The Waltons and its characters are property of Earl Hamner, Jr., and all legal copyright holders. This story is not intended to infringe upon the rights of any copyright holder.
The rosary breaks
scattering beads every place
and we wake to being matriarchs
newly born, learning leadership.
-- quote from Deborah LaSueur, © 1998
“Corabeth, you waking up any time soon?” Ike Godsey leaned over his wife, brushing away an undisciplined lock of her salt-and-pepper hair to kiss her on the forehead.
“Mmmrrmmrmnnmm,” was her reply as she rolled over, burying her face in the pillow. “I’ll take that as a ‘no.’” “Go away.” “Corabeth, I thought, well...” She wiggled in his grasp, putting the pillow over her head. He pulled it off and threw it on the floor. “It’s really hard to talk to you when you do that, honey.” “That, Mr. Godsey, is my purpose. Will you please go away?” “It’s Easter. Don’t you want to, well, get up and have Easter with me?” He placed a hand on her shoulder to keep her from rolling over onto his side of the bed. “C’mon, honey. Please. We’ll go to church, have a nice dinner, and maybe go for a drive.” “What on Earth do I have to do to get you to leave me alone?” Ike took a deep breath, releasing his grip on her shoulder. She pulled away from him, scooting over to the other side of the bed. There was nothing he could do to get her out of bed this morning, much less dressed and out the door. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said quietly as he tucked her under the covers and walked out of the bedroom.
“So how long did it last that time, Mrs. Godsey?”
Corabeth drummed nervously on the arm of the chair, eyes focused on a Beardsley print just behind his desk. Dr. Marshall gave her a kind, if professionally detached smile. “There’s no need to be uncomfortable. Remember, anything we discuss here is strictly confidential. You state you were unable to leave the house for several months. Specifically, how many months would you say you were incapacitated?” Her voice seemed to echo in the spacious office. “Over a year, maybe...” She coughed softly. “I believe it was about 15 months, overall.” “That’s quite a long time, wouldn’t you say?” “I wasn’t completely incapacitated. I did go out from time to time.” The doctor leafed through the papers on his clipboard. “Yes, I see you took a trip to Doe Hill in...February.” “To attend the funeral of my brother, Frank.” “I see. And what was different about this event that you were able to leave the house to attend?” Corabeth looked up blankly. “He was my brother.” “Of course. Mrs. Godsey--may I call you Corabeth?” When she nodded, he continued. “Corabeth, you mentioned last time that the catalyst for this...agoraphobic crisis was your daughter’s elopement. Would you say you’ve experienced depressive or agoraphobic periods prior to that time?”She didn’t know how to answer. “I...well, everybody has their down times.”
“I see.” “It’s just that...” She brought herself up to full height, or at least as tall as she could muster in a seated position. “It’s just that--” Her resolve collapsed as words failed her. “I don’t know.” “That’s all right, Corabeth. It’s why you’re here. To find out why these periods of depression happen.” Corabeth allowed herself a small, rueful smile. “Dr. Marshall--” “Elliott.” “Dr. Marshall, let us get one thing perfectly clear. I am here at the request of my husband, whom I love dearly. It is for him that I travel clear up to Charlottesville twice a week to have my past dredged for whatever Freudian clues you can find to my serious emotional problems.” The doctor smiled broadly. “Excellent. I’m glad to hear you say that.” “Why?” Corabeth narrowed her brow suspiciously. “It means there’s still some fight in you. That you won’t just take everything I say lying down. That’s a good sign.” He nodded at her sigh of resignation. “Now, let’s get back to where we were. When would you say you had your first major depressive episode?”
“I expect Mr. Dechaine and Mr. Comden will be arriving presently, Corabeth. Please make sure the table is set while I finish with Francis’ lesson.”
Corabeth nodded, ignoring the cheeky grin her mother’s young pupil gave her. Francis Boutwell was a detestable little boy--a copper-haired angel on the outside, a shoe-stealing, gum-chewing fiend underneath. Safely out of sight of his stern piano instructor, Francis rolled his eyes almost completely back in his head, creating such a horrid sight that Corabeth simply had to leave the room.
“Now, Francis,” she could hear her mother saying as she pulled the box of silverware from the chest. “Let’s try the D-minor scale.” “Of course, Mrs. Walton. I practiced it twenty whole times last night, right after saying my Bible verses.” It took everything Corabeth had to focus on setting the table properly. Mama had certain standards, and she certainly was not going to drop them simply because Corabeth had been annoyed by a monstrous nine-year-old boy. Just remember, she reminded herself silently, you are all she has now. She put out the last set of forks, then went into the kitchen to help Eileen dish up supper. Although Papa’s death had left them in somewhat reduced circumstances, at least they were able to keep her on. With Frank in seminary and Orma Lee run off heaven knew where, Eileen seemed the only stable person left in the household. Eileen McDonald had come to them after losing her entire family to the influenza in 1918. Orphaned and destitute, she’d still managed to quickly mark her territory in the kitchen. Papa had simply adored her; “all spit and angel wings,” he used to say. “So how many times did the seventh son of Lucifer practice his arpeggios last night, dearie?” Her face bobbed up from a large pot of something, red-cheeked and green eyes rolling.“I believe it was the D-minor scales,” Corabeth corrected. “And Little Lord Fauntleroy did them twenty whole times. Right after his Bible verses.”
Eileen’s thin frame shook with covert laughter. “Strange how somebody like that can make Bible verses seem as slimy as half-eaten worms, ain’t it, Corie?” Corabeth winced. No matter how many times she protested, Eileen insisted on using that nickname. Said she couldn’t bring herself to be so formal with a girl only three years her elder. And at nineteen, Eileen was simply not someone to be argued with once her mind was set. “Have the dashing gentlemen arrived yet?” “Still waiting.” Corabeth took the tureen from the shelf and handed it to Eileen. “Mama has told them time and again that dinner is promptly at five.” “Probably out after all sorts of mischief, those two.” The girl began ladling soup into the tureen. “Imagine, them having anything in common at all. Mr. Dechaine, with his pens and notebooks and that big camera; Mr. Comden, all big and burly-like.” Corabeth took the full tureen, covered it, and put it on the serving tray. Truth be told, she’d be happier when both boarders had gone their merry way. Comden was all talk and cigar smoke, and Dechaine made her nervous. He was always watching her, studying her. It did no good to complain, though. Paying boarders were paying boarders, and women of reduced circumstance really didn’t have a lot of room to be choosy. She was just about to put the cozy on tureen when she heard the screen door slam, followed by a duet of male voices greeting her mother. “Well, speak of the devil,” Eileen said with a wink.
The Easter crowd at Walton’s Mountain Baptist Church was finally dwindling. Ike took his post just inside the door, watching as the couples and families paid their respects to Reverend Moseley. In the old days, Corabeth would have been right there at the front of the line, peppering the conversation with insightful comments on various parts of the sermon. A smile found its way to Ike’s lips. There had been times when he suspected she did that just to prove she hadn’t fallen asleep during the service.
The smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. Corabeth seemed to have given up the Baptist church along with everything else she held dear in life. When he asked her about it, all she would say was, “I can find no solace there, Mr. Godsey.” Ike Godsey was running out of options. He had to do something. “Ike.” His thoughts scattered at the sound of the minister’s voice. “Tom.” “Is there something I can do for you?” There was something about the kindness in the younger man’s voice, the knowing look in his eyes, that filled Ike with a sort of embarrassed helplessness. The question was just polite conversation. In a community the size of Walton’s Mountain, there was just no hiding the fact that Corabeth Godsey had not been to church in six months. There was no hiding the fact that she’d been practically invisible since the day they found out Aimee had eloped. “Could we talk?” Moseley nodded, pressing his hand onto Ike’s shoulder. “Sure. Come on into the house. I’ll make you a cup of coffee.” “No, that’s all right. I don’t need coffee. I just...” He faltered, uncertain how to break this courteous barrier that stood between him and the advice he needed. “I just need your help.” The reverend gestured to one of the back pews. “Have a seat. It’s about Corabeth, isn’t it?” Ike let out the breath he was holding. Finally. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s about my wife.” “I’ve been concerned myself, Ike. We all have.” Tom took a seat next to him. “Corabeth is a pillar of this community. It troubles me deeply to see her in such of state of utter disconsolation.” “I’m at my wit’s end.” Ike studied the pew in front of him, focusing on the faded grain of the polished wood. “She’s always been a--” He struggled for the right thing to say. Words were Corabeth’s specialty, not his. “Complex person. Don’t get me wrong--we’ve had our good times as well as the bad. But I’ve never seen her like this before. I thought at first that she’d snap out of it.” He sighed heavily. “But nothing seems to get through to her. Nothing, not music or the store or the Bible or anything.” “I didn’t want to bring this up, but is it possible she’s been...” Moseley pursed his lips slightly. “Ike, sometimes when people experience severe trauma or sadness, they tend to turn to....they can often fall into a pattern of...” “If you’re asking me if she’s started drinking again, the answer is no.” At the reverend’s chagrined look, he regretted his harsh tone. “Sorry, Tom. I guess nobody has secrets in this neck of the woods.” “I’d heard some things. You know how people are.” “Boy, don’t I.” Ike was beginning to regret this conversation. He’d come here for advice, not to air all of his and Corabeth’s dirty laundry. “When things started going south, that’s the first thing I checked.” He shook his head. “There’s usually signs, you see. Little hints that, well, she’s fallen again. But she hasn’t.” Ike shrugged helplessly. “It’s like she’s just given up on life.” Tom Moseley fixed a grim look on his friend. “Then maybe we have to give her something worth living for.”“Tell me about your relationship with Aimee.”
Corabeth flexed her foot gently. After the first few sessions, she’d become relaxed enough with Dr. Marshall to take her place on the couch. It seemed so cliche, so terribly Freudian to be stretched out on a couch with an analyst, discussing her issues about her daughter. But Ike had been right. She was starting to feel better. It was nice to have someone to talk to. “Aimee was a dear child. Big blue eyes, soulful--like an artist.” “You had very high hopes for her.” “What mother doesn’t?” “You’d be surprised.” He leaned back in his chair, studying her. “I’ve known a lot of people in a lot of situations, Corabeth. It’s not a given that parents want the best for their children.” “That’s unthinkable.” “To you, maybe. You and Ike wanted children desperately. But people start families for lots of reasons, and not always for the best reasons.” “I always dreamed Aimee would have every opportunity that--” She let the sentence trail off into the still room. For a long moment, the only sound she heard was the ticking of the grandfather clock and her own breathing. “Go on, Corabeth. You always dreamed Aimee would have every opportunity that?” She felt that familiar knot in her stomach. She got it every time Elliott pressed her for more information than she wanted to give. What was she supposed to say? That she wanted Aimee to have the opportunity to see the world? To have choices in life? To live by her own rules, rather than by the rules determined by circumstance? That she wanted Aimee to have a better life than she herself had had. A look at Dr. Marshall, and she knew it was written all over her face. No sense hiding it, now. He wouldn’t stop until she said it, regardless of the fact that the truth was right there hanging between them. “I wanted her to have every opportunity that I didn’t have. I wanted her to make something of her life. I didn’t want her to end up...stuck. Like me.” “You wanted her to be able to make her own choices in life. Is that it?” “Precisely! By having an education, by being exposed to the right people and ideas, Aimee would have been able to write her own ticket. She could have had anything she wanted out of life.” “And what if all she wanted out of life was to marry Jeff and settle down? The hardest thing every parent must learn is that your own dreams for your child should never supersede their dreams for themselves. Surely you must’ve had the same struggles yourself?” Corabeth couldn’t answer that.
March 3, 1928Spring is coming. The snows were bad this year, and it really hurt business for Mama. Travelers couldn’t get through, and people were having great difficulty getting out. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on one’s point of view), our two boarders Mr. Comden and Mr. Dechaine decided to wait out the snows and stay here until the thaw.
I hesitate to write this, but I fear the more acquainted I become with MM. Comden and Dechaine, the less I desire their company. I have determined that Laurence Comden is a man of low breeding, and I suspect even lower morals. On more than one occasion, I have seen him ogling Eileen as she cleared the dishes. Although he has a good deal more money than most people around here, his manners are despicable and I don’t believe him trustworthy. Mama has said nothing about this--she never would. But I can see it in her eyes when we are all together in the sitting room.Daniel Dechaine, while less financially endowed than his fellow, is at least a little more civilized. He has never made crude remarks in our company, although I’ve noticed he does not stop Mr. Comden when he does so. Mr. Dechaine is a willow of a man, slim and dark haired, smooth-shaven, with very fine hands. He speaks little, but always seems to be watching. He is a geologist on sabbatical from the College of William and Mary in Richmond. He doesn’t talk much about what he does, but spends most of his time tromping through the mountain paths laden down with gear. He first came to Doe Hill in September, and was about ready to return to Richmond when an early snow closed the roads.
Mr. Dechaine is a queer one; I feel strange when he is around. I believe him to be in his late 20s, although he seems much older. He has only spoken to me once outside of Mama’s company. He asked why people called me Corabeth instead of Corie, as Eileen does. I suppose I was rude to him. It is really none of his affair what I choose to be called. But for some reason, whether it was the uncomfortable silence or the weight of those dark green eyes on me, I just blurted out the truth. “Corie is so patronizing. Only a few of the older, less polite members of my family--on the Walton side--still call me that.” ‘But you let Eileen call you Corie,’ he persisted, still never releasing me from that intense gaze. ‘She is different,’ said I. He went on to ask me if anyone had called me anything but Corabeth or Corie. For the life of me, I don’t know why, but I told him how Papa in quiet moments had called me Beth or Bethie. Just the mention of Papa brought the old hurt down again. I think he saw it in my face. Perhaps I looked as if I were going to cry. Either way, he changed the subject and quickly went on his way. I’m afraid I shall never understand men.
Ike woke with a start. Corabeth was having another nightmare. It had been seven months now. Seven long months living with the ghost of the woman he loved. He rolled over, wrapping his arms around her shoulders to calm her. He lay there, rocking gently with her spooned in his arms, until her breathing quieted.
“Ike?” Her shaking hand covered his, pulling his arm even tighter around her as she pressed back into him. He kissed the top of her head, whispering soft murmuring sounds as he traced his lips over the curve of her ear. “It’s okay, sugar. It was just a dream.” She wriggled under the covers until she was facing him, her body crushed against his. Hot tears burned into his skin as she buried her face in his neck. Ike just continued to rock her, as he’d done so many nights before. She felt warm, feverish. She’d never tell him what the nightmares were about, but they were coming more and more frequently. He continued to rock her, all the while telling her how much he loved her, how it was going to be all right. Slowly, their pace became more rhythmic, more meaningful. He felt her lips pressing against his throat, her body molding against his with undisguised need. He let her go where she had to go. Ike could barely remember a time now when their lovemaking had been anything more than mutual grieving. He was sure there had once been passion in their marriage. For all the fighting and the hystrionics, they had been good together. As in all areas of their life, once Corabeth had gotten over her shyness in the bedroom, she’d been not at all hesitant to speak up about her needs. And wants. She was moaning now, her secret little language of desire that Ike had never quite been able to understand. Her mouth pressed hard against his as she removed his pajama top. He opened his eyes, noticing her dazed expression. He wondered if she was even fully awake. Not that it mattered. Dazed and half-asleep though she may be, at least Corabeth wanted something. It may well be, as she’d called it once, ‘a primitive and somewhat exasperating bodily function,’ but it was all he had of her these days. In a moment, they were together in earnest, bodies communicating where words seemed to fail. She cried out as he entered her. “Ike!” Had he not been so preoccupied, Ike might have smiled. He could count the times she’d used his given name in public on the fingers of one hand. But when they were having sex, she’d repeat it over and over, like a chanting Eastern monk. He dug his fingers into her back, pulling her hard against him. Just the sound of his name, spoken in such a voice, could send him over the edge. She continued her mantra, setting the pace with the “k” sound in his name. ”Ike...Ike...Ike...Ike...Ike....” Quickly, as always happened when she was like this, she reached her peak, clutching his hair as she moaned her climax. Ike came right behind her, and the two collapsed into a heap. They lay there together for a long time. Ike breathed in the warm scent of her. She smelled incredible, an intoxicating mixture of lavender, perspiration, and Corabeth. He wanted to hold her like this forever, to keep her close to him. But all too soon, she pulled away. Without another word, she rolled over and curled up into a fetal position, her back to him. Ike sighed and watched her shoulders rise and fall in the yellow moonlight. Then, he went to sleep.March 27, 1928 Papa used to have a saying. “Be careful of the things you wish for. One day, you may get them.” I never understood that saying until this afternoon. Mama and Eileen were out, taking advantage of the warm day to look for herbs in the wood just west of our house. I had stayed home, as I am recovering from a cold. I was sitting in the kitchen, polishing the silverware, when I heard the door open and close. I thought it surprising that Mama and Eileen should be back so soon. That was when Mr. Comden came into the kitchen. He asked for a cup of tea, which I immediately made for him. I noticed an odd smell about him--familiar, but unpleasant. As he thanked me, too loudly and too enthusiastically, for the tea, I realized he had been drinking. Something in the way he looked at me reminded me that I was all alone in the house with him. Instead of retreating to the sitting room as he usually did, Mr. Comden sat at the kitchen table and proceeded to watch me polish the silver. I must admit, I have never been so completely disconcerted in my life. I tried making polite conversation, but he kept changing the subject. He asked me if I had a beau. He asked me if I planned to marry. I felt the questions rude and impertinent, but I didn’t know what to say. I avoided his questions as politely as possible, but he persisted. When he finally finished his tea, I took the cup and brought it to the sink. He followed me, standing very close and blocking my escape. I was trapped between the counter and Mr. Comden. “How old are you, Corie?” he asked me. I was so flustered by his audacity that before I could stop myself, I had blurted out, “Twenty-two.” “Don’t you think that’s a little old for a pretty girl to be living at home?” Well, that was that. Paying boarder or not, I simply would not tolerate such rudeness in my own home. I started to walk out of the room, but Mr. Comden caught me by the arm and, pressing me back against the counter, began to kiss me. I have always wanted to be kissed. I have dreamed of it, thought of it, planned for the moment when at last romance would find me. But this... I struggled to release myself, but his grip was stronger than I expected. He was whispering things to me--lewd, insulting things that, had Papa been alive, would have gotten him shot at dawn. Instead of being carried on the wings of bliss, I was absolutely terrified. He was much stronger than me, and the drink had obviously delivered him of what little sense might have otherwise inhibited him. It was with great relief that I heard Mr. Dechaine’s stern voice in the doorway. “Let her go, Laurence.” Mr. Comden stopped his assault long enough to turn and laugh. “Go back to your rocks, Danny. This is man’s work.” He grabbed me roughly, as if to display his prize to the other man. “Besides, can’t you see she’s enjoying it?” “All I see is a man who will find himself in the county jail if he isn’t careful.” Dechaine took a step closer. “Now, be sensible and let the girl go.” For a moment, I feared Dechaine’s words would have no effect at all. But thankfully, Comden decided I was not a morsel worth fighting for. He released me unceremoniously and walked out the door. I stood there for what seemed an eternity, embarrassed, shaken. Mr. Dechaine asked me if I had been hurt. I said no. He apologized for Comden’s rudeness and said he would speak to Mother on my behalf if I wished. I begged him not to do so. I didn’t tell him so, but Mother needed the money from Mr. Comden’s rent--desperately. I would simply have to be more careful. When he saw how vehemently I opposed such an action, he agreed to keep his silence on the matter. I thanked him once more for his intervention. He simply nodded and said good day. So, on March 27, 1928, I have been kissed, rescued, and involved in a conspiracy to silence. Why is it not as thrilling as I imagined it would be?
“That must have been difficult.”
Corabeth sighed. “I still don’t know what all of this has to do with Aimee and my spells.” Elliott cocked his head to one side. “Don’t you? You’re a smart woman, Corabeth. All relationships, all issues come down to one thing--trust. Your trust was violated, and out of obligation, you kept that hidden. Did you ever tell your mother about the incident in the kitchen?” “Of course not. She had too many worries as it was. The last thing she needed was for me to be a burden on her.” “So you stayed there, in a house with a man who had attacked you, out of duty to your mother.” “You make it seem so traumatic. All he did was kiss me.” She felt his look of skepticism and shifted nervously. “Besides, he left very quickly after that day. Mr. Dechaine may have agreed not to speak to Mama, but I suppose he had no problem speaking with Mr. Comden.” “I see. And your mother lost the rent, because of what happened to you?” Corabeth had to smile. “I think Mr. Dechaine knew that’s why I didn’t want him talking to Mama. He came up with a rather eloquent solution to that problem.” “Really?” She nodded, leaning against the back of the chair. “He gave me a job. Three dollars a week to be his assistant.” As the memory descended on her, though, her smile faded. “Perhaps we should have just kept Mr. Comden.”
