in her lap.

  “It’s for you, John-Boy.”


  He recognized the instrument immediately: it was the best one Mr. Dawson had ever made. “It’s Mr. Dawson’s,” he said quietly.

  “Now it’s yours.”

  John-Boy didn’t want to hear the words he knew were coming. But there was no way to avoid it. After a long silence he said, “What made you go and do a thing like that?”

  “I wanted to. Because it’s . . . it’s a going-away present.”

  “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

  It was a beautiful day. A dozen mountain ridges could be seen far to the north, and standing almost stationary above them were huge mounds of billowy white clouds. Fifty years ago John-Boy guessed his great-grandfather must have sat on that same mountaintop admiring the same view. But John-Boy’s thoughts were going back only as far as the first night he saw Jenny, that day in church, and those glorious days they had spent discovering the mountain and each other.

  “We’re leaving today, John-Boy. This afternoon.”

  John-Boy nodded. “You must have known for days now, Jenny.”

  There were tears in her eyes. She took his hand, then flung her arms around him. “Oh, John-Boy, I didn’t want to ruin it. I wanted us to be happy right up to the end.”

  “I can’t let you go, Jenny. I can’t.” He kissed her forehead, her eyes and cheeks, and held her tightly.

  But they both knew it was impossible. Jenny had to go. And to talk about anything else would only make it more painful. For a long time they held each other in silence.

  Jenny finally drew herself away. She looked off at the horizon and then rose and strode to the center of the crumbled room. When she turned around she was smiling, her eyes bright.

  “Rome Walton,” she said sternly, “now, don’t you bring any other old pioneer ladies up here while I’m away!”

  John-Boy stared at her for a minute. Then he smiled and came to his feet. “Becky-Lee, you’re the only old pioneer lady I ever want.”

  “I’ll expect you to come here and think of me once in a while, Rome Walton.” The stern look suddenly softened. “Will you?”

  John-Boy took her in his arms again. “You will be in my heart and mind for all endurin’ time.”

  “It’s breaking my heart to leave you, Rome Walton.”

  “And mine to see you go, Becky-Lee.” John-Boy kissed her again. “I’ll come with you, Jenny,” he murmured.

  “No,” she said and then smiled. “Good-bye, old pioneer man.”

  She turned quickly and moved to the opening where the door had been. There she smiled again, bravely, looking back at him for an instant, and then headed down the mountain.

  “Good-bye, Becky-Lee,” John-Boy said softly.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ROBERT WEVERKA was born in Los Angeles and educated at the University of Southern California, where he majored in economics. His other novels include: Griff, Search, The Sting, Moonrock, The Widowed Master, One Minute to Eternity and I Love My Wife. He and his family presently live in Idylwild, California.