Julie, Page 3

  “I haven’t told you because I don’t know. This is all so new to me.”

  My father was already immersed in his own crash course on newspapering. He had been flinging around terms like “learning the case,” “justifying a line,” “loading the chases,” “logotypes” and “printer’s devils.” It was another language, all right! For instance, how to guess that “accumulating boiler plate” had nothing whatsoever to do with furnaces or even pieces of metal? He had explained at dinner one night that this meant acquiring a supply of fill-in material to be used whenever news items ran short.

  A few more strides and there it was: the Alderton Sentinel painted in curving gold letters on the plate glass window. The Sentinel office occupied the first floor of the three-story corner building on Canal Street and Maple. The second floor was an Eastern Star recreation hall, used mostly at night. The third floor was a storage area.

  As Dad pushed open the door to the office, a mixture of unfamiliar smells greeted me. Later I sorted them out as new paper, printer’s ink, machinery oil, hot metal and dust. We walked into a large room, forty feet wide and ninety feet long, with walls that begged for a fresh coat of paint. To the right of the door sat a scrawny woman well past middle age, at what looked to be a large kitchen table heaped high with papers. When my father had bought the almost-defunct Sentinel, he had also inherited the elderly Miss Cruley, whom he described to us as “riveted to the floor of that place as firmly as the old Babcock press.”

  “Miss Cruley, my daughter Julie,” Dad said cheerily.

  “Very pleased to meet you.” Upon my father’s entrance she had popped to her feet. The words coming out of her tiny mouth were as clipped as a bird’s pecking. In fact, Emily Cruley was birdlike in every way, with her nervous, quick movements, her pipe-stem arms and legs. A dark green apron filled with pockets covered a cotton print dress, while a matching green visor sat firmly on top of her close-cropped gray hair.

  “There is something I wish to speak to you about, Mr. Wallace,” she chirped.

  “Yes, Emily?”

  “You’ve simply got to hire another person. I’ve never handled all the machine work. Never! Mr. Proctor always had Jake do that.”

  “I understand how you feel, Emily.” Dad’s voice revealed the strain he was under. “But I have to remind you that Mr. Proctor did not make a go of the paper financially. It was all but bankrupt.”

  “I know nothing of that. I was not privy to Mr. Proctor’s bookkeeping.”

  “The point is,” Dad persisted, “we must keep costs down. Jake has been offered an excellent new job in Boston, and I simply cannot afford to replace him.” Dad paused and took a deep breath, his face twitching slightly. “He’s assured me that you can handle the linotype.”

  Impatience fluttered through every line of her narrow body. “Of course I can. Composing is no harder than typing. But did you ever see a machine that didn’t get out of whack every few days? When the linotype got squirts or a roller had to be welded, Jake always knew what to do.” Miss Cruley’s bony forefinger was pointing to the big ungainly machine at the back of the office. “That old Babcock needs a mechanic to handle it.”

  Dad’s shoulders sagged. “I promise I won’t expect you to be a mechanic. Jake has already taught me a lot about that press. Please don’t worry. I’ll master it before he leaves.”

  He moved away from her and motioned me to follow him to the rear of the building. Dad’s private working space was a thinly partitioned room, about six by ten, in the rear right corner. He pushed open the door and smiled wanly at me. “Enter the Publisher’s office.” I closed the door and sat down in a wooden cane-bottomed chair, while my father sank into the swivel seat in front of a long flat wooden desk. A bare spot had been scuffed into the linoleum-covered floor beneath the swivel chair, with grime caught in the edges of the torn linoleum.

  As a publisher’s office it wasn’t much. Paul Proctor had left on the walls some old campaign pictures of political candidates, a couple of Alderton flood scenes, a few colorful theatrical posters and a faded picture of a billowing American flag cut from some magazine.

  I felt a sudden pang of fear for my father as he faced this new adventure. Could he do it? I studied his thin, lined, still-handsome face, brown eyes dulled by anxiety, hair turning from brown to gray. He had always had a lively sense of humor and a ready smile that revealed white, even teeth. Lately the smiles were uncertain and infrequent.

  “Actually,” he murmured, more to himself than to me, “Emily’s right. I am going to have to find some help, at least for press days—Wednesday and Thursday.”

  “What day is the paper delivered?”

  “Friday. It’s hand-delivered locally. Mailed to subscribers in the surrounding communities.”

  I wondered if now was the moment I had been waiting for. Ever since Dad had purchased the Sentinel, I had seen it as my opportunity to become a journalist. If only my father would realize that I was no longer his little girl but a young adult with a brain and at least a degree of talent. But even as I was deciding how to put my question, Dad pre-empted me.

  “Julie, you’ve always gotten A’s in your English courses— would you be willing to give me some afternoon time for proofreading?”

  Hastily I reduced my lofty thoughts. “What’s involved?”

  “Proof sheets are pulled, as they say in this trade, by Monday afternoon. It means reading them carefully to catch any printing errors, misspellings or mistakes of the sort that would embarrass anyone. Actually, it’s a big responsibility.”

  I wondered if Dad was trying to make proofreading sound more important than it was. “I’ll be glad to try,” I told him cautiously. “I’m not so hot at spelling, though.”

  There was a tap on the flimsy door and Miss Cruley stuck her head in. “Someone to see you, Mr. Wallace. A Mr. Dean Fleming.” As I relinquished the cane-bottomed chair, an older man appeared in the doorway. He had a sunburned bald head, a leathery face, and wore a plaid shirt and corduroy pants above thick-soled worker’s shoes. As he moved toward Dad, I noticed that he dragged one leg behind him.

  “Came by,” I heard Mr. Fleming inquire, “to see if you’d print some handbills for my union, the International Machinists.”

  “Happy to. Do you have the copy with you?”

  “Right here.” He pulled a folded paper out of his breast pocket. As the two men sat down together at my father’s desk, Miss Cruley took me on a tour of the outer office. The Babcock press took up the rear left corner of the room, close to the back door, which led out to an alley. Next to the Babcock was the cutter, then came a platen press for small job work. A long make-ready table was positioned in the middle of the room, cases of type on the opposite wall. There was a sink under the staircase leading to the second story, where, she primly explained, separate men’s and women’s toilets were located. I wondered where I would do my proofreading.

  The men emerged from my father’s office. Dad nodded toward me: “My daughter Julie, Mr. Fleming. She will be helping us with the newspaper.”

  Mr. Fleming gripped my hand in his work-roughened one. The most striking feature of this homely man, I thought, was his penetrating eyes. When he had gone, I noticed a strange look on my father’s face as he stared after the departing visitor.

  That night at dinner, Dad seemed more relaxed than usual. “It’s been a good day,” he luxuriated, pushing his chair back from the table. “Louise, a man named Dean Fleming came by the office. Union man. Wanted a print order, some handbills. Guess what he said to me just before he left?”

  “I can’t imagine,” Mother answered.

  “Made me an offer of his time for two hours a day, five days a week, as maintenance man for our printing equipment. Insisted he would take no payment for this.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “He said”—here Dad groped for words—“he said that he had an ‘inner guide’ who told him to come to me because I needed help.”

  “Did you take him
up on his offer?”

  “He didn’t leave me much choice.”

  “But is he any good?” asked our always-practical mother.

  “I can’t tell yet. He seems to know quite a lot about machinery. He told me he worked thirty-five years as a machinist for the Pennsylvania Railroad. Hurt his leg in a train wreck and retired a few years ago. A widower. Has a farmhouse in Yancyville, where he lives with his sister, who’s nearly blind. She keeps house for him.”

  My father paused a moment, then chuckled self-consciously. “He knows that I left the ministry. Gave me a little pep talk about holding on to my faith.”

  A machinist who was both a union man and a preacher—what a strange combination. I didn’t think I was going to like this Mr. Fleming if he was going to use his volunteer status to force his philosophy of life on us.

  The room we were already calling the study was still in disarray as we gathered that Sunday evening for a family conference. Cartons of books piled against two walls were awaiting the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves Dad intended to build.

  As I looked across the room at my father, I yearned to go over and hug him. But I held back. Was it shyness again? I didn’t honestly think so. I no longer felt free to give him that kind of spontaneous affection in front of Mother, though I wasn’t sure why. The difficult times of the past few years had somehow lessened the flow of affection in our family.

  Though they had tried to hold their discussions in private, I had overheard some of the sharp and critical words erupting between Mom and Dad when the opportunity came to buy the Sentinel. “Are you sure, Ken, that this isn’t just an escape from a difficult situation in your church?” I’d once heard her ask. Leaving Timmeton had been harder on her than on any of the rest of us. Now she reached for her mending basket and selected a darning needle as though it were a dueling weapon. I chose the old Morris chair in the corner, glad that it had not been left behind when we moved. For years it had been my favorite study chair, with its wide arms for books and papers.

  I smiled at how easily my father gravitated to the chair in front of his golden oak rolltop desk. To me he already looked like an editor. “I don’t want you to think this is a crisis session,” he began, “but as I learn more about the real situation at the Sentinel, I see what a big job lies ahead.”

  Mom picked that up instantly. “New problems, Ken?”

  “Not new, really. We’re short on cash. The depression hurts everybody.”

  “How bad has Alderton been hit?”

  “Business here is in poor shape, Louise. A number have folded recently. The Alderton Daily News was one. Leaves us as the only paper in town.”

  “Why did that one fail, Dad?” I inquired.

  “Newspapers have never done well in Alderton for some reason. Proctor said people read the Pittsburgh dailies for general news. Local stores have been slow to advertise. In fact, most merchants in town are carrying so many people on credit now, they’re barely making it. This town couldn’t keep going one week without credit.”

  Dad sighed, then in a cheerier voice addressed Tim and Anne-Marie. “You children need to understand something about your father. People in Timmeton used to call me Reverend Wallace or Pastor. They won’t be doing that in Alderton. I have a new job now as an editor and publisher.”

  “But aren’t you still a preacher?” queried Anne-Marie.

  “Once an ordained clergyman, I suppose you always are. But I’ll need all my time and energy now to make a success of the newspaper.”

  My earlier impressions of Dad at his desk focused into words. “Why don’t we call you the Editor? That’s better than Reverend.”

  Dad smiled. “Call me whatever you want. But now to family finances. There’s no way,” he began, a sudden tremor in his voice, “that we can make it unless the five of us accept the fact that we all are now in the newspaper business.”

  “Me too?” Tim sounded surprised.

  “You too, son. And Anne-Marie. I’ll tell you how in a minute. But first, some facts and figures.” Dad consulted a sheet of paper in his hand. “You may remember that Paul Proctor first asked $15,000 for the paper. We finally got it for $12,000. So that left us a cushion of only $3,000 from the education fund to get the paper going and to live on this year.

  “Moving all our stuff up here from Timmeton cost us $250,” he continued. “Our trip north in the Willys ran us a bit over $100.” Dad had budgeted the five-day trip for exactly $100, figuring $3 a day per person for food and lodging, $5 a day for gas, oil and other car expenses. Staying in tourist homes for a dollar a night per room, including breakfast, had certainly been the economical way to travel.

  “Our house rent is $22 per month,” Dad went on, “plus utilities—gas, lights, the phone. Coal has gone up to $4 a ton.” As Dad ticked off items, I tore a sheet out of a notebook and began jotting down the figures. “The rent for the Sentinel building is another $38 per month. I have to pay Miss Cruley $20 a week. What would you say about food, Louise? And clothes this year?”

  “I’m doing my best to hold food down to $10 a week,” Mom answered. “Clothes? Let me think. As a businessman you really ought to have a second presentable suit. A two-trouser one will be $12. This winter Julie will have to have a new coat. That’s, uh, about $15. Oh, maybe $100 for clothes for the year. That is, if I do a lot of sewing.”

  I winced. Mother was a passable seamstress, but there were limitations. Homemade dresses were all right for little girls, but not for me now, at almost eighteen.

  “These are estimates, of course.” Dad was referring again to the paper in his hand. “Not counting anything for recreation or medical or dental bills, or major repairs to the car, it adds up to almost $3,000. And remember, the Willys is over six years old. Got to expect trouble.”

  I was staring at the figures I had put down. “Dad, you’re forgetting about me and college next year too.”

  My father gave me a tight smile. “No, I haven’t forgotten about your college. There may be a little delay, that’s all.” Suddenly college seemed a long way off.

  “Ken,” Mother protested, “your calculations appear far too high to me.”

  “I don’t think so. Trouble is, we lived in another world. We’re used to having our home and utilities paid for by the church. Office and secretarial expenses too. Emily Cruley’s salary, for instance, accounts for $1,040. And she’s doing so many jobs, I should raise her a dollar or two a week.”

  The room was silent for a moment.

  “But Dad,” I finally asked, “won’t the paper make any money?”

  “I hope so,” came the uncertain reply. “The purpose of business is to make money, Julie. But the Sentinel was not a moneymaker when we bought it. There’s a lot of building up to do.”

  Mother’s darning that sock with such big stitches, I thought, that Tim will never wear it. Suddenly I ached for her. Mother had been so proud to have Aunt Stella’s inheritance set aside for our college educations. Now it was gone, down a hole with seemingly no bottom to it.

  Dad’s deep voice resumed. “According to Paul Proctor, we need $6,000 a year just to print the paper that goes out to our 4,340 subscribers. I’m hoping that by cutting corners we can do it for $5,000. But to pay family and business expenses, we need a whopping $12,000 income each year from the paper.”

  “How many people in the entire area?” Mother asked.

  “Counting villages, about 25,000,” came the reply. “So the Sentinel reaches barely a fifth of them. Lots of room for growth. Anyway, with 4,340 subscribers and the Sentinel priced at 3¢ a copy or $1.50 a year, that’s $6,150. But believe me, we won’t collect it all.”

  “But as the paper gets better, surely more people will want it,” I said hopefully.

  “That’s our goal.” Dad grinned. “I’m told that folks love to see their names in print. So the more thoroughly we cover the local news, the better we’ll do.”

  There would also be some income from job printing, Dad explained, such items as handbills
, theater tickets, stationery, wedding invitations—all manner of things. “But according to Paul Proctor, we can’t count on much there,” he said. “I hope he’s wrong.”

  Then Dad launched into his plea to the family. “You can see that Emily’s salary is a big drain. We really can’t afford to hire anyone else. Yet there’s no way Emily and I can handle everything.” He located another piece of paper on his desk. “I have here a list of the jobs that have to get done somehow each week.” He read them aloud:

  News gathered

  Stories written and typed

  Advertising copy collected

  Makeup, layout and headings set

  Linotype work

  Proofs read and checked

  Printing (the Babcock can handle 2,000 impressions an hour)

  Prepare papers for mailing and hand delivery

  Subscription list kept up to date

  Billing and bookkeeping

  Maintenance.

  “On top of all that,” Dad went on relentlessly, “there is the matter of taking orders for job printing, handling the job press and delivering the finished product. Plus sweeping out the office, emptying wastebaskets, general cleanup.”

  “Dad, you make it sound impossible,” I gasped.

  “Don’t mean to,” he replied, “but you must understand what we’re facing.”

  Father reached for another sheet. “Here are some tentative assignments. I’ll write an editorial each week, handle most of the stories and collect the advertising. Emily Cruley will be responsible for the short items, prepare advertising copy, set the heads for all stories, operate the linotype machine and handle subscriptions. Dean Fleming will service the equipment and help Miss Cruley run the presses.

  “Louise—” Dad looked intently at her. “Could you give a few hours occasionally in the afternoon to help Emily process new subscriptions and supervise Tim and Anne-Marie getting the papers ready for mailing each week?”

  Mother’s face was expressionless. “That will take some juggling. Remember, there’s no help here to do housework except Julie. I’ll try, Ken.” Her voice trailed off.