Julie

by Catherine Marshall

  “I’m afraid I’ve put you through a difficult weekend, Julie. I’m sorry,” he finally said.

  My eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Rand, don’t say that. This has been a great weekend. Yesterday was the, well, a most wonderful day. Nothing can ever top it.”

  He squeezed my hand but said nothing more until he pulled up in front of my house.

  My report to my parents about the weekend concentrated

   on the enchantment of Saturday with a detailed description of the Caledonian Inn and the ride in the buggy. I made no mention of the grilling I received from Munro Farnsworth, talking instead about the Farnsworth estate and delightful “Auntie.”

  The Editor listened to all this approvingly, making only sparing comments, but I could see that I was not deceiving Mother. Throughout my recital, she was staring at me with that knowing look mothers have when they suspect that their daughters are holding something back. Still, she did not question me.

  It was with relief that I escaped into my room where I could set aside the unsettling experiences of the weekend and finger over and over the tapestry of bright memories Rand had woven. What a flair he had for the unusual! I had reveled in the delicate meeting of mind to mind, of spirit to spirit . . . the discovery of all the little things two people have in common . . . the physical excitement of being together.

  In truth, I felt like dancing and twirling and skipping and singing. Was this what it was like to be in love? I grabbed a sheet of paper and now the poem I’d labored over a week or so ago flowed out of me.

  My Love is come,

  And stars are bright,

  Melody flows

  From out the night.

  The Little Bear shouts,

  The Dipper drips wine,

  All of this Beauty

  Is mine, is mine.

  Let dawning be red,

  As fair as that day

  When my Love will come

  To stay, to stay.

  The trees are dancing

  In rhythmical sway,

  And this is the tune

  They play, they play:

  Her Love is come

  And stars are bright,

  Melody flows

  From out the night.

  Above what I had just written, I scrawled the title “Rhapsody.” This one could never make the Poetry Corner. I would not dare, for Rand knew now that I was the anonymous contributer for the Sentinel. I tucked the sheet of paper in my journal. The poem should be safe there from any prying eyes at home or at the office.

  On Tuesday morning I opened the Sentinel office since the Editor had been delayed with telephone calls at home. Miss Cruley was attending her sister’s funeral out of town.

  Rand telephoned to say that he was having to fill in for the Club’s maître d’ in the dining room all week. “The poor bloke cracked a bone in his right foot.”

  Minutes later the Editor arrived, concern on his face. “Julie, has Margo or Neal mentioned anything about a meeting of steelworkers at the new Community Center in the Lowlands?”

  “No.”

  Dad pulled up a chair and straddled it. “Spencer told me that last Saturday night Cade Brinton used the Center for a meeting of these men.”

  “What’s so alarming about that?”

  “It wasn’t Spencer who was alarmed, but Tom McKeever. He telephoned Meloy, mad as hops. Said that Cade is an anti-American traitor stirring up trouble, that church trustees will not have the Center used to promote the union movement. Claimed there was damage done to the house.”

  “But, Dad, the new labor law encourages workers to get together and form unions.”

  “I know. But McKeever doesn’t like it. He’s called a meeting of church trustees for tonight. Asked Spencer if he would like to come.”

  “So is Spencer going?”

  “Of course he’s going. But he wants to talk to us first. He feels the trustees may try to force his resignation unless he knuckles under.”

  “Knuckles under to what?”

  “McKeever will probably demand that Baker Memorial sever all connections with the Center. Since Yoder owns the house, McKeever holds the trump card.”

  “And what did Spencer say to that?”

  “He told Tom that this would make Yoder Steel seem like an Indian giver to the Alderton community.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Julie.” Dad’s eyes examined me. “Would you drop whatever you’re doing, go down to the Lowlands, and find out what went on at that Saturday night meeting? Check out any property damage. I’ll tell Spencer to hold off coming here until you get back.”

  “On my way,” I said, shoving aside my papers. “You’re in this with Spencer, aren’t you?”

  My father’s eyes were thoughtful. “Yes, Julie, I guess I am.”

  Before hiking to the Lowlands on foot, I paused a moment to reflect. Who would give me the information I needed? Neal Brinton? He was at work. Then I thought of Dean Fleming. Since he had joined the machinist’s union years ago, could he have attended that meeting?

  I got Dean on the telephone. “Yes, Julie,” he responded, “I was there.”

  “Could you tell me what happened? I mean, was it raucous or wild?” Then I explained the assignment Dad had given me.

  “I can’t describe it over the phone. This is a party line.” There was a pause. “Tell you what, I’ll come to the office a little early and fill you in on what happened.”

  Dean estimated that about fifteen men had attended the meeting, all eager to talk about their grievances. The men were angered by the fact that during recent slack times, those involved in union activity were being either fired or laid off two to three days a week, while company men were still getting full-time work.

  Another resentment was that Yoder had forced them to sign cards stating that the company could deduct from their wages anytime it chose the cash value of the food boxes handed out in 1932 when families had literally been going hungry.

  Dean’s estimate of Cade Brinton struck me as thoughtful and fair. “He gets too emotional. Like his speech about the food boxes: ‘Mark my words, men, when the company gets ready to take that money out of your paychecks, they’ll do it. And you won’t be able to do nothin’ about it unless you’ve got a union to squawk to.’ Cade’s got a lot of bitterness in him,” Dean went on. “That’s partly because he knows too many horror stories, like Ludlow and the killings in the 1892 Homestead strike. But he knows his facts and he’s got some good ideas. As for his being an anarchist or a Bolshevik, that’s a lot of tripe.”

  Neal, he said, had presented a plan for the men to consider, involving ERP. Suggested they elect pro-union men as company delegates to attend regular meetings of an ERP assembly, then persuade men in other plants to do the same. Next they would have to figure out a way for these men from different companies to get together. That way, maybe they could take over ERP and give it some clout.

  Even Cade had looked impressed, Dean told me. Finally, there was a general give-and-take about the lousy toilets, the heat, the long hours, and yes, the bowling tournament.

  The meeting had ended with an amazing scene. The lights had been turned off. A candle stuck in a bottle was placed on a table with a crucifix standing beside it. One by one, the men had come forward, solemnly kissed the cross, and vowed that they would work for their rights as free Americans to belong to a union, vowed that they would never turn scab.

  “Dean, what does that mean—scab?” I asked.

  “Means turning against fellow workers by accepting employment from the company that’s being struck.”

  “Dad heard there was some damage to the property.”

  Dean looked puzzled for a moment, then he smiled. “After the meeting, several men did a little arm-wrestling and broke a table. They promised to fix it. But if they don’t, I will, Julie. No problem a’tall.”

  “So you wouldn’t say there was anything sinister or wrong about the whole affair, Dean?”

  “Not a
thing. Actually, kind of touching. Companies will do all they can to stop the union movement despite the new law, so there’s bound to be trouble. Too bad they don’t do the right thing with their employees.”

  Spencer Meloy dropped by the Sentinel office that afternoon and nodded vigorously when I described what had happened at the meeting of the steelworkers.

  “I knew it. I just knew there wasn’t rowdyism or real property damage. Now, let me get all these facts down on paper so I can report them to the trustees tonight.”

  Early the next morning, a grim-faced Spencer was back at the Sentinel with an account of the meeting. Baker Memorial had seven trustees who formed the Council as the governing body of the church. The men, led by Tom McKeever, Jr. as chairman, had met around the conference table in the church library.

  McKeever opened it by listing the duties of the trustees in connection with all property owned or used by the church. An account of the meeting at the Center followed, painting a picture of rowdy, shouting radicals who had damaged property and voiced threats toward Yoder Steel.

  When given a chance to speak, Spencer had countered with his facts: that the damage to one table was easily repaired; that the mood of the meeting was moderate with the main discussion focused on how to improve the company ERP plan. He stressed how desperately these workingmen needed some spot to meet and talk through their problems, give vent to their feelings.

  “By law, these men have the right of free assembly,” he had reminded his trustees. “Even to promote the union idea. To deny them this right could indeed edge them closer to communism.” When he received a stony-faced response, Spencer admitted that he had lost some of his equanimity. “May I remind you, gentlemen, of this: our church constitution also states that the authority of the Council is always subject to the will of the congregation, making this church, I am proud to say, a true democracy.”

  Vincent Piley had then spoken. “Our pastor is quite correct. It would appear to me that the proper procedure at this point is to present the matters mentioned here tonight to a full meeting of the congregation, with the purpose of deciding whether to dismiss or retain Mr. Meloy as our pastor. Therefore, I make a motion that we call a congregational meeting for Monday, the twelfth day of August, and that, in accordance with church law, public notice of this meeting and its purpose be duly given from the pulpit for the next two successive Sundays, on July twenty-eighth and August fourth.”

  There had been no discussion. When the vote was taken, it was unanimous: seven “ayes.” Spencer knew then that he had walked directly into their trap.

  From the look on his face, the Editor must have been reliving some bad memories. “The congregation has the final word, Spencer,” he finally said. “How do you think they will vote?”

  “I don’t know. If we had more young people, I would win. But the Community Center project isn’t the only issue, maybe not even the most important. There is real resistance to almost all of the changes I’ve initiated.”

  In Alderton, news traveled fast. There were few vacant places in the pews at Baker Memorial for the eleven o’clock service the following Sunday.

  The atmosphere was tense and expectant when, simply as one of the announcements, Pastor Meloy read the formal notice about the congregational meeting for August 12. He seemed calm and matter-of-fact, stating as the main purpose of the meeting “to decide whether to dismiss or retain the pastor.”

  There was a deep silence in the sanctuary. I looked at young Tom McKeever’s back, three pews in front of us, watched the proud, square shoulders draped in impeccably tailored worsted fabric fidget uneasily. I wondered if his father was here, then realized I hadn’t seen the Old Man in church for months.

  Sitting there, I noticed how well dressed all the members of this congregation looked despite the depression. Of the Lowlands people, only Neal and Margo seemed to be present. When it came time for Meloy’s sermon, there was a hush of expectancy.

  “The Head of our church is Jesus Christ. He told us that the church is His body on earth—literally His voice, His hands, His feet—and that He Himself is the Head of that body.

  “What kind of instructions has Jesus given us? By His own words He announced that His Father had sent Him to earth to bring the gospel to the poor, to heal the brokenhearted and those with broken bodies, to preach deliverance to the captives, and to set at liberty those who are bruised. About ninety percent of His ministry was to the flotsam and jetsam of society—the poor, the blind, the crippled, the outcasts, the lepers.

  “But Jesus’s never-ending ministry to the less privileged not only annoyed but offended the church officials. So they challenged Jesus on this. Why did He insist, they demanded to know, on spending His time with the scum of the earth— publicans, sinners, people outside decent society, even eating with them? Why would any prophet of quality so lower himself, they wanted to know?

  “His reply was simple: ‘These are the ones who need me.’

  “No sinner had sunk too low for Him to reach out, lift up, forgive, restore. From no diseased body would He turn away. He did not hesitate to reach out and touch the loathsome leper before He healed him—something nobody else would have done. The woman of the street who anointed His feet with perfume, the adulteress about to be stoned—He alone would not judge, would not reject. He alone knew how to point the way to the new beginning of a clean, fresh life.

  “No wonder we are told that the common people heard Him gladly.”

  I looked at my father and saw that he was staring at Spencer, mesmerized. I had never heard Spencer so intense or so inspired.

  “But, you are asking, how does all of this apply to Baker Memorial Church? If this church is to be part of Christ’s body on earth, a real church, and not just become the Alderton Sunday Morning Club, then we have to get on with being Christ’s voice and hands and feet.

  “My friends, we have made a good start with our Community Center in the Lowlands. I am very proud of the way some of you leapt to this challenge. But there are others here who feel we should not be involved in relating to the needy or those less fortunate, those who are so different from us. The question of whether I am to be dismissed or retained centers on those issues.

  “It is my conviction that, having made a great beginning, for us now to pull out and say that this church will have nothing more to do with the Center would be disastrous to human relationships in this town and would dishonor Jesus Christ. He tells us, ‘Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of them, ye did it not to Me.’

  “So, dear friends, the decisions are before us. The choice is yours.”

  The words of the closing hymn, written by James Russell Lowell, came starkly alive for me. As we sang I wondered how much effect these words had on others:

  Once to every man and nation

  Comes the moment to decide,

  In the strife of truth and falsehood

  for the good or evil side.

  Some great cause, God’s new Messiah,

  Offering each the bloom or blight,

  And the choice goes by forever

  ’Twixt that darkness and that light.

  Though the cause of evil prosper,

  Yet ’tis truth alone is strong.

  Truth forever on the scaffold;

  Wrong forever on the throne.

  Yet the scaffold sways the future,

  And behind the dim unknown,

  Standeth God within the shadow,

  Keeping watch above His own.

  As our family reached the vestibule, we encountered Tom McKeever Jr. He greeted us politely, his always-interesting gray eyes hooded. To my surprise, I overheard him say to Meloy, “Spencer, you gave us much to think about.” And he walked out the door.

  Our family discussed the service as we walked home together. “If ever I heard a sermon with fighting words, that was it,” I said. “Yet McKeever didn’t seem to be angry. Why?”

  “I see Tom as a man driven by his father and the circumstances into whic
h he’s been thrust,” Dad said thoughtfully. “He’s also a man torn on the inside. Bryan as much as said this to us.”

  “Well, he’s sure out to get Spencer or we wouldn’t be having a congregational meeting in two weeks,” said Mother.

  “I believe he was being forced into that position,” continued Dad.

  “Do you think Spencer hurt himself or helped himself this morning?” I asked.

  My father did not answer for almost half a block. “It was a most courageous sermon. Probably an uncompromising one.”

  He would say no more.

  On Monday morning I tried to write in my journal, but the words would not come. Even to myself, I did not want to admit how upset I was at Rand.

  The afternoon before, he had called with his usual cheery voice, but I detected an artificial note in it. He told me that he was still having to fill in for the maître d’ until the man’s foot was better. Don’t be selfish, I admonished myself. Here’s a chance to show Rand that you’re old enough to take disappointments gracefully. Deep in my spirit, however, I sensed that something was wrong. For some reason, Rand did not want to see me.

  Disconsolate, I took my journal with me when I walked to the Sentinel office that morning. Since the work flow always built up as the week progressed, Monday was often the day I had the most free time to write. I wanted to try to sort out my feelings for Rand and could always think better on the pages of my journal.

  The day turned out to be anything but quiet. When I arrived the telephone was ringing; there was mail to open. Laying my journal down on Miss Cruley’s desk for a moment, I divided the letters into separate piles, unaware that a sheet of paper had slipped out of my journal onto her desk.

  Most of the letters were from Alderton citizens regarding local matters. One hand-delivered letter was dated Sunday afternoon. I held it out to show the Editor.

  Having been a member of Baker Memorial Church for thirty years, I was distressed today over the action taken by the trustees of our church against Spencer Meloy.

  It is a big mistake, in my opinion, to divide our church with a congregational meeting to vote whether we keep or fire Reverend Meloy. Our pastor is a young man, inexperienced and, perhaps, overzealous regarding social concerns, but he is the best preacher Baker Memorial has ever had. It would be a big loss to the community and to our church if he were removed from his pastorate.