The Waltons 3 - The Easter Story (19 page)

“You’re welcome, Ben.”

As quickly as he heard the door close behind him, Ben bounded down the stairs and raced past John-Boy. “C’mon, John-Boy, let’s get out of here!”

They retraced their course through the shrubbery and were back in the woods before John-Boy caught up with him.

“It was awful, John-Boy. But you were right. Stuart Lee said they couldn’t afford any magazines. Then he changed it, like he didn’t mean to say that. Mrs. Claybourne acted like I was some kind of criminal. She kept goin’ on about Daddy takin’ the silver, and everythin’.”

“I’m sorry, Ben. I shouldn’t have made you do it.”

“It’s OK. And I noticed somethin’ else, John-Boy. But promise you won’t laugh when I tell you.”

“What?”

They were a safe distance away now and Ben stopped. He glanced back at the big house. “Well, it’s like somethin’ I saw in a Charlie Chan movie. Number One Son said you can always tell when a rich man is just pretendin’ to have money and he really doesn’t.”

“What about it?”

“It’s their shoes.”

“Their shoes?” John-Boy laughed.

“I know it sounds funny. But the movie said that after rich people lose their money their shoes look bad—like they need fixin’. And you know somethin’? The Claybournes have got shoes with the heels run over.”

“All of ’em?”

“Well, I don’t know about Mrs. Claybourne. She was wearin’ one of them long, bedroom-like dresses. But Stuart Lee’s shoes looked terrible. And I remember at school today, so did Amelia’s. I thought they were just old shoes for playin’ or somethin’, but I don’t know.”

John-Boy shook his head, thinking. “Ben, I think you’ve been seein’ too many movies. But maybe you’ve got somethin’.”

John-Boy had even less enthusiasm for carrying out the second part of his investigation. But he needed more substantial information than the fact that the Claybournes wore old shoes and wouldn’t buy a magazine subscription. And getting that kind of information might not be so easy. Halfway home, John-Boy left Ben and headed for Ike Godsey’s.

There were no customers in the store. Ike was opening a fresh bag of coffee beans, scooping them into the bin next to the grinder.

“Hey, John-Boy, what can I do for you?”

“Oh, nothin’, Ike. Just thought I’d stop by to see if we got any mail.”

“Nope. Your daddy checked earlier.”

“Can I give you a hand?”

Ike smiled and set the scoop aside. “I’d be obliged, John-Boy. If you can pick up the sack, I’ll guide the beans in here.”

John-Boy lifted the sack and the beans rattled down into the bin.

“How’s business, Ike?”

“Oh, not too bad. Be a lot better if people could pay their bills.”

John-Boy smiled. Ike couldn’t have given him a better opening. “I reckon just about everybody buys their stuff on credit nowadays, huh?”

“That’s the truth.”

Ike went back into his storeroom and John-Boy followed, keeping his voice casual. “Does anybody pay cash at all anymore?”

Ike laughed. “About the only ones are the kids. For little things, like candy. But for food and necessities, about everybody charges.”

“Huh,” John-Boy said and helped Ike carry out sacks of flour. “Even rich people like the Claybournes charge stuff, I suppose.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“But I reckon they pay up right smart at the end of the month.”

Ike gave him a wary glance. “Well, now, John-Boy, it ain’t exactly ethical for me to be talkin’ about how my customers pay their bills.” He chuckled. “But I reckon a depression hits rich and poor people all alike.”

John-Boy figured he’d better not pursue that too directly. “Where’d the Claybournes get all their money in the first place, Ike?”

“Oh, I reckon it’s just been in the family for years. And after Carter died there was some insurance money. But they ran through that pretty fast. I reckon rich people get some fancy spendin’ habits and they’re hard to break.”

John-Boy felt his pulse quicken, but he shrugged easily. “So they’re just broke like everybody else, huh?”

“Well, in some ways I reckon they’re even worse off, John-Boy. Us poor folks have pretty much always been makin’ do with nothin’. For them, they don’t know how. Why, Stuart Lee still comes in here and buys those fancy tinned English cookies for his mother. They cost a dollar, and your Grandma could make twice as many that would taste twice as good for about twenty cents. Now if they’d settle up their bill, it wouldn’t make no difference to me one way or the other. But I’ll tell you, John-Boy, I only got three of those tins left, and I been thinkin’ of hidin’ ’em before Stuart Lee comes in here again.”

John-Boy couldn’t imagine a clearer statement of the Claybournes’ financial situation. “That’s too bad,” he said and looked over at Ike’s clock. “Gee, is it almost five o’clock? I gotta get goin’, Ike.”

“OK. And thanks for the help, John-Boy.”

Walking home, John-Boy felt that the matter was settled—the Claybournes were as short of money as anybody else. Maybe worse off. But as significant as that might be, it still didn’t solve the problem. Being broke was no good reason for them to accuse his father of stealing. John-Boy had felt elated by the results of his and Ben’s detective work. But now the excitement was gone. The question still needed a lot of thought. John-Boy shoved his hands deep into his pockets and tried to arrange all the facts into some sensible pattern.

At exactly seven-thirty that night, there was a hesitant knock on the Waltons’ front door. The others were in the kitchen, or upstairs, and John rose from the sofa and answered it. As quickly as he opened the door an amused smile came to his face.

Normally, G. W. Haines’ arrival at the Walton house came in the form a head appearing just inside the back door, with G. W. asking if it was OK to come in. Tonight he was wearing a dark suit that appeared to be a little baggy from being cut down to fit. He was also wearing a polka-dot bow tie. His hair was slick and shiny, and he was holding a paper sack gingerly in front of him.

“Hey, G. W., you’re lookin’ slick as a city dude. C’mon in.”

“Thank you, Mr. Walton. Is Mary Ellen ready?”

John closed the door and motioned to the sofa. “She oughta be down any minute. Have a seat. What’s in the bag?”

“Oh, it’s nothin’, just a corsage. My Grandma made if for me—I mean for Mary Ellen.”

John knew there were half a dozen people peeking out from the kitchen. It had been decided that they wouldn’t sit around the living room and embarrass G. W. when he came. But Elizabeth suddenly hurried into the room.

“I’ll take it up to her if you want, G. W.”

“Yeah. Gee, thanks, Elizabeth.”

G. W. appeared to be relieved to get rid of the bag. But he still didn’t look too comfortable as he eased down on the edge of the sofa. John was sympathetic. On his first date with a girl he’d walked into a house full of strangers who spent ten minutes studying him from head to toe. At least G. W. was among friends.

“I see you got your dancin’ shoes on, G. W.”

He moved his feet back a little. “Yes, sir.”

“You and Mary Ellen been practicin’?”

“No. Well—yes, some, I guess.” G .W. shifted and smiled sheepishly. “I mean we were gonna play some catch yesterday out in the—in a clearin’ over yonder. But Mary Ellen had this old movie magazine. It had pictures of a guy named Fred Astaire, and some woman.”

“Ginger Rogers?”

“Yeah.”

John nodded, wishing he could have seen that. When Mary Ellen set out to learn something, at least she learned from the best.

“I think I’ve sort of got the hang of it,” G. W. said. He grinned, and then leaped to his feet as he glanced at the stairs.

Mary Ellen was coming down slowly, smiling, delicately lifting her long skirt to keep from tripping. The corsage of yellow flowers was pinned to the right side of her dress.

“Gee,” G. W. said. “Gee, you really look good, Mary Ellen.”

“Your corsage is just beautiful, G. W. I never even had a corsage before.”

Until this moment John had paid little attention to Mary Ellen’s dressmaking or dance lessons. But now a lump suddenly formed in his throat as he gazed at her. Mary Ellen was always the one with the smudged face and torn pants and baseball mitt jammed into her rear pocket. But the girl standing before him was a beautiful young lady. John was amazed—and even more amazed at himself for not realizing how remarkably pretty she was.

Everyone in the kitchen now came into the room. G. W. shoved his hands into his pockets and grinned, looking from the crowd to Mary Ellen.

“G. W.,” John said, “If you wouldn’t mind goin’ up, Mrs. Walton’d sure like to have a look at you two together.”

“Sure. Be glad to, Mr. Walton.”

John went up with them. He held the door open, and Mary Ellen came in first. She twirled lightly around and held her hand out for G. W.

“What do you think, Mama?”

John found himself grinning as he looked at Olivia. She looked like she was going to burst into joyful tears. She looked from one to the other, biting her lip. “Your sash is crooked,” she finally said. “Let me straighten it for you.”

Mary Ellen’s sash was not crooked at all. But John knew Olivia was going to explode with pride and love if she didn’t do something. She moved the sash back and forth an inch or two and then smiled, satisfied. “There! Mary Ellen, you’re goin’ to be the prettiest girl there. And that corsage is beautiful, G ,W.”

“Thanks. My grandma made it.”

Mary Ellen came back with her hand out. “Come on, G. W., let’s show Mama how we dance.”

G. W. stiffened. “Gee, Mary Ellen—”

“G. W.!”

John smiled and eased into a chair. He suspected that if this romance was going to continue, G. W. was either going to have to stand up more firmly for his convictions, or Mary Ellen was going to have to develop a little more tact. But right now, her command went unchallenged. G. W. obediently took her hand and they moved around the floor. It was hard to tell which of them was doing the leading.

Olivia was delighted. “John—aren’t they good?”

“Very good. They remind me a lot of that couple who dance in the movies.”

Mary Ellen brightened. “Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers?”

“Yes, those are the ones.”

“Gee, Daddy, really?”

John shrugged. “The only difference I can see is Fred Astaire wears a top hat.”

“Did you hear that, G. W.?”

G. W. nodded and gave John a sly smile.

Mary Ellen took his hand. “Well, I reckon we’d better get goin’, G. W. Bye, Mama, bye, Daddy.”

“Have a wonderful time,” Olivia called after them. When they were gone John grinned at Olivia. But her head was back on the pillows, a dreamy smile on her face.

He went to the window and watched as G. W. helped Mary Ellen into the Haines’ old Model T. After they drove off he found Olivia smiling suspiciously at him.

“John, you knew Mary Ellen had that old movie magazine, didn’t you.”

“What old movie magazine?” John tried, but he couldn’t keep a straight face. “Yes, I heard somethin’ about it.”

She laughed. “It was a nice thing to say, anyhow. I think it gave her a little more confidence in G. W. She did look beautiful, don’t you think?”

John smiled to himself, thinking how beautiful she did look. He moved to the chair next to the bed and took Olivia’s hand as he sat down. “Yes, she did. In fact I’d say Mary Ellen was about the second most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Olivia smiled and looked up at him, waiting. He kissed her. Then she eased back and gazed reflectively at the ceiling.

“I remember the first dance I ever went to. It was terrible.” She laughed. “I don’t think the boy even knew what a dance was. He was wearin’ boots that must have weighed ten pounds each. But I guess it didn’t matter. He spent the whole night starin’ at the dancers—as if all that swingin’ around was the craziest thing he’d ever seen in his life. I do hope that doesn’t happen to Mary Ellen.”

“I don’t think there’s much chance of that. If she wants G. W. to dance, he’ll dance.”

“I know. And I think maybe that’s what I’m worried about. I do want Mary Ellen to realize she’s a young lady instead of a baseball player. And enjoy bein’ a young lady.”

“Well, she seemed to enjoy bein’ dressed up like one. I reckon the other things’ll come along in time. And lookin’ so much like her mother, there’ll be lots of boys around remindin’ her she’s a pretty girl.”

Olivia smiled, pleased by the compliment, and by his confidence in Mary Ellen’s future. John, in his refusal to worry about such things, was generally right.

“John?”

“What?”

“Would you carry me over to that chair by the window?”

“You sure you want to do that?”

She nodded. “I’d love to get out of this bed for awhile. And you could just prop my legs on another chair.”

John studied her for a minute and then cautiously slid his arms under her. “If anythin’ hurts, let me know.”

“I will.”

As he lifted, her legs bent at the knees and she gasped for an instant. “It’s all right,” she assured him, and he carried her across to the chair. He quickly pulled another chair in place and lifted her feet to it. Once she was comfortable he got the quilt from the bed and wrapped it around her.

“Now you could bring over another chair, and turn out the lights.”

John laughed. “What d’you have in mind, Livvy?”

“Nothin’. I’d just like to sit with you, and look out at the night.”

He brought over another chair and turned out the lights. When he sat down she took his hand again.

A silver moon stood high over Walton’s Mountain. Around it, the mass of stars looked almost artificial in their brilliance. For a minute John reflected on the last time he had gazed out at those same stars—the night with John-Boy in the barn.

“You know,” Olivia said softly, “I think I do worry about the children too much. Especially now. But I don’t want them to waste time worryin’ about me. If the treatments don’t work—”

“They’re goin’ to work, Livvy.”

She was silent for a minute. “But if they don’t work—I mean, it’s possible they won’t. And I should be prepared to use that wheelchair—to spend the rest of my life in it. I think I can face that, John.”