Julie

by Catherine Marshall

  “I sure don’t want it to cause any trouble for you, Dad.” The Editor gave me a long, searching look. “Julie, there has hardly been a week over the past ten months when we haven’t been in some kind of hot water. This will stir up some things that probably need stirring. I’m proud of you, daughter, for your initiative. If they throw stones at us here, we’ll just throw ’em back.”

  Thursday afternoon the Editor dropped his weekly editorial on my table. “We can’t let the Times scoop us entirely,” he said with a wry grin. The title jolted me upright: “Unions—Their Time Has Come.”

  After raising the question of whether American industries were being fair to their employees, the Editor moved on to the New York Times series on labor-management problems:

  Investigations by the New York Times show that most companies throughout the nation use unfair hiring and firing practices and pay starvation wages. Companies which do provide housing for workers generally provide poor maintenance, wink at inadequate safety standards, and charge high prices in company stores.

  The Times has quoted from an article on the Yoder Steel Company written by Sentinel reporter Julie Wallace as follows:

  Rents in the company village called the Lowlands are so high that in order to exist, sometimes three families have to crowd into one of the undersized three-room houses.

  The Editor then went on to quote two more paragraphs I had written on the bad conditions in the Lowlands. Then he attempted to give some balance to his editorial:

  Yoder Steel is actually more progressive than most companies which operate employee housing, since it provides accident benefits for injured workers, modern safety equipment in the plant, and has presented a new Employee Relations Program (ERP). The ERP is a first step toward giving laborers a chance to air grievances and seek better working conditions.

  Much needs to be done to improve conditions in the Lowlands. One step was taken this week by the Rev. Spencer Meloy who agreed to become a chaplain to the Lowlands community. He has set up an office there and will be sponsored by the Brooks Street Methodist and Fairview Presbyterian churches of Alderton. Spencer Meloy was formerly pastor of Baker Memorial Church (see separate news story).

  The Editor urged support for Meloy, stating that one of Spencer’s objectives would be to work toward the improvement of working conditions either through ERP or a separate, independent union.

  As publisher of the Sentinel, I have studied the ERP booklet carefully and applaud this first effort by President Tom McKeever Jr. While the Yoder plan has some fresh ideas in the area of settling grievances and creating machinery for joint labor-management discussions of problems, the company reserves the right to discontinue the plan if and when it so chooses.

  This really is the heart of it. To the worker, company control means that he will always get a bad deal. That is why the independent union movement is growing so fast.

  The greatness of America is that we can worship where and how we please. We can stand in a public square and preach any political philosophy we choose. We are free to go where we want to go.

  Yet most workers in America do not have enough say about their conditions of employment. I believe this to be wrong. I think it hurts the employer as much as the employee because it takes contented workers to turn out good products.

  It is the conviction of this newspaper that the future health of our citizens—all our citizens—depends on the willingness of Alderton industry to hear the voices of workers, who not only want to better their working conditions, but also to have a say in how this is done.

  The editorial thrilled me. The Editor had handled the issue calmly but so forthrightly. Most businessmen will not like it, I thought, particularly Yoder. But the whole nation is now beginning to face up to a wrong situation that needs correction.

  Graham Gillin was back from his California trip and asked me to go to the movies with him that Friday night. The film was Spitfire with Katharine Hepburn. Afterward, as we walked leisurely toward Exley’s and sat side by side sipping ice cream sodas, we talked about the future.

  “Getting your article in the New York Times must give you some big ideas about a career in publishing,” he said.

  “Actually, my thoughts are in a different area tonight,” came my reply. “I’m envying you going to Penn State this fall.”

  “It’s not too late for you to enroll there.”

  I shook my head. “Not this year. Maybe next.”

  “I’ll miss you, Julie. We could have some good times together at college.”

  The idea was appealing and my eyes must have showed it. Outside, we walked toward his car hand in hand. “Would you like to drive up Seven Mile Mountain Road?” he asked with a grin.

  “And do what?”

  “I know a quiet spot where we could park and neck.”

  He laughed and I joined him.

  “Graham, I like you too much to go out and just neck with you.”

  “What do you have against necking?”

  “Nothing at all. Except most girls tell me in confidence that necking is not very satisfying.”

  “Have you ever tried it?”

  “Not really. I think I’d rather talk, like we’re doing here.” Graham shook his head. “You’re pretty impossible, you know. A guy is totally on the defensive with you.”

  “I don’t want that. Honest. I like our relationship now because it’s so natural and easygoing.”

  Graham was silent as he drove me home. He walked me up to the front porch and stood there awkwardly. I reached for his hand and moved close to him. “Would you kiss me good night, Graham?”

  He did so—quite vigorously. When he saw that I liked it, he did it a second time. And a third.

  During the next week, eighteen letters arrived at the Sentinel, sixteen opposed to my father’s editorial on unions. Most were from businessmen who declared that Bolsheviks were running the union movement—was the Sentinel for that? Three canceled subscriptions. The two favorable letters came from workers.

  The Editor was philosophical. “Working people don’t generally write letters,” he said. “I expected the written reaction to be much worse.”

  There were some positive results. The Oak Street Congregational Church promised twenty-five dollars a month for Meloy’s work. A total of seventy-five dollars in checks and cash was contributed by mail. Most of the telephone responses were positive.

  Young Tom McKeever’s call to the Editor came Wednesday. All I heard was my father’s side of the conversation, as he calmly fielded some obviously hot statements from the other end.

  “I’m sorry, Tom, but I don’t think the booklet goes far enough, and I had to say so.”

  He was silent, listening.

  “Meloy is hardly out to overthrow the government. He has a passion to help the people in the Lowlands. That seems quite Christian to me.”

  Another pause.

  “Get the series from the Times, Tom. You need to know more about the Wagner Act and what’s happening with labor in this country. I say you should be ahead of the union movement by recognizing the real grievances of workers.”

  The Editor’s patient voice continued.

  “What you feel you must do in running your business, you must do. That’s the same principle I use in publishing this newspaper.”

  When Dad finished the conversation, I walked quickly into his office. He was agitated, his face was flushed, but his hands were surprisingly steady.

  “Tom didn’t like the editorial,” he said.

  “So I gathered. Did he threaten to cancel Yoder’s ads?”

  “No—and that surprised me. He was upset. He spoke the usual phrases about union agitators. He lashed out at Meloy. He said the Sentinel wasn’t building a good community spirit with editorials like that. But he didn’t threaten a thing.”

  “It’s the Old Man who does the threatening.”

  The Editor was thoughtful. “There’s a strange chemistry between father and son. I sensed that Tom was trying to sp
ank me almost by rote. Somehow I don’t think his heart was in it.”

  When Dean Fleming arrived that afternoon, he stopped by my desk with a bemused expression on his face. “You sure started something with that article you sent to the New York Times,” he said.

  “As a union man, I thought you’d approve.”

  “I’m not a union man the way Cade is—or even Neal,” Dean said carefully.

  “That surprises me. Are you opposed to Dad’s editorial?”

  “No, I felt that it had good balance, though he will receive strong opposition. The union movement is necessary because company owners are too greedy. And sooner or later we’ll have union leaders who will be just as greedy and arrogant as management leaders.”

  I stared at Dean in astonishment. “If union men heard you speak like that, they’d, well, they’d kick you out of the union.”

  Dean grinned. “Are you going to expose me, Julie?”

  “Of course not. But why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I hate to see you and your father get involved over your heads.”

  As had happened several times before, I was confused and frustrated by Dean Fleming. Then he leaned forward and patted my hand. “Don’t be angry. Someday I’ll try and explain to you what I believe in more detail.”

  The Editor, hearing our voices, opened the door of his office and beckoned Dean inside. They talked quietly for a while and then departed, destination not announced, leaving me alone in the office.

  As I bounced from answering the telephone on Miss Cruley’s desk to the subscription files, to the linotype machine, then to my proofs, a wave of self-pity engulfed me. What had I gotten myself into with my eagerness to learn every aspect of newspaper publishing? With Emily Cruley on vacation, I would have to work six days a week, plus some nights, to get the next two issues out.

  A deep yearning to be going off to college in September almost overwhelmed me. The challenge of college courses, the making of new friends and, yes, having a boyfriend like Graham seemed utterly attractive. Graham was unpredictable, sometimes even a bit wild, but underneath all that egotism and racy talk was a person I had come to like very much.

  Something else bothered me. There was scarcely time now for quiet periods with my journal early in the morning. Too much of my writing was focused on mundane activities, editing the reports of correspondents, and doing an occasional news item like the church dismissal of Spencer Meloy. It had not been easy to make that a straight news story.

  Spencer’s ability to rebound from defeat and so quickly begin a new ministry in the Lowlands amazed me. It made no sense until you talked to Spencer and felt in him the depth of his compassion for the poor.

  While I too railed against the injustice of the Lowlands and could write about it with passion, moving into a workers’ village, as Spencer had done, was something else. I was not sure I could do it—and that disturbed me. This was an admission of a lack of love for these people. I had made some progress in being a more outgoing person the past year, but deep down there were things about myself I did not like. Nor even wanted to look at.

  It was after five when Rand called. He must have been surprised that I answered the phone because he hesitated a long moment, then finally blurted out, “I didn’t expect to get you, Julie.”

  “Sorry, Rand. I’m all there is at the moment.”

  “I need to talk to your father.”

  “He’s out now. Want him to call you back?”

  “No. Tell him I’ll reach him at your home tonight.” He paused. “I liked his editorial on unions.”

  “He’ll be glad to hear that. There’s been a lot of criticism, but it doesn’t seem to bother him all that much.”

  “What do you make of that?”

  “I don’t know. Something’s changed him. He used to get sick and go to bed if anything went wrong.”

  “Your father said some things at that church meeting which, well, impressed me.”

  “I didn’t know you were a member of Baker Memorial, Rand.”

  “I joined recently. Haven’t been very regular in my attendance though.”

  “I’ve never seen you there.”

  “I did come to the Lowlands work party.”

  “I remember.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “Julie, do you consider yourself a religious person?”

  To my dismay, I found myself stumbling in my answer. “Well, in some ways. I . . . I believe in God. I go to church when I can hear someone preach like Spencer Meloy. He truly cares about all types of people. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m not a religious person. I guess I’ve believed in some kind of universal force—but since your father’s talk that night I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I need to see him.”

  When we ended the conversation a few minutes later, I felt deeply dissatisfied with my answer to his question.

  Early Friday morning the Editor left suddenly for Pittsburgh in the Willys. He returned home about seven p.m., looking preoccupied, and thanked us for delaying dinner. During the meal he evaded our questions as to what the trip was all about.

  After Tim and Anne-Marie had gone to bed, I was sitting in the old Morris chair in the study reading through a stack of weekly newspapers we received on an exchange basis, clipping short items for possible use in the Sentinel. Mother had her mending basket in her lap; Dad was looking over the latest issue of the Saturday Evening Post. Suddenly he lowered the magazine. “Can I trust both of you to keep something strictly confidential?”

  Quickly we reassured him.

  “Randolph Wilkinson came by the office yesterday afternoon after you left, Julie,” he continued. “Handed me a copy of that engineer’s report on the Lake Kissawha Dam.”

  “The one that was missing!”

  “Right.”

  I almost jumped out of my chair. “Where did he get it?”

  “From the state files in Harrisburg.”

  “How?”

  “He went there last Tuesday, identified himself, then asked if they had a copy of the report. They did. Then he explained that the Club copy had disappeared and asked if he could obtain one to take back to the Club. The state official made a copy for him right there. No questions. Rand didn’t even have to lie.”

  “But why would Rand do this?”

  “It seems that my little speech for Spencer pricked his conscience. I talked with him on the phone a long time Wednesday night after he tried to reach me at the office. When he brought the engineer’s report to me yesterday afternoon, he said he was tired of being a part of a network of deception.”

  “He said that!”

  “That he did.”

  “Have you read through the report?”

  “Yes. It contains some rather startling items. The big one is that if the dam breaks, the new waterway below it could not begin to divert all of Lake Kissawha to Laurel Run. In fact, Alderton could have more water dumped on it in half an hour than all of the past floods combined.”

  “That’s hard to believe,” Mother interjected.

  “But wasn’t the new waterway built for the purpose of diverting any overflow from Lake Kissawha into Somerset Valley?” I asked.

  “Yes. But according to this report, it will handle only minor overflows or breaks.”

  We all sat there stunned, trying to digest this bombshell.

  “So that’s why you went to Pittsburgh today,” Mother said.

  “Yes, I asked Cy Stearns if he wanted to see the missing report. He said he did. We spent half the day going over it.”

  “You implied there were several upsetting things in the report, Dad. What else is there?” I asked.

  “You both can read it if you like; it’s quite technical, though. The engineer who did the report, by the way, was a man named Hershel Thomas. He died in 1929.”

  Dad pulled out a notepad from his pocket. “Mr. Thomas found three engineering defects in the dam. First, at the time of the sale to the Club, repairs needed
to be made to the original core.”

  “What kind of repairs?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Only a good engineer could tell us that. At the very least they should have used a sturdy cyclopean—”

  “A what?”

  “According to Stearns a cyclopean is a wall of rubble,” the Editor replied. “This probably should have replaced the defective clay core.”

  “You said three major defects, Ken,” Mother prompted.

  “The second is that they covered over the five sluice pipes with a double thickness of hemlock planking, thus making them useless for drawing off water in times of heavy rain.”

  I could see that Mother was struggling, as I was, to assimilate that information.

  “Third, in order to replace the narrow ten-foot-wide road that runs across the top of the dam with a two-lane one for the convenience of the guests, the height of the dam wall was lowered two feet. By the time the engineer had inspected the dam, the wall had settled even more in the center. So now, in the middle portion the dam’s only four and a half feet higher than the bottom of the spillway.”

  “Bryan was worried about that, remember? But why is this bad?”

  “Because, during spring and fall rains or any high water, the spillways can’t do the job they’re meant to do. That makes it easy for a high lake to flow over the top of the dam wall. And the continuous pressure of this kind of steady flow will break down most anything.”

  “What about the iron gratings that keep fish from escaping the lake?” I asked. “Bryan felt they were a problem.”

  “Bryan may be right. The Club installed them after the report was done and the sale had been completed.”

  “Surely, Dad, when an engineer handed in a report like this, someone must have paid attention to it. What does Stearns think happened?”

  “He believes that when the railroad presented McKeever Sr. with the engineering report, McKeever promised to correct the dam’s defects as a condition of the sale. But there were no teeth in the sales contract to guarantee that repairs would be made.”