Julie

by Catherine Marshall

  They turned south.

  I have two vivid memories from the moments just before plunging into the mess in front of Railroad Bridge. One is of the roaring fire about twenty feet to my left and the hideous screams coming from it. The other is of the huge black horse on my right. He kept popping up out of the water, then disappearing into the muck only to reappear once again like a monstrous rocking horse. I knew he was dead because his hindquarters had been severed.

  As we jolted to a stop I burrowed into the tree branches. Then it seemed as if a whole mountain landed on top of me.

  Some time later the shouts of rescuers revived me. “There’s one under that dead horse!”

  Grunts. Curses. “One big heave. Now!”

  The weight lifted. Two men pulled me up. A blanket was thrown around me. Someone brought a makeshift stretcher and I was placed on it. The fire was so near I could feel its heat.

  Through pain and shock I dimly remember being carried off the bridge. There I was placed beside the road with other wounded, many of whom seemed to be in serious condition. When I tried to test my body, a spasm of pain shot through my back. I decided to lie still until a doctor could examine me.

  Meanwhile the ambulance shuttled back and forth, taking the seriously injured and burned to the hospital. It was getting dark now and all about me was turmoil and confusion, groans of pain and sobbing, frantic people searching for relatives. I wondered where my parents were. Tim and Anne-Marie? Rand? Dean? Shudders of fear shot through me.

  The ambulance was back again. A man stood over me, saw my eyes were open. “How bad you hurt?” he asked.

  I just shook my head. He called another man and they lifted me into the ambulance. At the hospital I was carried inside and placed on a mattress on the floor of a hallway already lined with injured who awaited attention. An hour must have passed.

  “Julie!”

  I looked up to see my father. His face was contorted with a mixture of anguish and joy. Then he was kneeling beside me, clutching my hand, his eyes brimming with tears.

  “I think I’m all right, Dad. I was knocked out. My back hurts, but I can move my legs okay.” Sobs choked me.

  My father sat down beside me, still holding my hand. “We’ll have to wait our turn. Only a few doctors here. So many hurt and burned.”

  “How about Mother, Tim and Anne-Marie?” I asked.

  “Your Mother and I were home when the flood came. It missed our house. Anne-Marie was at the Fleming farm. Tim and Troy went hiking down the river road . . .” He stopped, his eyes full of pain. “You’re the first one we’ve found.”

  My head fell back and I closed my eyes to digest this news. Both my brother and sister caught in the path of the waters!

  “What about Rand? He saved my life when the building collapsed.”

  “He’s here in the hospital.”

  Fear assaulted me. “He’s badly hurt, isn’t he?”

  Dad nodded. “Left leg seriously crushed.”

  I propped myself up on one elbow. “What about Dean? Miss Cruley?”

  “Emily’s all right. Dean’s—” Dad’s voice broke. “Dean drowned, Julie.”

  “No, no.” Tears filled my eyes. If only Rand and Dean hadn’t come to the Sentinel, I thought silently. If only I’d followed through on that inner nudge to have Rand meet me at home.

  A harried doctor began checking over the patients on the hall floor. He tested my reflexes, then had me wheeled to the X-ray room. Not until the X-rays proved to be negative was I given a hospital gown and allowed to get on my feet. “Concussion, bad bruises and twisting of the lower lumbar region,” was the diagnosis. “Keep her here overnight.”

  It was Spencer Meloy who, in the midst of the Lowlands chaos, suddenly remembered that Anne-Marie was at the Fleming farmhouse at the very center of the flood onslaught. And Margo was supposed to pick her up in the early afternoon.

  Despite his agony over Margo’s death and the continued need for rescue work, Spencer had a sudden compulsion to go to Anne-Marie. Though many roads were washed out, he borrowed a car and headed for Yancyville. Two hours later, after traversing a series of back roads, he got his vehicle within a mile of Dean’s farm. When he found her, Anne-Marie was still dazed and incoherent. Spencer carried her to his car, with Queenie trailing behind.

  An hour later the ten-year-old, clutching her beloved Queenie, was delivered to Mother’s welcoming arms. Never before had Spencer driven a car without his glasses. He said he never missed them. Later he could not believe he had carried my sister almost a mile.

  I learned of Anne-Marie’s rescue when Dad returned to the hospital later that night. Meanwhile there was turmoil all about me. Makeshift wards were set up in every available space; I was moved into the nurses’ off-duty room, along with seven other women. Mattresses were lined up on the floor for us to sleep on.

  When I questioned medical personnel about Rand, they just shook their heads. There had been no time yet to chart patients by name. Was he still alive? Was this all a bad dream?

  No, the moans of the wounded, the sounds of weeping, and the hurrying figures in white all about me made it only too real. It was a miracle that I was alive. How had I survived?

  Then I remembered. Those last moments before I hit the bridge, something important had happened. I had called out to God and He had responded. Not by voice, but by His presence. The memory stirred me and my lips began to move:

  “Please, Lord, Help Tim the way you did me! And Rand!”

  Tears began to roll down my cheeks. So many people drowned. Who else besides Dean? I closed my eyes and sleep came.

  Early next morning my father reappeared. I stared at his face, looking for a sign. It was sober.

  “Rand is still in critical condition. He lost a lot of blood, but the doctor thinks he’ll make it.” Dad hesitated, a flicker of a smile on his face. “They decided they didn’t have to amputate his left leg.”

  “Thank God!”

  I stayed at the hospital until eleven a.m., hoping to have a glimpse of Rand. I learned that he was moved from the operating room to the recovery room, but was kept there because no other beds were available. Visitors were not allowed. Dad checked me out of the hospital, drove me home, and then left to look for Tim.

  Mother took me in her arms and we both wept. “Anne-Marie will be all right,” she finally said. “She’s sleeping now. Queenie stays by her bed and I haven’t the heart to separate them. I won’t until Queenie’s puppies come.” She stopped and tears again filled her eyes. “There’s still no sign of Tim. They found Troy’s body by the riverbed about two miles south of Railroad Bridge.” Stricken, I sat down suddenly on the sofa. Mother and I stared at each other wordlessly. My little brother gone. If Troy’s body had been found, soon they would . . . I didn’t want to finish the thought. Neither Mother nor I could console each other.

  It was long after midnight when my father returned home. They still had not found Tim. Somehow I got to sleep, but I awoke at dawn, aching in so many places I could barely get out of bed. Anne-Marie was still so dazed that Mother told her not to get up. At breakfast we gathered around the table listlessly, red-eyed from weeping and lack of sleep. Dad’s face seemed carved in stone. “Any news of Tim?” I asked.

  My father shook his head. “Spencer and I are going out early this morning to search farther south.”

  “How many people have died, Ken?” Mother asked.

  “Hundreds. Biggest flood disaster since the Johnstown flood of 1889. It’ll be weeks before they get the mess cleared away in front of Railroad Bridge.”

  “Who are some of the victims?”

  The Editor cleared his throat. “You know about Dean and Hazel.” His voice broke. “And Troy. Old Man McKeever died in the Vulcania. Vincent Piley, Sam Palmer . . .” Dad turned stricken eyes toward me. “And Margo.”

  “Oh, no!” The words pierced my consciousness like a rifle shot. My best friend gone! The tears flowed again.

  “Do you know how she died?�
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  “They say she went back to save a baby. Got the baby to safety, but didn’t make it herself.”

  Somehow that helped. To me, Margo had always been heroic. Courageous. Honest. She had taught me what it meant to be a friend. And now she had died saving someone else.

  The Editor told us of other heroes. Neal and Cade Brinton both had shown indefatigable strength in getting women and children of the Lowlands to safety. And Bryan McKeever. Sensing the dam was in peril, around noon he had taken the family car and driven to Lake Kissawha. After a quick glance at the frantic efforts going on to save the dam, Bryan had begun a Paul-Revere-type warning excursion down Seven Mile Mountain Road, urging everyone in sight to seek higher ground. Only a half-mile from McKeever’s Bluff, he had abandoned the car and barely reached safety before the mass of watery muck thundered past.

  After breakfast Dad left to continue the search for Tim, warning us to stay away from Railroad Bridge and downtown Alderton. “Police have it all cordoned off,” he said.

  “We must do something to help,” Mother declared.

  “Then open up the house to homeless people. We could take in a dozen if they don’t mind sleeping on the floor.”

  Dad turned to me. “Please stay home and rest, Julie.”

  I shook my head. “I’m all right now.”

  When I walked into Rand’s hospital room later that morning, he was asleep. I stood by his bed silently, not wanting to wake him. The gray color of his face frightened me. He looked dreadful.

  Rand turned slightly and his hand fell off his chest. Timidly I reached over and touched his fingers. Then I cradled his hand in mine; a tear rolled down my face and splashed on his hand. It moved ever so slightly.

  I looked back into Rand’s face. His eyes were open and his lips slowly spread into a smile.

  “We made it, didn’t we?” he said.

  Around one o’clock Mother and I each nibbled at a sandwich and drank a glass of milk for lunch, waiting tensely for the Editor to return. Anne-Marie had gotten hungry earlier and Mother had taken her a tray of fruit, crackers, and juice to have in bed.

  We had just finished our snack when we heard the front door open. Both of us rushed to the hall.

  My father stood there, a stricken look on his face.

  “Not Tim!” Mother moaned and began to totter as Dad rushed forward to grab her. For a moment they clung together. Then Dad saw me and reached forth an arm. Quickly I moved forward and buried my head in his shoulder. Then a sobbing form sped down the stairs; Anne-Marie joined us.

  But it was Mother who needed Dad the most. When she collapsed in his arms, he picked her up like a child and carried her upstairs to their bedroom while I tried to comfort Anne-Marie.

  Though his heart was breaking over the loss of his son, I heard my father talking quietly to Mother hour after hour on through the day and into the night.

  On the night of October 10 Donald Whipkey slowly mounted the platform and moved his heavy frame uncertainly before the speaker’s rostrum. About 150 members of Baker Memorial Church were gathered in the education building, which was serving as our church until a new sanctuary could be built.

  “Friends,” he began somberly, “this is a sad occasion for our church and community. Before we get to business matters, I would like to pay tribute to the thirty-two esteemed members of Baker Memorial who died in the flood.”

  In alphabetical order he began reading the names, pausing after each one for a moment of silence. Fifteen names were announced, then, “Thomas McKeever Sr.” There was a ripple of whispering in the hall. The spectacular death of the Old Man had been front-page news in most American papers. Less publicized was his bankruptcy, declared a week after his death.

  The list continued. Then, “Margo Palmer.” That one choked me up. How I missed my dearest friend!

  “Vincent Piley.

  “Timothy Wallace.”

  With swimming eyes I turned to my father on my right. His eyes were pain-filled. Mother, two seats away, had her handkerchief out. Anne-­Marie, on the other side of mother, was sobbing. Rand, on my left, moved his crutches about tensely.

  Tim’s funeral had been held right here in this same hall. Dad had asked Baker Memorial Church trustees to allow Spencer Meloy to conduct the service. Although multiple funerals were being held constantly in all Alderton churches, Tim’s had caught the attention of many local people. The hall was nearly filled that morning; many came from the Lowlands. Those attending were a cross-section of all the Alderton populace.

  “None of our efforts could have done more for church unity than what that boy’s death did,” the Editor had sadly remarked afterward.

  Mr. Whipkey paused a long moment before reading the last name: “Florence Whipkey.” His wife had drowned in the Haslam House collapse.

  The meeting resumed. Church committees were restructured, and a new one was formed to plan the rebuilding of the sanctuary. Because of several deaths a new pulpit supply committee was established, with nominations for membership made from the audience.

  “I propose Kenneth Wallace,” came one voice.

  Dad quickly rose from his seat. “Thank you most kindly, but I must decline.”

  I was disappointed. Dad could have been truly helpful here. Yet he was too involved, I knew, in reestablishing the Sentinel.

  “And now we come to a very important announcement,” Mr. Whipkey continued. “Baker Memorial needs an interim pastor to lead us in Sunday worship here in this auditorium until we are able to rebuild our church home. And, of course, until we find a new full-time pastor. Your trustees spent many long hours deliberating over this selection. The man we decided upon is eminently qualified through years of pastoral service. He is also a greatly respected and admired man in our community. It was not easy to persuade him to serve us, but he finally agreed. Our selection, ladies and gentlemen, is Kenneth Wallace. Will you come forward, Ken.”

  There were gasps of surprise from many of us. Spontaneous clapping. Then, as my father strode down the aisle and mounted the steps to the stage, everyone in the auditorium stood up. The applause went on and on and on. Tears were streaming down my face.

  This is for you, Dad. A tribute to your courage. You stood almost alone for what you felt was right.

  My father was strongly moved by the demonstration. He stood there smiling awkwardly, eyes misty, until the clapping finally stopped.

  “Your response touched me deeply for one basic reason,” he began. “It tells me I’m no longer that newcomer from the South, but a fully accepted member of this courageous, suffering community. Almost everyone in this room shares in our grief.”

  As he paused to wipe his eyes, I was suddenly proud of my hometown in a new way. The Alderton people were a special breed: generous, forthright—yes, indomitable, in the way they absorbed pain, loss of possessions and death of loved ones.

  “I came here to serve as a newspaper publisher,” the Editor said. “This will not change, as details have been worked out for us to resume publication of the Sentinel next week.” (Loud applause.) “I have a new partner, who is here in this auditorium: Randolph Wilkinson. I know you can’t stand up, Rand, but wave your crutch.” (More applause as Rand, grinning broadly, held a crutch high in the air.) “We believe that in a few months Alderton will be ready for a daily newspaper.” (More clapping.)

  My father paused, a twinkle in his eye. “With all that work and activity lined up ahead, when Donald Whipkey first approached me to be interim pastor here, I declined. Donald persisted. I agreed to pray about it and give him an answer by six tonight. This afternoon after lunch I spent three hours walking about our community, praying. I was shocked all over again by the devastation to our homes and businesses. Once again the full impact of our dead grieved me. We not only have to rebuild buildings here in Alderton, but lives.

  “And then the words were firmly planted in my mind. ‘You are also My pastor.’ There was no question about this call from God upon me. We Wallaces generally make de
cisions as a family, but there was time only for me to get a confirmation from my wife before we arrived here tonight. Julie and Anne-Marie, I apologize to you that we couldn’t all be in on this decision.

  “I accept your appointment as interim pastor. I care about every one of you and will serve you to the best of my ability.”

  As my father stood straight and tall before his audience, I marveled at the sense of authority he conveyed. And as had happened so often recently, my mind drifted again to Dean Fleming and that intriguing small band of Preparers. How much we all owed these men who had so changed the direction of our lives. And sudden confirmation came to me about a step I needed to take.

  We were gathered together in the living room after dinner several weeks later—Dad, Mother, Anne-Marie, Rand, Spencer, and Graham, who was home for the weekend from Penn State. It was a subdued yet happy time.

  Randolph had moved into a small apartment near the temporary new headquarters of the Sentinel. Launched into a learning period about newspaper publishing, his partnership financed by Munro Farnsworth, he had surprised and delighted the Editor with his ideas for increasing advertising and subscriptions. Rand was only slightly slowed down when he learned that several operations would be needed to repair the damage to his leg.

  Spencer reported that he now had support from every church in Alderton for his project of developing a new community center for Yoder steelworkers and their families. A combination of government and business money was being lined up to finance the construction. With Tom McKeever Jr. back as president of Yoder, Spencer said he expected that the company would recognize the steelworkers’ union under Neal Brinton’s leadership and would work out an employment contract within a year or two.

  As Spencer talked, I noticed how Anne-Marie followed his every movement with worshipful eyes. She had been this way about him ever since he had rescued her and Queenie, who recently had presented us with six puppies.