Julie

by Catherine Marshall

  “Dad, don’t you think you should include a paragraph about the road cave-in and the leakage, if you plan to use my pictures?”

  “Yes, I can slip it in just before the windup statement.”

  “Kenneth, how significant will the report of a dead engineer be today? Can’t the McKeevers trot out other so-called experts to insist that the dam is safe?”

  “Of course they can—and probably will.”

  “And their line would be that you’re just trying to frighten people.”

  “Yes. They would say that too.”

  “Then what good would it do to print this? Public opinion would be divided. And the dam could last another hundred years.”

  “I’ve considered all that, Louise. Why should we get involved in something that offers so little gain and so much possible loss? I asked the same question a month ago. At that time I concluded that there was no logical, sensible reason for me to be involved. Then I did something quite risky, now that I look back on it. I prayed a dangerous prayer. It was that if God wanted me to say anything more about the dam in the Sentinel, He would bring to me in a surprising way some new evidence. Well, He did. Bryan McKeever may not be a credible witness to most, but his statements about family differences over the dam impressed me. But it was Rand bringing us the missing dam report that really did it.”

  There was a long silence in the room. Then Mother said, “Kenneth, I respect that prayer. But aren’t you moving too quickly? Shouldn’t you check out the report more carefully?”

  “The validity of the Thomas report cannot be questioned,” my father replied patiently. “The problem is, Louise, that this is just one engineer’s opinion. I could spend months, years, fooling around with it. But I feel a time pressure. I feel responsible as a publisher to the people of this community.”

  “Are you sure you’re not being overdramatic, Kenneth? I think you’re still angry because you gave in to the Timmeton men and so are determined to prove something here in Alderton. If it will salve your conscience or whatever, you go ahead and print this editorial,” Mother said with sudden emotion.

  “I’ll not do it unless we’re in agreement,” my father said calmly.

  “What do you think will happen, Dad, if you go ahead?” I asked.

  “Plenty. I think the McKeevers will move against our family and the Sentinel with every means at their disposal. This, on top of the editorial on unions, will make them furious.”

  “So we could lose the newspaper?” Mother asked.

  “Yes, Louise, we could. Our decision must be made never forgetting that possibility.”

  “Then let’s think even beyond that. You’ve already left the ministry, Kenneth. We’ve already sunk all my inheritance into the Sentinel. So if we lose that too, then what?”

  “I don’t know what. Except”—and here emotion welled up in him—“if I do not believe that when I do what’s right, as God enables me to see the right, He will take care of our future needs, then I would be a man without any belief or faith. I would be a man with no base to stand on. Adrift. In limbo.”

  Mother and I both stared at him. “Something’s happened to you that I’m not sure I understand, Kenneth,” Mother said helplessly.

  Dad gave her a loving look. “Shall I take that as a compliment or a criticism?”

  “Certainly no criticism. I rejoice over your new conviction, even if I don’t understand its base. But aren’t you going to give Mr. McKeever one more chance to agree to dam repair before you run the editorial?”

  “Would that be your recommendation?”

  “Definitely,” came the reply. “That’s both fair and wise.” Dad turned to me. “You haven’t said much, Julie. Do you agree with your mother’s suggestion?”

  “Sure. Nothing to be lost, everything to be gained by that move. You could mail the editorial to Mr. McKeever.”

  My father nodded. “Yes, with a covering letter telling him that I won’t run it if he will agree in writing to do the work recommended in the engineer’s report.”

  Mother’s eyes flared. “But Kenneth, isn’t that blackmail? ‘Agree to what I propose or I’ll expose you through the newspaper’?”

  “It’s bringing pressure to bear, all right. What’s the alternative?”

  “I’m for postponing a decision on sending the letter. There’s got to be some other way.”

  “What are you afraid of, Louise?”

  “Financial ruin, obviously. Friends—everyone—taking sides. Discord everywhere, even in our family.”

  “Discord in our family is the last thing I want. That’s why we must be agreed on this.”

  Mother just shook her head, looking more trapped than ever. “Louise,” Dad’s voice was gentle, “for most of our married life, you have criticized me for not standing firm in the face of threats and obstacles. Why would you now give me the opposite advice?”

  A sad little smile played around the corners of Mother’s mouth. “I guess my materialism is showing. This week, for the first time, I could see the possibility of our making a decent living from the Sentinel.” There was silence in the room for a moment. Then she added, “You’re right, Kenneth. We can’t be afraid of where truth and rightness will lead. Yet I am afraid—”

  As she admitted this weakness, my heart went out to Mother. I could feel the misery inside her. And I understood why she could not yet fully trust my father.

  “I have no choice but to agree with you, Kenneth.” Mother’s voice sank almost to a whisper. “Go ahead with the letter to McKeever.”

  The Editor looked at me, question marks in his eyes.

  “Yes, Dad. I’m with you all the way.”

  Three days later, the draft of the proposed editorial, together with a covering letter and one picture of the dam, was mailed to Mr. Thomas McKeever Sr.

  Two days dragged by, seemingly interminable, with all of us wondering how Mr. McKeever would react to the letter.

  The following morning, the old gentleman telephoned the Editor: could he see Dad aboard the Vulcania Saturday afternoon at three o’clock.

  I should go with him! The thought came to me the night before the Editor’s second command invitation to visit the Vulcania.

  At first the prospect of another face-to-face meeting with Old Man McKeever was terrifying, especially coming after that nightmare. But I would be with my father, I assured myself. And Dad ought not go alone to the Vulcania this time.

  I presented the idea to the Editor Saturday morning as we drove together in the Willys to the Sentinel. At first he dismissed it. “I’ll not crumble before the McKeevers,” he assured me.

  “That’s not the point. They want you alone up there. You don’t know what tricks they may try. Knockout drops, for example.”

  The Editor guffawed. “What an imagination, Julie! The meeting is for three p.m., so there’ll be no food, no drinks, no polite conversation. Just blunt talk.”

  “I think my being there will distract them.”

  “They’ll be very annoyed if I bring you, that’s true.”

  “Won’t that be good? Might make them change their strategy.”

  Dad was silent for a while. I sensed he was seriously considering it for the first time. “I’ll have to telephone in advance, telling the McKeevers I’m bringing you.”

  “Why do that? Let it be a surprise.”

  Dad parked the Willys and grinned at me as we walked into the Sentinel office. “I’ll see what Dean thinks.”

  I was out on an interview late that Saturday morning when Dean Fleming arrived. When I returned, I could tell the two men had been talking. Dad waved me over.

  “Dean likes your idea. He wants to come along too and wait in the car for us.”

  “That’ll be great. Strength in numbers.”

  At 2:45, the three of us climbed into the Willys and headed up Seven Mile Mountain. When Dad turned down the road leading to McKeever’s Bluff, I remembered the spot where Graham Gillin had parked last fall. Ten months ago. It seemed like te
n years.

  The road, cut through a thick forest and heavy underbrush, was so pocked that the Editor had to drive with extreme care. Finally we broke through the canopy of green into a clearing. In the middle of the bluff, set back about twenty feet from the cliff, was the Vulcania. But it was not quite as Dad had described it to me.

  The railroad car was smaller than I expected, mud-speckled on the side, and the c was missing from Vulcania in the lettering. The brass was not polished, nor was the uniformed footman there to greet us. The car sat on tracks which cut back into the forest and connected with the main railroad line less than a mile away.

  After Dad parked, I stopped for a moment, captivated by the view of the valley below. The drop-off from the bluff was sharp for about thirty feet, then more gradual. I could see Seven Mile Mountain Road winding like a white ribbon below us into Alderton.

  McKeever’s servant, Karel, was waiting to let us in. He stared at me in surprise, and though I tried to gaze pleasantly into his scarred face, my eyes dropped. When the Editor explained that our driver would wait in the car for us, Karel merely nodded.

  McKeever was sitting at his desk in the far corner of the car. He was alone. When we walked toward him, his eyes bore into me, recognition coloring his face. I was suddenly very glad that Dean Fleming was waiting for us outside.

  “I didn’t invite you to bring your daughter,” he said, glaring at my father. He had not risen from his chair, nor did he invite us to sit down.

  “That’s true. But I decided I wanted her with me.”

  “I see. Well, ask her to go outside and wait while we talk.”

  “No, Mr. McKeever. If you can’t talk to both of us, then my daughter and I will leave now and go home.”

  There was heavy silence for a long minute as the two men locked eyes. Then McKeever shrugged. “Have it your way. I’ll say what I have to say in my own way, though. If it offends your daughter, don’t say you weren’t warned.”

  He turned to me. “You, Miss Wallace, alias Julie Paige, are a trespasser, a liar and a sneak.” He pointed to a picture of the dam on his desk. “You took this photo, I suppose.”

  I looked at the picture and fought down a surge of panic. “Yes. And for your information, my name is Julie Paige Wallace.”

  McKeever’s eyes were slits. “I know more about you than you think, thanks to reports from Randolph Wilkinson, whom I paid to check on your whole family.” After letting that devastating thrust sink in, he turned to the Editor. “You both might as well be seated,” he said.

  My father drew up two chairs and we sat down. I recalled what Dad had said about McKeever’s desk being on a higher level, so that he could look down upon people he talked to. Now there was an additional handicap. The afternoon sun was directly in our eyes. Was this planned, too? We moved our chairs out of the sunlight.

  “I can’t see you over there,” the Old Man snapped.

  “Then please pull down the shade behind you,” the Editor returned pleasantly. “The light is in our eyes.”

  McKeever made no move to swivel his chair or to lower the shade. Instead he just sat there, staring fixedly at us for a moment. Then a still longer moment.

  We waited, wondering how long the eyeball-to-eyeball contact would continue.

  “You don’t like this town, do you?” the Old Man began.

  “I’m liking it more every day.”

  “Then why did you write this trash?” A pudgy finger thumped the pages on the desk.

  “Because I feel there’s a legitimate question about the safety of the Kissawha dam.”

  A single four-letter word cut through the air like a bullet. We sat immovable, said nothing.

  McKeever’s face was flushed, his chin jutting out. “Wallace, you print this article and the Sentinel will be finished in this town.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that I will personally see to it that you and the Sentinel go out of business.”

  I stole a look at my father. He stared at McKeever calmly, almost compassionately. “Threats will accomplish nothing,” he said. “If you want to talk this thing through sensibly, we’ll stay. Otherwise, we’ll say good-bye now.” With that, he started to rise from his chair.

  Immediately McKeever shifted tactics. He began a long harangue about how much time and money he had spent on the Club and the dam; how misinformation had been spread by people who were jealous of the Club and wanted to hurt it; about how many good inspection reports he had received about the dam in recent years.

  The Editor listened patiently, then slowly shook his head. “Only a reputable engineer’s report carries any weight on something like this. Not someone in the Pennsylvania Railroad’s freight department.”

  “If you’re referring to Roger Benshoff, he’s the head of the department, a knowledgeable man on dams.”

  “But not an engineer with the qualifications of Hershel Thomas.”

  McKeever’s rage, just under the surface, erupted again. “How did you get a copy of that engineer’s report?”

  “From the state office at Harrisburg.”

  “Who gave it to you?”

  “I decline to answer that.”

  “Someone stole it. That’s a crime, you know.”

  My father shrugged. “A certain state official was cooperative. It was not stolen.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Then came another long diatribe about dishonest reporting and libelous stories.

  The Editor stood up and I prepared to join him.

  “Wait a minute!” It was a shout, almost a frenzied command. My father paused.

  “You said you would not print the story if repairs were made.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Let’s talk about that.”

  “Let’s do.” The Editor sat down again and waited.

  The Old Man scowled down at the papers for a moment before speaking. “I’ve already spent over $10,000 this year on repairs.”

  “Those are temporary, makeshift repairs. In no way do they get to the heart of the problem that the engineer’s report pinpoints.”

  “Do you realize how much it would cost to do what that engineer suggests?”

  “No, but I believe that the Pennsylvania Railroad and Yoder Steel might help finance the repairs. They both would have much to lose if the dam broke.”

  McKeever snorted. “They would offer nickels and dimes.” He stared at the Editor for another long moment, his eyes less hostile. “I’ll make a deal with you, Wallace. You kill that story and I’ll get my boys at the Club to set up a long-range plan for strengthening the dam.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you have my word that we’ll do something more than what you call makeshift repairs.”

  The Editor shrugged. “Mr. McKeever, you are going about this the wrong way. Don’t make a deal with me. Deal with the people of Alderton. My only part will be to represent the people through the pages of the Sentinel.”

  “What do you want, then?” the Old Man rapped out.

  “I want a letter from you to the people of Alderton and the surrounding communities, stating that an engineer’s report indicates that major repairs are needed on the Kissawha dam. Then, in that letter, you, as president of the Hunting and Fishing Club, will commit yourself to a specific program to get major repairs done as soon as possible. I’ll print your letter on the front page of the paper in place of the editorial you have before you.”

  The color had risen again in McKeever’s face as the Editor finished his statement. A series of obscenities exploded from the Old Man’s mouth. “Hell will freeze solid before you get a letter like that from me,” he spat out.

  “That means you have no intention of doing anything except cosmetic work on the dam,” the Editor concluded mildly.

  “It would take everything I have, and more, to do what you think should be done to that dam,” the Old Man growled.

  “I can’t believe your partners at the Club and at Yoder Steel
would not share in the expense when they are shown the devastation that 500 million tons of water would cause if loosed on our community.”

  “Wallace, you are a naive, birdbrained preacher who should have stayed tucked away in the church because you don’t know a blasted thing about dams and what makes them safe or unsafe. No one believes for a moment that the Kissawha dam is going to break. There are a hundred dams in this country in worse shape. Who cares? The government doesn’t. Nearby cities don’t. Nobody but wooly-minded radicals like you, who run around crying and wringing their hands about danger to the people. Go ahead, Wallace. Print your [obscenity] story, and I’ll see that you become the laughingstock of this town—yes, and of the whole state. And I’ll also see that you get your butt busted and lose everything you have to boot. I’m a mean S.O.B. when aroused, Wallace, and you’ve aroused me.”

  The confrontation was over—almost. Without a word, my father and I rose and headed for the door.

  The Old Man’s voice shot out behind us. “One more thing, Wallace. Print that story and you may lose more than the paper and your money.”

  Dad wheeled to face McKeever. “What does that mean?”

  “You heard me. Just think about it.”

  For a final moment, the two men stared at each other. Then my father and I walked out through the door of the Vulcania.

  As my father drove the Willys slowly and silently through the thickly wooded area toward Seven Mile Mountain Road, I was trying to grasp the whole significance of McKeever’s statement about Rand. Meanwhile, Dean waited patiently for our report.

  “I believe the old codger’s mostly bluster and bluff. Sorry that Julie had to hear his vile language,” the Editor finally said. “Watching him there in that ridiculously ornate private railroad car, enthroned behind his desk, that angry bulldog look on his face, I felt a pang of sympathy for the old boy. His days are ebbing out and he’s clutching at power he may no longer have.”

  “Don’t underestimate the McKeever power, Ken.” There was a troubled look on Dean’s face. “Did he threaten you if you print the editorial?”