Julie

by Catherine Marshall

“During the recent flood Pastor Meloy called this church a caring place. I liked that phrase and felt it was true. When a church ceases to care, then you may be certain that it has become too insulated. And in such insulation we can become so wrapped up in high-flown spirituality that we convince ourselves it’s the Church’s business to care for men’s souls—and nothing else.

  “At that point the Church becomes so heavenly minded it’s of no earthly good.”

  A laugh rippled across the room, the touch of humor a relief in the charged atmosphere.

  “Sticking to facts again, the reason that the Church is a caring place is because it belongs to Jesus Christ. Our church charter says so. And Jesus commands us to love and to help our neighbors. Not just the neighbors we feel at home with socially, but our neighbor, whether we like him or not. Whether he likes us or not.

  “Our pastor’s first duty is to obey Jesus Christ. This comes before his duty to the Council. Facts again, my friends. You can go back and read the ordination vows our pastor took, if you question this.

  “So, with the work on the Community Center, Spencer Meloy was not leading us to a vague do-gooder venture in the Lowlands; he was following both the dictates of his conscience and his vows to Jesus Christ.”

  As the Editor paused to look at the faces before him for a moment, the room was very quiet. Then for the first time, Dad’s voice grew emotional.

  “Let me say here that I have learned something in this regard from Spencer Meloy. In every man’s life there come those lonely decision times when he has to face his conscience. The test of his manhood—and often the direction his life takes from that moment on—depends upon the choices he makes. Often the right decision in God’s eyes means rejection by his fellow men, sometimes even by his Christian brothers. I honor our pastor for his courage in following the guidance of his conscience.”

  There was a pause as the Editor struggled for self-control. “What I feel we need here tonight, friends, is a new spirit. Appreciation for the generosity of the McKeevers and for the other leaders of this church who have worked hard and sacrificed time and money. Appreciation of Spencer Meloy’s caring heart for the underprivileged and his eagerness to serve his Lord.

  “There are fine people in this church,” he continued with a sweep of his hands and a broad smile. “You all know that a little lack of communication is no cause for panic. Many of you tackle worse problems every day.

  “So let’s allow God’s spirit into this meeting now. There is not a thing wrong with Baker Memorial or with my friend, Spencer Meloy, or with you men on the Council, who also are my friends, that a loving Father in Heaven cannot solve. Give Him that chance, please.”

  As Dad began making his way back to his seat, spontaneous applause broke out, but I noticed that only two or three of the men in the front row joined in. The expression on Spencer Meloy’s face was something to see. Such gratitude written there!

  Mr. Whipkey hurried to the speaker’s stand. “Thank you, Mr. Wallace,” he said firmly. “This concludes discussion on the issues before us. Now we vote on the dismissal or retention of our pastor, Spencer Meloy.”

  Bryan McKeever voted ahead of me. Instead of throwing the unused half of his ballot in the wastebasket, he walked up to me and placed it in my hand. It read FOR DISMISSAL. Bryan had cast his vote for Meloy! His father caught this action and frowned at his son.

  Rand voted quickly. He still had not met my eyes.

  Finally, the voting completed, we waited impatiently for the three tellers to start counting. I looked at Spencer. What was going on in his mind with his future so at stake?

  Then the tellers were back. It reminded me of a jury filing back into a courtroom and the judge asking, “Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”

  A sheet of paper was handed to Mr. Whipkey. He studied it for a moment, looked up, cleared his throat. “The results of the balloting are—126 votes for dismissal.” He paused. There was almost a collective holding of breaths in the room. “And 115 votes for retention.”

  Spencer Meloy had lost by eleven votes.

  There was a stunned silence. A flicker of shocked disbelief on Spencer’s face, then hurt. Dad shook his head slowly. Mother wiped her eyes. Margo was sobbing.

  I glared toward the McKeevers. Bryan, I noticed, had separated himself from his parents and was approaching Spencer. Rand was walking toward the door.

  Then Rand stopped and turned toward me. His eyes were sad. He gave me a brief wave and walked out the door.

  The drama of the church vote dominated my thoughts for days—the strength of my father’s speech . . . the margin of only eleven votes . . . the sight of Spencer shaking hands with each member of the Council afterward . . . the presence there of Randolph Wilkinson.

  Rand came as a part of the McKeever camp and so must have voted against Meloy. That was hard for me to take. Once again I reviewed our conversation the previous Saturday afternoon on The Rocks. Rand had ended our relationship. But why? Pressure from Uncle Munro? That could be part of the reason, but surely not all. Conflict of interest with his job? Possibly, but not the whole reason either. Did he really feel I was too young for him? That seemed more likely. Yet when we were together, the age difference had not seemed to be important.

  I sat bolt upright in bed as a new thought struck me. There was another woman! Why had I not thought of that before? But where? In England?

  Then I recalled something his Uncle Munro had said: that proper marriages for the Wilkinson clan were absolutely essential. Randolph Wilkinson had come to America to find a proper wife! Perhaps he had already found the woman in Pittsburgh. That was more like it.

  I lay back on the pillow and tears slowly began to trickle down my cheeks.

  The next morning a poem poured out of my despairing heart.

  To watch, while underneath the things he said,

  This I might endure—just to feel his breath

  Of sudden hatred on my yielded head,

  My fragile love was flung to final death.

  But this is more than I can bear: to know

  That underneath his fervent words of love

  The current of his life will always flow

  Still undisturbed by word of mine—above

  All raging tempests of the heart—To guess

  That I must be to him—one more—one less.

  To make certain that this cry of the heart would never escape from the pages of my journal, I pasted it firmly on the last page.

  Tuesday morning, Spencer Meloy came striding into the Sentinel office, stood in front of my desk and fairly beamed at me.

  “Julie, if I hadn’t just lost my job, I think I would propose to you right now.”

  “What’s so romantic about a newspaper office on a Tuesday morning?” I asked, scrambling to match his mood.

  “It’s not this setting. It’s you. Each time I see you, I’m more convinced than ever that we’re right for each other.” Spencer’s eyes never left my face.

  “If Miss Cruley heard you say that, she’d think you had lost your senses. She considers me too young and frivolous for a newspaper office, much less matrimony.”

  “Miss Cruley may be a valuable employee, but if she were graded on her knowledge of romance, I’m afraid it would be an F.”

  “And what grade would you get, Spencer?”

  “Touché, Julie. I’ve neglected this subject too much in recent years. Something very important happened yesterday morning, though. I decided to put my books aside and learn more about people.”

  “Let’s see now, you’ve already been at it a day, so I must be about Number Seven.”

  Spencer chuckled. “No, yesterday it was all males. Today you’re Lesson Number One—Female Division.”

  “I can’t believe this mood of yours, Spencer. If I hadn’t heard the vote count myself last Sunday night, I would think you had won a smashing victory.”

  “In a way it was a victory, Julie. It freed me from a situation that was all wrong
from the beginning. Baker Memorial and I were incompatible. In fact, losing that vote could have been the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because I’m already beginning to do the kind of work I love most. I’ve met with Neal Brinton—yes, and Cade too—to see how we can bring some justice to those people in the Lowlands. They need a pastor. Someone who will help them spiritually and physically. They seem to want me—and I feel drawn to them.”

  The Editor had come up behind Spencer as he was talking. “How will you make a living down there?” he asked.

  Meloy turned around in his chair. “I don’t know yet, Ken. I’ll seek support from other Alderton churches. From businessmen, too. My family will help some, I think. Any suggestions?”

  “Yes, I have.” Dad pursed his lips. “I’ll do something in the Sentinel. We should be able to rally some support.”

  “One thing you need to understand, Ken, before you commit yourself too quickly,” Spencer interrupted. “I’ll be helping workers push the union movement. I’ve studied the ERP booklet and I agree with Cade. Management still holds all the cards.”

  The Editor paused but a split second. “That doesn’t scare me, Spencer. I, too, have come to feel that the system is wrong. Management has to give a lot more than it does in ERP.”

  I stared at my father in surprise. This was new thinking on his part. Excitement stirred in me. The lines of a new battle were being drawn.

  The telephone call came early Thursday morning, before the Editor had arrived. Miss Cruley answered and I didn’t pay much attention until I heard my name mentioned.

  “Let me be sure I understand you,” Emily said. “You are Mr. Sloan of the New York Times and you want to speak to Miss Julie Wallace.”

  I bolted to my feet. “I’ll take the call in here,” I shouted, rushing for the corner office.

  With trembling hands, I picked up the receiver. “This is Julie Wallace.”

  The connection was fairly clear, but I kept asking the man at the other end of the line to repeat his statements, incredulous that I was hearing him correctly.

  “The article I sent you about Yoder Steel. Yes, I wrote it.”

  “The New York Times would like to use a part of your article in a series we are doing on the union-management issue,” the voice said.

  “I guess that would be all right. I mean, sure. It’s okay.”

  “We’ll pay you one hundred dollars for the use of about a thousand words.”

  “A thousand words, did you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will I receive a byline?”

  “No, but we’ll give you credit by name for the material we quote. Now, I need some facts about you, Miss Wallace. Are you a reporter for the Alderton Sentinel?”

  “Yes.”

  “For how long?”

  “Oh, about a year.”

  “Do you mind telling me your age?”

  “I’m nearly nineteen. Use nineteen, please.”

  “We researched your facts, Miss Wallace. They checked out okay. Your father is publisher of the Alderton Sentinel. Does he support the union cause?”

  “Well, I guess you’d have to say he’s neutral.”

  “I see. You two must have some lively discussions.”

  “Yes, sir. We do.”

  “I guess those are all the questions I have. Do you want your check sent to the Alderton Sentinel?”

  “That would be fine. And could you send us a copy of the article you’re doing?”

  “Yes, of course, we’ll do that.” Pause. “Thank you for thinking of the New York Times with your article, Miss Wallace.”

  I hung up and walked out of Dad’s office in a daze. The Editor had come in and was standing by Miss Cruley’s desk.

  “What did the New York Times want, Julie?” he asked.

  “You know that article on Yoder I wrote which you didn’t like? I sent it to the New York Times. They want to use one thousand words of it. They’re paying me one hundred dollars.”

  Both Emily Cruley and the Editor stared at me in utter disbelief.

  That week a heat wave suddenly descended upon Alderton. Dean discovered an old fan on the third floor and this was used to keep the press cool. The rest of us worked in pools of perspiration which spotted our typed copy, smeared the proofs, and even besmirched some of the sheets that came off the press.

  When I proudly demonstrated to the Editor that I had learned to set linotype—though at far from the speed and efficiency of Miss ­Cruley—Emily announced that she was taking a two-week vacation. While she was gone I would be responsible for all local news and features, set everything in type, and proofread the whole paper, which was now a standard eight pages.

  Meanwhile our whole family was involved in helping Spencer Meloy set up his new ministry to the Lowlands. Spencer’s enthusiasm and charm were infectious. The local Methodist church agreed to sponsor him and provide forty dollars a month for expenses. Another twenty-five dollars a month was promised by the Presbyterian church.

  With these commitments as a base, Meloy rented, for twenty dollars a month, a small three-room, two-story house, which he planned to turn into a combination office and living quarters. When Mother and I went to help him move in, we were dismayed at the condition of the building.

  The outside clapboard had once been painted white, but weather and flood damage had left it a dingy gray. There were several broken boards on one side, six or more missing shingles on the roof. The downstairs had a tiny kitchen, including a sink and a two-burner gas stove. A broken ice chest sat on the back stoop.

  A twenty-foot-square living room was the only livable spot in the house. Spencer had already moved in his desk and chair from the church manse. A sofa, some folding chairs, small tables, and a few lamps were needed to complete the furnishings.

  The upstairs bedroom was a joke for a tall man like Spencer. The ceiling was barely six feet high in its highest spot, then tapered down in the back until it was only four and a half feet from the wooden flooring. Spencer said he needed a stubby-legged single bed. The fact that he would never be able to stand straight in his bedroom didn’t seem to bother him. “I’ll only be there to sleep,” he said cheerfully.

  There was no bathroom in the house, nor did there seem to be an outhouse in the back until we saw one two houses away. This sturdy, dark green, square structure, which had four separate two-hole units, was obviously a communal toilet for as many as eight houses in the area.

  Before his pastorate with Baker Memorial was terminated, Spencer worked out with the Council a new procedure for use of the Community Center. Baker Memorial would sever all connection with the Center; the church would not help either the Center or Meloy’s new ministry there financially. The McKeevers agreed to allow the Lowlands people to use the Center rent free, but only for teaching clinics and the like. No political gatherings or men’s meetings would be permitted. Those using the Center would be responsible for repairs, maintenance, and supplies.

  Meloy was distressed with Baker Memorial’s complete disassociation with the Lowlands work and with the terms Yoder decreed for the use of the Center. The men’s meetings would henceforth have to be held at his house.

  On Wednesday, a copy of Monday’s New York Times arrived in our office, addressed to me. Eagerly, I tore off the wrapping, then with trembling fingers turned the pages until I saw it—the lead article in the second section: “Passage of Wagner Act Means the Union Movement Is Here to Stay—First in a Series.”

  I read through two columns about how this historic act had legitimized collective bargaining and given the union movement new respectability. Then the article began to tick off what was happening in various companies. The paragraph with my name began:

  Yoder Steel of Alderton, Pennsylvania, is another company with a heavy paternalistic approach to its employees.

  As a result, strong union sentiment is developing. Miss Julie Wallace, a reporter for the Alderton Sentinel,
has done in-depth research on what she calls “deplorable working conditions” in the plant and “severe hardships” suffered by steelworkers in a company village dubbed the Lowlands.

  Miss Wallace reports that in 1934, five steelworkers died from plant accidents and fifty-five were injured, some seriously. Already this year, four deaths have occurred.

  The article then went on to quote ten paragraphs of my report, mostly material I had gained from Neal and the publicity man at Yoder, about conditions in the Lowlands. The facts were stark, as I read through them again. The McKeevers and other executives at Yoder weren’t going to like having this information spread about widely.

  The windup paragraph of my part of the Times article shook me.

  Julie Wallace, age nineteen, is not a radical trade unionist, but the attractive blonde daughter of the owner and publisher of the Sentinel, Kenneth Wallace. Father and daughter frequently disagree over issues like the union movement, Miss Wallace stated to the Times. Intensely involved in trying to help the families of steelworkers through a church program, Miss Wallace stated unequivocally, “It is time for companies like Yoder Steel to emerge from the dark ages and treat their workers like human beings. If changes don’t come, then workers are going to form independent unions, and this nation will have years of labor-management warfare.”

  I handed the Times article to the Editor with a rueful look. “Gee, Dad, I didn’t think they would make me out as such a reformer. And I’m a blonde, too!”

  My father read through the whole article slowly and calmly, though I saw him wince a bit toward the end. He looked at me with a smile. “This is mild compared to the article you gave me to read on Yoder.”

  “That’s the one I sent the Times.”

  “Well, they have been selective and very fair in what they used.”

  “Do you think anyone in Alderton reads the New York Times?”

  “A few do. Mr. Piley, for one. This article will make the rounds of all the executives at Yoder, you can bet on that.”

  “They won’t like it.”

  “Probably not. And they will hope that no one else in Alderton reads it or hears about it.”