The Old Man cleared his throat. “These things happen. You can see we’ve made everything right for Karel.”
As Dad and Tom lifted delicate wine glasses off the silver tray offered by Karel, my father noted that the Old Man had ordered whiskey and water. The atmosphere was noticeably strained as they drank. In the presence of his father, Tom seemed tense; there was a decided edginess in both of them.
To cover an awkward silence, the Editor asked, “Who built the Vulcania? Pullman or Wagoner?”
“Ah, you know something about railroad cars,” the older man commented approvingly. “Only two real builders of fine cars in the country. We chose Pullman. Solid steel throughout, Standard Pullman.” He took a long sip of his drink. “If you’re willing to pay for it, you can trust Pullman’s woodworking too—bring their cabinetmakers over from Germany.”
“Handsome,” Dad agreed, his eyes taking in the walnut paneling between the wide windows, the tasteful gold lining around the domed ceiling, the beveled-edge French mirrors giving the feel of space. A small oval conference table to one side of the car was covered in crimson baize. There were built-in pull-down map racks and an ornate Seth Thomas wall clock.
“The Vulcania actually saves us a lot of fuss and bother,” Tom said, a little defensively. “No working out of schedules, no waiting for trains. Always a place for top-level conferences handy. It’s well used by our high officials here and in Pittsburgh.”
Through an open doorway to the rear, the Editor caught a glimpse of what must be the master stateroom. In it was an oversized bed covered with a cream damask spread.
As soon as the Old Man finished his whiskey and water, the waiter promptly appeared to replace it with another. Impressed by Dad’s knowledge of railroad cars, the elderly industrialist reminisced about what were popularly known as the private varnishes of other eras: Jay Gould’s St. Louis with a baggage car carrying a cow whose milk was required for the multimillionaire’s dyspepsia . . . concert pianist Jan Paderewski’s General Stanley, which was equipped with a Steinway, two certified French chefs, and a skilled French waiter . . . the romantic Virginia City owned by Charles Clegg and Lucius Beebe, which carried not only a Chinese chef but a 185-pound St. Bernard, Mr. T-Bone Towser . . . and Henry M. Flagler’s two private cars, Florida East Coast’s No. 90 and the Rambler for the St. John’s and Indian River Railroad. Both sported white mahogany paneling, gold-plated plumbing fixtures, gold table services, English butlers, and concealed wall safes.
“Luncheon is served,” McKeever’s butler announced.
The men rose and at last the elder McKeever stepped from behind his desk.
Forward of the car was the chef’s galley and dining area. The table was set with white linen, heavy sterling silver flatware, and a bouquet of fresh flowers. Overhead the domed roof had been elaborately painted in Italian Renaissance style: dancing figures carried cornucopias spilling over with the earth’s bounty.
The moment they were seated, the butler set before them a first course of Italian prosciutto and melon. He filled the wine glasses with French burgundy.
“Putting out a newspaper is a big responsibility, Mr. Wallace, and expensive.”
When his guest merely nodded, the elder McKeever continued, “We need a newspaper that reflects the beauty of this area and the opportunities open to all who are willing to take advantage of them. Tom and I have a vision of how a newspaper like the Sentinel can really be built up. We can be of help to you.”
“I’m so new to newspaper work,” my father replied, “that I’m grateful for any and all help. What do you have in mind?”
“Our public relations man has come up with some rough drawings for advertisements,” Tom interjected. “After lunch we’ll spread them out on the conference table for you to see.”
“These ads show Yoder’s contribution to the community,” his father added. “Name me another company that provides a better library, gymnasium, or health clinic for its people.”
“The other side is,” Dad countered mildly, “Yoder Iron and Steel wouldn’t have gotten very far without the skilled hands and ready hearts of hundreds of workers.”
“They’re paid,” the Old Man snapped. “Paid well. Strange, how greed takes over in the lower echelons of society. Most workingmen think only of the dollars they get in the weekly pay envelope. Can’t see beyond that.”
Tom spoke up, rather too quickly, “But before we get to the ads, there’s some ground we need to clear.”
Suddenly the atmosphere was charged.
“That editorial you ran, Mr. Wallace,” the deep voice of the Old Man boomed out as he cut into a piece of veal smothered in velvety sauce. “Can’t say I liked that. Mighty poor timing for a newcomer to town. Some implications printed there were bad judgment. Not a grain of justification.”
“What implications, Mr. McKeever?”
“You imply that Roger Benshoff isn’t qualified to inspect the dam just because he’s head of the Pennsylvania Railroad’s freight department. Roger knows plenty about dams, all he needs to know. That’s not reporting, just negative propaganda. Doesn’t help anybody.”
My father felt his face redden. Before he could reply, Tom tempered in a milder voice, “Look at it this way, Ken. What do you want your editorials in the Sentinel to accomplish? My father and I would like to know what your editorial policy is to be. Are you going to try to be constructive, encourage people, build up community confidence? Or are you out looking for phony crusades to scare people to death?”
“Come on now, Tom,” the Editor protested as moisture gathered on his forehead. “I want no part of phony crusades. Of course I’m for building up community confidence.”
Tom cleared his throat, his gray eyes accusing yet also troubled. “Then what was your thought, Ken,” he questioned, “in going to Pittsburgh to seek out more information on the dam? I just don’t see how that could possibly be any concern of yours.” So my visit with Cy Stearns got back to the McKeevers, Dad had thought. I wonder if they know what I uncovered about the missing engineer’s report.
“Let’s try to understand one another,” the Editor replied, fighting to keep his voice even. “I was concerned by the fact that the recent flood did some damage to the dam—”
“Very little damage,” the Old Man contradicted vehemently. “Of no consequence. Happens every spring.”
“Some people are nervous about the dam,” my father continued, “so if the dam’s safe, then they need to be reassured. What better way than through the only newspaper in Alderton? But if the dam is not safe, then that needs to be corrected. So, gentlemen, I went to Pittsburgh to seek information. What can possibly be wrong with that?”
“What’s wrong,” the Old Man lashed out, “is that you went far out of your way to get what you call facts. Why didn’t you go directly to Tom here and ask him questions? With all the money that Yoder Steel has invested in this valley, if there were anything dangerous about the dam, can you seriously think we wouldn’t be concerned?”
“That’s logical,” Dad admitted. “Indeed, irrefutable. Nevertheless—” and here my father admitted that he began to fall apart “—I felt a responsibility to our readers to inform them about the dam’s safety.”
“The dam is perfectly safe.” The Old Man slammed his open palm on the table. His wine glass jumped off it and crashed on the floor; a red stain was left on the linen cloth.
Karel rushed in, knelt to sweep up the bits of glass and to mop the table.
The Old Man’s thoughts scarcely missed a beat. “Mr. Wallace, you can take my word for the safety of the dam. And if you aren’t willing to accept my word on this, then there’s no way we can do business together.”
A silence hung in the dining car as the steward retreated, carrying the broken glass and his mop-up cloths toward the galley. The Editor unsuccessfully fought down a surge of fear. He decided not to mention the missing inspection report. He knew his next words could well determine his future in Alderton. “I want to serve
the people of this community,” he said, miserably conscious of his trembling voice, “and I would like to do business with you. I am not an irresponsible journalist. If you say the dam is safe, I believe that you mean it sincerely. Certainly, I accept your sincerity.”
The McKeevers visibly relaxed.
“I knew you had the good of the community at heart,” Tom said approvingly, “just as we do.”
The older McKeever took out a cigar and nipped its end with a silver pocket knife. “These are tough times, young man. To survive, we must all learn to cooperate.”
Smoke drifted into the Editor’s eyes and nose. He coughed, moved uncomfortably in his chair. Tom broke the heavy silence with a suggestion that they retire to the parlor area and look at the proposed ads.
The three men arose from the luncheon table and moved back to the oval conference table, where Tom pulled a manila folder from his briefcase and extracted from it a sheaf of papers. For the next half hour, Tom and the Editor pored over the layouts while the Old Man sat back, smoked his cigar, and watched through narrowed eyes.
I finished my paper on the steel mill late on a Tuesday night. There were two versions. The longer, more detailed one was my economics term paper. The shorter was for the Sentinel—I hoped.
At breakfast Wednesday, before Tim and Anne-Marie appeared, I slipped the short version to the Editor. “It’s my article on Yoder. Please read it and see if it’s right for the Sentinel.”
Watching the typed sheets being placed carefully in my father’s briefcase, I felt a surge of pride in my accomplishment. It had turned into a much bigger project than I had expected, taking many hours of research and some extra interviews with people in the Lowlands. While the term paper was replete with statistics and footnotes, it seemed to me I’d managed to get human interest and even strong emotion into the Sentinel article.
The more facts I had uncovered, the more sympathy I felt for working-class families. Newspapers, meanwhile, were full of labor unrest. Most members of Congress also had strong empathy for labor and were about to enact legislation to make management bargain more fairly.
I struggled to understand the extremes of wealth and poverty in our country. In the writing, words had seemed to pour out of me with a power I hadn’t known I had. I could scarcely wait for my father’s reaction. There was even the possibility that if my article were to appear in the Sentinel, it could soften the hearts of leaders so that they would change their policies.
All day at school I kept envisioning the Editor reading my paper and feeling the impact of it. I could even see new respect in the eyes of Miss Cruley as she set the story up in type.
After school I almost ran to the Sentinel office. At his desk the Editor was looking at proofs of this week’s paper, his brow furrowed in thought.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Julie!” He seemed surprised to see me. “School out already?”
“Yes. I hurried down here as fast as I could.”
“Oh? You have proofreading to do?”
“No, I finished that yesterday.”
“Well, why don’t you go home then and see if your mother needs some help there.” He swiveled his chair back to his desk.
“My article. Did you read it?”
“Oh, that. Yes, I did. Very well written, daughter. A fine job. No question but that you’ll get an A on it.”
Feelings of frustration poured through me. “Dad, don’t you remember—what I gave you was not my term paper but a special article to consider for the Sentinel.”
Slowly my father turned around to face me and took off his reading glasses. His brown eyes were kind, gentle, serious. Suddenly I knew what he was about to say and I had a little-girl urge to put my fingers in my ears and run out of the office.
“I’m sorry, but it isn’t right for the Sentinel.”
“Why, Dad? Why not?”
“It makes a strong, emotional case for the working people, but management comes off as a bunch of tyrants.”
“Well, they are.”
“Not all of them, dear. An article like this has to have balance. You don’t tell the other side—the creative genius of some industrialists. A few of them began as workers too. Their courage in staking everything on a vision, a dream . . . their resourcefulness in building America into the most economically powerful nation in the world. Those are facts, Julie. Facts.”
Fighting back tears, I stared at my father. Sensing my distress, he patted my hand. “You’ll write some great stories for the Sentinel. Don’t let one disappointment get you down.”
This time, the little-girl urge did take over. As calmly as I could, I walked out of the office, then fled up Main Street to home and The Rocks. There, with my back against the big locust tree, I sat crying, trying to assimilate my disappointment over the article and, yes, my disillusionment in my father.
I got home from school the next afternoon to find the dining-room table set for company and Mother bustling around the kitchen. “What’s going on?”
“Something that will please you. Randolph Wilkinson is coming to dinner.”
I looked at her in astonishment. “How did that happen?”
“Randolph called for an appointment with your father. Your father suggested he come to dinner and Randolph seemed pleased with that.”
I took a deep breath to calm the excitement rising inside me. If only I had not been too sleepy and too upset to wash my hair last night. What dress should I wear? The blue taffeta, I guess.
Mother broke into my thoughts. “Julie, would you peel and quarter these apples for me? And I do need a centerpiece. How about scouting the yard for flowers?”
When Rand walked through the front door, dressed in a natty blue sports coat and tie, I was annoyed at my quickening heartbeat. Calm it, Julie. You’re still like a sister to him. Don’t betray your feelings.
His smile was as warm as ever when he took my hand, yet I sensed that for some reason this poised Englishman was a little tense with us. During dinner the Editor asked Rand about his years at Oxford.
“Education at English universities,” he replied, “is almost a process of osmosis. I was quite on my own. The only requirement was that I sleep the necessary number of nights in my room.”
“No required attendance at lectures?” I asked, amazed.
“No. What happens, though, is that both in and out of classes there is a stimulating exchange of ideas. You live with history every day, aware that men like John Locke or Sir Christopher Wren or William Gladstone or the poet Wordsworth might have slept in your room. The end result is that you learn to reason and think—which, to me, is the main purpose of education anyway.”
The subject of education dominated most of our dinner conversation. Rand also described some of his experiences in a racing shell when he rowed for Oxford. Afterward, while Dad helped Tim and Anne-Marie with their homework, Mother smilingly drew me aside, whispering that she would wash the dishes. So I took Rand on a tour of our spacious backyard. The June days were longer now and the view of the sunset from The Rocks was breathtaking.
For several moments we drank in the enchanting evening sights and sounds. Then Rand turned to me. Once again, his eyes had that roguish look in them. “Julie, I seem to remember that you and I have some unfinished business.”
“Yes. Sort of peculiar business—unicorns. Why are there three on your family crest?”
“I hadn’t forgotten. It’s just that a number of things have happened at the Club recently. That’s why I want to talk to your father.”
“Did my father’s editorial cause you problems?”
He smiled at me. “That disconcerting directness again. Yes, I got a mite of chewing out for giving the interview to Ken.”
“Old Man McKeever?”
“The one.”
“He uses his wealth to push people around.”
“He’s my employer. I got myself in this muddle by not getting his permission to have the interview.”
Rand was silent for a mo
ment, then he looked at me sharply. “Why do you so resent wealthy people, Julie?”
I was caught off guard. “I—didn’t—realize it showed so much.”
“It shows. Sometimes you make me feel that I must defend all these people around me—even my relatives—when I’m not even certain that I want to.”
Tears were close to the surface. Desperately I fought to hold them back. “This is the second time in two days I’ve had my knuckles rapped for being antagonistic to the rich,” I said quietly. “I wrote an article for the Sentinel about my visit to the Yoder Steel plant. My father liked it, but told me yesterday he couldn’t use it because it was too one-sided. All for workers, against management.”
“Was he right?” Rand’s eyes held mine.
I sighed. “Yes, he was right.” But, I realized, I haven’t been able to admit it until this very moment.
Two tears trickled down my cheeks and I turned away. Rand patted me gently on the shoulder, and as we turned back to the house, he stooped down to pick something from between the rock ledges. “Julie, I’m not believing this. It just can’t be—” Astonishment written on his face, he was holding one of the delicate-stemmed wild bluebells.
“Beautiful, aren’t they? But why are you so surprised?”
“Because this is real Scottish harebell. It’s indigenous to northern England. How amazing to find it here! Makes me positively homesick.” The delight of a small boy was on his face.
Lovingly, he held the harebell between two fingers, slowly twisting the stem as he looked down at it. “I plucked you out of the rock crevice . . .” His voice was low and soft. “Reminds me of:
Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand.
Little flower—but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.
“England in the spring is so beautiful,” he continued, “so carpeted with wildflowers.”
“I’m surprised you know so much about flowers. I didn’t think men cared about such things.”
Julie Page 17