Julie

by Catherine Marshall

  “No!” I cried, jumping to my feet. Two men were now trying to subdue Graham. Another was unconscious and the fourth was hammering at the Goss press. I flew at him.

  “Get away,” he snarled at me as I beat my fists on his back. Then I grabbed one of his arms.

  “Get her off me,” he shouted.

  A man’s hand jerked me back, and I tumbled to the floor again, where one of the men pinned me down.

  The hammer blows at the press continued while, sobbing, I lay pressed down on the floor.

  “Let’s get out of here,” one man shouted.

  The pressure on me lifted. As I sat up, the three men sped out the back entrance. I heard a car start in the alley and drive off.

  The watchman still lay on the floor, unconscious. Graham had also been knocked senseless, but he was beginning to stir.

  I looked at the press and wept. It was a mass of twisted metal. Then I ran to Graham.

  The Sentinel office looked as though a small tornado had ripped through it. Metal off the Goss press was scattered all over the floor. Two tables had been overturned. A tray of type had been spilled, with hundreds of letters strewn about the floor. The unconscious watchman lay under a broken chair, his blood intermingled with black splotches from a shattered inkwell.

  I was sitting on the floor, holding a wet cloth on Graham’s forehead, when he slowly opened his eyes. He raised up, grimaced, and clutched his left shoulder. Painfully he climbed to his feet as he stared at the twitching form of the watchman. Then he recovered his baseball bat from Dad’s office—in the heat of the battle he had not thought to use it—grabbed one of the fallen chairs, and settled into it beside the inert assailant on the floor.

  “I’ll cover this skunk, Julie. You call the cops.”

  “I’m sure they’re on the way,” I said numbly.

  Within minutes people began streaming into the office, led by an agitated Emily Cruley. Two policemen arrived. Then an ambulance, siren shrieking. Clutching his shoulder, Graham Gillin climbed unassisted into the ambulance. The still-unconscious watchman was then wheeled out on a stretcher.

  The Editor arrived from lunch, panting, just as the ambulance drove off, siren once again wailing. When he saw that I was unhurt, relief filled his eyes. Then I broke down.

  Later that afternoon, a crestfallen Dean Fleming, a white-faced Editor and I, still very shaky, gathered in Dad’s office to assess the situation. A hysterical Emily Cruley had been sent home. My father had urged me to take the day off, but I had refused.

  “I underestimated them,” Dean muttered. “They knew we were well prepared for a night attack, so they came in daylight. Waited until you went to lunch, Ken.”

  “Stupid of me to leave,” my father growled.

  “Stupid of me not to plan better for the daytime,” Dean interrupted. “A bold move on their part—almost successful.”

  The Editor turned to him quickly. “Is the press repairable?”

  “I think so. It’ll take time. Two or three weeks. The gears are only bent and the flatbed can be fixed. I can’t tell yet about the impression cylinder. That may have to be replaced. Give them another ten minutes and the whole press would have been junk.”

  “You can thank Graham for that,” I said. “He took care of three of them. Just one man did the real damage.”

  “If only I had been here,” Dad grumbled again.

  “Glad you weren’t, Ken. You could have been badly hurt. Julie, can you tell us again what happened? Slowly this time.” Once more I went over the attack. When I admitted to jumping at the man with the sledgehammer, Dad stared at me in amazement. At the end, he was shaking his head.

  “Maybe it was wrong to buck the Old Man. We can’t cope with his goons. And I shouldn’t endanger my family any more. Don’t you agree, Dean?”

  Dean took a long time replying. “Up to now I wasn’t sure the dam was a real issue. Thought you were trying to prove something with that editorial, Ken. And that Julie had read too many adventure books. This attack has changed my thinking. We’re up against evil. Raw evil. It has to be dealt with. Since you started something here, I’m afraid you have to finish it. With our help.”

  “What are you suggesting, Dean?”

  Dean lowered his voice. “That you get on the phone and find another Goss press near here. We’ll let the word spread that the Sentinel is out of business. This’ll get McKeever off our backs. Meanwhile, finish setting up this issue, lock up the forms, and truck ’em to whatever press you find.”

  The light returned to the Editor’s eyes. “Good plan, Dean. Catch ’em by surprise.” Then his eyes clouded again. “I don’t see how I can put my family through any more of this.”

  “I’m all for Dean’s idea,” I said, fighting off the waves of fear that had been engulfing me all afternoon.

  The Editor grinned at me. “Somehow I expected you to say that. But I won’t buck your mother if she’s against it.”

  “You’d better deal with Emily Cruley first,” Dean suggested. “She’s a wreck. Suggest she take off three or four days. Don’t tell her that we’re looking for another press.”

  Dad nodded. “Emily surprises me sometimes, though. Just when I think she’s impossible, she’ll settle down and be a little bastion of strength.”

  All the women surprised my father.

  When dinner was over, we detailed to Mother what had happened at the Sentinel. Her reaction was anger. “How dare he do that! And in broad daylight too! The man is a barbarian. He must be stopped.”

  Both of us were taken aback and, yes, elated by Mother’s vehemence.

  Dad later called Miss Cruley and suggested that she take a few days off to recover from the shock of the episode. There was a long silence, and then I could hear Emily’s voice crackling over the phone.

  “Well, all right, Emily, if that’s the way you feel about it,” he said and hung up. Then he looked at Mother and me with a wry grin. “She said she had already taken two weeks off, that of course she will be in the office tomorrow.”

  But the third woman, his daughter, wasn’t able to keep up her good act. I fell apart.

  When I went to bed that night, waves of fear engulfed me. The memory of the watchman’s hands wrapped around my chest, pressing against my breasts, was hard to shake off. In desperation, I got up, went to the bathroom, and filled the tub with hot water. For a long time I soaked in it, scrubbing myself over and over.

  Back in bed with the light turned off, I sought sleep once again. Though it eventually came, the dreams that went with it were frightening. In one, I was being pursued by leering, evil men who chased me up Main Street toward home. But the street was filled with water and my legs were numb from the cold. Boy was beside me, yipping and splashing to keep up. Then suddenly he disappeared under the water.

  I began to sob as the men drew closer. Just as they prepared to grab me, I fell head first into the water. Then I woke up.

  My face was wet with tears, my pajamas soaked from perspiration, my body shaking with chills. I turned on the light by my bed and looked at the clock: 3:00 a.m.

  Trembling, I climbed out of bed, changed my pajamas and slipped back between the sheets. Sleep was a long time coming.

  I awoke Thursday morning to find my father standing by my bed. “You’ve had a rough night, haven’t you?” he asked.

  I nodded and smiled back weakly.

  Our doctor came by several hours later, took my temperature and gave me some pills. “Two days in bed, at least,” he ordered.

  I groaned. Why do I have to fold up this way whenever exciting things happen? I wondered.

  A late-morning sleep made me feel so much better that I quickly drained a glass of orange juice Mother had left by my bed. When I heard my father arrive home for dinner, I could barely contain my eagerness for the news of the day. I was about to disobey his orders and invade the first floor when I heard his footsteps on the stairs. He entered my room and sat on my bed, his eyes rimmed with fatigue.

  “Fi
rst, tell me how Graham is,” I asked.

  “His shoulder is not broken, only dislocated. Doctors say he’ll be okay in a few weeks. He was at the office today, arm in a sling, inquiring about you.”

  I sighed in relief, then asked about the Sentinel. The Editor reported that a Goss press was available at the Cloudsville Times, ninety miles north. The printing could be done Saturday, with distribution on Monday. “If”—he paused—“if we want to go ahead.”

  “But Dad, I thought we were all in agreement.”

  “I admit to having second thoughts about it. Too many people are being hurt.”

  A pang ripped through me. “You’re not including me in that, are you?”

  “Yes, I am.” Tears suddenly welled up in his eyes. “Nothing is worth having you go through what you went through yesterday. I love you too much for that, Julie.”

  I couldn’t check the tears either, and for a moment the two of us clung to each other. Then I found my voice. “There’s nothing the matter with me that a little rest won’t cure. We all agreed to go ahead with the editorial. Please don’t back down now.” My father stood up and walked to the window, staring out at the early evening shadows on the yard. “There are times when I think we’re all crazy. The dam could last another hundred years, even if McKeever never does a thing to strengthen it. Who am I to try and buck the whole McKeever clan?”

  “We’ve gone through this before, Dad. You’re doing what you believe is right. We’re all in agreement.”

  “Not Emily. She told me bluntly today that I was a fool.”

  “Is she leaving?”

  “She didn’t say she was. By the way, she expressed real concern for you today, Julie.”

  The thought of Miss Cruley worrying on my behalf silenced me for a moment.

  My father sat down on my bed again and reached for my hand. “Dean Fleming called my attention today to a passage of Scripture in the book of James. Let me read it to you.”

  He arose and picked up my Bible from the desk and riffled through the pages. “Here it is—James 5:14.

  Is any sick among you? Let him call for the elders of the church; and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord. And the prayer of faith shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise him up; and if he hath committed sins, they shall be forgiven him.

  “I had to confess to Dean that, during all the years I was a pastor, the carrying out of this passage had never been done in my church,” Dad said. He probed me with his brown eyes. “Are you willing to be prayed for in this way?”

  There was a trace of embarrassment in my father’s eyes, for as a family, we had mostly prayed separately and in secret, according to another passage in Scripture. I urged him to go ahead.

  “Good. Then I’ll ask Dean and Spencer Meloy to join me. They’re downstairs.”

  “But Dad, you didn’t tell me there were others involved; I look awful for company,” I cried.

  “They’re not company,” he replied gently. “They’re elders of the Church who’ve come here to pray for the sick.”

  “At least let me comb my hair first,” I moaned.

  A few minutes later, the three men had posted themselves by my bed, looking very formal. Dad pulled a small vial of oil from his pocket, placed a few drops on his fingers, and then touched them to my forehead. Spencer read the passage from James again. My father spoke a short prayer of faith that I “would be healed of all infection causing the chills and fever.”

  Dean prayed more vehemently, “expelling all dark forces” from my room in the name of Jesus and asking the Lord to erase the memory of the attacker’s physical assault upon my person.

  Spencer’s prayer was more of a benediction, that I be able “to go forth, renewed in spirit, healed in mind and body.”

  Then—a bit self-consciously—each of the three men kissed me gently on the forehead and left the room. Their words, their tenderness, their love, stayed with me a long, long time.

  I remained in bed all day Friday, sleeping, reading, and writing in my journal. Once more I read through the book of Acts. The fear thoughts were gone. Wondering if prayer had somehow chased them away, I kept praying, in case they tried to return.

  Before he left for work, the Editor had stopped in my room to ask me if I still felt he should go ahead with the editorial. When I said he should, Dad patted my hand and left. After he arrived home for a late dinner that evening, my father reported that the forms had been all locked up and Dean was ready to drive them to Cloudsville early the next morning. The two men had decided not to disclose this plan to anyone, even Emily. The Editor simply told her they wanted to have the forms ready when Dean had the press repaired in two or three weeks.

  On Saturday I got up and dressed, still feeling shaky but determined to hide it as much as possible.

  Margo was my first visitor. She was depressed that despite her warning, the Sentinel presses had been smashed up. She surmised that the success of the raid had kept her from being further roughed up by her father. On a happier note, Margo talked about how much she enjoyed her work with Spencer Meloy. It consumed so much of her time and energy that she hoped to quit her job soon at the Stemwinder.

  Spencer Meloy arrived next, dressed in old baggy pants and a sports shirt. “Excuse my appearance,” he began, “but I’m invited to lunch with the Balazes. We’re painting their house this afternoon. I was planning to invite you to join us, until you decided to have that wrestling match with those thugs last Wednesday. So I invited Anne-Marie instead.”

  Before leaving, he took my hand and held it. “I feel very close to you, Julie,” he said softly. “You are in my thoughts every day. And remember this, I’m a persistent man.”

  Graham Gillin, his arm still in a sling under his orange and blue football jacket, dropped by after lunch with disturbing news. The watchman, James Sanduski, had escaped from the hospital that morning. “A policeman was supposed to be sitting outside his room,” he said. “Someone slipped up—or was bribed.”

  I stared at Graham in dismay. “Are we in danger from him?”

  “Naw. He’ll keep out of sight. But it means that the police have no case. They had hoped to get a confession out of James.” I was relieved to hear that Graham’s injury would not keep him home from college, but was distressed that the doctor had said he could not play football for another month. “My scholarship may be withdrawn,” he conceded. “And freshman football is important at Penn State. That’s where they peg you for a future spot on the varsity.”

  “It’s not fair, Graham. The Penn State football coach needs to know what a hero you were.”

  Graham laughed. “You tell ’em then. You’re the writer.”

  “I will.”

  “There’s something else, Julie. I love you. But then you know that.”

  “You’ve never said it before.”

  “I don’t like to say things like that to a girl unless the feeling is mutual. And I didn’t intend to say it now, especially since I’ve only got one arm.”

  “Well, I’ve got two,” I said. And I put them both around his neck and kissed him. “As long as I live, Graham, I’ll never forget the sight of you tearing into that watchman.”

  Later that afternoon I was upstairs dozing when Mother appeared in my room. “Randolph Wilkinson is downstairs. Are you well enough to see him?”

  “Yes, Mother.” With sudden nervousness, I scrambled to my feet and reached for my lipstick to brighten my pale face.

  Rand here. What can he want? I smiled wanly. Must be a courtesy call on the sick.

  When I walked into the living room, Rand, in white slacks and dark blue blazer, was standing at the window. He turned and smiled, his eyes warm and uncertain. We stood for a moment, awkwardly, facing each other.

  “Horrible experience for you, Julie. And for the Sentinel. I’m terribly sorry. How are you feeling?”

  “Better, thanks.” When I motioned for him to sit down, he chose the loveseat. I sat in a chair facing him. />
  “And to think it was James who led the attack. This time, I can assure you, he has been sacked from the Club. A bit late, of course. The Old Man himself said he had to go.” Rand shifted around on the loveseat.

  Will we ever replace that uncomfortable monstrosity of a sofa? I wondered, struggling to find words for Rand.

  “The Club is in a bit of a turmoil,” Rand continued. “Mr. McKeever’s angry about one thing or another.” He grinned wryly. “Mostly about the appearance of that engineer’s report on the dam.”

  “Does he suspect you?”

  “I don’t think so. If he did, I’d be in deep trouble.”

  “What do you think would have happened to you if the Sentinel had come out yesterday with Dad’s editorial?”

  Rand moved again on the loveseat. “Difficult to tell. McKeever’s moods are so unpredictable. It would be hard for him to fire me because of Uncle Munro. McKeever’s a dangerous man to have as an enemy though.”

  “That’s what my father discovered. McKeever’s fortunate that James escaped today from the hospital.” Then, I stopped. “Rand, can we be honest with each other?”

  “I hope so.”

  “McKeever hired those four goons who smashed up our office, right?”

  “Probably. But I doubt if anyone can prove it now that James has escaped.”

  “Why is McKeever so determined to stop the editorial?”

  “If he is forced to make those repairs on the dam recommended in that engineer’s report, it will bankrupt him.”

  For a moment I stared at him in amazement. “But he’s so rich. And there are other wealthy men on the board of the Club. Why can’t the expense be shared?”

  Rand hesitated. “Julie, I’m not sure I should be telling you things that are Club business. And I don’t have all the answers myself.” He paused again. “I’ll just say that McKeever owns such a large percentage of the Club and the surrounding property that the other board members haven’t the power to overrule him.”

  “That explains why he does as he pleases at the Club. Does he own most of Yoder, too?”