Julie

by Catherine Marshall

  “Good. Now, Tim . . . Anne-Marie. You’ll be chief postal clerks. All papers have to be folded, address labels attached, taken to the post office. That’s one job. The second is to hand-deliver about two hundred fifty papers to downtown Alderton. The third, take out the office trash each day and sweep up. If you kids do a good job, we’ll talk turkey on the allowance.

  “Now, Julie. Will you handle proofreading?”

  “Sure, Dad. But there’s something else.” Surely the right moment has finally come. “I’d like to help write stories too.”

  My father looked thoughtful. “Well, now, Julie, that can happen. But most journalists go through an apprentice period.”

  “Meaning what, Dad?”

  “Meaning research at the library, finding short filler items, chores around the office. Matter of fact,” he went on thoughtfully, “I could let you do legwork for some of my editorials.”

  “Dad, that’s super! Which reminds me,” I rushed on, “I’ve made this friend at school named Margo. We were thinking of driving up to Lake Kissawha some Saturday. I was wondering—how about my writing an article about that place?”

  My father looked doubtful. “Let me think about it.”

  As that hot September turned into a chill October, Alderton’s economic plight worsened. The Pennsylvania Railroad announced plans to close down one of its two roundhouses. Yoder Iron and Steel began laying off men. Since most of these workingmen lived from payday to payday and were already in debt to the local merchants, the whole town suffered. The sluggish stream of local ads slowed to a trickle.

  The situation throughout the entire nation had become critical. A year and a half before, on March 4, 1933, every bank in the United States had locked its doors. This was more traumatic than the 1929 stock market crash had ever been. In ’29 only investors in stocks and bonds had been directly affected; the bank closings had imperiled the checking and savings accounts of every American. There was no deposit insurance. Fear had stalked the streets of every city, town, and hamlet.

  That same morning, with remarkable timing, the thirty-second American president had been sworn in—polio-crippled Franklin Delano Roosevelt. His inaugural address exuded confidence: “This nation asks for action and action now.”

  Action had followed with a speed that dazzled everybody. An emergency banking bill passed in record time. Four days later the banks had reopened, though most people received only fifty cents for each dollar they had deposited. In the hundred days that followed, Congress had passed a series of emergency measures that only now were beginning to be felt in towns like Alderton. Five hundred million dollars—an astronomical sum for the day—had been funneled into programs collectively known as the New Deal. As a result, some industrial production picked up. With Federal Deposit Insurance, people had begun to trust the banks again. Thousands were getting temporary work through the new NRA agencies. Even so, an economic malaise still hung over most of America, especially in places like Alderton.

  In history class one day we talked about how this depression was the first tarnishing of the American Dream, the first nationwide disappointment. As awful as the War Between the States had been, many of the western states and territories had escaped its full impact; nobody was escaping the effects of the depression.

  After Dad’s talk to us, it came home sharply to me that many people would consider newspapers a nonessential luxury item.

  On a Friday evening in early October, the Vincent Pileys, who lived just across the street on Bank Place, unexpectedly came to call. We had learned that Mr. Piley was the comptroller of the Pennsylvania Railroad and was also reputed to be the town expert on stocks and bonds. The Pileys were said to have a beautiful daughter, Jean, who was a senior at some eastern college.

  The Piley wealth had already made a deep impression on me that afternoon when Mother, in a frenzy of pie making, had sent me across the street to borrow a cup of lard. There was a baby grand piano in their music room, glass-fronted bookshelves in the library, lovely antiques and so many carpets—no bare floors anywhere.

  Tonight, as Dad helped Mrs. Piley off with her coat, I gaped at her dress. It was a stunning blue silk; a gold brooch, set with small sapphires, sparkled at the neckline. Mr. Piley was half a head shorter than his wife but made up for this deficiency with an officious manner. I noticed a large diamond ring on the little finger of his left hand.

  As I followed them into our parlor I was painfully aware of its sparse furnishings: a worn Axminster rug, several large rockers, a revolving bookcase in a corner, a tall standing lamp with fringe on the shade, gas logs in a fake fireplace, and an ancient upright player piano. On the wall above this hung a picture from Greek mythology—Diana with flowing garments running before a chariot.

  As if Diana were not bad enough, there was the love seat with the broken spring. Why my parents had carted that all the way from Timmeton, I couldn’t imagine. I watched the inevitable sequence as Mr. Piley sat down on it: first there was the complaining twang of the loose spring; next his involuntary lurch forward as the offending spring jabbed his backside; finally his increasing discomfiture as the angle of the seat slid him irrevocably toward the floor. Hopefully the Sentinel would make enough money so that the love seat could be replaced.

  I had my homework papers spread out on the arms of the Morris chair in the adjoining study and was only half attending to Mr. Piley’s bleak predictions for Alderton’s economic future when the name Randolph Wilkinson brought me to full attention. “Very bright young man,” Mr. Piley was saying.

  “He was certainly helpful to us when we had car trouble a few weeks back,” Mother agreed.

  “Jean finds him utterly charming,” Mrs. Piley enthused. “He always remembers her favorite blend of tea when he comes back from England.”

  I slipped from my chair and headed swiftly for the back stairs, unwilling to hear more.

  Late that night, on the way to my bedroom after washing my hair, I heard voices from my parents’ bedroom.

  “The bank turned down my request for a loan, Louise. Seems I have no credit rating—and no way I can see of getting one.”

  “What about your brother?”

  “He’s as strapped as I am.”

  “Then what can we do, Ken?”

  There was a long silence. I stood there, frozen, not wanting to hear any more yet unable to walk away.

  “I’m sorry I got us all into this.” Dad’s voice was almost a sob. “It was a stupid mistake to come here, to take this big house, to pretend I could be a big-time publisher. You married a failure, Louise.”

  “I won’t accept that, Ken. You have to keep trying. And I’ll see that we keep eating even if I have to make soup from the bark of our trees.”

  Quietly I crept back to my room, turned out the light, and climbed into bed. Sleep was a long time coming.

  On Saturday, October 6, I awoke with a deep heaviness in my spirit. The idea of Dad being a failure terrified me. Was there something I could do? Quit school, perhaps, and work full-time in the office?

  Even as the idea came, I knew Father would reject it. Well, at least I could get up and help Mother with breakfast. After overhearing their conversation last night, I could better understand why she had so resisted our move to Alderton.

  As I dressed, my thoughts shifted to the day ahead. My new friend, Margo Palmer, had the use of her father’s car on most Saturdays, and today we were to take a trip to Lake Kissawha. Why was I so eager to go there? Be honest with yourself, Julie. You’re dying to see Randolph Wilkinson again.

  Mr. Wilkinson was years older than I, probably in his mid- or late twenties. For all I knew he might have a fiancée back in England or be planning to marry this Jean Piley, with her special blend of tea. Nonetheless, I had thought about him constantly since our arrival in Alderton a month ago.

  For breakfast there was dry cereal instead of buckwheat cakes. When Tim protested, Father cut him off sharply. The Editor was dressed as usual in his blue serge suit, much-lau
ndered white shirt, conservative tie. As we walked to the office in the crisp October air, I detected no lessening of his warmth to all passers-by we met on the sidewalk.

  On Canal Street he turned to me. “What exactly do you and your new friend—is it Margie?—plan to do today?”

  “Her name’s Margo, Margo Palmer. You and Mom would like her.”

  “I’m sure we would. You’re driving to Lake Kissawha in her car? Just the two of you?”

  “Not her car, Dad. It’s her father’s car.”

  “What does her father do?”

  “He runs a restaurant.”

  “Is it a roadhouse?”

  “It’s a respectable place,” I said defensively. Yet the minute the words were out of my mouth, I realized that I did not really know much about it, only that it was called the Stemwinder and that it did have a bar.

  “I’ve never been there, Dad,” I admitted. “Anyway, that’s not where we’re going. Mr. Wilkinson said we could come back and visit the Club sometime. Remember?”

  “Julie, Lake Kissawha is a private lake and the Club is closed for the season. I think you may be reading more into a few kind words than you should. In any case you shouldn’t drive there without checking first with Mr. Wilkinson. He may have gone back to England.”

  Deep down I knew Dad was right, but I quailed at the thought of telephoning the Englishman. What if he did not remember me? What if out of my discomfiture, I stumbled and sputtered like a witless schoolgirl?

  Involuntarily my fists clenched. It was time to get out of my fantasy world and begin living as an adult in the real world. “I’ll telephone Mr. Wilkinson now,” I told my father.

  I put the call through from Dad’s office after carefully shutting the door. No need for Miss Cruley to hear this. When a woman’s voice answered, I asked to speak to Mr. Wilkinson.

  “May I tell him who’s calling?”

  “Julie Wallace.”

  “Is this a business matter?”

  My stomach was churning. “No, not exactly. I need to ask him a question.”

  “Perhaps I can help you,” the voice purred.

  I gripped the telephone firmly. “No, I’m afraid you can’t. I need to speak to Mr. Wilkinson personally.”

  Silence. Then, “One moment, please.”

  That deep, pleasant voice with the clipped accent came on. “This is Randolph Wilkinson.”

  “Mr. Wilkinson, this is Julie Wallace. You were so kind to our family four weeks ago when our car got stuck in the ditch. I don’t know whether you remember or not.”

  “I recall the incident well. And you too, Julie. What can I do for you?”

  “A friend of mine—a girl—and I would like to drive up to the lake today and, well, just walk around some. Would that be all right? You were kind enough to invite us to come back sometime.”

  “So I did.” Was there a momentary hesitation? “I see no reason,” he was saying slowly, “why it wouldn’t be all right for the two of you to come today. Please look me up first so that I can meet your friend.”

  As I hung up the receiver, I noticed that my hands were damp. But I was astonished at how my spirits had picked up.

  Just before noon Margo pulled up at the Sentinel office in a black Ford sedan with The Stemwinder painted in oversized gold letters on the door. Emily Cruley stared at it through the window, frowning disapproval written all over her thin, heart-shaped face. I bet she tells Dad I’m riding around in a roadhouse car.

  Forget it, I told myself. This is a day for fun and adventure. I settled comfortably into the seat beside Margo, thinking how much I enjoyed being with her. She was an attractive girl, taller than I, with a blunt honesty that I found appealing. Her hair was black and straight. With her dark eyes and high cheekbones, I wondered if she might have Indian blood in her ancestry.

  As we were heading out of town, I asked her with assumed casualness, “Anything you can tell me about the Englishman who manages the Club?” Margo had worked at Lake Kissawha as a substitute waitress this past summer.

  “You must mean Randolph Wilkinson. He’s assistant manager. Mr. Clayton, the manager, died last year. They haven’t replaced him.”

  “I see. Mr. Wilkinson was sure in charge when we had car trouble near here a few weeks back.” I described for Margo our arrival in Alderton.

  “I think he got the job because he’s the nephew of Munro Farnsworth, a big shot at the Club and also at Yoder Steel.”

  “Is he, uh, married, or engaged—or anything?”

  “Not as far as I know. The girls all fall for him, but he plays the field. Around here Jean Piley seems to be number one.”

  As we drove up Seven Mile Mountain Road, Margo explained that membership in the Club was limited to just one hundred families. Some had built their own cottages; the rest stayed at the inn. The yearly membership fee was $2500.

  I was appalled. “Why, $2500 is more money than a lot of families have to live on for a whole year.”

  “The depression hasn’t touched these Club people,” Margo assured me. She swung onto the shady dirt road that led into the Club grounds. “You should see the production they make of a two-week vacation. Mountains of baggage, wardrobe trunks full of clothes. The Club has three limousines that shuttle back and forth to meet the trains.”

  When Margo drove into the parking lot, memories of our family mishap came surging back. This time I’ll at least look decent, not like a muddy clown. I took my vanity out of my bag and peeked in the mirror. Then I smoothed out my skirt and blouse, chosen carefully to make me look older.

  We tried to open the door to the inn and found it locked. There was no bell. My knock was muffled by the heavy thickness of the wood.

  When no one answered, Margo and I began walking toward the lake. A slight breeze had stirred the water; the span of blue ripples extended from the shoreline out to—and then I saw the boat.

  It was a small white skiff with one occupant, a rower. The boat was cutting through the water at surprising speed, rhythmically propelled by someone very skilled in the art. Fascinated, I strained to identify the person whose powerful arms were directing the skiff to the near shore.

  Randolph Wilkinson! Surely he once had been an oarsman at one of those English universities. We watched in admiration as he finished with a burst of speed that almost catapulted the boat up onto the sandy beach. In an instant he had leaped from the skiff, pulled it farther out of the water and started to lope in our direction. When he saw us, he waved.

  I studied him as he approached. He wore a white sleeveless crew-neck shirt, navy sweat pants and sneakers. About five foot nine. Lithe, rippling arm muscles. There was a jaunty gait to his walk and a twinkle in his eyes as he stopped in front of us. “Miss Wallace,” he intoned, taking my hand. “This is a happier occasion and a sunnier day.”

  Despite myself, I blushed. When I introduced him to Margo, a look of recognition crossed his face. “Haven’t I seen you here before?”

  “Yes, I worked several times as a waitress last summer.”

  “Ah, I thought so.” Randolph Wilkinson looked at his watch. “If you girls will give me fifteen minutes to change, I’ll take you on a quick tour.”

  In less time than that he was back, having showered and slipped into slacks and a sports shirt.

  First he ushered us through the inn, a wooden frame structure, three stories high, with forty-seven bedrooms, now closed for the season. There was a series of lounges, each with a huge open fireplace and a name—the Assembly Hall, the Great Parlor, the Ladies’ Parlor, the Pool Room, the Smoking Room, and so on.

  In the Great Parlor Mr. Wilkinson pointed out the wide overhead beams, the walk-in fireplace of rough-hewn stone, the large animal trophies. “The members want a rustic flavor,” he commented. “The wealthier they are, the more ridiculous pleasure they get out of pretending that they’re roughing it.” He threw open a large door. “This is the Anglers’ Room.”

  I blinked in astonishment. Blues and blue greens had been
used to give the effect of undulating water. Mounted fish and fishing rods hung on the walls, and collections of elaborate flies, carefully labeled, occupied huge walnut plaques.

  “This room may seem bizarre,” our host said, sounding a little defensive, “but some of our members are fishing-mad. They spend hours in here discussing the right flies to use, what weight rod—that sort of thing.”

  My eyes swept over the flowing colors. “I feel a bit seasick,” slid off my tongue.

  “You say you like books, Julie.” Margo pointed to a wall of glass-fronted bookcases.

  Sidestepping some big leather lounge chairs, I moved over for a closer look. All the books were about fishing.

  The Englishman saw my surprise. “Oh, angling’s a science. Quite! Look over here.” He led Margo and me to a freestanding glass case inside which a number of books lay open. “Rare first editions,” he told us. He pointed to one. “That is a 1653 copy of Isaak Walton’s The Complete Angler, and that one’s an 1836 edition of Alfred Ronald’s The Fly-Fisher’s Entomology. There’s W. C. Stewart’s Practical Angler, 1857, considered quite a classic. Here’s a complete card file on fishing books.”

  “Do you live here?” I asked Mr. Wilkinson as he led us outside, eager to get the conversation onto more personal ground.

  He grinned engagingly. “Yes, while I’m in America. Right now I’m its only night resident. A small staff comes during the day. I leave for England in two weeks.”

  “You come to America every year just to do this work?”

  “I’m here at the Club about seven months of the year, then possibly a fortnight with my auntie and uncle—the Munro Farnsworths, y’know—in Pittsburgh.” Something about the way the Englishman said this name implied that I should be impressed.

  The three of us stood on the porch and looked across the lake. The breeze was stronger now, kicking up whitecaps across the water. “The lake is lovely,” I commented, “and so big. I still find it hard to believe it’s artificial.”

  “Oh, it’s artificial, all right. Dive deep and you may bash your head on tree stumps. It’s a five-mile walking tour all the way around.”