Julie

by Catherine Marshall

  “He sure did,” I answered. “He said he would put us out of business—and more.”

  “More what?”

  “No specifics,” Dad answered. “That’s where I think it was pure bluff and bluster.”

  “You may be right,” Dean said slowly. “But if you don’t mind, I’d like to bring a cot to the Sentinel office and sleep there until the next issue is off the press.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Very much so, Ken. If you go ahead with that editorial, I intend to sleep there—with my shotgun under the cot.”

  The Editor had already departed the office and Dean was limping toward the door when I stopped him.

  “Please, I need to talk to you, Dean.”

  He looked at me searchingly. “Now?”

  “No, sometime when we have an hour or so and won’t be interrupted.”

  “For that I think we should drive to my farm late some afternoon.”

  “Then let’s wait until after the next Sentinel comes out. It’ll be wild here for the next week.”

  “Fine. Want to give me some idea what’s on your mind?”

  I hesitated, unsure how to focus my churning thoughts. “Dean, my father stood toe to toe with McKeever today and I didn’t see him flinch once. I want to know what has changed him, and you know what it is.”

  “You should ask him, not me.”

  “I already have. He wouldn’t give me an answer. But I’ll try him again.”

  Dean placed a hand on my arm. “I’ll give you one suggestion, Julie. Read the Acts of the Apostles in the New Testament before we get together.”

  Then he squeezed my arm and left.

  Sunday morning I awoke at dawn, propped myself up in bed, and poured out my heartache about Rand into the pages of my journal. How could he have been so deceptive? As I pondered my silly girlish idealism and love for Rand, I began to sob.

  Then, almost angrily, I shook off my tears. Rand had gotten us the engineer’s report. That was not the act of a McKeever informer.

  Putting aside the journal, I picked up my Bible, turned to the book of Acts, and began reading:

  The former treatise have I made, O Theophilus, of all that Jesus began to do and to teach, until the day in which he was taken up, after that he through the Holy Ghost had given commandments unto the apostles whom he had chosen.

  I stopped, disheartened. Why was the Bible so hard to understand? The print was small, the sentences long and involved, and the meaning so often obscure. Thumbing through Acts, I saw that there were twenty-eight chapters, running to almost forty pages. Finding the clue to the change in my father was going to be long, tedious work.

  However, the text became easier and more interesting as I read slowly on. Almost two hours later I had finished the twenty-eight chapters. I put the Bible aside and stared out the window at the brightness of a new summer day, thinking . . . thinking some more.

  I turned back to the first chapter and underlined the first fourteen words of verse eight: But ye shall receive power, after that the Holy Ghost is come upon you.

  Rereading the passages that followed, it appeared that the Holy Ghost had fallen on the disciples in the Upper Room—whatever that meant—and then they did indeed experience some kind of inner transformation.

  In all my church and Sunday School experience, no one had ever explained these verses. The only teaching I remembered was that the miracles which had happened in Acts were for those early days only; such things did not happen today, I had been told.

  At the breakfast table, Dad told us to be ready to leave for church by ten-thirty.

  “It’s so beautiful outside.” I suggested, “let’s take a drive and have a picnic instead.” With Spencer gone, Baker Memorial no longer interested me.

  My father shook his head. “We’re still members of Baker Memorial. We’ll go to church there and then perhaps have a picnic.”

  Because of the lovely weather, the acrimony over Meloy’s dismissal, and the fact that a retired preacher from Pittsburgh was filling the pulpit, attendance that morning was pathetically small. I watched my father walk over to Mr. Piley and young Tom McKeever afterward with a pleasant word of greeting. Before we left the church, I think he had spoken to everyone there.

  Later, after we had eaten a picnic lunch by The Rocks, I cornered my father in the study as he was reclining in the Morris chair, reading the Sunday paper. Sitting on the floor at his feet, I carefully framed my question.

  “Dad, what has happened to you in recent months? You’re not only healthy again, you’re—different.”

  He smiled, reached over to stroke my head. “The simplest way to answer your question is to say that God has healed me.”

  “Healed you of what, and how did He do it?”

  “He touched my spirit.”

  I shook my head in frustration. “Touching your spirit healed you of malaria? I don’t understand.”

  The Editor was silent for a long moment, his hand still on my head. “I did have a touch of malaria, but that wasn’t my real sickness. The Timmeton church battles were too much for me. My mind snapped. I broke down. You may remember I was gone for a month. It wasn’t on a preaching mission; I went to a hospital in Louisiana. When I came home I wasn’t well. That’s why I had so many relapses. It’s time you knew the truth about all this, Julie.”

  Another missing piece to the Timmeton puzzle! The focus on malaria had been a subterfuge to cover up Dad’s breakdown. My mind was whirling.

  “How can you tell that you’re well?” I asked.

  “I don’t know for sure that I am. But the change you notice comes from deep inside. I’m less fearful. Less self-centered too, I think. People here have helped me a lot.”

  “Are these the men you and Dean get together with?”

  “Yes. You’ve met some of them at the Sentinel.”

  “Are they The Preparers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why is there so much secrecy about them?”

  “It’s not so much secrecy. To function properly, we must operate quietly, not drawing attention to ourselves.”

  “I asked Dean about the change in you. He said that I could find a clue to this by reading the book of Acts.”

  “So you’ve been talking to Dean, then?”

  “Just briefly. We’re getting together again sometime.”

  “I see. Then I’ll let him explain to you more about The Preparers.” He paused. “I don’t want you to think I’m trying to hide anything from you and the family. Your mother has questioned me too. Someday I’ll be able to talk more fully about it.”

  “One more question. You heard McKeever say he paid Rand to spy on us.” My voice was trembling. “Do you think it’s true?”

  “Rand is paid by McKeever to manage the Club. It would be in the Old Man’s character to ask Rand to check on us.”

  “Don’t you feel, well, betrayed?”

  My father reached down to stroke my head again. “I know how it must strike you, Julie. I’d feel betrayed too, if Rand had not presented us with the Thomas report.”

  “Is there any chance that Rand is still playing McKeever’s tune and that for some unknown reason the Old Man wants you to have that engineer’s report?”

  Dad shook his head. “Rand and I have talked several times. He may be the one who has really changed.”

  When I arrived at the newspaper office Monday morning, Emily Cruley was back at her desk. I told her how glad I was to see her.

  “Thank you, Julie,” she replied coolly. “I’ve gone over the two issues put out while I was gone. Made notes of the mistakes.” My enthusiasm began to subside. “I hope there weren’t too many.”

  “Quite a few, actually.”

  “Subscriptions are really up,” I countered.

  “Hmmph. That surprises me, considering the way your father’s bringing politics into the paper.”

  As I started back to my work area, she put a warning finger over her mouth. “Mr. McKeever’s back there wit
h Mr. Wallace.”

  “The Old Man is here?” I shot back in dismay.

  “No, no—it’s young Mr. McKeever.”

  Somewhat relieved, I went back to my desk. The voices of the two men filtered through the cardboard-thin wall.

  “It’s a time of crisis for all of us, Ken,” Tom McKeever was saying. “Not just in Alderton, all across the nation. Guess you heard this morning’s news about the textile strike. Yoder has been forced to lay off more workers. Alderton is still trying to recover from last spring’s flood. As for the Sentinel—well, Ken, it’s never made a profit. Everyone knows that.”

  “We’re doing better than most people think.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. But I can guarantee you one thing: you hurt yourself when you print editorials like that one about unions. This one on the dam would finish the Sentinel for a lot of us in town. If we don’t work together, none of us are going to make it.”

  “I agree with that principle. But, Tom, as a publisher, I do have a responsibility to the people the newspaper serves.”

  “Ken, on the level now, what do you know about dams?”

  “Not a lot.”

  “You’ve come up with one engineer’s report. My father can match it with another engineer’s verdict that pronounces the dam as safe as your bathtub at home. Who’s to judge?”

  “One man is objective, one is not.”

  “That’s your opinion.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then Tom McKeever said, “Let me sum it up this way. My father and I don’t agree about a lot of things. But we are in agreement about this editorial you say you’re about to publish in the Sentinel. That would be a costly mistake. It will cause trouble for us. It will hurt you and the Sentinel because you’ll lose a lot of advertising. Also, my father, when crossed, can be nasty. He swears he’s got something on you that would finish you in Alderton. Ken, I urge you to kill the story for the good of all of us.”

  “Tom, you’re a reasonable man and I respect you. I wish it were possible for me to do what you’re asking. I’d like to because I value you as a person and want to be your friend. But there’s a lot at stake here for all of us, and I have made a decision. I’m convinced it’s a right decision. Therefore I dare not change it.”

  There was silence, then a scraping of chairs. The door opened and Tom McKeever walked out, grim-faced, my father behind him.

  “Well, Ken, if you change your mind, let me know.” Then, McKeever wheeled to face the Editor and shake his hand. His face was enigmatic, yet I thought I detected in his good-bye a grudging note of admiration.

  Late that afternoon, I ran to answer a thumping on the back door.

  “Margo!”

  With a cry of anguish, I pulled her inside. Her hair and clothes were disheveled, her blouse torn. There were dark smudges on her face and a red blotch marred one side of her neck.

  As I was gently helping her into a chair, the Editor appeared from his office. “Margo, what happened?”

  My friend took several deep breaths before she tried to reply. “Dad beat me up. He was drunk and said some things about you, Mr. Wallace, that scared me.”

  The Editor looked at me. “Julie, help her clean up and then we’ll hear the full story.”

  I grabbed Margo’s hand and led her up the stairs to the ladies’ room on the second floor. There Margo scrubbed her face, neck, and hands. I tried to repair her blouse with a safety pin.

  My mind was churning. What new threat faced my father? I felt icy tentacles of fear stirring my insides.

  When Margo and I arrived back downstairs, the Editor led us into his office and closed the door. “Would you tell us the whole story now, Margo?” he said quietly.

  Margo reported that her father had spent the morning closeted in the Stemwinder office with some men. She had been in the dining room and bar area, preparing the place for the usual midday opening.

  “The meeting in Dad’s office broke up about eleven-thirty,” she continued. “Dad seemed okay then, but he began drinking heavily when we opened for business at noon. By midafternoon he could hardly stand up. He was embarrassing everyone. I finally led him to his office. He lay down on the couch, babbling away as he often does. I didn’t pay much attention until he raised up and said, ‘We’re gonna fix that meddling friend of yours at the newspaper. And his paper too.’

  “I should have left him alone, but I got scared for you, Mr. Wallace. So I pressed Dad for more information. Suddenly he jumped up and began hitting me. He told me he’d kill me if I said anything. When he passed out on the couch, I decided to come here.”

  The Editor took her hand and held it gently. “Margo, do you know the names of those men who came to see your father this morning?”

  Margo shook her head. “Only faces. They come to the Stemwinder all the time. One is that watchman Julie and I ran into at the dam.”

  “The one who fired the shot over your heads?”

  “That’s the one.”

  My father then asked Margo if she would be willing to stay at our house for a few days.

  Alarm spread all over Margo’s face. “I can’t do that, Mr. Wallace. If my father thinks I ran down here to blab on him, I’ll never be able to go back. He must not know I came here.”

  An hour later, we let Margo go back to the Stemwinder, but most reluctantly. Dad then called Spencer Meloy to ask him to watch out for Margo. Spencer’s assent was prompt.

  “Margo has already been helping me with the Lowlands work,” he said. “She’ll make a fine assistant and if I can find some money to pay her, she won’t have to work in the Stemwinder anymore.”

  Dean Fleming and three of his cohorts arrived at the Sentinel office at six p.m. with sandwiches and coffee. I studied them more carefully than I had done in the past. One, I knew, worked as a switchman at the railroad, another at Trentler Wireworks. The third was employed at the lumberyard. Three things about them impressed me. They used no coarse language. They laughed a lot. They obviously cared for each other.

  I heard the next morning that they had stayed until three a. m. Then one by one they slipped out and went home, until at six only Dean was left. He had dozed off on his cot next to the Goss press when he was awakened suddenly by a crackling noise outside the back door.

  Fire!

  The back entrance was ablaze!

  Quickly he rang the fire department, then began to beat at the flames with his blanket. Within minutes the fire truck was there and the flames were extinguished, but the back door was blackened by the fire.

  At seven a.m., Dean called the Editor, who knocked on my door to give me a brief report before he left for the office.

  When I arrived there at eight, onlookers were crowding into the back alley to stare at the damage. As I entered the front door, I could hear Miss Cruley’s shrill voice asking people to leave.

  Graham Gillin was there, shaking his head. “Someone set that fire,” he muttered. “Poured kerosene on the back door. You can still smell it. Why would they want to do that, Julie?”

  “That someone doesn’t want us to publish the Sentinel this week,” I answered.

  “Why? What are you printing?”

  I hesitated. “Graham, only the Editor can answer that one.”

  He nodded, then headed for the back of the building, his muscular body wedging through people like a knife through butter.

  Later the owner of the building, George Cummings, appeared and glumly reviewed the damage with my father and Dean Fleming. Cummings wanted the Sentinel to cease publication while repairs to the back entrance were made. The Editor and Dean convinced him that the newspaper work inside the building could continue while this work was done. Canvas could be hung over the door to protect the equipment from the elements. Dean and his good Samaritans would continue to guard the premises at night.

  Although the pungent smell of smoke hung over the office, we got in a half-day’s work that Tuesday. Emily set the editorial in type and both the Editor and I proofread it. Meanwhil
e, Dean had increased the watch from four to eight men for an all-night vigil. At no time would there be fewer than four men on guard.

  When the Editor and I arrived at the office Wednesday morning, Dean greeted us with a sleepy wave. “One more night’s watch and we can touch home base,” he said. It had been decided to print the paper on Thursday morning and distribute it that afternoon, thus eliminating the need for protection Thursday night.

  Dean and his friends had gone home to sleep when Graham Gillin appeared, a baseball bat in one hand and a sports magazine in the other. “You can relax now, Julie,” he said with his sly grin. “I’m your protection until Dean gets back this afternoon.” He swung his bat with a menacing flourish.

  At about one-thirty in the afternoon, the Editor was out for lunch and Graham was in Dad’s office, using the telephone. Emily was at her desk in front. I was reading proofs when there was a sharp ripping sound. Looking up, I saw the piece of canvas covering the burnt-out back entrance being torn away. Four masked men carrying clubs and sledgehammers plunged through the opening. I jumped to my feet.

  “Get that big press,” shouted one.

  “I’ll take care of the girl,” snapped another. One of the men bore down on me. I knew him despite the mask—James, the watchman.

  “Graham!” I screamed.

  The watchman dropped his club and grabbed me in his arms with a bear hug, ripping my blouse off one shoulder. From the corner of my eye, I saw a crew-cut form hurtle out of Dad’s office and tear into my assailant like a projectile. All three of us landed on the floor.

  Dazed, I rolled away and watched Graham bang the watchman’s head onto the wooden floor until he was unconscious. Another man then jumped on Graham and the two went rolling across the floor, grunting and pummeling each other.

  Then I saw Emily enter the fray, swinging her black subscription case at one of the men. When he flung her aside like a rag doll, she scrambled to her feet and ran out the front door, bleating like a wounded lamb: “Help! Police! Someone please help!”

  Crash . . . crunch. The sounds were of metal beating upon metal.