Julie

by Catherine Marshall

  “Another McKeever intimidation trick,” Dean growled.

  “These letters have been mailed by real people,” I said, quickly checking names in the phone book. “There are several not listed here who probably don’t have telephones.”

  The Editor nodded suddenly in understanding. “McKeever ordered his staff to use two types of intimidation. One verbal, one written. The verbal can’t be checked, so real names were not used. Since letters would be answered, real people had to be involved—employees, friends, relatives. Four persons wrote all the letters, which were distributed for valid signatures before being mailed out.”

  “The people of Alderton are for us,” I said passionately. “The tide has turned. You just watch.”

  My father grinned, then slapped Dean on the shoulder. “What can we do to start a tide of dollars coming our way?”

  “I don’t know, Ken. My problem is that blasted press. Sometimes I feel like throwing the whole mess in Lake Kissawha.”

  “Don’t do that. The dam is shaky enough as it is.”

  Miss Cruley had been placing in my work basket indignant letters of another kind. Readers’ response to my article on Boy’s death astonished me: “I’m livid with anger to think that someone in our community would do such a despicable thing . . .” “Alderton has reached a new low with the poisoning of your dog.”

  And then one with teeth as well as feeling: “All I can do to show my fury at those who are trying to destroy the Sentinel is to enclose this check for ten dollars. Please send subscriptions to the list of names and addresses below. You have the most interesting newspaper in the whole state of Pennsylvania.”

  The Thursday morning mail brought eight letters addressed to Kenneth Wallace, Publisher, all marked Confidential. A few minutes later I heard a shout, then my father appeared with a look of jubilation. “You won’t believe what I have here in my hands! You just won’t believe it!”

  Emily and I sped to his side. In one hand were eight checks. They ranged in amounts from $14.40 to $40.00. The total was $236.80.

  “These are from eight of our advertisers. They’re paying for the ads we’re not running. It’s their way of—well, read the letters.” Dad was shaking with excitement.

  The first was from Graham Gillin’s father, who normally took an eighth of a page at $24.00.

  Dear Ken:

  I am very distressed at the treatment you have been receiving from certain elements in our community. Although I am not yet ready to resume my ads in the Sentinel, I’ll be sending you the equivalent of my ad each week to help you meet your expenses. Enclosed is my check for $24.00

  Do not be discouraged by the hostility you have met. Most of us like you and respect you. Carry on the good fight!

  Ted Gillin

  P.S. Please keep this matter confidential.

  “Emily and Julie, we must protect these men. You two and Dean have to know about their actions because we’re all involved with the paper’s finances. But please, don’t reveal this to anyone else.” And the Editor fairly pranced back into his office.

  Another four advertisers came personally to make their payments in cash and to pledge the Editor to secrecy. This additional $102.40 meant that we were assured $339.20 each week for the indefinite future.

  Sam Gaither spent ten minutes in my father’s office. “I’m not for unions, Ken,” I overheard him say, “but I believe working men are getting a lousy deal. Your editorial on that issue was needed. As for the dam, I personally don’t think there’s any real danger, but McKeever’s efforts to put you out of business disturb us deeply. That’s why we got together . . .”

  By the end of the week a new phenomenon was occurring—a sharp, dramatic increase in special job printings. Both Thursday and Friday Dean had to bring in two helpers to turn out the orders. His repairs on the Goss press had to be done at night.

  After the Friday mail had been tabulated, we were all dazed by the turnaround that had taken place. The figures read like this:

  Contributions by twelve businesses $339.20

  Other cash contributions 57.00

  New subscriptions this week: 250.

  Cash received for new subscriptions

  (this week and past weeks) @ $1.50 468.00

  New ads: 5 ($14.40 each) 72.00

  Job printings  104.00

  $1040.20

  It was the biggest week of cash receipts in the history of the Sentinel!

  The following Monday, we had the largest influx of mail ever on any single day: over two hundred new subscriptions, plus thirty-five emotional letters addressed to me about Boy’s death. Seeing them piled up on my desk, the Editor shook his head in amazement. “You just never know what will touch people’s hearts.”

  Mail continued to flow in the rest of the week. Wednesday afternoon Neal Brinton dropped by, stuttering worse than ever with excitement. “S-s-something real big. Yoder management met yesterday on the union issue. It got hotter-n Furnace Fifty-Nine. Young Tom McKeever resigned in a s-s-showdown with his father.”

  The Editor, Dean Fleming and I stared at Neal in amazement. “I could sure see it coming,” Dad finally said.

  “S-s-starting today, I’ve decided to join Cade full-time in his union organizing,” Neal continued. “Burning down the Community Center was the final s-straw. Yoder claims it was an accident. No one believes that. I think this was why young Tom resigned.”

  Thursday morning I looked up from my work to see Bryan McKeever bearing down on me. He had an envelope in his hand, an enigmatic grin on his face.

  “I suppose you’ve heard the news,” he began.

  “That your father resigned?”

  “It’s true. He and Grandpa have been shouting at each other for weeks. Guess what most of it was about?”

  “The Sentinel?”

  “That and your family. Grandpa has it in for you.”

  “I hope your father doesn’t feel that way.”

  “He doesn’t, and this letter to your father covers that.” He paused. “That story you wrote about your dog really got to my dad.”

  “Do you think the Old Man poisoned our dog?”

  “No. But he probably arranged it.”

  Bryan spent a few minutes with the Editor, then left, waving at me over his shoulder.

  I peeked into my father’s office. He was so choked up, he just pointed to the letter and check on his desk.

  The handwritten letter had one sentence: “I’m so very sorry about all that has happened.” Then there was a P.S. “Somehow, some way, we’ll get another place as a Community Center for the Lowlands.”

  The check was for $300. The Editor immediately endorsed it and mailed it to Spencer Meloy.

  The Goss press was repaired in time to print the current week’s Sentinel, a huge saving of time and money. The run was the largest ever: 7,500 copies.

  When we tallied up the week’s receipts on Saturday, we were stunned by the total: $1,346.45, a new high.

  “Now we can pay off all our debts,” the Editor said in announcing the totals. “And here’s a check for what we owe you, my good friend. How can we ever thank you?”

  Dean limped forward to accept the check, an almost embarrassed look on his face. “You always overplay my role here, Ken.”

  When we arrived home for dinner, Mother greeted us stonily, her face a thundercloud and her eyes afire. “I just can’t take any more,” she sputtered.

  “What happened, dear?” my father said, taken aback.

  “Can’t you smell it?” she exploded.

  “I smell something,” Dad conceded.

  “A jar of that wine blew up, that’s what. That red wine the children brought home is splattered all over the basement. Which now smells like a winery.”

  My father grimaced, then took her in his arms. “We have reason to celebrate.” And he told her of the week’s record income. “Tomorrow night I’m taking the whole family out to dinner. Don’t worry about the wine, dear. We’ll clean it up later.”

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bsp; He paused, then continued. “There’s more good news. I had a call from our landlord today. He told me that we won’t have to move out of our house next month. I believe he’s going to find some way of postponing the eviction month by month.”

  The tide was turning our way all right, as Dean had predicted. But another statement from our remarkable friend stuck in my mind: “We’re still a long way from winning this battle.”

  That weekend was quiet and peaceful. For a change, the Editor and I did not go to the Sentinel; instead, with Tim’s ankles showing beneath his pants cuffs and Anne-Marie desperately needing a dress, the whole family went shopping. That evening the Editor took us all out for dinner at Haslam House. Looking about the dining room as we ate, I marveled at the dignity and efficiency of the service. In the midst of all the recent turmoil of our lives, Haslam House seemed the epitome of solidity and durability.

  That night the news on the radio featured a labor leader named John L. Lewis. Members of his United Mine Workers had posted signs everywhere, reading: President Roosevelt Wants You to Join the Union. The commentator then gave details of the new Social Security Act, passed August 14, which he predicted would someday make retirement much easier for Americans. We paid little attention to a bulletin about the hurricane which had struck the Texas coast. The storm had moved inland after causing moderate damage, with heavy rains forecast by midweek for western Pennsylvania.

  The volume of mail was down Monday, but new subscriptions were still coming in. The residents of Alderton and surrounding areas seemed aware of the Sentinel as never before.

  That afternoon an official from the Pennsylvania Railroad appeared at the office and asked to see the engineer’s report on the Kissawha dam. He read it through carefully, then waited while Miss Cruley walked down to City Hall to make a copy for him. He left the Sentinel, on his way to the Hunting and Fishing Club.

  Wednesday afternoon a telephone call came to my father from a law firm in Pittsburgh. A few minutes later the Editor opened his office door and motioned for Dean and me to join him there. He gave us the news in a low voice.

  “McKeever is suing the Sentinel for two million dollars. He claims that irresponsible and erroneous reporting on the dam has damaged his credibility and caused him physical and mental suffering . . . and so forth and so forth. The lawyer read the full statement to me, said we would have it in writing by tomorrow and advised me to retain legal counsel.”

  “He has no grounds to sue,” I said hotly.

  “He doesn’t need grounds,” replied Dean. “He’s been hurt and this is his way of lashing back. A last-ditch effort to get back at you financially, Ken.”

  “The legal costs could sink me,” the Editor admitted.

  “My suggestion is to get a good lawyer and battle back. If you win, McKeever has to pay all the costs.”

  “My Pittsburgh friend, Gy Stearns, can help me here,” Dad said slowly. But the tension lines were back on his face.

  Later that night the Editor was at his desk, bending over what I assumed were accounts. He was so fatigued he could hardly keep his eyes open. Not the right time to ask him questions, I decided.

  But he saw me and looked up. The love for me in his eyes made me choke up for a moment. Impulsively I went over and kissed him. “I love you, Dad,” I said softly.

  He took my hand and held it to his cheek. “What a difference a year has made in you.”

  “How have I changed?”

  My father smiled. “You’ve grown up so much, I scarcely know you.”

  “You’ve changed too, Dad.”

  A look of protest crossed his face, then he relaxed. “I guess I have—some. For years I lived in inner terror that I was, at heart, a weak and indecisive man. I think it was this fear that made me sick. Dean showed me how foolish all this was. ‘Face the truth, Ken,’ he told me. ‘You are weak. All of us are. Come to terms with it.’

  “But then he pointed out I didn’t have to stay this way, that God was certainly not weak. Dean has helped me understand that if I have the Spirit of God within me, then His strength would replace my weakness. I’ve been trying to live that for the past six months.”

  That night I wrote for a long time in my journal. Something was happening inside me too that I did not understand. The article on Boy, for example. It seemed that once again I was getting help from something outside myself.

  Saturday, September 21, 1935, began in such a normal way.

  There had been heavy rain across western Pennsylvania on Friday as predicted. It rained especially hard north of Alderton between midnight and six a.m.

  When we gathered for breakfast, Mother outlined for Tim some chores she wanted done that morning. The twelve-year-old objected so vigorously that Dad had to silence him. “You will do what your mother says,” he ordered.

  “Troy Gillin and I were going hiking today,” Tim protested.

  “Call Troy and tell him you can’t go until after lunch. It’s too wet this morning anyway.”

  Muttering to himself, Tim turned to his breakfast as his sister entered her plea. “They’re expecting me at the Fleming farm this morning. Queenie’s about to have her puppies.”

  My father sighed. This was harder to handle. “Call Hazel and ask her if you can come out after lunch. If not, then I guess you can do your chores this afternoon.”

  Dad then stated that this was the day he had chosen to clean up the basement mess caused by the bursting wine bottle.

  Anne-Marie was soon back to report that Hazel needed her this morning. Dad capitulated and agreed to drive her to the farm in the Willys. As Anne-Marie skipped out the front door, she stuck out her tongue at Tim, who scowled back at her.

  I carried my lunch to the Sentinel, planning to work through the afternoon. When I arrived, Emily Cruley was already there, poring over the subscription list, her black leather case open on her desk with the ledger planted in front of her. She announced self-righteously that it would take her all day to bring it up to date.

  Dean Fleming was due in the office after lunch to work on the Goss press.

  When Emily asked me if I would take all telephone calls, I moved into Dad’s office. At eleven-thirty Rand phoned, very agitated. “Julie, I need to see you. Are you free this afternoon?”

  “I’m here at the Sentinel all day.”

  “I’ll be there shortly after one.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes. Things here are in a fright. After he sacked me, the Old Man told me to stay until the Club was closed up. But since that official from the railroad stopped by to see him yesterday, he has been in a towering ill humor. This morning he called and told me to clear out by noon today. All my things are in the boot of my car.”

  “Did you know he is suing the Sentinel for two million dollars?”

  There was silence, and then a whistle at the other end of the line. “He’s lashing out at everyone in sight.”

  “The Old Man’s not there now, I gather, or you wouldn’t be talking so freely.”

  “He’s at the Vulcania. But you never know when he’ll show up. Can’t wait to get out of here. I’ll see you in about two hours.”

  At twelve-thirty Rand called again. “Julie, I’m not sure when I can make it. The rain last night was so heavy that the lake is rising very rapidly. We’ve opened the spillways, but it looks as if there’ll be an overflow. I’ll ring you up later.”

  Rand telephoned a third time while I was eating my sandwich. His voice was tense. “I’m leaving right now to see you.”

  “Is the dam all right?” I asked.

  “I can’t tell. A lot of men are there working on it.”

  When he hung up, I had an eerie feeling that I should call him back and ask him to meet me at our home instead. How silly! When Rand arrived, he walked swiftly back to the Editor’s office. As he closed the door and turned to me, I was astonished at his appearance. His hair was a tousled mess, his face was flushed, his shirt rumpled. I had never seen him so wrought up.
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br />   “Dean just called,” I said. “Worried about the dam. He’s coming down to grease the press. Thinks we ought to clear out.” Rand nodded, flicked a shock of red hair out of his eyes and grinned at me. “May I kiss you?” he asked.

  The look in his eyes made me tremble. “Why so sudden?” He pulled me to my feet. “No reason. I’ve been wanting to kiss you for two weeks now—no, three—no, it’s closer to four.” I started to resist, but his lips closed over mine. His intensity so overwhelmed me I could scarcely breathe. When we broke apart and I caught a breath, his lips found mine again. Moments later I pulled away and sat down numbly in Dad’s chair.

  “Rand, please.”

  He shook his head, sat down beside me, and began to stroke my hair. Then he drew my face toward him and kissed each eye and the tip of my nose before he reached my mouth again. It was hypnotic.

  The telephone rang. I was so weak I could barely lift the receiver. “Hello.”

  A strangled voice spoke, one of Dean’s friends. “Get out quickly! The dam broke! A wall of water is heading for Alderton.”

  Rand saw the fear on my face and grabbed my hand as we ran out of the office toward the front door. “The dam broke!” I shouted at Emily.

  As we reached the door, two people from the street had pushed it open from the outside. “Too late!” one shouted. “You can hear the water coming. To the top floor!”

  We all turned and scrambled frantically up the stairs.

  There is no way I can describe the mammoth tragedy of Saturday, September 21, 1935, except to put together chronologically the graphic details given me over a period of months and even years afterward by my family and friends, as well as other survivors.

  The heavy rain of Friday night covered all of western Pennsylvania. In the mountain area just north of the Kissawha dam there was a torrential downpour that totaled nearly 15 inches in a three-hour period. The runoff into the lake from the two feeder streams, Bear Creek and Smather’s Run, began about 6:00 Saturday morning.