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.
A girl grew up in a small town in the mountains, very similar to any small town in America in the early 20th century. This girl, whom we shall call Flora, was the oldest of three children. Flora was an ordinary girl--pretty, but not beautiful; clever, but not gifted; and possessed of that peculiar brand of fear which allows one to live life as a series of “if only’s” and “I could have’s.”
Since her parents were elderly, it fell on Flora to care for them as their health diminished. This Flora did without much complaint, and contented herself with dreams of her life as it would be when she finally was free to live it. Her father passed into heaven while she was still young, but Flora’s mother grew older and weaker. Her life stretched on for years, and Flora dutifully waited for her mother to join her father. The years rolled by, and Flora watched as first one, then the other of her siblings left home to make their fortunes. Her friends married, had families, moved on. And still Flora waited.
One day, after she’d long given up hopes of ever realizing even the least of her dreams, a miracle happened. Flora’s mother slipped quietly away in her sleep, a peaceful and long-overdue concession to mortality.
For a while, Flora did not know what to do. She’d spent her whole life waiting for this moment, but now that it had arrived, she was in a quandary.
“I shall go to the city,” she stated firmly. “There I shall find my fortune. I shall use my talents, and the world shall rejoice in my accomplishments.”
So Flora gathered as many of her things into her carriage as she could. She was both frightened and exhilarated at the prospect of her upcoming adventure.
How could she have known how differently from those childhood fantasies her life would turn out?
Corabeth could hear her husband in the bathroom. He was singing a tune...what was it? "Love Me Tender," by Elvis Presley. Without opening her eyes, Corabeth Godsey burrowed back under the covers. The man was an eternal child, she mused through a deep yawn. At least he'd let her sleep in again. He'd been doing that often lately, a courtesy Corabeth certainly did not fail to appreciate.
Somehow, though, she sensed something was wrong. Ike crooned softly, his voice tinny against the tile of the bathroom floor. What was wrong? She didn't open her eyes, but she could sense the quality of light in the bedroom. It was late.
Corabeth drew in a deep breath, steeling herself to leave the comfort of her warm bed.
She never let it out.
"It's time to go," the voice said.
Corabeth looked up, as through a haze. She was still in her bedroom, Ike still warbling his morning song. She turned in the direction of the voice.
It was Zebulon Walton.
"Zeb?" The sound of her own voice unnerved her. It seemed incongruous. She turned to the bed, saw her own body laying motionless.
"We have to go, sweetheart," Zebulon urged. "Your time here is done."
"I don't understand," she whispered, turning to face the older gentleman. He stood before her, looking just as he had years earlier--a wizened Cupie-doll of a man, eternally cheerful, rosy-cheeked and full of mischief.
"Oh," his gruff voice held a hint of laughter. "I think you understand well enough, Corabeth." He nodded to her still form with a meaningful wink. "No dawdling, now. We've got work to do."
"But...." Corabeth could not tear her gaze from the bed. How was this possible? How could she be looking at herself? She looked down at herself, trying to distinguish the watcher from the watched. There was a tugging deep in the middle of her chest; she felt it pulling her...elsewhere.
"Corabeth, I'm older and wiser. I know what's best; and it is not best for you to stick around here and watch what's coming."
"What's...coming?"
His answer was interrupted by Ike, coming into the bedroom. Corabeth stared as her husband of all those years looked straight through her. He wore the same thing he'd worn for decades--straight trousers, a starched white shirt, and bow tie. She paused, wondering when he'd gotten so old, when his hair had gone completely gray?
"Corabeth," he said softly. "Time to rise and shine." He puttered into the main living room for a moment, then came back. "Come on, honey. It's late."
"Oh, my lord," Corabeth whispered as realization began to dawn on her.
"Honey, come on." Ike leaned over to give her leg a gentle pat.
"No...." Corabeth turned away. She couldn't watch as Ike tried to rouse her, as he called her name repeatedly. She could not take the heart-break as he realized she was not waking up. "Zeb, this can't be happening...."
"It happens to all of us, child, sooner or later."
"But..."
"No 'buts.'"
Corabeth lowered her face into her hands, shaking her head slightly. She could hear Ike now, murmuring her name in soft, repeated whispers. She turned to see him gently cradling her head in his arms, tears streaming down his face.
The pulling in her chest felt like a tug-of-war. "I cannot bear this," she choked.
Zebulon Walton reached out a sturdy arm to draw her to him. "It gets easier. You're not used to it."
"I don't want to get used to it." She shrugged off his grasp, reaching out in an attempt to touch Ike Godsey's shoulder. Her hand swept through him as though he were made of fog. "Ike," she whispered. "Mr. Godsey...."
"He can't hear you now."
"I can't just leave him. What will he do? How will he manage?" Corabeth knew, even as she said them, how foolish the words sounded. He would manage. She stared down at the pair, husband and wife, for a long moment. It felt as if her heart were being ripped from her body. She wanted to cry, but somehow knew tears were irrelevant. "Will he be all right?" she whispered.
"Of course, he will." She felt a soft hand on her shoulder and knew it was time to go.
If she had tried to describe the journey he led her on, Corabeth would have been hard-pressed even to begin. She felt the sensation of speed, of light, of great distances and microscopic closeness. Even in her grief, her loss, she felt dazzled. Everything was happening so quickly.
"Why didn't I get any warning?" she asked suddenly.
Her companion began to laugh heartily. "My dear child, life is a warning for death. What more did you want?"
To her surprise, Corabeth started to laugh as well. It suddenly seemed an absurd joke--one minute she's trying to squeeze another few minutes of sleep out of the night, and the next she's traveling with a man who'd been dead for forty years to a place she couldn't even begin to imagine.
"Where are we going?"
"Home."
She found herself in a quaint, Edwardian parlor. An upright piano graced the main wall, its polished mantle draped with hand-made lace doilies. Silver-framed pictures book-ended a vase of carnations and two crystal candle holders.
Corabeth gasped as she saw the pictures. “Papa....” she whispered, holding the nearest picture reverently. “Papa. Is he here?”
She turned to Zebulon, who’d made himself comfortable on the crimson-velvet settee. “He’s here, all right. They’re all here--your mother, brother Frank, John and Livvie. All your friends and family, waiting to welcome you back.”
“Then...” Corabeth set the picture back down on the piano. This room, this place, was exactly as she’d remembered. Home. Before Papa’s death. Before the Depression. Before the long, terrible years of loneliness.
“Why did I take you here?” Zeb prompted.
“Yes.”
“We like to give you a few moments to regroup, in cases like these.”
Her eyes shot upwards, sharp and suddenly alert. “What do you mean, cases like these?”
His laughter took her by surprise. It annoyed her. “Well, child, you haven’t been doing this for very long. It’s understandable for you to have a few moments of...disorientation.”
Her exasperation dissipated as quickly as it appeared. He was right. She felt herself acclimating, adjusting to the air and the energy of this place. She traced her fingers over the piano keys, tuned but with the dull padding of age.
“Corie, child, don’t dawdle.” It was her mother’s voice. She looked up to find her mother sitting next to the piano in the straight-backed chaired she’d always reserved for lessons. She couldn’t have been more than forty-five--still beautiful, in a stern Victorian way.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” came the reply. A young girl of no more than ten or eleven years hurried to the piano and hopped onto the bench. Corabeth held her breath. Deep brown hair, tied back in blue satin bows. The sweet blue and white dress she’d loved so much that she’d begged to wear it every day for a month after her mother had sewn it for her. The smell of peppermint and pipe tobacco from the library where Papa sat musing over his papers.
“Zebulon?”
He was gone.
Corabeth turned back to the tableau spread before her like a scene from a play. Nothing mattered except the child and the mother. The endless scales, the mind-numbing arpeggios, the hint of summer coming in through the French windows. Brother Frank was off in the tree house, probably copying Bible verses for fun. Orma Lee was getting into who knew what kind of trouble. And here she was, victim of her own potential.
“Hold up your wrists, dear. Mustn’t have lazy hands.”
“Yes, Mama.”
How many hours had she spent, fingers flying up and down the keys like an obedient whirlwind? How many sunny days lost to the hopes that at least one of the Walton children would live up to the talent given them by the Almighty?
She heard the sound of laughter from the other room. Papa. More laughter, and she could make out Orma Lee’s high-pitched shrieks of glee. Corabeth squeezed her eyes shut, reminding herself that jealousy was a sin just as much as greed or hate.
“Don’t forget the sharps, Corabeth.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Flora set out alone for the city, her eyes straight before her, her jaw set, her courage mustered as much as possible. She drove for days through the mountains, through the tall pines, the dusty roads. She drove when she was hungry; she drove when she was tired. One evening, when the sun was dipping just below the mountain ridge, Flora felt herself nodding off. A sharp lurch of the carriage jolted her awake.
She had strayed from the muddy path, and her wheel was stuck.
“Oh, dear,” thought Flora. “The sun is almost down. If I cannot unstick my wheel, I will be stranded alone at night in the mountain wilderness.”
Before she could decide what to do, a hooded figure appeared from the forest. Flora cried out, but the figure held up a single, withered hand to silence her. With a sweep of that hand, a gust of wind rose, swirling around Flora and the carriage. When the wind settled, Flora saw that the ground around her wheel had dried, and the carriage was now free.
Flora gasped. “Why, thank you, stranger. I am in your debt.”
The stranger nodded. “You can repay me easily,” came an old woman’s voice from beneath the black hood. “I ask only a simple gesture.”
“Anything,” Flora stated. “If it is in my power, I will give it to you.”
“Only a kiss,” said the hag.
“A kiss?” Flora laughed. Such a small price for such a grand gesture. “So be it.”
The hag stepped closer to claim her reward. But when she removed her hood, Flora shrunk back in horror. The witch was haggard, her face misshapen and covered with open sores. Her teeth, which were yellow to the point of green, lopped over her lower lip like a crooked saw. She leaned in, her breath a curious combination of sulfur and mold.
Flora turned away from the crone, horrified at the thought of touching even the nethermost hem of her garment, much less placing a kiss on that horrid face. “I cannot!”
The witch’s gray eyes sparkled with fury. “You gave your word! My magick for a kiss.”
“Please, kind mother,” Flora said quickly, hoping to calm the old woman’s anger, “anything but that. I have my mother’s jewels, many fine antiques. I will give you anything, but please--”
“A kiss you promised, and a kiss you shall deliver.” At Flora’s ashen look, she growled. “You will not make good your promise, child?” Flora cringed, unable even to look the hag in the face. “Very well, then. A curse on you. Go. Take your fine carriage, your jewels and antiques. You shall find no pleasure in them. You, who cannot offer the simplest kindness, will know only envy, only regret. You will hear the lark, and long for the canary. You will eat fruit, and long for bread. You will read poetry, but wish for song This is your curse. Be gone with you, before I decide not to be so forgiving.”
With that, the old woman vanished in a puff of smoke, leaving Flora shaking with fear. She quickly stepped into the carriage, and rode down the dark road as fast as she could. With so much time lost, she would never make the inn on time. Flora thought hard, trying to keep the witch’s words as far in the back of her mind as possible.
Just over that hill, she thought, my cousin and his wife live. I will go there, and they will give me shelter for the night.
“Corabeth?”
Had she been dreaming? Focusing, Corabeth darted her gaze to the piano, which stood silent and ghost-like on the wall. She was seated on the settee, hands clasped tight around her knees as she rocked slowly back and forth.
“Corabeth, honey, are you all right?” Olivia Walton rubbed gently on her back, a warm forgiving touch that threatened to send Corabeth into a fit of inexplicable tears.
“No,” she breathed. “No, I’m not all right. I am not in the least bit all right.” She glanced up at Olivia, chin wobbling and face tight with anguish. “How do you expect me to be all right?”
Olivia smiled, the same look of serene rightness she’d worn while dancing with John at the Versailles Restaurant in Charleston, the same night Ike Godsey had proposed to Corabeth, sending her into hysterics and changing her life forever.
“I suppose you’re here to help me...reorient.” There was an undertone of bitterness in Corabeth’s voice, a meanness she couldn’t help, but regretted nonetheless.
“I just came to say hello,” was the soft reply.
A harsh, quiet laugh escaped Corabeth’s lips. “Hello.”
“You weren’t expecting this.” Olivia took Corabeth’s hand, clasping gently. “You’ve forgotten what it’s like.”
“What what’s like?”
Olivia pursed her lips, searching for the words. Wisps of her brown-blond hair fluttered at cheeks. “You don’t remember what it’s like...not to be living. It’s okay, Corabeth. It happens to all of us when we first arrive. Once you meet with your guide, it’ll all begin to come back to you.”
“My...guide?”
“Your teacher, the one who helps you with the transitions.” There was a long pause as Olivia realized she was speaking a foreign language to the distraught woman. “Do you have any questions, while you wait?”
“Yes. Where am I?”
The other woman shook her head, laughing. “You never believed in easy questions, did you, Corabeth?”
“It’s not a difficult question. Where am I? Heaven? Hell? Somewhere else I’ve never heard of?”
Olivia hesitated, choosing her words with care. “You’re in the place...between. You’re here to review, to rest and rejuvenate.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will.” She tilted her head, slightly. “She’s coming. Don’t be afraid, Corabeth. I’ll see you afterwards.” She gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, and before Corabeth could say anything, Olivia was gone.
She was alone. Alone in this museum exhibit designed to remind her of home. Alone in this place...between. Between what? Heaven and hell? Life and death?
“You always analyzed things too much.”
She whirled. A beautiful child stood before her, about ten years old, blonde with wide blue eyes. “Aimee!”
“It’s about time you joined me.”
“I don’t understand. How can you be here? You...you live in Washington, D.C. with Beth. You’re not dead.”
“You know that isn’t necessary. I’m here. That’s all that matters.” She reached out her hand, drawing Corabeth to her feet. “Come. It’s time to begin.”
Drusilla’s Pond was just as she’d remembered it--warm, golden tones reflecting from the water. Aimee led her to a picnic spot just under an oak tree. A faded checked cloth had been spread on the bank, held down by the old wicker basket from the 30s. Corabeth dropped slowly to her knees, gently caressing the basket handle.
“I brought some sandwiches.” It was Ike Godsey. A mid-1930s, falling all over himself, eager to please Ike Godsey. Corabeth felt her heart stop for just a moment. Had he ever really been that young?
“That was very kind of you, Mr. Godsey.” The response came from a young woman standing in the shade. It was yet another version of herself.
Corabeth sat down hard in the grass just beyond the picnic site. This was getting strange. She looked for Aimee, who was nowhere to be found. She was sure to be close, however. Watching. Observing.
“I brought some soda pop, too. And...and some cake from Olivia Walton. Applesauce.”
Corabeth watched as her younger, sterner self looked away from the overzealous suitor. She remembered this day well. Ike and Corabeth had been married for three weeks. Three long, uncomfortable, transitional weeks. Ike, in desperation, had suggested a picnic after services one balmy Sunday afternoon. Corabeth smiled at the memory. Despite her years of accusations, the man did have a gentle and romantic heart--in his own way.
She surveyed the younger version of herself closely. The woman stood away from her husband, arms folded loosely across her waist. Her hair was pulled back in a neat bun, and she wore a perfectly laundered cotton dress. Eyes downcast. How terrified she was! And of Ike Godsey, for goodness sake.
A voyeuristic impulse struck Corabeth. She leaned forward, resting her chin on one knee to watch the scene unfold.
“It’s a beautiful day,” Ike ventured. He stepped closer to his wife in an attempt to sneak his arm around her waist. With a single fluid motion, she was out of his grasp, under the guise of watching a bird swoop down over the pond.
“Yes. Quite lovely.” The younger Corabeth tugged at the collar of her dress. “Although a bit warm for this time of year.”
“We could always go skinny-dipping.” The withering look she gave him stopped Ike’s chuckle dead in his throat. “Or...maybe not.”
Oh, don’t be such a prig, the older Corabeth thought as she watched the uncomfortable pair settle down to their picnic. “I don’t ever remember being such a...”
“Prude?” Aimee had rejoined her, seating herself on the grass next to her mother.
“What is she so afraid of? It’s just a picnic.”
“She doesn’t have your years of experience. Don’t you remember?”
“I remember a few uncomfortable weeks, but this--”
The young girl pointed to the couple seated before them. “Remember,” she murmured.
The word hung between them for a brief moment, then Corabeth understood. Standing, she walked to the younger version of herself and...merged with her. It lasted only a moment, but left her shaken and upset when she finally separated and rejoined Aimee.
“How did it feel?”
“Terrible. She--I was so terrified.”
“Of what?”
“Of...” Corabeth searched her soul, hunting for the origins of the stark, painful anxiety she’d felt. “Afraid...of loving him. Of letting him love me.” She shook her head, not wanting to watch the couple, who sat transfixed in uncomfortable silence. “Of needing him.”
The being who wore her daughter’s smile gazed up at her. Corabeth felt a sense of eternity in those eyes, an overwhelming rush as she realized this child was as ancient as the mountain itself. “Is that all you feared?” Aimee prompted.
The young couple vanished, and Corabeth found herself back in her mother’s home. She stared at the tall, vibrant sixteen-year-old before her, hardly recognizing her own reflection.
“Mother, you simply must--”
“Corabeth Walton, you are not going and that is final.” Her mother shook her head, hands wringing together in outright bewilderment at her daughter’s unexpected defiance.
“But, Mama, this is important!”
“And your father’s health is not?”
A toss of the head, a quick pivot on her toes, and young Corabeth was seated melodramatically on the settee. “Of course, his health is important. But it will only be for a few hours, and the doctor said Papa will be fine. The girls are counting on me. I’ve been practicing for months, and I’ll absolutely die if I have to disappoint them. My life will be completely ruined!”
Corabeth watched in horror as the scene unfolded before her. The Doe Hill Ladies’ Auxiliary Annual Elocution Competition. She’d been chosen to recite The Wreck of the Hesparus, representing her school against young ladies from all over the county.
“I’d forgotten this,” she whispered to Aimee. Her daughter said nothing, but watched as the drama continued.
Corabeth’s mother looked tired, too tired to fight with a strong-willed teenage daughter hell-bent on winning glory for the family name. “If you must go, you must go. But I want you back immediately after the competition.”
“She let me go.” It was an accusation, a single-syllable oath of long-repressed self-loathing. “She let me go....”
“You couldn’t have known.”
The scene shifted. Corabeth had returned much later than planned, still grasping the second place medal in eager hands. Papa would be so proud. She couldn’t wait to climb into the chair next to his bed, kiss him on the cheek, and show him how well she’d done.
Orma Lee was the first person she saw as she entered the house. The ten-year-old’s ashen face shook her out of her elation, sent an early warning signal that something--something terrible--had happened.
“Orma Lee, where’s Mama?”
Her sister bit back tears and, noticing the medal Corabeth carried, crunched her expression into one of pure loathing. “You’re horrible. I never met anybody so horrible as you. I hate you! It’s all your fault!” She ran up the stairs, leaving a stunned Corabeth in her wake.
Aunt Cordelia came rushing out of the study. “Child, thank god you’re home. We sent a message to the school, but--”
“What happened?” She was beginning to tremble. The medal, which had been the center of her universe only moments earlier, now burned like a white coal in her hands. “Where’s Mama?”
“Quiet, child. Sit down.”
“Where’s Mama?”
The older Corabeth felt a lump rising in her throat as she mouthed her aunt’s reply. “She’s with your father. He’s had another attack.”
“No.” Corabeth had never before noticed the medal dropping to the floor. Her memories of this moment had been forgotten, blissfully buried in the deep recesses of her mind. “But the doctor said--”
“Corie, honey, please sit down.”
“I want to see him.” She began heading to her parents’ bedroom. Corabeth felt herself move to stop the young woman, just as her aunt did.
“You can’t see him, angel,” came the soft admonition. “He’s no longer with us.”
The days Flora spent with her cousins stretched longer than she’d expected. Despite their kindness, she felt uncomfortable, shy in the company of so many people. The couple had been blessed with many children, and in that happy home, Flora came face to face with the loneliness of her own childhood. Try as she might, she could not help compare her fortune to those of her kin; no matter how she looked, it always seemed they had had more opportunities, greater understanding, unconditional love. In the heart of joy, Flora found herself withering.
There lived a man in these parts. A store keeper by trade, he was also a bachelor. He was not particularly clever, and only modestly handsome, but his kindness and generosity were well-known in the community. Good-humored and liked by all, this man met Flora when she first arrived in the small hamlet and immediately fell in love with her.
But his experience was small, and the shop-keeper struggled to show his affection for the equally shy Flora. When he spoke, his words came out wrong. When he moved, he tripped over things. He began to despair of ever winning her heart, and entreated with Flora’s cousin to help him. He brought gifts, made compliments--but the curse the witch had placed on Flora was beginning to take effect in earnest. She could not see what was before her; all she saw was the happiness it seemed fate would give only to others.
One night, the store keeper sat in the yellow moonlight with Flora, nervous and uncertain what to say. For her part, Flora could only listen to the crickets and make the simplest responses to his questions. Yes, it was a lovely night. No, she was not too cool.
The store keeper, in a frenzied effort to say something--anything--blurted out a proposal, asking for Flora’s hand in marriage. To both their surprise, Flora said yes.
“Please,” Corabeth whispered to Aimee. “Make it stop.” In a heart beat, she found herself back at Drusilla’s Pond. No picnic lunch, no awkward newly-weds. Just Corabeth and her guilt. “Why? What purpose could you possibly have for showing me this?” At Aimee’s silence, she felt a surge of anger rising in her. “Is this my fate? To spend an eternity constantly re-living my failures, my disappointments? Is that my punishment?”
Aimee plucked a clover, twirling it absently between her thumb and forefingers. “There’s no need to be angry with me, Corabeth.”
Her fury was palpable, and she almost struck Aimee before stopping herself Through gritted teach, Corabeth said, “Guide or not, Aimee Godsey, you are still my daughter, and I’m still your mother.”
The child’s gentle smile embarrassed her. “I’m sorry, Mother.” There was nothing patronizing, nothing ironic in the statement. Just ‘I’m sorry.’
A long silence hung between them. Finally Corabeth said, “Must it all be sorrow? Is that all my life was? One disappointment, one heart-ache after another?”
“You choose your own fate, Mother. You see what you choose to see.” She handed the clover to her mother, still smiling serenely. “Don’t you understand? It’s all your choice.”
