The Black Mass of Brother Springer

by Charles Willeford

  After Dr. Jensen opened the door with his key and switched on the lights I followed him into the house. The light streaming through the front window revealed where several boards had been stripped off the porch leaving a space large enough for a rocking chair to fall through. But I was pleasantly surprised by the size and the appearance of the inside of the little house. There were four rooms, all of equal size; a bathroom-dressing room, a kitchen, a bedroom, and a study, all of them furnished with well-worn bargain furniture. The kitchen contained a small refrigerator as well as an electric stove. I examined the bedroom, tested the single Hollywood bed and found it comfortable, and then returned to the study where Dr. Jensen waited for me.

  "Well, sir?" he asked apprehensively.

  "I am amazed at such opulence," I reassured the president of the board of trustees, "after the severity of my simple monastery cell."

  "Good!" Dr. Jensen expelled his breath. "I would like to say something to you, Reverend." The dentist pursed his lips in an enormous pout, and frowned. "For myself, I want to say that I am glad you are here. For the others—" he shrugged, "I cannot speak. You will have to prove yourself to them. I am in the throes of a deep personal problem."

  He hesitated and I opened my mouth to say something, but he held up his hand. "No, Reverend, I won't burden you at this time, but after you are settled, and when I get to know you better, I will seek your counsel. Although you are undoubtedly a bonafide minister of our church, and I am speaking frankly, you are a white man, and there is an element of distrust deep within me of all white men. Our church has as one of its basic premises to love one another, white or black, but I will have difficulty in overcoming—" Dr. Jensen's face was twisted and distorted and he could not look me in the eyes. "I hope I have not offended you, Reverend. I try to be a good man and a true Christian, and I feel that I can speak frankly to you."

  "You can, Dr. Jensen," I said. "I am willing to serve the members of my parish twenty-four hours a day. I will be here tonight and every night. When you feel ready to unburden yourself, I will help you with the strength that has been given me by the Lord. And I will pray for you."

  "Thank you, Reverend Springer. Again, I am glad that you are here to help lead us out of the wilderness."

  We shook hands. I followed the dentist to the door, and as he cautiously dismounted from the porch, I called after him, "Go with God."

  Alone in the house I opened all of the windows to let the humid air infiltrate the house. There was a gentle breeze, and the draft between the open window in the bedroom and the open window in the study was cool on my face. I undressed hurriedly, anxious to be rid of the stifling covert suit, and in my underwear, I explored my new quarters thoroughly. There was a slight slope to the floor; the frame building was set on brick columns three feet above the ground, but it was a gentle slant and I felt that I could learn to live with it. A huge roll-top desk in the study with a swivel chair would be excellent for my work as a writer, and there was a leatherette couch along the wall for horizontal contemplation.

  A small bookcase contained two yards of back number National Geographic magazines, several bibles, a Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, and seven songbooks containing hymns. There was no thesaurus, and I would have to buy one when I received my first twenty dollars Sunday night. Every professional writer needs a thesaurus.

  The barbecue sauce that had been so thickly soaked through the ribs I had eaten for dinner had been very hot, and I kept tasting the sauce in my throat and nose. I fixed a pitcher of ice water, turned out all of the lights, and returned to the desk to study.

  As I slowly drank the ice water, a swallow at a time out of the pitcher's spout, I thought vaguely about my wife, and wondered how she was making out. Perhaps I could send her ten dollars Sunday? No, she could hardly be helped by such a small amount. Maybe, after a few days, or weeks, she would telephone her mother for bus fare back to Columbus. I hoped so; I felt sorry for her all alone in Miami. But I could hardly bring Virginia to Jax, not after the nice home I had provided for her at Ocean Pine Terraces...

  I sighed, and took another long swallow of the ice water. There were more important matters to think about than Virginia.

  Chapter Five

  No. 37. "I wait for the Lord...and in His words I do hope." Psalm 130:5. Good for 1 hour, sometimes 2. Follow with "What hast thou done?" Genesis 4:10 to fill in till time.

  The above was Sermon No. 37 in a small black notebook I found in the rolltop desk the next morning after a night of fitful sleep. There were fifty similarly worded sermons in the little book, and on the last page of the sermon listings there was the cryptic note, "Start at the beginning." I assumed that after fifty Sundays and fifty sermons the late Reverend Wannop, my predecessor, started all over again in the notebook, not in the Holy Bible. Evidently these numbered sermons were all tried and true, but they didn't help me any. How could I talk for an hour, perhaps two, on "I wait for the Lord...and in his words I do hope" when this great black Bible was as mysterious to me as the original hieroglyphics of the Dead Sea Scrolls?

  Oh, it was all very interesting, but this was Friday, and in two days I had four hours to preach—two in the morning and two more in the evening. My confidence in the simple-ness of being a preacher was waning fast.

  The back screen door slammed, and I turned my head toward the kitchen. An ancient black crone in a shapeless, dirty red dress reaching to her ankles, was framed in the doorway. Bent nearly double, she had to raise her head to look at me, and her gummy smile revealed a single, yellow upper tooth in the near-center of an obscenely pink mouth. She cackled thinly, removed a soiled bandana from her head. Her head was almost bald, but here and there a tuft of white, kinky hair stood up crazily.

  "Put the bandana back on your head, woman," I said, closing my eyes.

  "I'm Ralphine, Captain," she stated in an impossibly high voice, "and I wondered if you was ready for your breakfast or if you's had it yet."

  "Did Dr. Jensen send you?" I asked.

  "Yes, sir. And it sure is wonderful to have a man of God in the house again."

  "Okay. Fix me something, if there is anything to fix, and if there isn't get something at the grocery store and charge it to me."

  Again the cackle, but the bandana was back in place, and my eyes followed her thin pointing arm to the paper sack on the kitchen table.

  "I has done stopped at the store," she said, and then after another meaningless cackle, she backed into the kitchen and began to busy herself with pots, pans and other assorted noises.

  I lighted a cigarette and sat back in the swivel chair. Although Ralphine was only being paid five dollars a week by the trustees, I thought they could do better for me than that, but on the other hand, I was a single man in a small house, and a younger, more capable woman might cause talk. I must remember I was a minister at all times!

  I returned to my contemplation of the preparation of my sermon and ignored Ralphine and the noises from the kitchen. The more I thought about the sermon the more complicated my thinking got. How far could I go? The basis of any and all kinds of religion, as I knew them, had as a premise; blind and unquestioning belief! First of all, you have to believe, whether you were a Christian, a Shintoist, or worshipped a runty tree in the middle of a vast forest. But I was mixed up because I didn't believe in anything, not even in the figures I had added, subtracted, and multiplied so many years as an accountant in Columbus. I knew that figures could be made to lie, and only a clever man could detect the falsehood in the way figures were presented.

  But theology, religion, was so complicated and obscure; where could I start? Where could I begin my sermon, where could I lead my parishioners, and how much would they believe of what I told them? Except for a few halfhearted appearances at Unitarian Fellowship meetings I had never been to church in my life. I believed in nothing, and without believing I had to deliver two two-hour long sermons within two days. That is a lot of talk. As the holy Abbott at Orangeville had said, "It is all in the Bib
le," but I could hardly read from the Bible for four hours straight.

  I tried to remember the gist of the few Unitarian sermons I had heard, and what the minister had said, but I could not remember any one thought with any clarity. There was a sermon concerning art in our lives that I recalled, all about the influence of modem art on our current civilization. But a sermon on art hardly seemed appropriate for a group of Negroes, and I didn't know any of the individuals I had met so far well enough to feel them out on the subject.

  What did I believe in? By speaking on my own beliefs, thinly disguised as something else along the Bible party line, perhaps I could inject enough sincerity into my voice to put over a sermon.

  Breakfast. A plateful of hot grits, fried white meat, and store purchased white bread. By mixing some of the grease with my grits, and using plenty of salt, the breakfast was excellent. I drank two cups of instant coffee and then hollered for Ralphine to clear away the dishes from my desk. Cackling she carried the dishes, one at a time, into the kitchen.

  "Did you enjoy your breakfast, Captain?" She asked me in her high rickety voice.

  "It was fine, Ralphine, but tomorrow toast the bread, and get a stick of margarine at the store."

  "Yes, sir." Ralphine wandered into the bedroom with a broom, bent in half, like a miniature bear shambling forward with a load of buck shot in it's belly.

  Working slowly on a yellow, ruled tablet with a soft pencil, I began to write my sermon. The deeper I got into the text, the more I enjoyed it. I was writing again, at any rate, and the stuff was damned interesting. There was the bit from Sartre's Being and Nothingness that I remembered, and I elaborated on this theme for a few pages, and then I recalled K's conversation with the priest in Kafka's The Trial, and I had a few things to write about that wonderful conversation. For a few minutes my mind blanked out, and then I remembered a fragment of a scene from Henry Miller's Tropic of Capricorn, and I wrote down some of my thoughts on Miller's philosophy about money. This was a capital sport, and I enjoyed myself thoroughly, but what was I doing? In my neat legible handwriting I had covered two dozen sheets of paper. I reread what I had written and discovered a veritable mishmash; a confused and groping mind, lost indeed insofar as belief in God was concerned. Some of the writing was well done, but there were no references to the Bible. This was the touch my sermon lacked. Laboriously, I rewrote my sermon, and on every other page I inserted into the text a selected passage from the Bible. As a result of these additions, my sermon underwent a miraculous transformation. Such is the power of words, and words in themselves mean nothing. But then, actions meant nothing either, and inasmuch as the people who would attend church and listen to my sermon on Sunday were already believers who were afraid not to believe, my words could not influence them either for harm or for good.

  Or so I thought when I reread my doctored sermon. Lunch. String Beans, boiled potatoes, corn bread and iced tea. After eating heartily I took a nap and slept until six that evening.

  When I awoke I was in a kind of stupor, and my right arm was numb; I had been sleeping on it all afternoon. I walked about the rooms of the little house shaking my arm to get some feeling back into it. Ralphine was gone, but she had left a potful of mustard greens simmering on the Warm burner of the electric stove, and there was a plateful of cold cornbread on the kitchen table covered with a paper napkin. I nibbled on a piece of cornbread, and then took a chair out onto the porch and sat down in the dark. Across the empty lot black men and women ambled by the church along the sidewalk. Smoking cigarettes and watching the traffic I noted that not a single white man passed by. There was a streetlight on the corner, and I could see the traffic plainly although nobody could see me in the darkness. I was an alien in this black corner of the world; dark laughter and loud, exuberant conversations floated across the lot from the passers by.

  The mosquitoes drove me inside after an hour or so. Turning on the light above the desk I picked up the Bible and read Revelations over and over again until I got sleepy enough to go to bed.

  The sloshing of water awakened me the next morning, and in my underwear I followed the sound into the kitchen and discovered Ralphine washing my two minister shirts in the kitchen sink. Water was boiling on the stove and I made a cup of instant coffee, and silently watched the slow movements of the woman as she scrubbed away at the shirts.

  "I'll need one of those shirts for tomorrow," I reminded her, "to preach in."

  "They'll be ready, Captain. Do you want your breakfast now?"

  "No," I said. "I'll be at the church."

  I pulled on my black pants, and slipped into my shoes. Having decided not to wear a sport shirt, I left the house in my undershirt and walked across the lot to the church, taking my sermon with me. In the pulpit I faced the empty benches, tried to imagine them full of people, and began to read my sermon aloud. My voice is not strong; it doesn't have much resonance, and it is too high for oratory, but I spoke as loud as I could in order to reach the back wall. The words sounded strange and meaningless to me as they reverberated in the empty building, but I was satisfied that I could at least be heard. With a pencil I underscored various words for emphasis and read straight through my sermon without pause. The moment I finished I glanced at my watch. Forty minutes. Too short, much too short. I sighed and lit a cigarette. The front door rattled and I quickly snuffed out the cigarette and put the butt into my pocket as a heavily built Negro woman, dressed in a pair of green slacks and a pink blouse, entered the church, followed by six young girls.

  "Good morning, Madame," I said, going down the side aisle to meet her, "I am the Right Reverend Deuteronomy Springer. What can I do for you?"

  "I'm pleased to meet you, Reverend," the woman boomed, shaking my hand like a man, "I'm Rosie Durrand, Choirmistress." She then introduced me to the six young girls, giving only their first names. The girls were extremely shy and kept their eyes on the floor, and they moved their feet about nervously.

  "We have come to practice, Reverend," Miss Durrand said. "But if you is busy and needing the church we can come back later."

  "I'm glad you are here," I said hastily. "Very glad. We can go over the program together. In fact, I am overjoyed to know that we have a choir, and I am anxious to hear you sing."

  This was indeed a break for me. I needed all of the padding I could get to fill in a two-hour service. With only a short forty-minute sermon prepared, the rest of my service now fell into place. I would begin with a long prayer. I would then call on two or three members in the congregation to lead the rest of us in a prayer. I would have the choir do a few numbers. Then, and only then, would I preach my sermon—and as slowly as possible. The rest of the time remaining I could always alternate with prayers, more songs from the choir, singing by the congregation and announcements. An announcement about the Bible Class, for instance, could take up ten or fifteen minutes. I could extoll the virtues of learning the Bible, read and interpret a couple of passages here and there to show what I meant. Two hours would be easy—and for the evening service, I could merely repeat the morning session...

  I was very happy to see Miss Durrand.

  "Do you happen, by chance, Miss Durrand, to have a soloist? A soloist always helps to inspire a congregation to lift up their hearts to God."

  Miss Durrand modestly lowered her eyes. "I forgot that you was new, Reverend," she said in rumbling tones, "but I am Rosie Durrand, and I do three sets a night at the Golden Chevel Club. I am also a Deep South Label recording star, and I have appeared on radio in Biloxi and Huntsville, and on television, West Palm Beach. By those who are supposed to know, I am on my way up in the field of the blues."

  "I'm sorry I haven't heard of you, but as you know Miss Durrand, I am recently arrived from the monastery at Orangeville."

  "Yes, sir. That is quite all right." She generously waved her plump hand up and down.

  "You don't happen to know, I Got It Bad—do you?"

  "Of course I knows it! That's an old Jump For Joy number."


  "Wonderful! How about playing it for me?"

  Rosie Durrand sat down at the upright, and after a few flowing bars to flex her wrists, she sang the song hard and slow, bringing her voice up from below the belt. Her deep voice was feminine all right but it was so thick and powerful it reminded me of Paul Robeson trying to sing falsetto and failing. As soon as she finished the song, I applauded, and so did the young choir girls. The clapping of small hands snapped me to a bit.

  "Ahem," I said, "perhaps we'd better get on with the choir practice. But I did enjoy your song. When you finish, will you please leave a list of the songs you're going to do, and in the correct order, on the pulpit stand."

  "I sure will, Reverend," Rosie said. "Do you have any favorites?"

  "No, Miss Durrand. The selection of music is in your hands. And may God bless you."

  I hustled back to my house with the sermon clutched to my chest, and ate breakfast. After making a few notes to use on my Bible Class selling spiel, I shaved and donned my black suit and straw floater. At the door I informed Ralphine that she could go home as soon as she finished my laundry, and that I was dining out that evening. The closeness of the little house was beginning to stifle me, and I wanted to get out and meet my public.

  There was no special name for this area of Jax where the Negroes lived; maybe the white people called it Niggertown, I did not know, but the residents of this large section of the city merely called it Jax. I did not know how to measure the size of a "parish" and I had been calling the members of my church "parishioners" for want of a better name. I liked the way it sounded. But since I officiated at the only Church of God's Flock in Jax, the entire city was my parish. However, on a more practical basis, I decided that the people residing within a ten-block area, within walking distance of the church, were my real churchgoers, and I greeted everyone I met on my walk with a cheery good afternoon or a "Bless you child," if the figure was less than three feet in height.