Julie

by Catherine Marshall

  When we all arrived back home, there was a small white florist’s box in front of the door. It was addressed to me. With fast-beating heart I tore it open. Inside was one red rose. On the card Rand had written: “I have a special graduation present for you, Julie. Will give it to you in a week or so.”

  The formal graduation dance that night was to be held at Haslam House in downtown Alderton. Bryan McKeever had said he would call for me at nine o’clock. I did not look forward to it.

  My one formal dress was a size too small and frayed on both shoulder straps. The blue color was faded in spots, and during the last washing a lipstick smudge on the white ruffle covering my left shoulder had not come out. The truth was, I had never liked the dress from the time Mother bought it for the sophomore prom I had gone to in Timmeton. To me, it was a little girl’s dress.

  If I had pressed him, Dad would have bought me a new gown for this dance. In fact, he had asked me if I needed one. For a few seconds I had been terribly torn. Then I realized that there was nothing in the family budget for a $35 formal to be worn once or twice a year.

  “The old one will do fine,” I told him. The relieved look on his face was palpable.

  Lacking a suitable dress was one of the reasons I had turned down two invitations to the dance. If Graham Gillin had asked me, I would have accepted. We were good friends now; I liked him best of the high school boys. He had invited Margo, a surprise since he and Margo had seldom dated.

  Accepting Bryan’s deal had been a spur-of-the-moment thing which I regretted afterward. Getting him to the work party had helped Spencer with Bryan’s father at first, but Bryan had not fitted in with the other workers and, I suspect, ended up being critical of both the project and Spencer Meloy.

  However, having committed myself to Bryan, I would see it through. I just hoped that he would stay sober. Both Mother and Dad were so concerned about the drinking and the possibility that the dance would last until dawn that I told them I would try to be home shortly after midnight.

  Since Bryan was only slightly taller than I, it was necessary for me to wear low heels. When I put on my dress, I was in for a surprise: Mother had refurbished it completely. She had replaced the lipstick-smudged ruffle with lovely new material and added a sash of deeper blue. When I appeared before my father, he stared at me open-mouthed.

  “Julie—you look stunning!”

  I was thrilled. If only I didn’t have to spend the evening with Bryan McKeever!

  Yet Bryan surprised me too. He arrived looking handsome in his tuxedo. The cynical turned-down mouth was still evident, but he was very polite to my parents and complimentary of my appearance as he pinned a corsage of pink sweetheart roses on my dress. Then we climbed into the big black Packard his father had loaned him for the evening.

  Searching for a topic of conversation, I asked Bryan about his interest in nature study. His head jerked toward me in surprise. “Who told you?”

  “Is it some kind of secret?”

  “Not really. I get kidded about it some.” That’s all he would say.

  We parked on a downtown street and walked a block to Haslam House. In the lobby we joined a milling group of classmates waiting for the elevator to take us to the third-floor ballroom. When Bryan and I stepped onto the dance floor, I gasped with surprise. The decorations were a montage of enlarged photographs of school events interspersed with a series of long mirrors that gave an in-depth effect to the room. The dancers seemed to be multiplied five times. A spinning multicolor light from the ceiling produced a soft, changing focus from blue to red to white.

  Tony Tomango and his Tomcats were playing, a local band who had gained statewide recognition for swingable music. A voice was warbling, “You push the first valve down, and the music goes down and round . . ,” as Bryan led me onto the dance floor. I was soon caught up in the excitement as boy after boy cut in on Bryan to dance with me.

  The talk was superficial, disjointed and always interrupted, but my feeling of exhilaration grew. These young people had become my friends in just nine months. How beautiful they all looked! And such nice smells, the girls with their soft perfume and corsages, the boys with cologne and the piney scent of aftershave lotion.

  A large punch bowl soon became the focal point of activity between dances. I was thirsty and downed two glasses, noting that the mixture tasted a trifle sour.

  The band had moved into “Stormy Weather” when Graham Gillin cut in. “You look beautiful tonight, Julie,” he began, holding me close.

  “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t expect you to come to this dance. You once said you didn’t go for this sort of thing.”

  “I love to dance.”

  “If I’d known that, I would have asked you. Margo and I are good friends, but that’s all.”

  Someone else cut in then, but the glow from Graham’s words lingered. What a wonderful time I was having! But why was I feeling dizzy?

  A bit later, I realized I had not danced with Bryan for almost an hour. Seeing him at the punch bowl, I finally got his eye. When we were dancing together again, my heart sank. He was wobbly on his feet.

  “Are you feeling all right, Bryan?”

  “I feel great . . . super,” he said thickly. “I reserved a room upstairs. Want to come up and see it?”

  I shook my head, wondering how best to handle that kind of situation. Then I quickly discovered why Bryan was so eager to get to the punch bowl. “The punch is spiked,” he whispered.

  “Spiked!”

  “Yes. With gin.”

  I was stunned. No wonder I felt dizzy!

  “Bryan, would you take me home when the dance is over?”

  “Why?”

  “Because the drinking really takes over then and I just don’t, well, belong,” I ended lamely.

  “Then why did you come?”

  “Because we made a deal.”

  “Then live up to it, Julie. We’re going to drive up Seven Mile Mountain afterward.”

  Graham cut in. I was surprised at how much I enjoyed dancing with him. He held me close, kissing me lightly on the forehead, moving us far away from the stag line. I clung to him, my fears draining away as the band softly swung into “Good Night, Sweetheart.” I knew I was dizzy, giddy and even a bit silly as I thought back to the time when I clung to his hand in the movie.

  Then the music ended. For a long moment Graham held me close. Then he kissed me lightly on the lips. I kissed him back.

  We located Bryan in the hall with Margo. Bryan’s eyes were like dark agates, but he walked fairly steadily. “How about you and Julie coming with us?” Graham suggested.

  “Let’s do, Bryan,” I said hopefully.

  Bryan shook his head. “We’ll go in my car.”

  How to get out of this mess? I couldn’t just leave Bryan and go with Margo and Graham. There seemed to be no other course than to follow Bryan. As we walked through the hotel lobby I noticed a lot of changes in my classmates. Corsages had wilted, formal clothes were rumpled, carefully groomed hair was all awry, and too many had that glazed look that came from fatigue, too much to drink, or both.

  Somehow ten honking cars managed to line up outside the hotel to begin the trek up Seven Mile Mountain toward Lookout Point. Fortunately Graham had asserted himself and taken the lead position from Bryan, who, in second place, terrified me with his erratic stops and starts. With so many horseshoe curves, our ride up the mountain had to be slow.

  At the top, the procession pulled onto the paved parking area where our family had stopped the first time we had driven into Alderton nearly ten months before. Bryan turned on his car radio to Chicago station WGN, which aired band music. Soon other car radios picked up the same music and we all spilled out onto the outdoor dance floor, whooping and singing.

  As the strains of “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” wafted through the night air, the pavement was filled with dancers scuffing across the sandy asphalt. The night air was warm and sweet. It could have been romantic if I had been w
ith Graham, but Bryan was too unsteady to focus on dance steps. Soon he left me and my bruised feet and headed for the car. I wondered where he had hidden his bottle.

  Graham and Margo tried to keep the group together and dancing. It was hopeless. When the music went off the air at two-thirty, Margo suggested that we go to the Stemwinder for an early breakfast.

  “Bryan, I would like to drive home. May I?” I asked as we stood outside his Packard.

  He brushed me off disdainfully. “Don’t worry ’bout a t’ing.”

  “Then I want to ride with Graham and Margo.” As I turned toward their car, Bryan grabbed my arm and jerked me into the front seat, slamming the door.

  To my horror, Bryan started out in the lead before Graham could get turned around. The first two turns were handled safely, though I could see that Bryan needed the whole road to navigate.

  Desperately, I looked behind. The cars were moving out of the parking area very slowly. Bryan was far in the lead.

  “Slow down, Bryan, and let the others catch up,” I pleaded.

  He stared straight ahead, shoulders hunched forward.

  “Please, please slow down,” I shouted.

  Then I saw the lights of a car coming our way. “Bryan, pull over!” I yelled.

  He paid no attention.

  I screamed the warning a second time, grabbing his shoulder and looking into his face. His eyes were closed! He had passed out at the wheel! We were heading straight for the approaching car!

  I’ll never understand what happened next. I remember shouting, “Oh, God, help!” Then I grabbed the wheel. I tried to jam my foot on the brake, but the gearshift was in the way. And then, all at once, there was a strength in my hands that did not seem mine, and I jerked the wheel hard. The tires screeched as our car veered to the right side of the road where there was a steep drop-off down the side of the mountain. The oncoming car whizzed past.

  I don’t remember stomping on the brake, but I must have. The next thing I knew, the car had skidded to a stop perpendicular to the road, with the back wheels only a few feet from the drop-off point. Numbly, I began to cry.

  A blond crewcut head appeared at the car window. It was Graham. “Are you all right, Julie?” he asked.

  I guess so.

  “How on earth did you miss that car?”

  “I don’t know, Graham.”

  The other cars had pulled to a stop behind us. As I climbed out, Bryan groaned, then retched on the front seat.

  Graham took charge. “Help me get Bryan into the back seat,” he shouted to a friend. “Julie, you go in my car; tell Margo to drive.”

  It was a shaken group that pulled up in front of the Stemwinder around four o’clock. There had been two other narrow misses and one car had banged hard into the rear of another and broken a headlight.

  For an hour, Margo and I and two other girls, who were now sober from shock, tried to pour coffee down the others. Three had passed out, five had been sick; the smell of vomit made it hard to eat anything.

  Bryan was still unconscious in the back seat of his car. When efforts to rouse him failed, Graham drove the black Packard to the front of the McKeever house, while Margo and I trailed behind. There he turned off the engine, leaving Bryan and the keys inside. Then he walked back to where we were waiting.

  “I feel sorry for Bryan when his father gets in that car tomorrow,” Graham muttered. “I cleaned it up some, but that car is gonna stink for a month.”

  It was five a.m. when Graham, his eyes rimmed with fatigue, left Margo in the car and walked me to the front door of our home.

  “I’m sorry it had to end in such a messy way,” he said.

  I squeezed his hand. “There were some high moments tonight, Graham, thanks to you.”

  I let myself in as silently as I could. Mother was standing in the hallway, her patrician features drawn in taut worry lines.

  “Wasn’t that Graham Gillin who brought you home?” she asked, curiosity mixed with her concern.

  “Yes, Mother, Bryan became sick.”

  “What happened?”

  “Can I tell you tomorrow? And please let me sleep till noon.”

  “Of course, Julie.”

  With a sigh of relief, I went to my room, wanting nothing but the feel of clean sheets.

  Monday morning was so beautiful that I put on my robe

   and slippers and eased quietly out the back door, clutching a pen and my journal. Leaning against the locust tree, I thought for a while, then began writing:

  My performance at the dance Saturday night was that of a moonstruck teenager! Dumb too. Dumb not to know that someone could spike the punch. Dumb to ride with Bryan when he was so drunk.

  The main trouble is that I’m in love with love. Randolph Wilkinson is romantic and remote. Spencer Meloy excites my mind, the only preacher ever to do so. And now, Graham Gillin. He was, well, sweet. And strong! I loved the way he took charge of the situation after Bryan passed out.

  Free of school responsibilities, I was available now to work all day at the Sentinel. The Editor seemed uncertain how to handle it. “We can sure use you full-time here, Julie. When finances are better, I’ll put you on the payroll.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Dad.”

  “Well, set your own schedule.”

  I did and quickly got the assignment to cover what was happening with Spencer Meloy’s project in the Lowlands. To almost everyone’s surprise, the Community Center there had captured the enthusiasm of Alderton. In the midst of a depression, when most people had been focusing on their own needs, suddenly a new spirit was let loose in town. All at once people wanted to give—time, things, whatever money they could spare. And with this outpouring, some of Alderton’s drabness lifted.

  Alderton merchants, themselves still hurting from the flood and the depressed economy, donated a variety of needed items: Jordan’s Hardware gave ten gallons of paint; Strock Plumbers, some bathroom fixtures; Lundstrom’s sawmill provided tongue-and-groove lumber for the interior walls. Electrician Herb Pavilla offered to do the wiring free, provided he could work on it evenings.

  From all over town women came, bringing items of furniture from their attics. What could not be used at the Center was donated to needy families. Margo brought pots and pans begged from her father at the Stemwinder. The ladies of the Eastern Star voted not only to supply the fabric but to make curtains for the windows. Not to be outdone, the Garden Club undertook to plant some flower borders and supply hanging baskets for the porch. One by one, the items appeared—a lamp here, a rug there, some pictures, a mirror. To my surprise, even Miss Cruley proudly presented some pieces of china and glassware.

  From the Hunting and Fishing Club came a swing and several wicker chairs for the front porch, folding chairs for the meeting rooms, and two institutional-type pots for the kitchen. I could not help wondering how many rules Rand had bent to send these gifts.

  The Editor helped all this along with enthusiastic editorials in the Sentinel and by printing item-by-item descriptions of what had been donated, prominently featuring the names of the donors.

  From Margo I gathered that the folks in the Lowlands viewed all this with astonishment. Up to now, their section had been the town’s stepchild. Why suddenly this loving attention? Was there some ulterior motive in it? One by one, they would look in, ask a few probing questions, then usually end up by telling a little about themselves, timidly sharing an edge of the heart.

  One of those spreading the news was Sonja Balaze, the young Czechoslovakian wife, who had taken part in the work party. She came bringing her next-door neighbor, Janey Dobrejcok.

  I remembered that Janey was the one whose seven-month-old baby girl had died in the flood. She was only a few years older than nineteen-year-old Sonja. Distressingly thin, her hair fine-spun and flaxen, her brown eyes large and haunted, she trailed the plump, pink-cheeked Sonja but had little to say except a shy “Ach! Vita jce u nos,” in her native Czech.

  The two of them went wonderingl
y through the house, staring at the delicate apple green of the freshly painted walls or timidly fingering the curtain fabrics. This was for them to enjoy? They actually could bring other friends and children here? When were the first classes to begin? Finally they went off, smiling, letting us know how gladly they would be spreading the word.

  But sometimes I wondered if, in our enthusiasm, we were not overdoing the care and beautification being lavished on this one house. Would not the result be too obvious and painful a contrast to the pathetic homes all around it?

  I posed this question to Spencer Meloy when he brought in his bulletin copy to the Sentinel office that Thursday.

  “The contrast is going to be startling all right,’ he admitted. “But if our church is to be a part of raising standards in the Lowlands, this has to come about by demonstration. One way to start is by training the people themselves in how to improve their homes. That’s where the classes will come in.”

  “But, Spencer, they have so little to work with. You’re the one who pointed out that many of them can barely keep food on their tables or clothes on their backs. How are they going to get money for beautification—for lumber and paint and shrubbery?”

  Meloy sighed. “Julie, I don’t know the answer to that. All I know is that our job as Christians is to offer hope to the hopeless, raise the sights of the discouraged, and thereby show them that church people care enough to give of their time, talent, and possessions.”

  I looked quickly around the office to see if our conversation was being overheard. The only other person there was Emily Cruley and she was on the telephone. I lowered my voice.

  “Spencer, are your church trustees bucking you on this project?”

  He seemed startled. “Why do you ask? Because of Mr. Piley’s remarks at the work party?”

  “Partly that. Partly what Dean Fleming said after he heard your sermon the day after. He was afraid you would get in trouble with your congregation if you pushed it too hard.”