Julie

by Catherine Marshall

  From just this one letter, it was easy to deduce that the Meloy controversy would be more than just another church squabble. The pastor had made many friends in Alderton. I wondered if my father was now strong enough to team up with Spencer in an effort to win the church battle coming up in two weeks.

  Then came a more sobering thought: if Rand was pulling away from me, it could be because he was being hemmed in on three sides—first the dam issue, then the union controversy, and now what looked like a church power struggle, with men like the McKeevers and Munro Farnsworth taking opposite sides from the Wallace family.

  That evening, Spencer Meloy called Dad and asked if he could come by and talk. He made a special point of requesting that Mother and I be in on the discussions.

  When he spread his lanky frame sideways on our loveseat to avoid the pointed ends of two springs, Spencer did not seem to be depressed. Instead, his greeting was hearty, his face wreathed in a warm smile, his eyes alive with expectation. Could he actually be looking forward to the struggles ahead?

  The Editor must have been surprised too by Spencer’s lightheartedness. He began firing questions at the young pastor.

  “Do I understand, Spencer, that all it takes is a majority vote from the congregation to dismiss you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How do you feel the vote would go if held tonight?”

  “I honestly don’t know, Ken. I haven’t tried to figure out the fors and againsts.”

  “I gather you do not intend to resign, but to resist this ouster attempt.”

  “With all the strength I possess.”

  “What specific charges are they bringing against you?”

  “So far, no formal charges.”

  “They couldn’t get away with that in the main denominational churches. There, it takes formal charges involving heresy or dishonesty or immorality to bring action against a pastor. Have you been accused of any of those?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then if there are no formal charges, what are the over-the-back-fence ones? What don’t they like about you?”

  Spencer reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Thought you might ask, so I made a little list. On paper, some of the items sound ludicrous . . .

  “First, I am accused of resisting authority and of having a rebellious attitude.”

  “Give us some examples.”

  “There was Vincent Piley’s appearance at the work party.”

  “I gather he questioned you about the use of church money for renovating the Community Center. That’s rebellion?”

  “In their eyes, yes. One Sunday I allowed a bookmobile to park on the church grounds so that Sunday School teachers could buy materials for their classes. I hadn’t asked the Council’s permission.”

  The Editor nodded. “Were they right?”

  “Technically, yes. But such a small thing.”

  “What else?”

  “I’m bringing in too many outsiders. There are seventeen applications for membership from Lowlands people. These have been tabled for now. We’re too crowded, some protest; the older members can’t always sit in their accustomed pews. One trustee has stated, ‘It’s been a nice quiet little church and we want to keep it that way.’”

  “At a time when many churches are almost empty, they should be jumping for joy that you’re packing them in.”

  “You’d think so.”

  “Any more charges?”

  “Oh, sure. Things like, my sermons run too long and that delays Sunday dinner. And that I didn’t show up at the last church bazaar. That miffed some of the ladies. Oh, and that I’m really too young and immature for their church—”

  “Wait a minute, Spencer. Let’s go back to your missing the church bazaar.” Dad pursed his lips. “Seems a petty complaint, but to most churchwomen you’d need an awfully good excuse for not being there at all.”

  “I realize that now. The women had worked on it for months, and I had no excuse. Truth is, I drove to Pittsburgh to see a baseball game.”

  “Call that a learning experience, then. Anything else?” Spencer’s voice took on a rueful note. “They say I preach too much about justice for the poor and about other negatives in our society. They want to be reminded that everybody knows that Alderton is a nice community with friendly, fair-minded citizens.” My father was nodding his head. “I get the picture. One more question—do you have resentment in your heart against these men, Spencer?”

  Spencer’s voice was very soft. “I do have some resentment. I’m ashamed to say that one Sunday when a trustee rebuked me because the service had gone overtime to nine minutes past twelve, I lost my temper. I stood on the top church step and said, ‘You can go to hell.’”

  Dad chuckled while shaking his head. “That’s one vote you’ll never get.”

  “I apologized to him later, but you’re right. He’s a hundred percent against me.”

  “Which won’t help. But the crucial question is, are you willing to let God take resentment from you?”

  “Yes, of course. Now let me ask you something, Ken.” Spencer agilely moved around the bumps in the loveseat so that he was facing my father directly. “If you were I, what would you do?”

  The Editor’s forehead creased and he jammed a clenched fist into the palm of his other hand. “My situation in Timmeton was different, of course. I feel now that I handled it all wrong.” Mother and I stared at Dad as he continued. “I suppose there are times when it’s right to resign, but not if there’s a principle at stake. When I quit the Timmeton situation, it made me feel less than a man. I wish I could do it all over again. If so, I would have made them kick me out.”

  “So you think it’s right for me to fight?” Spencer leaned forward intently.

  “Yes, because there’s a principle at stake. Forget all the other stuff—they simply don’t want you opening the church to outsiders. But Jesus’s message here is clear: preach the Word to the whole world.”

  “You’ve made mistakes, Spencer. You’ve been somewhat high-handed, insensitive to the women, and frankly, your theology could use a little more balance. But you’re a dedicated, all-out servant of the Lord, courageously blazing a new trail here in Alderton. I’m with you all the way.”

  The two men stood up and embraced. Mother and I both had tears in our eyes, not so much for Spencer as for my father.

  Spencer Meloy was in no hurry to leave. Mother served us some lemonade, which we drank, then Meloy pulled some papers from his coat pocket.

  “Julie, can you and I find a quiet spot where we can go over this week’s bulletin?”

  Mother and Dad both got up. “We’re going to bed. Why not stay right here?” the Editor suggested.

  As my parents said their good-byes to Spencer, I found myself studying the young pastor in a new way. His angular, somewhat ungainly body had little magnetic quality, but it spun off waves of vitality. That lantern jaw was the key to Spencer’s character: strength, courage, tenacity. The boyish look that appeared so often on his face was the clue to his immaturity.

  We sat down side by side at the dining-room table and went over the bulletin in a perfunctory way. Finally, Spencer pushed the papers aside. “I don’t want to talk about the bulletin any more. I want to talk about us.”

  “What about us?”

  “We make a good team. We have the same likes and dislikes. We think alike. I could almost tell this the first time I looked out over the congregation and saw your face. It was almost as if the Lord said to me, ‘That’s the one for you.’”

  Spencer’s eyes were so intense that I dropped mine. “You are impulsive, aren’t you?”

  “Perhaps so. I’ve been an activist all my life. I believe in the axiom ‘Faint heart ne’er won fair lady.’”

  “Why would you be interested in me? I’m so much younger. I still want to go to college—if not this year, then next.”

  “None of that bothers me, Julie. I can wait. But you’re the oldest eighteen-
year-old I’ve ever met. When we talk together, I feel we’re intellectual equals.”

  I could not hold back a grin. “Better not let your trustees hear you say that.”

  He smiled too, then turned serious. “Don’t you feel a oneness in spirit every time we’re together?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “That’s what’s important. I know you’re the right girl for me. I love you and want to marry you.”

  How can this be happening? I thought. I’m not in love with Spencer Meloy. I’m in love with Rand. So what do I say now?

  I reached for his hand. “Spencer, I don’t know how to answer you. Marriage is something far off in my thinking. I like you, I enjoy your company, I’ll be rooting for you in the church battle, but that’s all I can say right now.”

  Only a flicker of disappointment crossed his face. “Then that’ll have to do for now. But remember this. I’m a very determined person. I don’t give up easily.”

  He stood up and I walked him to the front door. There he hesitated, leaned down and kissed me lightly on the forehead. Then he opened the door and walked out without another word.

  Tuesday morning I awoke with a raging headache. When I tried to get up, the room began to spin. Weakly, I called Mother and sank back into bed.

  Mother thought it best to ask our family doctor to come by and have a look at me. A rotund, bouncy, friendly man, he sat by my bed, chatting and questioning me. Finding that I had a fever, he said, “Stay in bed today and drink plenty of fluids. If you still have a fever tomorrow, let me know.”

  After the doctor left, I lay there thinking, No wonder he can’t find the right medical tag for this. It’s all in my head—or heart. The cause: romantic complications. Does Mother suspect?

  I yearned for a call from Rand. Did he know? Did he care? If Spencer heard I was ill, I sensed, he would be here in minutes. Graham too, if he were in town. I thought of asking Mother to telephone them, then decided against it.

  The next day, I felt better. On Friday the Editor let me drive the Willys down to the office, a rare concession. We were now using the car only when we went to the Fleming farm or for trips outside Alderton.

  That day I had the unique experience of seeing the paper with the eyes of any Alderton subscriber. Taking up a copy with the smell of printer’s ink still fresh on it, I looked over it, interested in seeing how well Emily Cruley had done my job that week.

  Everything looked fine. But then, as my eyes fell on the Poetry Corner, I clapped one hand over my mouth and almost dropped the paper. There, printed in full but unsigned, was the poem “Rhapsody” I had hidden so carefully in my journal.

  How did Emily get her hands on it?

  When Miss Cruley walked by, I asked her who had submitted “Rhapsody” to the Poetry Corner.

  “I really don’t know. It was in Monday’s mail. Came unsolicited, I guess. There wasn’t even an envelope.”

  “How strange!” Then, seeing Emily begin to stiffen, I patted her on the shoulder. “You did a fine job with this issue.”

  “Thank you, Julie,” she chirped. “I’m glad to have you back at work. You have become quite useful to us here at the paper.” I beamed at her. From Emily Cruley, this was a fine compliment indeed!

  After dinner that night when the Editor was alone at his desk, I could contain myself no longer. “Dad, about that poem “Rhapsody” in the paper today. Did you read it?”

  “Yes. Thought it pretty good.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  He looked at me sharply. “Emily said it came from a reader.”

  “That’s true—if you call me a reader. I wrote it, Dad. Somehow it slipped out of my journal and into the mail I opened last Monday. That was one poem I didn’t want printed.”

  “Too revealing of your private thoughts, Julie?”

  “Possibly. It could turn out to be really embarrassing.”

  The Editor swung around and reached for my hand, his eyes warm and admiring. “My girl has grown into quite a beautiful woman. I’m not at all surprised that romance has begun to confuse your life.”

  “That’s the right word for it.”

  “Care to give me the details?”

  “Not for a while. But on the other matter, I am a little tired of being the anonymous poet of the Alderton Sentinel.”

  The Editor laughed. “I understand perfectly. The time has come to reveal our mystery poet to Emily Cruley.”

  “I don’t want to be there when that happens,” I said, trying to visualize the look it would bring to Miss Cruley’s face.

  Rand telephoned Friday night. His voice was still hearty, but somehow I was not reassured. If I would be free, he would like to drop by early the next afternoon. We could decide then whether or not to take a spin in his roadster.

  It had been exactly two weeks since our big weekend. Scarcely an hour had gone by that my thoughts had not darted to this dashing, reddish-blond-haired Englishman. Had I been foolish to allow myself to fall in love with him? Much of the rapture and the joy were gone now, replaced by an aching uncertainty. All my feminine instincts told me that in two weeks he could have found a way to see me, had he really wanted to.

  Sitting in the Editor’s swivel chair in front of his old rolltop desk, I waited for Rand. Nervously I brushed some lint off my yellow blouse, the brightest thing I had to wear. When his sporty roadster pulled into our driveway, I stood at a window, hidden behind its curtain, studying him as he walked across the yard and up the front steps. Usually Rand moved rapidly. Today there was a trace of reluctance in his gait.

  I made a quick decision: no point in riding with him in search of a pleasant rendezvous spot. Better to talk right here.

  When I opened the front door and looked into Rand’s eyes, my fears were confirmed. He greeted me lightly, smilingly, but then dropped his eyes.

  As he walked through the doorway, he reached for my hand. I let him take it, but then pulled it back. For a moment he stood there uncertainly.

  “Let’s talk here in the living room, Rand. I’ve been under the weather this past week and should probably stay home. Nothing, really, slight temperature. In and out of bed for two days. But I’m fine now.”

  “Oh-h.” He looked solicitous, concerned and yet awkward. “The rest of the family has driven over to the Flemings’ farm,” I explained to him. “So we’re alone here. Would you like something to drink?”

  “That would be fine.” He looked relieved as he followed me into the kitchen, where he gave me a detailed account of his experience as the acting maître d’ in the Club dining room.

  I put ice into two glasses and poured out the soft drink he had chosen, then smiled up at him. “I’ve missed you, Rand. It’s been a long two weeks.”

  “For me as well.” He hesitated. “Let’s stroll about in your back yard, Julie.”

  Some warmth was returning to my blood. I looked at him steadily, quizzically. “You’re not afraid of being alone here with me, are you?”

  He chuckled. “Never. But I’m an outdoors man, Julie. Especially this time of year.”

  We took our drinks and headed out the back door past the cherry tree and under the old locusts to the rock ledges. For a long moment Rand stood there, absorbing the beauty of the view while he appeared to be struggling with something on the inside. He took a final gulp of his drink, deliberately set the glass down on a rock, then reached for my hand.

  “You do look a bit peaked, Julie, but good to my eyes. How can I tell you how much I treasured that time with you two weeks ago!”

  “It was beautiful,” I murmured softly.

  “I’m sorry that Uncle Munro mucked it up for us.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it’s true. We were living in a make-believe world and he jolted us out of it.”

  “What is the real world in your eyes, Rand?”

  He let my hand go and walked over to pick two Scottish harebells which he then carefully placed in my hair. I wanted to hug him, but
I didn’t dare. He looked at the flowers and at me—tilting his head first to one side, then to the other, his eyes almost devouring me. “You and those harebells are young and fresh and untouched beauty. I don’t want either to change—ever.”

  “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

  “It does, if you stop to think about it.”

  I sighed. “Are you saying that I am too young for you?”

  He did not answer for a moment. “Yes—and no.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, yes, you’re too young—no, of course you’re not too young.”

  In frustration, I stared at him, then shook my head.

  “Julie, let me try to explain something. You came into my life unexpectedly; you caught my attention from that very first mud bath. Then I became intrigued by your passion for causes, by the insatiable curiosity of your mind. I don’t know any other girls like you. I found myself just wanting to bathe in the freshness of your spirit and your zest for life.”

  He looked off into the distance, then reached again for my hand. “I went into the Pittsburgh weekend with that same desire: to have more of that refreshment which comes from you. And it went just as I planned it—an enchanting day. And then something happened that I hadn’t planned. You changed from the bubbling young princess into a very real woman.”

  “And that upset you?”

  “Yes—and no.” He laughed. “There I go again. I’m a chump, really. I intended to give you a tender, brotherly kiss and then take you to the Farnsworths. But there was a fire in you I hadn’t realized.”

  My eyes held his as I spoke. “Rand, you romanced me in the way every girl dreams about. You were the fairy prince. Through the details you planned so carefully, you made the world seem like an enchanted place. Yes, there was fire in me. Yes, I wanted you to know how I felt. Was that wrong?”