The Waltons 1 (7 page)

John grunted and reset the saw guides to trim the planks. As long as John-Boy wasn’t learning the fine art of whiskey manufacturing, he saw no harm in his working for the Baldwins. But there was no doubt Olivia wouldn’t look at it quite that way.

“You want me to help with your mama?”

“I’d sure appreciate it, Daddy.”

John smiled. “Well, it’s for a good cause. I don’t see no reason to upset your mama by tellin’ her about it, do you? At least not if she don’t ask.” He glanced past John-Boy. “Mornin’, Grandpa.”

Grandpa Walton looked like he had consumed a very satisfying breakfast as he surveyed their production. “This all you boys got done this mornin’? Guess you’d better let me take over, John-Boy.”

Grandpa Walton worked harder on Sunday than on any other day of the week. His diligence on the day of rest provided a good excuse for him not to go to church. John-Boy smiled and stepped aside. “There’s another favor I’d like to ask you, Daddy.”

“What’s that?”

“I have to deliver some things to the Baldwins’ this afternoon. I wonder if I could use the truck.”

“Well, I don’t know, son. You go streakin’ around in that truck without a drivin’ permit, Sheriff’s gonna pick you up for sure.”

“It’s not far, Daddy.”

“It’s not the distance, son, it’s—”

“I’ll go with the boy, John,” Grandpa offered. “If anybody stops us, they’ll have to deal with me!”

John regarded the old man with a half smile. “Grandpa, you want them ladies to have their supplies? Or you just interested in a sip of their Recipe?”

Grandpa considered the question, then grinned. “Never told a lie in my life. So I’d have to say the answer to that is
both.”

“John-Boy, looks like you’ve got yourself the truck.”

“Jenny’s goin’ to live with us,” Elizabeth announced when John-Boy returned to the house. “She’s goin’ to help us collect polliwogs, and she’s goin’ to earn six million dollars, too.”

Everyone was up and almost finished with breakfast now, and Jenny was already working hard at the dishes.

“We’re goin’ to
share
the six million dollars,” Jim-Bob corrected.

“Isn’t that wonderful, John-Boy?” Mary Ellen asked.

“Yes, it is.”

John-Boy glanced at Jenny, but she didn’t look up from the sink. As he went up the stairs he heard his mother cautioning everyone not to get dirty before they went to church. Her refusal to let them collect more tadpoles this morning brought a chorus of protests.

In his room, John-Boy got out his pad again and gazed thoughtfully at the single word
Jenny
written at the top of the page.

Jenny Pendleton was not going to live with them. As soon as her father came she would be taken to Richmond, or back to Florida, and John-Boy doubted if he would ever see her again. Then the passage of time would quickly erase the memory of her, and the entry of her name in his notebook would be nothing more than a curious footnote in his past. John-Boy turned the page and sat back, deliberately shifting his thoughts to the Baldwin sisters.

He could understand his mother’s distaste for their Recipe-making activities. And John-Boy had heard stories around Walton’s Mountain that the two ladies occasionally accepted gifts from callers and returned such generosity with mason jars full of Recipe. But if it were ever suggested that these exchanges were commercial transactions, he imagined the two sisters would be horrified, A number of years ago during Prohibition, John-Boy had heard, the stream of callers bearing gifts for the Baldwin sisters was almost endless.

John-Boy smiled as he made notes describing the musty elegance of the Baldwin house. If, instead of the Recipe, the two ladies were famous for their canned peaches or strawberry preserves, he suspected his mother would be their most sympathetic customer and greatest admirer. She would be forever marveling on how those wonderful sisters were able to make ends meet and still conduct themselves with such dignity.

He wrote:

The Baldwin sisters were like the old clock in their parlor that no longer ticked. They had chosen their favorite time, they were happy in it, and had no desire to move on.

“Boo!”

John-Boy was so absorbed in writing he had heard no one enter his room. He lifted his head with a start, then quickly smiled.

It was Jenny. She had come only halfway through the door and was regarding him with a questioning smile, a feather duster in her hand.

“Don’t let me interrupt.”

“You’re not interrupted Come on in.”

“I’m dusting.” She moved to the dresser and brushed it lightly. “I’ve finished the dishes and fed Reckless, so now I’m helping your mother clean house.”

John-Boy smiled. His mother always gave the house a thorough cleaning on Saturday, reserving Sunday for church and cooking meals. It was interesting that of all the rooms in the house Jenny apparently had chosen his to dust first.

“What’s that on your head?” John-Boy asked. She was wearing what looked like a nineteenth-century bonnet.

“Your grandmother gave it to me. She said in the olden days the women of the house used to wear them while they did the chores. How do I look?”

“Not exactly like a pioneer lady.” To himself, John-Boy thought she looked beautiful. He felt a flush of embarrassment as she rose on her toes for a minute, revealing the backs of her knees. She had beautifully smooth legs, and she moved like a dancer.

“Well, I
feel
like a pioneer lady. I feel like a pioneer mother struggling to raise a family in the wilderness.” She turned sharply. “Shouldn’t you be out milking the cow or chopping wood or something?”

“I already chopped wood.”

She frowned at the note pad on his desk. “What are you writing there, anyway?”

“Oh . . . just stuff.”

“Have you written anything in there about me?”

“Well . . . yes.”

“What did you say?”

“I’m not going to tell you.”

She gazed narrowly at him for a minute and then brushed the feather duster lightly across the front of the dresser. “What do you think of me?”

“I don’t know
what
to make of you.”

“I know a lot about you.”

“Like what?”

She smiled. “I’ve been talking to your mother. She told me about your wanting to be a writer.”

John-Boy couldn’t tell if she approved or disapproved. She moved around the room, swishing at nonexistent dust.

“I want to,” he said. “What about you?”

She seemed to be waiting for the question. She sat down on the bed and sighed dreamily. “More than anything else in the world, I’d like to belong to this family.”

Again John-Boy was startled by her statement. He shrugged. “You do belong. You’re here. Everybody likes you.”

“Do you?”

The directness of the question took him off guard. “Well . . . sure.”

She stared at him, her eyes sparkling, then looked quickly into the corner. “What’s that?”

John-Boy looked, relieved by the change of subject. “Haven’t you ever seen a dulcimer before?”

“I’ve heard of them. Where did you get it?”

“There’s a man down the road—old Mr. Dawson—who makes them. I never could afford one, but once in a while he lets me bring one home to play.”

“What does it sound like?”

John-Boy hesitated, wondering if she really wanted to hear it, or if she was just making conversation. He suddenly felt awkward as she watched him cross the room and bring the instrument back to the chair. Without looking at her he strummed it softly. Then, in a hushed voice, he sang:

Little birdie, little birdie,

Come and sing me your song,

I’ve a short time to be with you,

And a long time to be gone.

When he looked up she was smiling, her chin cupped in her hands. “Is there more?”

John-Boy strummed again.

Little birdie, little birdie,

What makes you fly so high?

You must have another to love

Way up in the blue sky.

John-Boy had no idea what it was like to be in love. But when he finished the song and looked at her, it was as if he and Jenny had known each other all their lives. For what seemed like a full minute he gazed into her deep brown eyes and she gazed back, and neither of them moved nor breathed. In that long moment the outside world did not exist. Her father was not coming to take her home, all time stood still, and Jenny Pendleton and John-Boy Walton were telling each other every guarded secret of their lives.

It was Jenny who finally broke away. As if her throat were suddenly dry, she turned quickly to the side and swallowed hard. Then, as abruptly, she came to her feet and looked out the window. “Why do they call it Walton’s Mountain?”

John-Boy set the dulcimer aside. Once again he was conscious of voices and laughter downstairs, and his father’s saw began a long, lengthwise screech through a log.

“It was named after my great-grandpa.”

“Oh? Does your family still own the mountain?”

She was staring intently out the window, but her voice was strained. John-Boy cleared his own throat. “Only the top of it and one side. My uncles sold their parts.”

“I’d love to go up there sometime.”

John-Boy rose, but something constrained him from going near her. He took the dulcimer back to the corner. “My daddy wants to build a house up there some day. I can take you up and see the spot. I could do it tomorrow morning if you want.”

She turned, her smile controlled. “I’d really like to, John-Boy.” It was as if both of them had reached some dizzying height and were now carefully trying to work their way down.

“I’d enjoy it too. The chimney from my great-grandpa’s house is still up there. The house burned down a long time ago.”

She laughed nervously and picked up the feather duster. “I really haven’t gotten any dusting done at all. And now I guess I’d better get ready for church.”

“Me too.”

It seemed crazy, but neither of them knew what to say for a minute. Jenny was going only as far as the next bedroom, and yet both of them felt the need to say something about the separation. Too much had happened to ignore it. But saying good-bye seemed to give the event too much explicit recognition.

“I guess you’re goin’ to wear one of Mary Ellen’s hats,” John-Boy finally said.

“Yes.”

“I think it’ll look good on you.”

It was a ridiculous statement and both of them knew it. He had no idea which hat she would be wearing. Jenny smiled, trying to hold back a giggle, and John-Boy laughed.

“Well, whatever hat it is, it’ll look good,” he said, “At least a lot better than the one you have on.”

“Well,” she said with sudden mock indignance, “if that’s the way you feel, John-Boy Walton, I am leaving this room right this minute!” She lifted her head and marched out.

There was a magnificent formation of cumulus clouds piled up to the north. But they seemed to be stationary, and overhead the sun was shining with unusual warmth and brilliance.

John-Boy held Elizabeth’s hand as they all walked down the road to church. He had never enjoyed a Sunday morning walk to church quite so much.

Jason, Ben, and Jim-Bob had gone on ahead, and were throwing rocks at trees and fence posts and tin cans, while the others followed in a more decorous group. Olivia, Grandma, Jenny, and Mary Ellen walked in front, and John-Boy, Elizabeth, and Erin brought up the rear.

Jenny’s floppy hat was yellow and had a broad orange ribbon that was almost a perfect match for the small flowers on her white dress. She too seemed to be enjoying the walk, and occasionally turned with a bright smile for Elizabeth and John-Boy behind her.

Once they were within sight of the church they met other members of the congregation. They exchanged favorable comments about the weather, some expressed regrets about not seeing John and Grandpa coming to the services on such a lovely day, and then they all filed inside and sat down in respectful silence.

It seemed to John-Boy that his voice had an extraordinary richness this morning, and he sang out the hymns with vibrant joy. “Bringing in the Sheaves” and “Rock of Ages” resounded from the church and echoed across the valley with uninhibited conviction.

Reverend Bascombe’s sermon dealt with the house that “fell not; for it was founded on a rock,” and he warned all sinners of the perilous road ahead if they did not mend their ways.

Coming out of the church and into the sunshine, Jenny paused briefly on the steps, and was even more beautiful than John-Boy had imagined she would be. She was the center of attention, everyone inquiring about life in Florida and her father’s new bride.

When they finally started home there was the same grouping, and the three younger boys were quickly out of sight as they raced home. Elizabeth asked questions about the minister’s sermon, and while Erin answered them, John-Boy kept his eyes on Jenny, watching her every step and gesture and the tilt of her head as she questioned Olivia and Grandma about the people she had met at the church. He could imagine no actress or beauty queen or movie star being more beautiful than Jenny Pendleton. The thick tassel of black hair below her hat glistened in the sunshine, and each time she smiled at Grandma or Olivia on either side of her, a shiver of joy ran through John-Boy’s spine.

And then, as they finally came within sight of the house, John-Boy saw the sudden stiffness come into her back.

“Looks like we’ve got visitors,” Grandma remarked.

“With a new car,” Olivia added. “Who do you suppose it could be?”

Jenny supplied the answer, her voice hardly a murmur. “It’s Dad and Eula,” she said, and John-Boy’s heart sank.

The arrival of Dave and Eula Pendleton was certainly no great surprise. But through the last two-and-a-half hours, since the moment Jenny came into his room with the feather duster, John-Boy had conveniently ignored the fact. Now, grimly, he realized how foolish he had been. Jenny gave him a brief, apprehensive glance, and they all filed into the house.

“Look who’s here, everybody!” John Walton grinned, “Dave and Eula Pendleton! Dave and Eula, this is the rest of the family. That’s Elizabeth there with the pretty dress. This is . . .”