The Black Mass of Brother Springer

by Charles Willeford

  I didn't know what to think. It was very strange to hear such talk from a man wearing a cassock, and Abbott Dover looked holy, even with the shiny rifleman badge dangling from his chest. The shaven head, the absence of any eyebrows, and the direct, frank stare of his alert blue eyes was disconcerting. Not that I have ever been a religious man, although I have fooled around with Unitarianism a little; it was the conviction in his voice that got to me. And along with being convinced, I could picture thousands of ministers in their Sunday pulpits, preaching to more thousands like myself who believed in nothing—and both of them, ministers and congregations, dead serious, and yet, no one believing in anything! Why did they do it?

  "Why does a man become a minister then, Abbott Dover? Why would any man deliberately choose to lead a false life?"

  "That's easy," the Abbott shrugged. "Why did you become a writer?"

  "I wanted to escape from a miserable job. I was an accountant."

  "There's your answer. A man becomes a minister to escape honest employment, and two, he wants to make money. The latter category is in the minority, of course. The majority of the men who wear the cloth are looking for simple security with the minimum of effort. Others want power. If I wanted power, I would become a priest in the Roman Catholic church. I am one of the minority. I don't care about power; I am interested in money. The strange thing is that when you go after money through the church you usually get power along with it. Power and money go hand and hand."

  "It doesn't seem like an easy life to me. A minister with even a small church has got weddings to perform, christening, baptizing, sermons to prepare, sick people to visit, fundraising—"

  "Do you call that work?"

  "His time isn't his own! The minister is on call twenty-four hours a day."

  "Jesus Christ, Brother Springer!" the Abbott said sharply, "a man has to do something!" Going to his desk, the Abbott picked up a Bible and brought it to the table. "It's all in here. Every verse in this Bible can be turned into a sermon by any man who knows how to talk on his feet. You can preach a lifetime and never get through this book. Right?"

  "I suppose so," I said wearily.

  "You're broke, aren't you?"

  The tone of his voice dropped several levels and was so compassionate I looked up from the table and let his eyes catch mine. I couldn't meet his level, inquisitive stare and I dropped my gaze to the shooting medal on his chest.

  "I'm almost flat, Abbott Dover," I admitted.

  "I suspected as much. And you aren't much of a writer either, are you?"

  "I've got a published novel to my credit," I said, half-defiantly.

  "What have you written since, and how long ago did you write your novel?"

  "I haven't written anything since. But I will. All I need is an idea."

  "Why don't you give writing up and get a job? Do you want a job? I'll get you an accounting job in Clewiston. A few people over there owe me some favors."

  "No." I shook my head. "I'm a writer, and even if I starve to death, I'll never go back to that kind of work. If I have to, I'll wash dishes for a meal, but I'll never put my head in the trap again."

  "Good. You're a gambler, and I had you sized up right. When I leave here I'm going to Washington and I'm entering the Soldier's Home. A man with twenty years service is entitled to domiciliary care there for the rest of his life. I'll get a room, free board, and I also get to keep all my retired pay. With what I've saved, and at no cost for the essentials in life, I should be able to live a long time. I can ride up to New York for a play once in awhile, spend a few months going through the Smithsonian, and gently fritter away my life. As you may have noticed, I like to talk, and I like to talk to soldiers. We speak the same language. I am getting out of life...all there is to get.

  "I'm in a position now to do you a favor, and I like you. I'm going to give you the opportunity to write. Whether you ever write another line or not doesn't make a damn to me, but this is your chance. How much money do you have?"

  "Not quite sixty bucks."

  "Give me twenty."

  "I've only got sixty between me and nothing."

  "I heard you the first time. Give me twenty of it and I'll ordain you as a minister of the Church of God's Rock and send you up to Jax to take over the Jax church."

  "I can't do that—"

  "You can have the bible. It's all in there, Brother Springer. The trustees in Jax will give you a few dollars a month and a small house to live in next to the church. You can write six days a week and preach a couple of sermons on Sunday. If you're too lazy to do that, you're too lazy to live."

  "Oh, I wouldn't mind doing it," I said protestingly, "but I don't know how!"

  "Are you prejudiced against niggers?" Abbott Dover asked sternly.

  "Of course not."

  "The church in Jax is an all-Negro church. If you can't fool a bunch of niggers, you're in pretty bad shape. Besides, you'll like it."

  "Ordain me then," I said, in sudden decision. I took a twenty-dollar bill out of my wallet and placed it on the table.

  Abbott Dover raised his skirts and shoved the bill into the hip pocket of the pair of plaid walking shorts he was wearing beneath the cassock. Opening the door to his closet he looked through a thickly packed rack of dark clothing, pulled down a black covert cloth suit and tossed it to me.

  "Try that on for size."

  The length of the trousers was okay, but the waistband was much too large, four or five inches too big. The coat was a size 44 and I feel better with a 42.

  "That's fine," Abbott Dover nodded approvingly. "A little large, but you can have the pants taken in when you get to Jax. If they ask you why the suit's too big—and I don't think they will—tell them you've been fasting. I've got two shirts that'll fit. What's your neck size?"

  "Fifteen-thirty four."

  I put on one of the shirts with the backward collars, and after a little difficulty, I managed to loop the collar button in back. The bib front of the shirt was black and the rest of it was white, including the stiff, narrow collar. I transferred my belt, and after tightening it, and shoving the excess waistband of the trousers in the rear, and putting on the coat, the suit fit fairly well. The shoulders were too wide, but the sleeve-length was perfect. As long as I didn't button the jacket nobody would notice how loose it was, I decided.

  "All right, let's go," the Abbott ordered, opening the screen door.

  "Go where?" I asked.

  "To the chapel."

  We walked down the gravel path to the chapel, and Abbott Dover threw open the corrugated iron double doors, exposing his convertible Ford. We squeezed by the car, climbed over a pile of stacked benches, and I dropped back hesitantly when Abbott Dover knelt at the small altar. He bowed his head silently for a moment, got heavily to his feet, and lighted a candle in a pewter holder on the altar with a Zippo lighter. A crudely-carved wooden cross nailed to the wall, a light blue bath towel over the altar, and the flickering candle were the only adornments. And yet I was awed, impressed even, when Abbott Dover raised his arms level with his shoulders and lifted his face to the ceiling.

  "God," he said somberly, "I've got a writer here, and he needs a place to be. He's a good man, and a gambler. In Your name, take him into Your heart and blood and give him Your love. He really needs a break. He'll make a good minister, and will spread Your teachings to Your flock in Jax, and they need a man like him in Jax. But give him something besides a cotton string for a backbone. Amen."

  The Abbott let his arms fall limply, dropped his head on his chest, and then crossed himself. Turning around quickly, he placed his right hand on my shoulder.

  "Kneel, boy," he ordered. I knelt at his feet, and he steepled his fingers and closed his eyes. "I ordain you—what's your first and middle name?"

  "Sam is my first name," I whispered, "but I dropped my middle name when I became a writer."

  "I'll give you one then. I ordain you Sam Deuteronomy Springer, Pastor of the First Church of God's Flock in Jax, Flori
da."' He bent down over me and stage-whispered, "Do you want to say a prayer?"

  "I can't think of one," I whispered back.

  "Okay." After helping me to my feet, the Abbott shook hands with me, and patted me on the back. "That wasn't so tough, was it?"

  "No," I lied. The perspiration had soaked through my thick coat, and I removed it and carried it over my arm as we left the chapel. Back in his office, the Abbott printed my name neatly on a mimeographed form, and dated the paper, which officially made me a preacher. I folded the completed form and put it into my wallet.

  "Now you use that middle name up in Jax," the Abbot told me seriously. "Deuteronomy is a good middle name for a minister, and the niggers will like it. When you get to Jax report to Dr. Fred Jensen's office. He's a nigger dentist, and he heads up the board of trustees for the Jax church. You'll get a warm welcome, I can assure you. He's written me several letters asking for a minister, and you'll fit in fine."

  "I'm a little nervous about it, but I'm a writer and I should be able to write a sermon as good as anybody else."

  I packed my sport clothing into my small bag, shook hands again with The Abbott and walked up the highway. As soon as I reached the highway I had a terrible thought and I rushed back to his office and burst through the screen door.

  "How many people have you ordained and sent to the church in Jax?" I asked angrily. "For all I know you've sent a dozen men up there, and there may not even be a Church of God's Flock in Jax!"

  "Good for you!" The Abbott laughed joyously, throwing his bald head back and bellowing. "Healthy skepticism makes a good minister. But don't worry, boy, everything's on the up and up. Go with God."

  "Okay," I said sullenly. "But if this is a con game, I'll come back down here and beat the hell out of you!"

  "You were a godsend, Reverend Springer. I'm closing the books on the last church. I wouldn't snow a man under about anything like this. I may be crooked, but I'm an honest man. Go on up to Jax, and put your faith in the Lord!"

  I grinned. "Thanks, Abbott. I'll drop you a line one of these days."

  "Do that. Soldier's Home, Washington 25, D.C. I'll be glad to hear from you. Any time.".

  For the third time that morning we shook hands. When I reached the highway I turned and waved. A grin on his red face, the Abbott waved back.

  "Go with God!" he shouted. I walked along the edge of the highway toward Orangeville where the bus would pick me up and take me to Jax...and my new vocation.

  Chapter Four

  I was very uncomfortable in my new role. The thick convert-cloth suit was not the right apparel for Florida, and yet I was reluctant to remove the coat in the bus like the other male passengers. Somehow, I felt that as a minister of the Gospel I should set an example. But an example for whom? Did I, as a minister of the Church of God's Flock, Jax, have to set an example for everybody, or just for my parishioners?

  As the Abbott had implied, clerical garb made the minister; I had not been given any other instructions to go with the uniform. The mere donning of my black suit changed me, not only in the eyes of the world, but in my own eyes.

  As a draftee I remembered how the entire group of us had acted when we first got our uniforms and were put on a train for Fort Ord. Before boarding the train, several of us had procured bottles, and on the train we had been under minimum control of the sergeant who was in charge of the packet. At each station we had screamed at the girls; we had gotten as drunk as possible, and several of the draftees had carved their initials into the panelled walls of the smoker. The mere act of putting on a soldier's uniform had transformed us into irresponsible persons, or so we thought. As a group, all decked out in tight, unfamiliar uniforms, the clothes made us men, and we performed our new parts as we imagined a group of soldiers would do if they were turned loose on a holiday. Not one of us would have done any of the scandalous things we did on that train if we had been dressed in our regular civilian clothing.

  Later, during basic military training, we had the opportunity to learn how real soldiers were supposed to behave on passes and leaves, but in that early stage of soldiering, in brand new uniforms, we did not know. At least we were later given training as soldiers. As a new minister, I was on my own, and I had to act like a minister at all times...and I didn't know how.

  The bus ride from Orangeville to Jax was the only opportunity I would have to set my role, and I put my mind to the problem. One night in Miami I had taken my wife to the Green Lobster for dinner, and it had been an expensive evening. The cheapest dinner—which we ordered—on the menu was $4.65. At the next table, two Roman Catholic priests, both of them bloated and red-faced, were consuming the specialty of the house, Maine lobster. I was resentful. As they dipped great chunks of white, delicious meat into bowls of melted butter, and washed the food down with individual bottles of iced Sauterne, my resentment grew to unreasonable proportions and spoiled the taste of my mixed-seafood platter.

  "How did these bastards get off?" I thought. I examined the menu, and with an accountant's accuracy I checked the items on their table with the prices on the right side of the card. Dinner for the pair, including the wine, came to $28.32, including tax. A tip of five dollars would bring the cost up to $33.32! "Fantastic!" I had thought, "How could two priests, who were supposed to be under the strictest vows of poverty, pay such a sum for an evening meal?"

  I didn't resent the food they ate—everybody is entitled to eat—but why eat in such an expensive restaurant? The money they were spending on this rich food was being paid for by poor, low-wage earners who could ill-afford to give money to the Roman Catholic church! What right did they have to spend so much money on food?

  At the time, I was looking at the situation with the eyes of a non-Roman Catholic, and I was highly prejudiced against those two bloated characters in black suits. It wasn't right. Now that I was wearing a black suit and a backward collar, how was I supposed to feel? My attitude had not changed: I still didn't believe it was right for a minister to gorge at the expense of others. I would eat simply, I decided, and with refined restraint. I had that responsibility to the world as well as to my yet unknown parishioners. Within a few minutes I had an opportunity to test my resolution.

  The Greyhound stopped at a filling station in the middle of nowhere and a large perspiring woman of forty or so mounted the steps with some difficulty. She wore a billowing housedress and carried a large hamper under her arm. There were several empty seats but she chose to sit beside me.

  "Do you mind if I sit here, Father?" she asked pleasantly in a sweet high voice.

  "Of course not, Madame," I replied, "please do."

  Although I did not want anybody to sit next to me while I was planning my future actions I couldn't very well tell her so—not in my new black uniform. After she was settled—and the driver hadn't even changed to high gear—she opened the hamper and unwrapped a whole baked chicken. As she unpeeled the Reynold's Wrap from the chicken a maddening aroma filled my nostrils. The outside of the chicken was a beautiful color—the shade of a two-day bruise on the tender side of a woman's thigh—and I was forced to look away and fix my eyes on the plains. There was a gentle tug at my sleeve. I turned. With a smile on her round face, the woman held out a paper plate piled high with three pieces of chicken and a giant mound of potato salad, moist with mayonnaise. And next to a gleaming piece of chicken breast there were three white puffed biscuits.

  "Could you eat something, Father," the woman said kindly, "I have plenty."

  "I'll take a biscuit," I half-whispered.

  "Oh, no!" She shook her head. "Take the plate. I'll fix another for myself. I have plenty!"

  "No," I said hoarsely. "Just a biscuit."

  She did not press me, and I nibbled on a fluffy tender biscuit, chewing slowly and pondering the wisdom of my refusal to take an ample share of the proffered bounty. My throat was dry, but I came to the conclusion that my decision was sound. Somehow, without even trying, I had made up for the two greedy priests and their f
east in Miami's Green Lobster. I examined my travelling companion. She was too fat, at least fifty or sixty pounds too fat. Her short brown hair was tightly curled from a new permanent. Her buttocks and legs were so fat that a goodly portion of her rear end flowed beneath the arm rest and reached well onto my seat. She gobbled away at the potato salad with a small red plastic spoon, stripped long chunks of meat away from various chicken portions with sharp white teeth, and popped whole biscuits into her mouth.

  "You are too fat," I said unpleasantly.

  Her pale blue eyes popped slightly, and she stopped chewing and stared at me.

  "I said you are too fat," I repeated. "What are you doing about it?"

  "I'm trying to cut down, Father," she managed to get out.

  "It doesn't look that way to me."

  "I know I eat too much, Father, but I'm hungry all of the time. The doctor gave me a prescription for Dexedrine, but they made me nervous and I couldn't sleep." She looked at the remainder of the food on her paper plate for a moment, and then covered the plate with a napkin and returned the uneaten food to the wicker hamper.

  "Have you ever tried prayer?" I asked, looking boldly into her eyes. "Are you unhappy? Does your husband admire your obesity? Do you like the way you look?"

  "No, I'm not unhappy, Father, I don't think. My husband kids me about being fat, but he's very kind otherwise. I wish I could lose weight; I really do."

  "Then let us pray," I said, steepling my fingers. The woman was more than a little embarrassed and she looked about to see if any of the other passengers had overheard me. I said it louder. "Let us pray!"

  The woman quickly bent her head and crossed herself. She closed her eyes tightly, and her face turned rose-color.

  "Dear God!" I began. "Help this poor helpless woman in Your infinite wisdom and mercy to get rid of all of that excess flesh she is carrying around. Fat that is destroying her beauty in Your eyes, in the eyes of her husband, and in the eyes of the world. I don't believe, O Lord, I've never seen such a fat woman before in all my born days, and she needs help to dissipate her greed. Greed is the deadliest of all sins, dear, sweet Jesus, and although this woman knows that she is greedy she has found that Dexedrine does not help. Feed her instead, O Lord, on Your blood and bone and flesh so that she can enter the kingdom of Heaven a thinner and more beautiful woman. In Jesus' name, I implore you, O Lord!"