Julie

by Catherine Marshall

  “The message that night,” Dean continued, “was the same Hammond used over and over. He would read them this Scripture from Matthew:

  And now also the ax is laid upon the root of the trees: every tree therefore which bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down and cast into the fire.

  “Using terms the men understood, Big John would lay before them their need for God, letting them know that the road to Him was not smooth and easy; that first they had to repent of their sins. Otherwise God would cut them down like bad fruit and cast them into the fire. Hammond was John the Baptist, returned after nineteen hundred years, thundering his message, preparing the men for the second coming of the Savior, exhorting, demanding—a spellbinder in the boondocks.”

  Dean paused a moment to reflect. “I was with Big John constantly during his last years. Lacking strength to continue his missions to logging camps, he began to train some of us to carry on the work in the bigger world. I’ve been at it now for fourteen years.”

  The story was over, the fire had gone out, but before leaving the cabin, I moved toward the fireplace to take a closer look at the ax handle. There was something that had escaped me before—two words in very small letters underneath the verse: The Preparers.

  Outside, the mauve twilight had turned into night. Fireflies now twinkled on the grounds. As we walked back toward the farmhouse, many questions flooded my mind.

  “There’s still one missing piece to this story about John Hammond,” I ventured. “That ax over the fireplace. Why did Big John give it to you, Dean? It must have some significance between the two of you.”

  “Yes, Julie, it does.”

  That was all he would say.

  On the way home, my father and I were silent, lost in our thoughts. Contentedly, I leaned my head against his shoulder. Suddenly I was aware of something. A barely perceptible change had occurred in my father over the past few weeks, sometimes appearing in his conversation, in his smile, in the way he walked. The sag was gone from his shoulders.

  The spring weather was now so beautiful that every weekend I headed for the woods near the Fleming farm to search for plants for my wildflower garden. Dean Fleming had encouraged me, pointing out such unusual spring flowers as columbines, false lily of the valley, and silver-fuzzed fiddlehead ferns. He taught me secrets gleaned from his years in the woods, such as how the aromatic broad-leaved sarsaparilla plant could usually be found near clumps of cedars; or about the tiny wildflower goldenthread, whose name came from its delicate root of purest gold color.

  Questions I asked Dean about John Hammond were answered fully. When I probed into his “covenant relationship” with my father, he was closed-mouthed except to say, “The basis of such a friendship is the way John Hammond cared for me when I was in trouble.” As for The Preparers, he merely said we might talk about them later.

  Meanwhile, my work load at the Sentinel was increasing. The proofreading had remained heavy, in fact, taking even more time since I was determined not to make any more serious mistakes. There were more short news stories to do, plus the major article on my visit to the steel mill which I had hoped would be considered as a feature story in the newspaper, as well as being my school term paper. Research on steel making covered one end of my table. I kept my papers hidden from Miss Cruley as best I could.

  After seven months, Miss Cruley’s reception of me at the office continued to range from cool to icy. She still disapproved of my doing the proofreading, never letting me forget the Gaither ad. She sniffed every time the Editor referred to me as a reporter. She looked at my piles of research books with sharp suspicion. Only reluctantly did she take time off to instruct me on how to use the linotype machine.

  Since Emily Cruley was Alderton born and reared, Dad had turned over to her the task of preparing for publication all material sent in by the paper’s local correspondents. In rural districts and small towns, he had discovered, readers wanted to know which child had won the local essay contest or which farmer brought in the first of the apple or watermelon crops, or who had just announced their engagement to be married. Of less interest to them was a tornado in Kansas or Eleanor Roosevelt’s latest social action project.

  A quality of unquenchable enthusiasm in these correspondents was one of their best assets. Next came the self-discipline needed to get copy in every week and on time. Far down in importance was the quality of writing. Their pay was a free subscription to the Sentinel, complimentary tickets to certain civic events, and a supply of personal stationery. There were other compensations: the fun of being a writer, the feeling of importance in reporting local news, and having a byline.

  Paul Proctor had given my father one essential tip: folks like to see their names in print. It was also a good idea, he had advised, to publish letters from readers. Such items were often clipped out and pasted in scrapbooks or in family Bibles, or even framed.

  Some local correspondents were flavorsome characters. Carrie Price Harrison, for example, was a local history buff who collected genealogies and was fascinated with inscriptions on old tombstones. Once she wrote about “a colonial gentleman of quality”—indeed, none other than John Custis, Martha Washington’s father-in-law—who decreed in his will that he should be buried standing straight up because, having never bowed his head to anyone in life, he was not about to do so in death.

  On another occasion, she triumphantly brought in line drawings which showed twin mausoleums built by a wealthy couple on their land; the tombs were fifty yards apart. The inscription on the wife’s was standard; that on the husband’s tomb, most revealing:

  Never together in life,

  never together in death.

  One week’s contribution was about someone not yet dead— one B.C. Barnhouse. The initials in Barnhouse’s name fascinated Mrs. Harrison because Barnhouse was 113 years old.

  Yet another correspondent was always coming up with marvelous guaranteed home remedies and herb cures. For arthritis he recommended “three cups of milk per day, with five drops of turpentine in each cup.” He tried it for three months, he wrote, and the pain in his joints ceased. Probably, I thought, from an intense desire to be rid of such a gaggingly noxious drink.

  Then there was Matilda McWorth, age seventy-nine, who had a love affair with Victorian gentility and was certain that modern manners “were leading our nation to ruin.” Her advice:

  When a gentleman takes a lady’s arm, he should not grab her at the elbow. That is passé. A man of culture bends his arm at the elbow while his hand rests on his hip. Thus, a niche is formed for the lady’s fingers to slip into it, affording all the support she needs.

  Or another week . . .

  Clumsiness in kissing is inexcusable. It is not necessary to walk on a girl’s feet or smash her corsage or take a viselike grip on her dress. Nor should kisses be fired broadside at an eye, an ear or her neck. Try to remember, men, that the aims of male and female are identical. Keep cool, pull the lady gently toward your manly form, and let nature do her work.

  Collating all this news, advice, and never-ending stream of prose was a big job—also a touchy one, because the feelings of so many people were involved. I knew that the Editor was uneasy about leaving all this to Miss Cruley, but he had no alternative.

  Miss Cruley took this responsibility very seriously. Her telephone calls to check on reporters soon became imperious: they were to do their writing by Sunday and get their copy to the Sentinel office by Monday. “Copy brought in here on Tuesday is simply too late,” her piping voice would shrill into the telephone.

  The Editor’s article on the Hunting and Fishing Club produced little reaction from readers. Two letters applauded the Editor for his concern about the environment issue. Only one, postmarked Yancyville, indicated concern about the dam. I think Dad felt let down because of the seeming disinterest.

  The Yoder booklet was printed the following Tuesday. It was dull and wordy, yet reasonable enough. Only one sentence bothered me: “The management of Yoder Steel reserves the
right to discontinue this employee program on one month’s notice.” Before delivering the booklets to Yoder, the Editor announced to us that he planned to drive the Willys to Pittsburgh on Wednesday. There was a college roommate to see, plus some business to attend to. He would be gone overnight.

  “This week’s Sentinel is pretty well set up,” he told me. “I think you and Emily can put it to bed.”

  The following afternoon, since the Editor was away, I was reading proofs more carefully than ever. I caught the typo that Mrs. J. J. Rogel from New Pork City had arrived in town to visit relatives.

  Next, I noticed some strange phrasing in this item sent in by the social correspondent:

  Mary Slifko, Alderton’s chief telephone operator, underwent surgery on Friday last week at Municipal Hospital. This very popular young lady’s man friends wish her a speedy recovery.

  That “man friends” leapt out at me. Surely Miss Cruley had inadvertently left off the y when setting this copy.

  Proof in hand, I went to Miss Cruley, who was poring over the Sentinel subscription records, which she kept in a closely guarded black leather case. “Would you please look at this, Miss Cruley? I believe there may be a mistake here.” I slid the galley in front of her.

  The thin face flushed. “You’re a fine one to talk about mistakes, my girl! Where? Where is it?”

  I pointed. “Shouldn’t that be many friends?”

  “Hmm. Well, yes,” she agreed coolly. “I think you’re right.” She seemed to be struggling with herself. Then she must have decided to play a new role with me. “You are showing a little improvement, Julie. If you continue to be this careful, perhaps you can yet be of some use to your father.”

  Oh, well, I thought as I went back to the proofs, even condescension is better than disdain.

  Ten minutes or so later, I saw something so startling that I almost shouted. There, set in type, was one of my poems that I had handed over to the Editor months ago. It had been placed in a column by itself under the heading Poetry Corner.

  Spring Growing Pains

  I wonder if these tiny blades of grass,

  Bowing to all the winds that pass,

  Have growing pains.

  I wonder if this newborn beauty here

  Almost too much to bear this year

  Hurts them too.

  I sat there, stunned, trying to think. How could this have happened? I remembered that I had purposely not typed my name anywhere on the sheets; also, that after reading the poems and commenting on them briefly, my father had thrust them into a desk drawer. Had he arranged this before leaving for Pittsburgh? I doubted it. Somehow, Poetry Corner did not sound like my father. Emily Cruley, then? Curiosity got the better of me, but I knew that I should be cautious.

  Once again, I carried the proof to her. “Excuse me, Miss Cruley,” I asked delicately, “this is a new feature, isn’t it—having poetry?”

  “Yes, it is,” she rapped out. There was just a trace of defensiveness in her voice.

  Should I tell her the poem’s mine? I do believe she thinks she’s pulled a coup. If I confess, that could spoil everything for her.

  Miss Cruley’s eyes were on the poem. “It does read well, doesn’t it? I thought a Poetry Corner would add, well, a bit of class to the paper.”

  “A good idea,” I agreed. “So glad you thought of it.”

  She was beaming as I went back to my work.

  Thursday afternoon, Dad returned from Pittsburgh. Once home, his first move after greeting us was to look over the current issue of the Sentinel. All agog to get his reaction to the Poetry Corner, I stood there watching as he scanned the paper.

  Then he saw it. Spreading the page out flat, he bent over to take a closer look, then wheeled to face me. “Julie, what did you do?”

  “Honest, cross my heart, I had nothing to do with it. The first time I saw it was in proofs.”

  He burst out laughing. “Did you tell Emily it was yours?”

  “Of course not. She might have destroyed the whole press run.”

  “So, Emily needed more filler and came up with your poetry—unsigned.”

  “Did you put it in the filler file?”

  “Must have. Probably when everything was re-sorted after the flood.”

  “Only thing is, she’ll want to print more—at least one each issue. She’s proud as anything of her Poetry Corner idea.”

  “Actually, Julie, I think you’re too shy about your poetry. Oh, I know it feels more private to you than prose. But I thought some of your poems quite good. I just wasn’t sure poetry belonged in a weekly newspaper. So then I turn my back and Emily decides for me.” He was still chuckling when Mother called us to dinner.

  After dinner, as Mother and I were washing the dishes, she voiced a question that I knew had been on her mind for weeks. “Spencer Meloy has phoned here three times for you, Julie. Are you working with him on some kind of church project?”

  “He’s trying to develop a young adult group. Thinks I can help, I guess.”

  “He has also been to see you at the Sentinel.” Mother smiled. “Are you sure there isn’t more to it than a church project?”

  I sighed. “Spencer is young, single and looking for friendship.”

  “You call him Spencer?”

  “He asked me to.”

  “I see.”

  “Now, Mother, don’t make a case out of this. He hasn’t asked me for a date. But I like to talk with him and, well, I find him rather amazing for a preacher. He’s so young and yet so dynamic.” Mother still had that questioning look in her eyes. “Spencer’s sermons are not at all what you would expect from a pastor chosen by the McKeevers.”

  “I don’t think he believes in much of what the McKeevers do.”

  “What does he believe?”

  “For one thing, that the Church should be doing something for poor people.”

  “I have no objections to your seeing Spencer Meloy,” Mother said finally. “But he’s years older than you.”

  “He’s ten years older. Somehow it doesn’t seem important. He’s not only interesting, he’s fun to be with.”

  “Fun.”

  “Mother, is it somehow wrong for a preacher to be fun? He laughs a lot. He has a sense of humor. He says the unexpected.”

  “I see. Well, he’s a mature man. You’re still in high school.”

  “But only for a few more weeks,” I said wearily.

  I was in my room studying later that night when I looked up to see my father in the doorway. “I need answers to a couple of questions, daughter,” he said.

  “I’m ready.”

  “After your sidewalk interview with Wilkinson—the one right after the flood—you reported back that there had been no damage to the dam.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Well, when I was at the Club to see Rand several weeks later, there was repair work going on at the dam—truckloads of fill and what appeared to be the insertion of metal supports.”

  “I guess Rand was wrong,” I said, a little protectively.

  “Or the damage might have appeared later. Another question. When you saw Mr. Benshoff, did you think to ask him if there was a recent engineering report on the dam?”

  “Gosh, Dad. No.”

  “Well, I didn’t think of it either, until I talked to Rand. At the end of my interview with him, I asked if there was such a report. He said he didn’t know of any.”

  “Old Man McKeever would be the one to ask about that,” I volunteered.

  “Yes, I guess so. Which I’m not about to do.” The Editor seemed alert, almost tense, for so late at night after his long day. “I discovered some things today in Pittsburgh that will interest you, Julie,” he continued. “The college roommate I went to see is a man named Cyrus Stearns. He’s an executive in the advertising department of the Pennsylvania Railroad.”

  “Then he should know Roger Benshoff,” I shot back.

  “My thought too.” Dad continued. “When I telephoned C
yrus earlier in the week, I asked him if he knew Benshoff. He didn’t, which isn’t surprising since railroad personnel are spread all over Pittsburgh. Then I told him about the sale of Lake Kissawha to the Club nine years ago and the questions we had about the safety of the dam. I asked Cyrus if he felt there could have been an engineer’s report done at the time of the sale. He said he would make inquiries and asked me to see him when I came to Pittsburgh.”

  “So, what did you learn?” I interrupted, now fully excited.

  “Stearns had a friend in the records division, so he put in a routine request to see if there was an engineer’s report done on the dam before its sale. His friend checked the file and found through the sales contract that an engineer’s report had been done and should have been attached. But the report was not in the file.”

  “Stolen?” I gasped.

  “Possibly. Or misfiled. Or lost. Once the transaction was completed, the railroad would no longer be concerned.”

  “If the dam broke and destroyed railroad property, they would be concerned,” I said.

  My father smiled at me. “There’s nothing more we can do about it now. I suggest we focus our attention on other matters.”

  In a way I agreed, since our interest in the dam had not exactly strengthened our relationship with Randolph Wilkinson. Yet my mind would not drop the intriguing phrase: missing dam report.

  More and more the big old Sentinel office was beginning

   to feel like a second home to our family. Tim and Anne-Marie were in and out often, emptying wastebaskets, sweeping the floor, and preparing papers for delivery. Wherever they went, our collie, Boy, trailed after. Boy was at the office so often that Dad was already calling him the paper’s mascot.

  The only problem was that every time the cutter was used, as its wicked guillotine-like blade would descend, shaking the building and rattling the windows, Boy would dart frantically about, howling and barking as if the place were being invaded. This ever-repeated performance irritated Emily Cruley no end. “Dumb dog!” she would mutter between clenched teeth. “Never learns. Shouldn’t be allowed in here a’tall.”