The Black Mass of Brother Springer

by Charles Willeford

  The first name on my list merely said, Tom the Ragman, (alley behind the Afro Hotel). The hotel was easy to find; it was located on Jefferson Avenue, and the exterior was painted a violent purple. A vertical neon sign perched on a narrow marquee in front of the main entrance spelled out AFRO HOTEL in glowing, alternating green and red letters. I entered the shabby lobby, continued down the hall and let myself out the back door into the alley. Catty corner from the back entrance, and across the alley, there was a ramshackle two-car garage, and in the interior was my errant sinner Tom, an aged Negro engaged in the tying of bundles of newspaper.

  I removed my straw floater as I entered the garage and said: "Are you Tom the Ragman?"

  "Yes, sir!" the old Negro said courteously. He shuffled closer until he was less than two feet away from me. "What do you want with old Tom?" he asked defensively. "I ain't done nothin'."

  "I don't want you, Tom," I said. "God wants you. Jesus Christ has you on his list as an unrepentant sinner. Yesterday, I looked for you in church and couldn't find you. Why have you forsaken God, Tom?"

  "I didn't know the Church of God's Rock had a new minister, Reverend. Otherwise I would have been there, right up in front."

  "You're lying, Tom. Everyone in this section of Jax knows of my arrival, including you."

  "Seems to me I did hear something about it, Reverend. But I suppose it slipped my mind." He began to whine. "I'm an old man, Reverend, and I don't see so good, and I don't remember so good..."

  "That's why I came to see you, Tom. You're an old man and you haven't accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and Saviour. You have many evil sins upon you and you must be washed clean in the blood of the lamb. I'll pray for you, Tom, and I'll expect to see you in church next Sunday."

  "I'll be there, Reverend, don't worry. You can look for me next Sunday, and I'll be there. Thank you for reminding me, Reverend."

  I was wasting my time with Tom the Ragman. He was too far gone to be saved. Tom would have promised anything to get rid of me. Why badger the poor old devil?

  "Goodbye, Tom. If I can help you in any way, you let me know now, hear?"

  "Yes, sir, Reverend. I sure will."

  "God loves you, Tom."

  "I know he does, Reverend. God loves all of us, and watches every sparrow."

  I left the old man to his newspapers and reentered the hotel. The hotel clerk had missed my entrance through the front door, but his eyes widened when he saw me enter the lobby from the rear hallway. I strode purposely to the desk.

  "What's your name?" I asked the clerk. He was a young man, the color of anthracite, flamboyantly attired in a solid-blue shirt, a yellow tie and a yellow-and-black tattersall vest.

  "Toby Harris, Reverend," he said politely. "What can I do for you, sir?"

  "I understand you have girls in this hotel," I announced casually.

  "Oh, no, Reverend!" He was obviously lying, and his dark eyes rolled up in his head, giving his fat round face a mock piety.

  "I've heard differently," I said. "And I want it stopped. The Afro Hotel is a veritable den of iniquity. Where's the manager?"

  "He ain't in now, Reverend. I don't know when he'll be back."

  "You tell him I want to see him at church. And that goes for you too."

  "Yes, sir. I'll tell him."

  "See that you do."

  "Yes, sir. I won't forget."

  I examined the magazines in the rack next to the desk, pulled out a well-known national publication featuring a semi-nude photograph on the cover.

  "Does the manager of the Afro Hotel sanction this kind of trash?" I threw the magazine on the desk. "Or this?" I tossed another lurid magazine on the desk. "Or this?" I found another sensational magazine.

  "Oh, no sir, Reverend!" the clerk replied piously. "I don't know how them magazines got in our rack. The man who brought them last night must have made a mistake."

  "I don't like to see magazines like this," I said sternly. "They inflame the passions and thwart the soul. Do you think Jesus would read magazines like this? Well? Do you?"

  "No, sir. He sure wouldn't!" Sweat was pouring from the clerk's face. He vaulted the desk clumsily, and began to gather all of the magazines from the rack, piling them onto the desk in confusion. "I'll get rid of these right away, Reverend."

  "See that you do!"

  As he emptied the rack, I left abruptly, turned right and walked down to the comer drugstore for a Coca Cola. I was amazed. There didn't seem to be any limit to the power of a man with a backward collar! I sipped my large Coke, and the fountain girl timidly placed the check on the marble counter. A moment later, the proprietor of the drugstore, a short, fat man with a golden smile, sat down on the next stool, and tore the check into quarters. He turned to the fountain girl with his golden teeth exposed and said: "The Reverend Springer can't pay for anything in here, Ellie May."

  "Thank you, Brother—?" I recognized the proprietor as a churchgoer, but couldn't remember his name.

  "Lyle, Reverend. Jim Lyle."

  "Thank you, Brother Lyle."

  "I enjoyed your sermon yesterday, Reverend Springer. It was wonderful."

  "I hope you took my words to heart."

  "I did, Reverend, I did." He returned to his cash register behind the tobacco counter. After I finished my Coke I decided to push things to see how far I could go. I wandered slowly around the drugstore and gathered up a new razor, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a package of blades, three bars of soap, a small flashlight, a ballpoint pen, and a Zippo cigarette lighter. I piled this loot on the tobacco counter.

  "How much is all this?" I smiled at Brother Lyle.

  "To you, nothing," Brother Lyle said hoarsely.

  "Thank you, Brother Lyle."

  He began to put the items into a paper sack and I said, "I'll need a couple of cartons of Camels while you're at it."

  "You bet, Reverend." Two cartons of cigarettes were added to the full sack.

  "God bless you, Brother Lyle," I said, taking the sack from the generous proprietor.

  "Thank you, Reverend." He was no longer able to smile, I noticed.

  I returned home, ate two bowls full of turnip greens, a slab of cornbread, drank a glass of buttermilk, and smoked a cigarette. I examined my roster of delinquents—Mrs. Merita Jensen was near the top of the list. Why not get it over with?

  Dr. Jensen lived in a salmon-colored, four-apartment, double duplex; two families below, one above, and one for rent, and the bottom right apartment, the lushest of them all, with greener grass in front, and more bushes, and more inlaid tile, and a side entrance from the garage into the back of the apartment, was his. As I rang the doorbell, I hoped that Dr. Jensen had pulled enough teeth that year to provide air-conditioning in his home. I was somewhat taken aback when the door was opened by a sullen-lipped, dish-faced young woman with a pair of bare feet resembling black cowhide suitcases. "Why does Jensen bother?" I thought.

  "I said: 'Good afternoon, Madame. I am the Right Reverend Deuteronomy Springer.'"

  "You lookin' for me, Reverend, or Miz Merita?"

  "Mrs. Merita Jensen."

  "Come on in, Reverend. I'll tell her you is here."

  I entered the apartment and waited in the living room. It was not air-conditioned after all, but was quite cool just the same. I laughed to myself about mistaking the maid for Mrs. Jensen. I still had a lot to learn about status among my parishioners.

  The living room was moderately furnished; utilitarian is the word. There was a three-cushion couch, an easy chair, a television set, several end tables, table lamps, and a couple of floor lamps. There was a seascape reproduction on the wall above the imitation fireplace, and a photo in a heavy silver frame upon the mantle. I picked up the mount and examined the face in the photograph. Could this be Mrs. Jensen? The photograph had been taken with only a key light across the black snapping eyes, without any back lighting, and it was evident that the photographer had done his best to show the woman's features to her best advantage, but this woman would be
beautiful under any kind of lighting, or without any lighting at all. There was an inner beauty to the face that didn't seem quite proper, and there was a half-smile on her full lips that was more bored than amused. Her hair was combed straight back from a high broad forehead, and a wide, jeweled silver comb jutting up from the thick knot at the back of her head gave the Negro woman a Latin appearance. And what a beautiful Negro she was! I heard a step in the hallway and turned as Merita Jensen entered the room. The photograph had been unkind to this young woman; no black-and-white still could have caught the delicate coffee-and-heavy-cream coloring of her face.

  "I was admiring your photo, Mrs. Jensen," I said. "It's a good likeness."

  "Photographs usually are good likenesses, aren't they, Reverend—or is it Doctor Springer?"

  "The Right Reverend, I mean, Reverend is fine."

  "My husband said you would call, but I didn't expect you so soon. You came to pray over me. Is that right?" Her voice was musical, but she failed to hide the underlying amusement so evident in her manner and smile.

  "You appear to find prayer amusing, Mrs. Jensen," I said coldly.

  "Oh I don't know," she laughed. "I've never been prayed over before by a white man. My husband has prayed for me often, but husbands hardly count, do they?"

  "I don't want you to consider me as a white man," I said defensively. "I would rather you thought of me as your pastor."

  "The way you're staring at my legs, Reverend, I believe I'll consider you as just another man." She moved to the doorway and called, "Ruthie!" Turning in the doorway, she smiled at me. "Please sit down, Reverend. I'm going to have a gin and tonic, but I suppose you would rather have tea?"

  "Sometimes," I faltered, "a gin and tonic is very refreshing on a hot day."

  I had been staring at her legs, but it was hard not to stare. Mrs. Jensen was wearing a pair of white short shorts, and these had been rolled up a full turn, and she seemed to be all legs and breast, like a young robin. Ruthie slewfooted down the hall and Mrs. Jensen ordered gin, ice, and quinine water, then joined me on the overstuffed couch. After curling her long legs beneath her buttocks, she leaned toward me, her breasts taut against a sheer white blouse.

  "May I have a cigarette, Reverend?" Her smile was dazzling. For a moment I thought of telling her I didn't smoke, but she was way ahead of me. "You do smoke, don't you, Reverend? How did you get the brown stain between your fingers?"

  "Of course I smoke." I brought out my cigarettes, lighted two, and passed one to Mrs. Jensen.

  "I have to hand it to you, Reverend," Mrs. Jensen laughed merrily. "You're a cool one all right. For a moment there I thought butter wouldn't melt in your mouth, but here we are—" Ruthie entered with a tray, and the dentist's wife mixed two tall drinks.

  "What do you mean," I asked, taking a beaded glass, "butter wouldn't melt in my mouth?"

  "Never mind. Let's get on with it. Just what did my giant-brained husband tell you about me?"

  "Dr. Jensen is perturbed about your failure to accept Jesus Christ as your Saviour. Frankly, I too would like to see you back in the fold of God's flock, Mrs. Jensen."

  "Why not call me Merita. What's your first name?"

  "Deuteronomy." I felt like a fool giving her this name, but what else could I do? Her ringing laughter added to my discomfort.

  "Deut Springer. That's all right. Here, have a warm-up." Merita added two fingers of gin to my half-emptied glass.

  "Thank you. That will be sufficient."

  "Sufficient for what?" She smiled.

  "Another thing is worrying your husband, Merita." I said solemnly. "And that is your failure to have children. I didn't talk to him much about this problem, but now that I've seen you, I don't see why a healthy woman like you couldn't have a dozen if you wanted them."

  "That's your answer, Deut."

  "I bet your pardon?"

  "If you wanted them, you said. I don't want any children, especially Fred Jensen's children." She laughed prettily, took a long swallow from her glass. "And I know a perfect way to prevent them. Next question."

  "Dr. Jensen wants a God-fearing household, Merita, and I know it would please him if you came to church. Evidently he provides well for you; certainly you owe him this courtesy—"

  "Preach to me, Deut. Sell me the idea, if you can," she said flippantly.

  "Shall we pray?" I put my drink down on the end table, snuffed out my cigarette, and dropped to my knees on the floor.

  "Dear God," I began, "help this poor unfortunate girl to see the error of her ways. Guide her, comfort her, and teach her how to love Thy name. Lead this poor lost soul out of the wilderness, and bless her, Oh Jesus—"

  "Cut it out now, Deut," Merita said angrily. "I don't like that kind of talk!"

  "Get down on your knees, woman, and pray to your God to forgive you!"

  "No!" Merita leaped to her feet hurriedly, and she would have left the room, but I caught her by the arm and jerked her to the floor. On her knees she faced me, and I slowly forced her arm up behind her back.

  "Tray!" I said loudly, my mouth two inches away from her lips.

  "No!" she screamed. "You're hurting my arm, Reverend Springer!"

  "The Lord's Prayer. Repeat after me. Our Father, Who art in Heaven—say it!"

  "Our Father Who art in Heaven," she whispered softly.

  "Hallowed be thy name."

  "Hallowed be thy name."

  "Thy kingdom come—"

  "Thy kingdom come..." Merita's eyes were closed and she was breathing heavily through her mouth. I loosed my grip on her wrist, and she let her arm fall. She swayed toward me, her eyes still closed, and I cupped her breasts with my hands. I held them gently for a moment and then I kissed her on the lips. Her arms wrapped around my head and she returned my kiss hard.

  I jerked my head back, pulled her arms away and got to my feet. My legs were trembling, and I took a short drink right from the bottle. I picked up my hat and placed it on my head. Merita opened her eyes and laughed wildly as I stumbled toward the door.

  "Wheee!" she wailed. "That was fun! Come on, Deut, Let's pray some more!"

  "Don't worry, baby," I said, a wide grin on my face. "We will. We will."

  Out on the street again I seemed to be on fire. This was a woman! And I had to have her; she was much too good for old Dr. Jensen. But there is a time and a place for everything, and I would pick my own time and my own place...

  No more calls today, I thought. Another call like that one would be the very end. My legs were like rubber bands and I couldn't control the violent shaking of my hands. Although it was only six blocks to the church, I caught a taxicab home.

  I paid the two-bit fare, crossed the lot to the house and saw a visitor on the porch. He was dressed in black, like me, but his suit was made of thin pongee, and he wore a regular white dress shirt, and a gray tie. As he got out of the rocking chair to greet me I saw that he was wearing old-fashioned high-top shoes and white cotton socks.

  "Dr. Springer," my visitor stated in a deep gravelly voice.

  "Reverend Springer," I corrected him.

  "I'm Dr. Theodore Heartwell," the middle-aged Negro announced pompously, "The head of the Jax Colored Church League. I'm the pastor of the Southern Baptists of Saint John."

  "Glad to meet you, Dr. Heartwell," I said jovially.

  "Come on in and have a glass of iced tea."

  "No thank you, Reverend, although I would like to very much. I have several more errands to run. A very serious problem has come up, and although you are a white man, you are the pastor of a colored church, and I am inviting you to attend our meeting tonight at my church."

  "What kind of meeting is it?" I hedged.

  "A crucial meeting. An important meeting. And a meeting that concerns us all, white or black."

  "All right, Dr. Heartwell," I said. "If you put it that way I shall be there. What time?"

  "Eight p.m. But do not come through the front door. The church will be dark and there will only be the one
back entrance open. The meeting will be held in the basement."

  "It sounds like a secret meeting."

  "It is, Reverend Springer. It is."

  "I'll be there." We shook hands solemnly and he departed, carefully picking his way through the weeds of the lot. I wondered if he had smelled the gin on my breath, and then I laughed. The hell with him. It was tough enough to keep my own church members satisfied without worrying about the other Negro preachers in the community. I would go to the meeting, however. I had a lot to learn about Negroes, a lot to learn.

  I entered the house, stripped of my coat and shirt, and asked Ralphine to fix a pitcher of iced tea. What I needed at that moment was a shower, a long, cold shower...

  Chapter Eight

  The Southern Baptists of Saint John Church was an impressive structure compared to my small church. The building had been constructed of red brick, and had an imposing front Gothic entrance with a massive door tall enough and wide enough to admit a horse and rider. Two iron knockers had also been provided by the medieval-minded architect; one at waist level, and the other presumably for a churchgoing horseman. Except for the entrance, however, the rest of the building was an oblong brick box completely devoid of decoration. To the right of the building, enclosed by a ten-foot high chicken-wire fence, there was an outside combination tennis-basketball court. Strung above the clay court were a couple of dozen unlighted Japanese lanterns. A tattered homemade poster by the sagging wire gate announced:

  CHURCH BIZARRE TUES.

  DANCING WATERMELLON FUN!

  I had missed the fun; the "bizarre" had been held the previous Tuesday. I cut across the court, jumped over the drooping tennis net, and made my way around to the back of the darkened church. As I lowered my head to see better on the unlighted stairway a hand reached out and grabbed the lapels of my coat and jerked me down the last two steps. I was lifted bodily and shoved against the rough brick wall.

  "Hey!" I protested.

  A match flared for a brief second, and I saw two white eyes somewhere behind the long arm, and then a voice said: "Sorry, Reverend. Go on in." The hand released me and I dropped six inches to solid concrete, pulled down my coat, and pushed through the swinging door to the basement.