Julie

by Catherine Marshall

  “The McKeever family does.”

  “When my father and I went to see him on the Vulcania, he said something to me that has bothered me ever since. He said, ‘I pay Randolph Wilkinson to check on you, Miss Wallace.’ What did he mean by that?”

  There was a lengthy silence. Rand was embarrassed.

  “You asked me to be honest with you and I’ve tried. This one is a heavy weight, though.” He sighed. “McKeever asked me months ago if I would get close to both you and your father. It was his idea that you print our menus. Also the ERP booklet. He wanted your father under his control.”

  There it was in his own words. Rand had not sought me out because of personal interest, but as an assignment from his boss. The words hurt so much that I fought off waves of nausea.

  “Then, the date . . . the date we had at the Caledonian Inn, was a suggestion from that . . . that repulsive old man?” I quavered.

  Rand squirmed again. “His idea, my execution. I’m sorry. You asked for truth and I could have given you a neat little lie here. I didn’t expect to enjoy that day with you as much as I did. What started out an assignment became an enchantment.”

  My battered feelings were only slightly restored. As I stared at him sitting there so uncomfortable on that lumpy loveseat, I was glad, for the first time, that we had not replaced that old piece of furniture.

  “I’ve heard that every girl, at some point in her life, has silly, romantic illusions over an older man,” I began again, fighting to control myself. “You’ve been that for me. I hope I’ve grown up enough to appreciate your honesty, Rand. I’m not sure I have, though. If only you hadn’t treated me so much like a princess.”

  The engaging grin was back. “You are a princess.”

  “But not fit for an English nobleman.”

  “Too good for him.”

  “Are you engaged to be married, Rand?”

  The shift in direction surprised him. I saw him weighing his response: truth or falsehood. Truth won again.

  “There is a woman in Pittsburgh. We are not officially engaged.”

  “Do you love her or is this something your family wants?”

  “Despite what Uncle Munro may have told you, I would never marry for social reasons. Only for love.” Rand’s voice was still gentle.

  Relieved by this answer, I changed direction again. “Why did you go to all that trouble to get that engineer’s report?”

  Rand’s face turned serious. “The speech your father gave for Meloy thumped me hard. Especially his words about the testing of our manhood. Right then, I didn’t like myself, nor all the deception I was a part of.”

  “But why the dam?”

  “Because I was troubled by the way McKeever avoided making repairs on it. I felt someone needed to force the issue. You and your father are the only ones I know who are concerned about it.

  “Then you don’t think the dam is safe?”

  Again a pause. “No, I don’t. Yet I wouldn’t place a wager that it would break soon. That’s why it’s so hard for people to go against McKeever. They just don’t know.”

  Rand did not try to kiss me good-bye. Our relationship was suddenly different. I expected to go upstairs and have a good cry, but no tears came. The hurt was too deep.

  The Editor and I were in the office early Monday to help with the delivery of the Sentinel. Seven thousand copies of this special edition had been printed in Cloudsville on Saturday. Dean had returned to his farm that night and kept the whole run concealed in his truck over Sunday. He had already unloaded his cargo in the Sentinel office by eight o’clock Monday morning.

  Eagerly I snatched up a copy. Page one featured the twin assaults on the Sentinel: the fire and the smashing of the Goss press. The final paragraph read:

  When asked if he had any explanation for the two attacks, publisher Kenneth Wallace would only say that local police were questioning James Sanduski, one of the assailants, who had been captured on the scene. The police are expected to issue a statement this week.

  With the watchman’s escape, the police would have no statement to make. I wondered how vigorously they would seek to recapture James. Would they track him to the Stemwinder? Or did McKeever’s power reach so far into the police department that they would do nothing?

  At the bottom of the front page, spread across four columns, was the feature editorial, entitled “New Questions Arise: Is the Kissawha Dam Safe?” Dad had trimmed his copy some, and sharpened the lead paragraphs, but the tone of the editorial was moderate.

  I heard a throat being cleared and looked up to see Emily Cruley standing in front of my desk. “How do you feel, Julie?” she asked.

  “Much better, thank you.”

  She cleared her throat again. “I’m glad to hear that. Let’s see, you’ve been here almost a year now. A good training period for you.”

  Emily started to walk away, then turned back. “If you write any more verses of poetry, Julie, I’d like to consider them for the Poetry Corner. And from now on, we would want to use your name as author.” There was a formal little nod and she returned to her desk.

  I was stunned. For Emily Cruley, a momentous gesture of recognition.

  Distribution of the Sentinel began quietly late Monday morning. Mother made one of her infrequent appearances to help out. Anne-Marie and Tim were joined by two of Dean’s friends to make direct deliveries to subscribing businesses and homes. Dean and the Editor drove the bulk of the run to the post office. Five hundred extra copies were given free to places like Haslam House, the local hospital, all churches, and nonsubscribing businesses.

  Since word had spread that the Sentinel was out of business, the delivery caught the whole town by surprise. Tension in the office grew all day Monday. Would we get angry cancellations? Calls of support? How would people react?

  The only telephone calls that came were for extra copies of the paper. Tim was on the run the rest of the day.

  There was little conversation at home that night. We were almost too tired to eat. Even Anne-Marie and Tim didn’t object to Dad’s early-to-bed orders.

  Tuesday was surprisingly quiet. By midafternoon, the Editor wondered aloud to Dean and me if McKeever would make any move.

  “Bound to,” said Dean. “He’s been challenged.”

  Both men had left the office and I was on the verge of walking home to dinner when the call came from Rand. He wanted to talk to my father or Dean. I was his third choice. He hesitated, then out came the news.

  “I’ve been sacked.”

  “By McKeever?”

  “Yes. He ordered me to the Vulcania this afternoon. The Sentinel was on his desk. He asked me if I was responsible for unearthing the dam report. I told him I was. Thought for a moment he was going to attack me physically. Never saw him so angry.”

  “Oh, Rand! How terrible for you! Did you have to admit it?” Rand seemed to be considering the question. “I thought about it, believe me. For weeks now, I’ve prepared for this session, knowing that sooner or later your father would publish something involving the report. I figured I had to tell the truth sometime. So why not right off? Cleaner this way.” He paused. “Please relay this news to your father.” Then he hung up.

  The telephone began ringing Wednesday morning, starting with a terse call from the advertising department of Yoder Steel, canceling all their ads. Local businessmen followed. Most were embarrassed. “Things are tight now, Ken. Check back next month. Changing my ad program for a month or so. Perhaps later this year.

  Ever since the shirt ad episode, Sam Gaither had been close to Dad. He came to see the Editor, and I heard their conversation. “Tom McKeever runs this town, Ken, and he’s out to get you. He’s told us not to run ads in the Sentinel if we want to stay in business.”

  “Sam, how can you businessmen let him get away with this? If he knows he can tell you what to do, he’ll become a dictator, determining your every move.”

  “I don’t like it, but I can’t buck him all by myself.”

>   “Talk to the others. If you’re united, he’ll back down.”

  “I’ll talk to them. That’s all I can promise.”

  By dinnertime, the bad news was complete. Every advertiser had canceled. The last call before we left the office was a crusher. George Cummings, owner of the building, said he was serving notice on the Sentinel that as of this date, August 28, we would have three months to vacate the premises. “Check your lease, clause ten, if you question my legal right to do this,” he said and hung up.

  For the rest of the week, there was an almost funereal atmosphere in the office as we prepared to print the next edition Friday in Cloudsville, for a Saturday distribution in Alderton. Subscription cancellations were now coming in by telephone, accompanied by verbal tongue-lashings. Emily Cruley took the brunt of this onslaught.

  Meanwhile, Dean Fleming had the pieces of the Goss press spread all over the floor. His grim report: $300 for new parts. Repair time: two to three weeks. Having four issues printed in Cloudsville would run another $150. “Figure five hundred for everything,” Dean told the Editor.

  “I don’t have it,” he replied. “I guess it’s to the bank again.”

  “McKeever’s a director at your bank. Did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “How much do you owe the bank, Ken?”

  The Editor thought a moment. “Still about six hundred.”

  “Was it a demand note?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “That could be more trouble.”

  Dad sat down, white-faced. “I’ve only five hundred in the bank to handle all our needs. Where do we go from here?”

  “Don’t panic, Ken. We’re not beat yet.”

  “I’ll fight to the last, but I can’t let my family starve.” Dad paused a moment, his face tight. “I rent my home, Dean. Do you suppose McKeever can get us pitched out of there, too?”

  “Well, if he does, you’ll just move in with us.”

  Dad grinned boyishly. “You’re a savior, Dean.”

  “Please don’t call me that, good friend. There’s only one of those.”

  As Dean had predicted, the bank foreclosed Dad’s note. “I’ve only one week to repay the six hundred,” he told us Friday morning. “And if you don’t?”

  “They take over the newspaper.”

  “You’ll have the money next week,” Dean stated.

  “I can’t let you do it.”

  “This paper will survive,” Dean continued. “It has to if the integrity of this town is to survive. You’ll have the money next week to keep the Sentinel going.”

  Late that morning as Dean was packing the locked-up forms for this week’s Sentinel into the back of his truck, I asked to go with him to Cloudsville. Dean was agreeable. So was the Editor. Around noon I climbed in beside Dean with a brown paper bag containing sandwiches and two soft drinks.

  As Dean drove out of Alderton, I studied him. In a faded green T-shirt, casual tan jacket, brown corduroy slacks, and thick workman’s shoes, he appeared to be the typical hired hand. How misleading looks could be! Dean Fleming not only was a near genius with machinery, he also seemed to be the epitome of spiritual man, cloaked in veils of mystery. I hoped to unwind some of those veils in the four hours it would take to drive to Cloudsville and back.

  “Dean,” I began, “the past few days my father has taken blows that would have put him to bed last spring. What changed him?”

  “Did you read the book of Acts?”

  “Yes, several times.”

  “What clue did you find there?”

  “It seemed to me that the disciples were mostly weak men before Jesus’ death. Then the Holy Spirit gave them some kind of power. This isn’t supposed to happen today.”

  “It does, though. Not often in churches, except Pentecostal.”

  “I don’t know any Pentecostals and if there are people today who have this power, why haven’t we seen them?”

  “You probably have seen them, only they don’t wear sandwich boards saying ‘I’m filled with the Holy Ghost.’”

  I laughed. “But I’ve been to a lot of churches with my parents, heard many sermons, but never anything about the Holy Ghost. It sounds so spooky.”

  “You and ninety-nine percent of all Americans feel the same way. It’s a sixteenth-century term, not a word for today. But your father’s included in that other one percent.”

  It took awhile for that to sink in. “You mean Dad has received this power, like Peter and John and all those disciples?”

  “That’s right. Only he’ll say nothing about it because people won’t understand. Not even to you, unless you push him. And maybe not then.”

  I thought back to what I’d read in Acts and remembered that the disciples had been ridiculed by many people. “My father hasn’t acted like the disciples did. He talks the same; he even says he’s still uncertain about things.”

  “But you said he was different. That’s the way the Holy Spirit works in people.”

  “I’m sorry, Dean, but I still don’t understand.”

  “If I had my Bible with me, I’d stop and read you some Scripture that would explain it better.”

  I shook my head. “That’s what I thought you’d do if I came to see you at your farm. Preachers are always reading the Bible to explain something instead of telling it in plain, simple English.”

  Dean roared with laughter. “So you’ve picked this time to grill me, when my hands are busy and I can’t read Scripture to you. Julie, the Bible has answers to all problems. It says things much better than I can.”

  “Sorry, but I don’t agree. I’ve a reasonably good mind, but the Bible confuses me. Like the Holy Ghost. Try to sell that to people today and they will laugh at you.”

  Dean Fleming was silent for a moment. “That’s why Big John Hammond said we had to move quietly, even secretly.”

  “Does all this have anything to do with The Preparers?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “What are they?”

  “The Preparers isn’t a story for the Sentinel, Julie. If I tell you something about them, you have to promise to keep it quiet.”

  I digested that for a moment. “I promise.”

  Dean’s eyes were now very serious. “I guess it all began with John the Baptist, an outdoor man, who prepared the people of his time for the coming of Jesus Christ. Check Scripture on this, Julie. ‘Prepare the way for the Lord,’ John kept saying. After Jesus died on the cross and then was resurrected, another outdoor man, Peter, picked up this mantle and began preparations for the Savior’s return.”

  Then Dean described in detail how small, often secret groups of men carried on this idea down through the centuries. There were such orders as The Shepherds of Bethlehem, The Fishermen of Galilee, and later The Woodmen of the World. Few details are known because the men kept their actions secret.

  “John Hammond became so fascinated with what these men did,” Dean continued, “that he researched all the medieval guilds, then even studied the Odd Fellows—who were mostly day laborers and mechanics at the beginning, but who helped the poor, widows, and orphans. He concluded that good works done in secret somehow generated a certain extra power. Big John, a few loggers, and I banded together to form The Preparers. We were really an extension of many other little-known small groups of courageous, selfless working people down through the ages. The one thing these groups seemed to have in common was a commitment to serving Christ.”

  He paused to reflect. “The Preparers has never been an official organization. Nothing has been put on paper. We meet regularly at my cabin and decide what projects to take on. We pray together a lot. Study the Bible too.”

  “Why is the ax your symbol?”

  “Because the ax was the logger’s tool. Every group picks its own symbol. A fish for The Fishermen of Galilee, a hammer for carpenters, and so on.”

  “Why are only men involved?”

  “No particular reason except that the work they do is so dirty
and physically demanding,” Dean replied. “I guess men have always started secret societies to be together as men. Some of these groups unfortunately are not as constructive as The Preparers. Our purpose is to be servants to all, as Jesus was, and to prepare people for the return of the Lord.”

  “But why do you include men like my father who have jobs where they do not work with their hands?”

  “That doesn’t matter. As Preparers, they learn to work this way. We believe that a man finds the essence of his spirituality by the physical work he does, without compensation, for others.”

  “I don’t understand your very intense interest in my father, Dean.”

  “Ken has been hurt by fellow Christians. Therefore fellow Christians should be the ones to help him get back on his feet.”

  “Why the secrecy?”

  Dean smiled. “There’s a passage in Scripture that says, ‘Tell no man.’ I know that seems a contradiction to the Scripture that says we Christians are to go into the world and proclaim the good news of the gospel. That’s for those called to evangelize. We are called to do our work in secret.”

  Then as we drove the last few miles into Cloudsville, Dean gave me a theological explanation of the Holy Spirit as being the Third Person of the Trinity, along with God the Father and Christ the Son.

  When we started the drive back home, the freshly printed issues of the Sentinel packed carefully in the back of the truck, I was eager to resume our discussion.

  “Have you talked much with Randolph Wilkinson?” I asked.

  “Very little. He’s your father’s project. I gather he’s struggling with the basics, just as you are.”

  “He’s also trying to become a more honest person. It cost him his job.”

  “Good thing, too. He needs to get away from McKeever. Rand surprised me. I never expected him to buck the Old Man. That took guts. I know he hurt you, Julie, but he’s not all froth and good looks.”

  “How did you know he hurt me?”

  “He told me.”

  The thought of Rand talking to others about me this way was suddenly disconcerting. I pulled my mind into a new direction. “Dean, is Spencer Meloy one of The Preparers?”