Julie

by Catherine Marshall

  It was soon apparent that Miss Hazel had memorized the shape of every piece of furniture in the farmhouse, along with the width, depth, and height of every room, doorway, and closet. Later in the kitchen I marveled at how surely she moved about. She and Dean were a physically handicapped sister-brother team who served each other well.

  Dean Fleming rumpled Tim’s already-disheveled hair as he led him and Anne-Marie into the house. “Queenie’s on the back porch.”

  We followed them down a wide center hall, through a spacious kitchen to a screened verandah. Queenie was lying there on an old quilt; somersaulting all around her were five balls of fur. The mother was a beautiful dog, mostly butterscotch, with the snow-white ruff and white breast of a collie.

  “She’s still protective of her babies,” Mr. Fleming warned. “So look, don’t touch yet.”

  We left the children on the porch and joined Miss Hazel in the kitchen, where she was pulling out of the oven a batch of molasses oatmeal cookies. From the conversation that ensued, I gathered that Dean Fleming’s unmarried sister had come to keep house for her brother after the death of his wife five years before. The old farmhouse, surrounded by its twenty acres, had been home most of Dean Fleming’s married life. The two children who had been reared there were now married, living in other states, with children of their own.

  Before his retirement from the Pennsylvania Railroad, Mr. Fleming told us, he had been forced to rise each morning at four-thirty in order to get to work on time from the farm. In his eyes this was a small price to pay for the embrace of the fields around him, the stands of timber, the tumbling stream that originated high in the mountains.

  “Dean, are you a native Pennsylvanian?” Dad asked him.

  “That I am. Born in Port Allegheny.” Our host went on to say that his father had been killed in a logging accident when Dean was eleven. At fourteen he had dropped out of school to apprentice himself to a machinist, though he’d kept up his education on his own, reading everything he could lay his hands on. By eighteen he was head maintenance man on a logging train. After marriage and two babies in three years, Dean went to work for the Pennsylvania Railroad.

  He was interrupted by a call from Anne-Marie. Soon I was alone in the kitchen, staring out the window at a small log cabin on higher ground at the edge of a small grove of trees. The rain had started again and was pouring off the roof of the cabin in a small stream. Then I noticed a glistening object fastened to the side of the wide stone chimney. My eyes strained to see what it was.

  “The cabin interests you, Julie?”

  I jumped. The question came from Dean Fleming, who had returned.

  “Yes, it does, Mr. Fleming. That shining object on the chimney. What is it?”

  “An ax. Not a real one. I cut it out of aluminum.”

  “An ax! It looks more like a cross.”

  Dean Fleming chuckled. “John Hammond followed the cross, but he also carried an ax.”

  “John Hammond?”

  “You must have heard me talk about Big John—quote some of his favorite sayings?”

  “Yes-s.” I didn’t want to admit how easily I tuned out conversations that tended to get religious.

  “Big John is a legend northeast of here in logging country.” Something in his voice made me turn around to stare at Dean Fleming. He was still gazing at the cabin with a warm, tender look on his homely face. I was about to ask what Big John had to do with the cabin when Dean suddenly changed the subject. “I’m curious about you, Julie. Not many people who come here notice the cabin—scarcely anyone the symbol on the chimney.”

  “The rain made it shimmer. It’s almost luminous.”

  Dean’s eyes were studying me. “You have a way with words. What kind of writing do you want to do?”

  “Articles for Dad’s paper, to start.”

  “What do you want to write about?”

  I paused, suddenly uncertain about how much to share. Dean’s eyes were reassuring.

  “When I know more, I’d like to write about deeper things.” Dean Fleming did not answer immediately. He looked away from me to fasten his eyes again on the log cabin. “Someday you may want to write about that cabin. There’s a story there that should be told by someone who’s meant to write about deeper things.”

  When I awakened Saturday morning, my father was already up and dressed. He hurriedly ate a bowl of cereal and despite Mother’s protests, strode off in the rain for the Sentinel. I stayed home to help with the housecleaning.

  Dean Fleming had predicted the night before that if the rain did not stop, the water would reach flood level in downtown Alderton sometime Saturday afternoon. “I’ll have some men at the Sentinel in the morning,” he had promised as we were leaving his farm.

  “For what, exactly?” Dad had asked tensely.

  “To move stuff upstairs. That office is in a bad spot.”

  Now the Editor had really shown alarm, the vein throbbing in his neck. “How’ll we move the Babcock press or the cutter or . . .”

  “Hold it, Ken!” Dean’s voice had been soothing. “You don’t move heavy machinery. You grease it like they do at Yoder Steel. No need for concern yet. The rain may stop.”

  But it had not. By noon we were getting flood bulletins. At three came an alert from station KDKA, Pittsburgh:

  Important announcement for all residents of Alderton and surrounding areas! This is a General Flood Warning. Waters of the Sequanoto River and Brady Creek are now rising three inches an hour; they have reached flood crest and are overflowing their banks. Stay tuned to this station for bulletins.

  Mother could scarcely pull herself from the radio to prepare supper, she was so worried about Dad. Tim and Anne-Marie even left their new puppy, a taffy-colored male they had named Boy, to listen to the reports. We tried phoning the Sentinel; the line was dead. When the Editor still had not come home by seven o’clock, I asked Mother to let me take some sandwiches and a thermos bottle of coffee down to the office. She shook her head.

  “How can those men do heavy work on empty stomachs?” I pleaded. “I’ll wear my boots. If I can’t get through, I’ll turn around and come back.”

  Mother finally gave in and we set to work making sandwiches. At last I set out in yellow slicker, matching hat, and knee-high boots. On each arm I carried a hamper as waterproofed as we could make them. Mom’s parting admonition rang in my ears—I was to take no chances. If downtown Alderton looked dangerously flooded, I was to turn back. Not defined: what constituted dangerous.

  When I turned the corner from Bank Place onto Main, the frothy, muddy water racing down the street was already licking at the top of the curbstones. As I walked past Baker Memorial toward the business section, the interiors of homes were easily visible through their lighted windows. It was like viewing a series of stage sets on which intimate dramas were being enacted. Families were feverishly taking up carpeting; women were standing on ladders or chairs to lift down draperies or curtains, children were emptying the lower shelves of bookcases, piling papers and bric-a-brac on tables. In one home a group of men were straining to lift a piano onto chairs. In another, residents were passing tray after tray of glass jars through a cellar door.

  By now I was sloshing through water lapping up over the sidewalk. Ahead, in front of the first block of stores, the sidewalks and the street were indistinguishable—just one lake of muddy water. Six inches deep? A foot? Well, I would soon know.

  Under a street light almost at the bottom of the hill, I stopped, staring, not sure I could believe my eyes. The corner house had a fenced-in yard, and along the top railing of the fence scurried several large, ugly rats. I shivered and waited until they were well out of sight before going on.

  I shoved down the thought that if Mother could see this whole scene it would easily qualify as dangerous, for the water in places was already gushing over the top of my boots. But Dad and the others needed that food and coffee. I had to go on. A few steps more and there was a new problem . . . my boots were so fu
ll of water that I could scarcely lift my feet.

  Suddenly the street lights went out!

  I nearly panicked as I stood in the inky blackness, feeling the clammy water slosh into my boots, unable to move for fear of falling. To my great relief, faint glows began to appear in the stores—kerosene lanterns, flashlights, even candles.

  I walked slowly on, passing Exley’s Drug Store, the A & P, and B. J. Scott’s. Many employees were working against time to clear all lower shelves of stock.

  At the corner of Main and Canal, I heard laughter coming from Gillin Auto Supply. I knew that laugh: Graham Gillin, son of the owner, Ted Gillin. Graham had been cool to me for months. I hoped he would be friendly now; I had great need for human contact and a moment of rest. Cautiously, I waded toward the front door.

  Graham stared at me as I splashed in. “Julie Wallace! What are you doing here?”

  “Taking some food to the Sentinel,” I gasped.

  Graham rushed forward to grab the baskets and place them on a high shelf as I now stood in only ankle-deep water. I noticed that Graham, his father and two other men, all barefooted with pants legs rolled up, were lifting new tires and other automotive products to metal shelving built high off the floor.

  Graham was looking at my boots. “Easy to see you’ve never been through this before,” he teased. “Bare feet or hip-high fishermen’s boots—nothing else is any good at all.”

  Before I knew what was happening, Graham had hoisted me onto the counter. What relief when he tugged the boots off and laughingly emptied out what seemed like a gallon of water from each one.

  I gave myself five minutes of rest, then put my boots back on. In all probability, Graham told me, they were going to have to work most of the night to save the new tires in their paper wrappings from water damage.

  As I pushed open the door of the Sentinel office and the men spied the baskets of refreshments, an avalanche of loud cheers, whistles, and bear hugs greeted me. Apparently Dean Fleming’s volunteers had already worked long hours without nourishment. They had not stopped to eat because the water had been rising so rapidly; it was already seeping onto the Sentinel floor.

  Dad looked unutterably weary. He was surprised to see me—amazed that Mother would let me come. Dean and the three rugged-looking men with him were in shirt-sleeves and wearing old work pants held up by suspenders, galluses as they called them. Their faces were streaked with grease, dirt, and black ink smudges, and only the whites of their eyes showed in the dim candlelight. As I poured coffee into tin cups and handed out the sandwiches, I got a quick overview of what they had been doing. My father was boxing away subscription lists, accounts, editorial files, copy, and layouts for the next issues. These would go to the second floor.

  The other men had been moving to the second floor all typewriters, furniture, the small Ludlow job press, and valuable type racks and trays with our growing assortment of fonts. How did Dean Fleming round up such efficient volunteer workers, I wondered.

  When I had first walked in with the sandwiches and coffee, the men had just finished greasing the lower parts of the Babcock press and the cutter. I was told that they did not dare apply grease to the rollers and the folder machinery or these parts might never operate smoothly again.

  As the men took big bites of their sandwiches and gulped coffee from their cups, they were trying to decide how to move the two unwieldy containers of paper used by the flatbed Babcock press. This was Dad’s sole supply for printing the Sentinel over the next month or so, all he had been able to afford. The problem was, each container weighed over 700 pounds.

  “How’d you get them in here, Ken?” one man asked.

  “I hate to tell you. They backed the truck close to the rear door. Four men on the truck made a roadbed of old tires set up side by side, from the truck through the back door. They slid the paper off the truck, onto the tires, and into the building.”

  “Jehoshaphat! That don’t help us none. Don’t have no truck tires. No way the five of us can haul the paper up those steps.”

  “Gillin Auto Supply may have truck tires,” I volunteered. “If not, I just saw four people there who might help.”

  Dean Fleming nodded. “Tires or not, we sure need more manpower to get these big containers up to that landing—”

  Automatically, all eyes went to the flat area some sixteen steps up.

  The food and hot coffee had miraculously restored strength and morale. One man dashed out in the direction of Gillin’s and was soon back with Graham and his father, ready to lend a hand at the Sentinel in return for reciprocal help at their store. They brought along two steel upright hand carriers to hoist the containers up one step at a time. With the new equipment and the heft of so many men, the paper was soon safely deposited on the landing and covered with a tarpaulin.

  That done, my father issued an ultimatum to me. “And now you, Julie Wallace—time to go home.”

  I started to protest, but the firm look on Dad’s face told me it was no use.

  “He’s right, Julie,” Dean confirmed. “You took a chance coming down here. From here on, this is strictly man’s work.”

  With that remark, I saw Graham Gillin grin and stick out his chest. Botheration! I thought. Males have such egos.

  “Let me go with you,” Graham offered.

  “Thanks, Graham.” Dad smiled at him. “There’s a rowboat anchored outside. You may need it now.”

  “Hey, that’s a great idea. C’mon, Julie, let’s go rowin’” Outside, the glow from flashlights and candles flickered eerily over the rising water. Graham waded through knee-deep muck to untie the rowboat and held it for me as I climbed in. Then he took one oar, moved to the rear of the boat, and propelled us forward with short, twisting strokes. Sculling, he called it.

  As we glided down Main Street, past the darkened stores, I felt a new warmth toward him. “This must be like riding a gondola in the canals of Venice,” I ventured.

  “You prefer this to a drive up Seven Mile Mountain, right, Julie?”

  “I don’t like to think about that night, Graham. I felt like such a fool.”

  “You made me feel like the fool.”

  “I’m sorry for that. Can we forget it and be friends?”

  “Sure, Julie.” In the semidarkness, he had stopped sculling and was staring at me. “But let’s define friendship.” He grimaced. “Do you want us to be platonic, like pals?”

  “Well, sort of. That is, at first. I mean until—”

  He grunted and sculled me to a spot where I could walk the rest of the way to Bank Place.

  Hours later Dean Fleming and my father arrived home, exhausted. Mother and I served both men steaming mugs of hot chicken broth; then she gave Dean a pair of Dad’s pajamas.

  Soon after dawn of that short night, I heard someone moving around in the upstairs hall. Mother, looking bleary-eyed and worried, had an empty hot water bottle in each hand.

  “Your father tossed all night,” she whispered. “Now he’s having a chill.” She held out the hot water bottles. “Fill these as fast as you can, please.”

  The words stabbed me. My father was still under par, physically and emotionally. Not to mention his worry about the Sentinel.

  Hot water bottles filled, I took them to Dad. His face was flushed and his forehead hot beneath my hand. The malaria was back.

  “Louise,” he blurted out, his voice quavery, “I’ve been lying here thinking—I don’t have enough insurance to cover the presses and all. If everything down there’s lost—” His hands, picking at the covers, were shaking as nervously as I’d ever seen them.

  “All is not going to be lost, Kenneth.” Mother’s voice was firm. “Come on now, where’s your faith? Dean Fleming and his men are watching out for our interests. Relax and try to sleep some more.”

  The National Guard had cordoned off most of Alderton’s business area, declaring it off limits to anyone except the police and designated officials. Thus not even Dean Fleming could get back to the Sentine
l office to check on the damage. We could but live in a state of hopeful suspense.

  In the next few days I learned more about what Alderton people called a little flood. To me there seemed nothing little about it. Power gone. Telephone service out. Telegraph lines washed away. By Sunday morning the water on Main Street had crested at almost eight feet. Uprooted trees, broken telephone poles, branches, and floating planks propelled by the swirling water had rammed through store windows and even the sides of buildings.

  From high ground I could see stalled vehicles, abandoned by their drivers. In some places cars and trucks were nearly submerged. So far, because of proper warnings, there had been no deaths, but five people were missing. Three small bridges had been swept away and a section of the road washed out between Yancyville and Alderton. The Pennsylvania Railroad reported miles of track gone, as well as extensive damage to their roundhouse and yards. For several days our town was virtually cut off from the outside world except by radio communication. Stern warnings about natural gas breaks were circulated by radio. The KDKA bulletins also announced the rationing of water. All drinking water should be boiled. Typhoid shots were recommended as soon as serum was available.

  What grocery staples people could get to, or that water had not ruined, were quickly sold out. Crucial drug supplies like insulin and digitalis were dangerously short.

  On Sunday, Fox Movietone News flew adventuresome cameramen to a nearby airport where they rented a car and drove to Alderton. From the steepest hill overlooking our town, they filmed the devastation to show the rest of the nation.

  The more than six hundred people who had been driven from their homes by the rising water (seven houses had actually been destroyed) were allowed to camp in the Town Hall and high school gymnasium, where rows of cots had been set up. Spencer Meloy also opened up Baker Memorial’s Christian Education Building to these refugees. The second floor was designated the sleeping-mat area, the first floor a canteen to dispense food and hot coffee.