The Waltons 1 Page 2

  “That’s right, Livvy, girl. And now I’m gonna kiss the prettiest thing that ever came down the turnpike!”

  “John!” She held him off with one hand, but couldn’t stop herself from giggling as he finally planted a big kiss on her mouth and swung her around again.

  The dishwashing had stopped and they were all watching as Grandpa slapped the table with a grin.

  “Lord a’mighty,” Grandma said, “the goin’s-on in this house!”

  “Now I got the strength to go back to work,” John announced, “Grandpa, give Grandma a kiss so’s you can be some good out there in the mill.”

  Grandma gasped and headed for the living room. But whether it was deliberate or not, she didn’t move fast enough. Grandpa caught her arm and pulled her down.

  “Disgraceful,” she said when she broke away.

  “Old lady,” Grandpa called after her, “if the good Lord hadn’t wanted us to be kissin’ all the time he’d have fixed it so we couldn’t pucker! Ain’t that right, John-Boy?”

  John-Boy smiled sheepishly and carried his dirty plate to the sink. “Well, I guess I’d better be gettin’ that stovewood in.”

  “Goodnight, John-Boy.”

  “Goodnight, Mary Ellen.”

  “Goodnight, Elizabeth.”

  The good-nights echoed through the house, each of the eleven family members saying “Goodnight” to ten others until John Walton’s long, sleepy yawn signaled an end to the day. Then he kissed Olivia tenderly.

  “I really don’t want one of those washin’ machines,” Olivia told him. She too had seen the look on John’s face when Grandpa mentioned the subject.

  “Well, some day you’re goin’ to have one whether you like it or not, Livvy. Things are gonna get better.”

  She smiled and moved closer to him, feeling a desire for nothing more than the husband and family that she already had. But she knew the washer was very important to John.

  In Jason, Ben, and Jim-Bob’s room, Jason smiled with sleepy amusement as Ben explained to Jim-Bob in hushed whispers how they would put advertisements in all the newspapers and people from all over the world, even Texas, would send money to buy their frogs’ legs.

  In the girls’ room, Erin listened closely for telltale sounds indicating the presence of hidden polliwogs while Mary Ellen and Elizabeth fell asleep with dreams of multiplying frogs’ legs.

  John-Boy lay with his hands behind his head and listened to the sounds of the night. Somewhere a bedspring creaked and then was silent. From the girls’ bedroom he could hear hushed whispering that finally tailed off, and then he quietly switched on his light and looked at his writing pad.

  His notes from last night were about Grandma and Grandpa. He had seen them sitting on the porch yesterday afternoon and had written:

  Grandpa is half dozing and Grandma is quietly knitting socks, and Grandpa has reached over and touched her hand for a couple seconds. Neither of them has spoken or looked at the other, but somehow the gesture seems very profound. It says more than any poem or song could ever say, and in spite of Grandpa’s bad jokes and Grandma’s pretenses of irritation they share a great deal of life and love.

  John-Boy reread the notes, then put the pad away and switched off the light without writing more. But he thought about his mother and father for some time before going to sleep. As long as he could remember his father had worked twelve hours a day, and still they had very little in the way of comforts to show for it. They were poor, just as everyone else in Walton’s Mountain seemed to be poor. The Depression—some mysterious activities of bankers and politicians in Washington and New York and Richmond—seemed to deprive the Waltons and everybody else of anything more than just enough to eat. And for many, his father had told him, they even had to go begging to get that.

  John-Boy knew it was the shadow of this despair he had seen in his father’s eyes at the supper table. And for an instant John-Boy had felt the frustration as deeply as his father had. And yet, if they ever got some money, if some miraculous windfall presented them with a hundred or even a thousand dollars, the last thing his mother would permit them to use it for would be a washing machine.

  John-Boy wondered. Maybe it was possible to get her a washing machine without a miracle. If it could be done, he guessed it would be about the biggest, most overwhelming surprise in her life.

  II

  Ike Godsey’s General Merchandise Store smelled of leather and pickles and oil and sawdust and ground coffee, and it was far more than a general merchandise store. Ike Godsey could step behind a caged window and become an authorized agent of the United States Post Office, or if someone was going off to Richmond or Charlottesville on important business, he could dust off his old barber chair and make them look as slick and smell as good as any city dude. And for passing time, there was an open cracker barrel, a potbellied stove, a nickel slot machine, and in the back, a genuine pool table. For the children, a glass-enclosed display offered a breathtaking variety of penny candy.

  Forty-eight-year-old Ike Godsey oversaw his domain with a smiling good humor that effectively disguised his sharp trading abilities. Like everyone else in Walton’s Mountain, Ike had no money to speak of, but he survived, which was an accomplishment in itself, and he could pride himself on never having once cheated a soul in his business dealings.

  This morning his smile was particularly broad, and he followed his two customers around the store with solicitous attention. The customers were the Baldwin sisters: two old maids who had the good fortune of being almost totally unaware that the country was in the midst of a depression. The Baldwin sisters seldom came into Ike’s store in person, and their presence foretold purchases of significant quantity.

  “Isn’t that lovely, sister!” Miss Mamie said, admiring a bolt of floral-patterned material. “Do you think it would be too gay for an evening frock?”

  “I just got that in yesterday,” Ike encouraged, “all the way from Raleigh. Fine material, Miss Mamie.”

  “Oh, yes, do buy it, sister,” Miss Emily enthused. “And wouldn’t it make lovely curtains!”

  Of the two sisters, Miss Emily was the more daring and often wore feathers or satin-bodiced gowns that would have scandalized her sister if she were to appear so attired in public. Miss Emily’s enthusiasm for the floral print now quickly decided the question in favor of something more conservative.

  “I think I’ll take four yards of this gray material, Mr. Godsey. It’s very dignified, don’t you think?”

  “Very dignified. Very elegant, Miss Mamie. And particularly suited to a charmin’ and beautiful lady like yourself.”

  It was a plain old silly piece of bald flattery, but still lovely to hear. Mr. Godsey certainly knew how to be a gentleman. Miss Mamie moved to the display of J. & P. Coats thread.

  “And how many mason jars will you need today, ladies?” Ike asked.

  Mason jars were a staple commodity in Ike Godsey’s store. All the ladies of Walton’s Mountain did canning, and during the summer and fall heavy supplies of preserves were laid in for the winter months. But the Baldwin sisters’ purchases of mason jars were a steady all-year business for Ike. At least once each week, usually on Saturday, they fired up the still in their specially built Recipe room and brewed a supply of the fine old whiskey originally formulated by the late, honorable Judge Morley Baldwin.

  There was no commercial taint to the Baldwin sisters’ activities. Indeed, it was purely tradition; a desire on the part of the sisters to carry on the courtly and mannered graciousness so perfectly exemplified by the life of their distinguished father. No matter what the time of night or day, not to offer any caller or wayward traveler a sip of his famous Recipe, to Judge Baldwin would have bespoken gross ill-breeding. And for the Baldwin sisters not to have carried on this tradition would not only have shamed the memory of their revered father but Southern Hospitality itself.

  “A dozen jars will be fine, Mr. Godsey,” Miss Mamie responded.

  “Don’t forget about Cousin H
omer Lee, sister.”

  “Oh, dear, I forgot about him,” Miss Mamie exclaimed. “Yes, you’d better make it two dozen jars, Mr. Godsey. And we’ll be needin’ more grain and malt. And sugar, of course.”

  Ike made a check of his storeroom. “You got visitors at your place, ladies?” he called out.

  “Yes. Fourth cousin Homer Lee Baldwin is visitin’ from Buckin’ham County. And he does love Papa’s Recipe.”

  “Don’t think I ever met him. He the one who ran off with that circus sideshow lady?”

  “Oh dear, no! That was cousin Clyde. Cousin Homer Lee’s a businessman.”

  Ike came out of the storeroom burdened with cartons. “That so? What business he in?”

  “Oh, all sorts of grand business enterprises, Mr. Godsey. I declare, Cousin Homer’s been just about ever’where an’ done just all sorts of interestin’ things.”

  “You must come callin’,” Miss Mamie added, “I’m just sure you an’ Cousin Homer would just have so much to talk about, you bein’ in business and all.”

  “I’d enjoy that, Miss Mamie. Afraid I only got a dozen and a half mason jars right now. But a new delivery ought to be here in a day or two.”

  “That’ll do just fine, Mr. Godsey.”

  They all looked to the front door as the bell tinkled and John-Boy came in.

  “Why, John-Boy Walton, how nice to see you!”

  “Mornin’, Miss Mamie, Miss Emily.”

  “Now just look at you,” Miss Emily said. “Why, you’re gettin’ just as handsome as you can be, John-Boy. And how’s your daddy and Mr. Walton? It’s just been ages since they’ve come a-callin’.”

  “They’re fine, ma’am.”

  “You be sure an’ tell ’em now that we’d just admire ever so much seein’ ’em any time they’re out our way.”

  “Sure will, ma’am.”

  “And your mama too. It’d be such a pleasure to have her come a-callin’ some time.”

  “Yes’m.” John-Boy smiled politely, but he had no intention of passing along the invitation. In spite of Judge Morley Baldwin’s reputedly superior bloodlines, in the eyes of John-Boy’s mother the Baldwin sisters were far from the most upstanding citizens of Walton’s Mountain. She would tolerate them, just as she might tolerate a town loafer or a woman who dyed her hair. But she would do so with her back stiff and her lips tight. The gracious traditions of Southern Hospitality were not nearly so important to her as regular attendance at the Baptist Church and strict avoidance of alcohol in all its forms.

  The two ladies returned to examining merchandise, and John-Boy moved to the counter where Ike was totaling up figures. He had hoped there would be no other customers in the store so he could talk some business and maybe do some haggling with Ike. But it looked like the Baldwin sisters would be there for some time. And Ike was working hard on the numbers.

  “What can I do for you, John-Boy?”

  “Oh, nothin’ much,” John-Boy shrugged. He glanced around the store and peered sharply into the back. “Say, Ike . . . a while back didn’t you used to have an old secondhand washin’ machine for sale around here?”

  “Still got it, and it ain’t so old. It’s back there in the corner.”

  Ike was still working on the figures and John-Boy moved casually to the rear of the store. In doing business with Ike Godsey, the worst thing a person could do was appear eager to make a purchase. John-Boy found the washing machine under a pile of new coveralls, and knelt beside it. How an electric washing machine operated was a mystery to him. But the motor and all the gears and shafts seemed to be in good shape. The machine was gray, and altogether it didn’t look as sleek as the Water Witches in the Sears & Roebuck catalog. But there were no big dents or scratches. John-Boy lifted the coveralls enough to peer into the tub, and then strolled casually back to the counter.

  “How much you askin’ for the old thing, Ike?”

  “You gettin’ married an’ settlin’ down, John-Boy?”

  “No. I was kinda thinkin’ about it for my mama.”

  Ike gave him a sly glance and went back to his figures. “How’s thirty-five dollars sound to you?”

  “Sounds right steep for a secondhand machine.”

  “Machine’s hardly used at all. Claytons only had it a couple months before they moved on to Kentucky.”

  “They got new ones in the Sears & Roebuck catalog for only fifty dollars.”

  “Well, John-Boy, I’m in no real rush to sell it, I reckon.”

  John-Boy shrugged. “Well, I reckon I’m in no real rush to buy it either. Not at that price.” John-Boy moved over to a display of hunting knives and studied them with interest.

  “ ’Course,” said Ike, “seein’ as how it’s for your mama, now I might think about lettin’ you have it for thirty dollars. As is.”

  John-Boy considered the offer. “I might pay twenty. But I don’t even know if the thing works.”

  “Oh, it works fine. Slick as a whistle.” Ike smiled. “Twenty-five dollars, John-Boy. That’s rock bottom.”

  “Twenty.”

  Miss Emily was smiling from one to the other, fascinated by the dickering process. Ike scratched his head, glanced at Miss Emily, then went back to his figures. “You’re a hard bargainer, John-Boy. Okay, it’s yours. Twenty dollars.”

  Miss Emily beamed happily, as if she had struck the bargain herself. “Oh, your mama is just goin’ to love that machine, John-Boy. Imagine, a brand-new washer!”

  “Yes’m,” John-Boy smiled, and turned back to the counter. “There’s just one more thing, Ike. I don’t have the money right now, and I was kinda hopin’ I might be able to work it out some way. I could come down here every day after school and make deliveries and do odd jobs for you. And I could be here all day this week, durin’ vacation.”

  Ike stared as if John-Boy had suddenly gone mad. “You want me to give you a job, so’s you can get the washer for nothin’!”

  “I’ll work hard, Ike. It’s not like you weren’t gettin’ somethin’ in return.”

  “I’m sorry, John-Boy. I’d like to accommodate you, but money’s short with me, same as ever’body else. An’ I’m givin’ you that washin’ machine for practically nothin’ as it is.”

  “You could work for us, John-Boy!”

  It took John-Boy a minute to realize what had been said and who said it. Miss Emily had stepped forward and was smiling brightly at him. “We’d be just ever so delighted to have you,” she bubbled, “and we’ve got just all kinds of things you can do! Oh, I just think this is the most wonderful idea! Now, John-Boy, you just wait here a minute while I discuss it with my sister!”

  “But, Miss Emily—”

  John-Boy gaped with alarm as she hurried off to talk to Miss Mamie. Working for the Baldwin sisters was completely out of the question. Considering his mother’s attitude, he might just as well hire himself out to the devil.

  Ike was watching the whole thing with a broad grin. “Looks like you got yourself a job, John-Boy.”

  “But I can’t! Mama would skin me alive if she found out I was workin’ at the Baldwin place.”

  “Oh, I don’t reckon they’re gonna have you makin’ whiskey for ’em, John-Boy. Likely they got somethin’ else in mind for you.”

  “Yes, but—”

  It was the last chance John-Boy had to protest. The two sisters were suddenly hurrying over, bursting with enthusiasm. “Why, this is just the most wonderful news, John-Boy! Emily tells me you’re goin’ to help us out, and you’re goin’ to buy your mama a washin’ machine with all your earnin’s!”

  “Help from heaven!” Miss Emily chimed in. “An’ just when we needed it most! Didn’t this just work out perfectly, sister?”

  “We have a guest, you see, John-Boy, and—”

  “Fourth Cousin Homer Lee Baldwin from Buckin’ham County!”

  “He’s such a hearty eater.”

  “We just hadn’t heard from him in years, John-Boy. We thought he’d gone into politics. The Baldwins h
ave always excelled at politics, don’t you know. But lo and behold, Thursday mornin’ I opened the door and there he was! Cousin Homer!”

  “You sure you really need me, Miss Emily?” John-Boy asked. “I mean, maybe your cousin could help out.”

  He didn’t intend the statement to be humorous, but they both giggled. “Did you hear that, Mamie?”

  Miss Mamie shook her head. “Cousin Homer Lee and physical labor just never made each other’s acquaintance, I’m afraid, John-Boy.”

  “Perfectly charmin’ gentleman, don’t you see,” Miss Emily added. “But delicate.”

  “Got it from his mama, poor boy.”

  “She wasn’t a Baldwin, of course. What could one expect?”

  “When will you report for work, John-Boy?”

  “Well, I—” John-Boy glanced at Ike and scratched his head. It was hopeless to protest any more. As far as the Baldwin sisters were concerned the matter had been long settled. “Well,” he shrugged, “I guess whenever you say, Miss Emily.”

  “Splendid! And I expect there’s no time like the present, is there.”

  “This will be so nice,” Miss Mamie said. “And won’t Cousin Homer Lee be delighted. All of those things on the counter there are ours, John-Boy.”

  The ladies headed for the door and John-Boy gathered the boxes and bags. “Ike, you’ll hold that washin’ machine for me, won’t you?”

  “Sure will, John-Boy. Unless in the meantime somebody comes in here with cash on the barrelhead.”

  “But . . . suppose I get enough for a down payment?”

  “Well, now I reckon that depends on the size of the down payment.”

  “Yoooo-hooooo!” Miss Emily called from the door.

  As quickly as John-Boy got into the car he knew he had made a mistake; that he should have protested more strongly. Still, he didn’t know how he could have done it without hurting their feelings. On the other hand, he had no idea how he was going to explain the whole thing to his mother.

  The Baldwin sisters’ car was a 1921 Franklin that looked as clean and shiny as the first day Judge Baldwin drove it up from Richmond fourteen years earlier. John-Boy squeezed into the back with all the purchases while the ladies arranged their skirts, and Miss Mamie, seated behind the wheel, finally decided they were ready to go.