The Waltons 1 (18 page)

The truck was gone. He had parked it under the big tree over the garage—he was certain of that. But now there was no sign of it; no vehicles of any kind in sight. John-Boy’s heart pounded wildly as he headed for the back door.

“Oh, there you are, John-Boy.” Miss Mamie smiled in the kitchen. “Did you find the branch water?”

“Yes’m, I did. But Miss Mamie, my daddy’s truck is gone.”

The news had no visible effect on Miss Mamie. “Yes, Cousin Homer just borrowed it for a little while. Let’s put the water here on the sink, John-Boy. That’ll be fine.”

John-Boy put the cask down and felt in his pocket. “But I still have the keys, Miss Mamie. How—?”

“Yes. Cousin Homer said it wouldn’t hurt the truck any. He just did somethin’ with those little wires, and it started just fine. Cousin Homer is awfully clever.”

“But, Miss Mamie—”

“Now don’t you worry about a thing, John-Boy. Cousin Homer will only be gone for a little while. And he’s goin’ to replenish any gas he uses.”

“Did he say where he was goin’?”

Miss Mamie brightened. “Oh, you know how thoughtful Cousin Homer is. He decided to check the train station over in town to see if any of the Baldwins have shown up yet.”

In town? That meant Charlottesville, and it probably meant Daisy Burgess’s beauty shop. “Miss Mamie, you know all those jars of Recipe you been makin’?”

“Yes. We’ve got almost three hundred of them, John-Boy. I declare, I think those shelves are just about to burst with all those jars.”

“Miss Mamie, I think we ought to take a look at those shelves.”

“Oh, I’m sure they won’t really break. Papa built them himself, and I expect they’ll just last forever.”

“Can we look at them, Miss Mamie?”

Miss Mamie gave him an indulgent smile and headed for the Recipe room. “I declare, John-Boy, you’re just the most conscientious young man. Just like your father and your granddaddy. It’s just a pleasure to—”

Miss Mamie stopped abruptly in the center of the Recipe room, her smile suddenly turning to dismay. “Oh, my!” she breathed. “Oh, dear me! Emily!” she cried.

John-Boy was fairly certain the shelves would be empty, but still his heart sank. The jars were gone and Cousin Homer was gone, and Sheriff Bridges was probably nowhere to be found.

John-Boy had never used a telephone before. Ike Godsey showed him how to crank the handle, and then the voice of Fanny Tatum came mysteriously through the black piece John-Boy held at his ear.

“Hullo?” he said as Ike had instructed him.

“Hello? That you, John-Boy? John-Boy Walton? You got a telephone out at your place now?”

“No, Miss Fanny, I’m talkin’ from Ike Godsey’s.”

“Well, you say ‘Hey’ to Ike for me. How’s your mama, John-Boy?”

John-Boy wasn’t sure if all this was required for him to get a message to Sheriff Bridges. Altogether it was a strange sensation to be talking into a perforated black hole and be hearing Fanny Tatum’s voice at his ear. He looked apprehensively at the mechanism and glanced over at Bee. “Miss Fanny says to tell you ‘Hey,’ Ike. And Mama’s just fine, Miss Fanny.”

“Tell Fanny I appreciate it,” Ike said.

“Ike says he appreciates it, Miss Fanny.”

“Well, he’s sure welcome, John-Boy. Wasn’t that a nice funeral this mornin’? I declare I don’t think I ever saw so many pretty flowers.”

“Yes’m. Miss Fanny, is there some kind of way I can use this thing to talk to Sheriff Bridges?”

“You sure can, John-Boy, if he’s home. You just hold on a minute.”

Ep Bridges answered sleepily, but came wide awake when John-Boy told him what happened at the Baldwins’.

“Three hundred jars? And he took it all in your daddy’s truck?”

“Yes sir, and I’d say that was about an hour and a half ago, so I reckon he’s already been to Charlottesville by now.”

“Lordy me,” Ep groaned. “Well, you better get off the phone, John-Boy, so I can make some calls. That scalawag’s likely roarin’ through Carolina by now.”

“You want me to call Daisy Burgess’s beauty shop?” Fanny Tatum broke in.

“No,” Ep said, “I wanta talk to the state police in Richmond.”

“But Ep, if you call Daisy’s you can find out if Cousin Homer’s been there yet.”

“Damn it, Fanny, will you just take care of the telephones and let me handle the police work?”

“Well it seems to me that . . .”

John-Boy took the receiver from his ear and looked questioningly at Ike.

“Just put it in that little hook, John-Boy. Then you give the crank a turn or two to let Fanny know you’re done.”

John-Boy did what Ike told him, then looked at the silent mechanism. Sheriff Bridges’s house was more than a mile away—it just didn’t seem possible that he had been talking directly to him.

“What’s your daddy gonna say ’bout his truck turnin’ up missin’?” Ike asked.

In his concern to report to the Sheriff, John-Boy hadn’t thought much about that. But his father sure wasn’t going to be happy about it. “I don’t know. But I expect I’ll find out soon enough.” He dug some money from his pocket. “Here’s four more dollars for the washin’ machine, Ike.”

Ike smiled and took the money.

“That makes ten dollars total,” John-Boy said.

Ike gave him a quick glance and scratched his chin for a minute. “Yes,” he said hesitantly, “I guess that’s about right.”

“That’s exactly right, Ike. Ten more dollars and it’s paid for.”

Ike still appeared uncertain. “Well, don’t you worry none about it, John-Boy,” he said and made out a receipt. “And I’ll hang a Sold sign on it so’s nobody else can have it.”

“But I only owe ten dollars more. That’s right, ain’t it, Ike?”

“Like I said, John-Boy, don’t worry about it. The price of the washer was twenty dollars, and you got receipts sayin’ you paid ten. That’s clear enough.”

John-Boy looked at the receipt and glanced uneasily at Ike. It seemed clear enough all right, but he had the feeling Ike was up to something. But Ike wouldn’t try to cheat him, would he? Or would he?

The bell tinkled on the door and Ike turned away with a broad smile. “Afternoon, Miz Merrill.”

“And then when I got back,” John-Boy said to his father, “the truck was gone, and Miss Mamie said he’d gone over to town to pick up people for the reunion. And all the Recipe jars were gone. I guess he did somethin’ with the ignition wires to make it run, because I was careful to take the key, Daddy.” John-Boy handed over the key to prove he had taken the proper precautions.

John Walton was surprised by the announcement, but he had a hard time holding back a smile when he pictured Cousin Homer Lee bouncing down the road with close to three hundred jars of Recipe in the back of that old truck. He and Grandpa were sawing wood when John-Boy came trudging up the road with his tail between his legs. John glanced at Grandpa, who was smiling openly.

“You say he took all the Recipe?”

“Every last drop. And Daddy, they got a hundred and twenty-seven people comin’ to the house this afternoon.”

That was even funnier. Picturing a hundred and twenty-seven Baldwins in one place, and not a drop of Recipe—that was like a whole herd of thirsty cattle finding their water hole dry. The roar and moaning of Baldwins was likely to be heard through the whole valley before sundown.

John-Boy saw his father glance at Grandpa, and then the two of them suddenly burst out laughing. His father stopped after a minute, but then couldn’t control himself and started all over again.

“There’s not a drop of Recipe in the whole place?” he asked incredulously when he caught his breath.

“No sir.”

Grandpa guffawed again, and sat down on a log, slapping his knee. “Oh, what I wouldn’t give to see that!” he choked. “A hundred and twenty-seven of ’em!” and laughed harder yet.

John-Boy stared from one to the other, wondering for a minute if they understood about the truck being stolen.

“John-Boy,” his father finally said, “that’s about the funniest thing I’ve heard in years. I expect that’s goin’ to be the most memorable reunion in the history of Walton’s Mountain.”

“But Daddy, how are you gonna get along without your truck? What’re you gonna do?”

John thought a minute and smiled. “What I’m gonna do, son, is just keep right on cuttin’ wood. That ol’ truck is such a broken-down eyesore, Cousin Homer’ll be picked up in no time at all. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he don’t bring it back himself and hand it over in disgust.”

John-Boy doubted that. But his father’s words relieved him some.

“You goin’ to stay here and help us?” Grandpa asked.

There were a half-dozen heavy logs waiting to be rough cut, and Grandpa looked like he’d welcome a rest. “I’d sure like to, Grandpa. But I promised the ladies I’d come back and help with the reunion.”

His father laughed again. “They’re sure enough goin’ to need all the help they can get when all them Baldwins show up with their tongues hangin’ out. You might be smart to take along my rifle, John-Boy.”

Grandpa grinned, and the laughter started again as John-Boy headed for the house.

John-Boy decided not to mention the disappearance of the truck to his mother. She would not take such a casual attitude as his father, nor was she likely to let him return to the Baldwins’. But John-Boy had no need to worry. His mother was involved in other, more distracting problems.

The kitchen looked as if a tornado had struck it—or more accurately as if a tornado had hit the Richmond library and carried all the reading material over the mountains and deposited it in the Waltons’ kitchen.

Four years ago John-Boy’s father had helped a family named Beckwith when they were moving away from Walton’s Mountain. Among the many things George Beckwith decided to throw away rather than take with him was a complete set of
National Geographic
magazines dating back to 1912. To Olivia’s consternation, instead of taking them to the dump, John had brought them all home, and since that time they had occupied a dark and forbidden corner of the cellar. Olivia had no objection to the scientific and cultural knowledge presented in the magazines, and on occasions they were very helpful to the children’s homework. But what she couldn’t understand was why it was necessary for the editors to print full-color pictures of unclothed aborigines, men and women. Whether people were dark-skinned or not, they were still human beings, and the laws of civilized, God-fearing decency still applied. When the children needed information about odd places such as Nicaragua or Nepal, Olivia went to the cellar herself to scan the indexed back covers for the appropriate issues. Only then, after the magazine was carefully scrutinized and the objectionable photographs torn from its pages, was the copy brought upstairs for consultation. But today, Mary Ellen, Ben, Jim-Bob, and Elizabeth had carted the entire library up to the kitchen before Olivia realized what was going on.

“It is not necessary to look through all the pages,” she was telling them when John-Boy came in. “Just read the contents on the front cover and it tells you exactly what’s in each magazine.”

Her words were having no effect. Elizabeth was staring wide-eyed at pictures of seals, Ben was engrossed in an article about mountain climbing, and Mary Ellen and Jim-Bob were methodically going through every page of every magazine.

“What’s goin’ on?” John-Boy asked.

“Frogs,” Mary Ellen said.

Erin, who was wiping dishes and seemed to be enjoying the spectacle, smiled airily. “Mary Ellen’s tadpoles all ran away.”

“They didn’t run away,” Mary Ellen muttered. “Frogs don’t run, they hop.”

“Well, however they did it, the tadpoles all turned into frogs and disappeared.”

John-Boy still didn’t understand why the place was cluttered with magazines. He got some liver sausage from the refrigerator to make a sandwich. “Isn’t that what you wanted? I mean didn’t you expect ’em to turn into frogs?”

“But not
that
kind of frogs,” Erin said smugly.

“What kind of frogs?”

Olivia decided to put an end to Erin’s contentious comments before Mary Ellen exploded. “The frog farm didn’t turn out very well, John-Boy. The tadpoles all turned into frogs and hopped away this mornin’.”

“They all climbed trees.” Erin smiled. “They were
tree
frogs.”

“Oh.”

Mary Ellen and Jim-Bob were turning pages at a furious pace now, controlling their anger.

“It seems to me,” Erin said, “a person ought to find out the difference between tree frogs and bullfrogs
first, before
he starts collectin’ tadpoles.”

That was the final straw for Mary Ellen. She slammed her magazine down and grabbed up another one. “You’re the kind of person who always waits until someone falls down and breaks his leg, and
then
you say, ‘Watch your step.’ But the only thing you know how to do is brush your hair!”

“All right, children,” Olivia said. “That’s enough. Now clear a place for John-Boy so he can eat at the table.”

“Mary Ellen,” Ben suddenly said, “maybe we oughta raise ladybugs. It says here they use them in California to protect the crops from aphids. What’s an aphid?”

“We’re goin’ to raise frogs’ legs,” Mary Ellen said emphatically. “Just forget about ladybugs and find somethin’ about bullfrog tadpoles.”

“Somebody tore a page out of this issue,” Jim-Bob said. “Look at this, right in the middle of a story about pygmies. Why would someone do that?”

“Never mind,” Olivia said quickly and took the magazine. “Now let’s just get this organized and do things sensibly. Why don’t you all let
me
read the contents on the covers, and then if there’s anything about frogs or tadpoles we’ll all read it carefully.”

XII

J
ohn-Boy was a little surprised when he came in sight of the Baldwin house again. It was after four o’clock and he expected at least two or three cars to be parked in front. But there was not a vehicle—not even a chariot—in sight. Nor were the Baldwin sisters on the porch, or anywhere to be seen. John-Boy had to knock several times before Miss Mamie answered.

She let him in with a desperately anxious look. “You didn’t happen to see any Baldwins lost on the highway, did you, John-Boy? Anyone askin’ to find their way here?”